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its own voice； rhyme； which in the hands of the real artist becomes
not merely a material element of metrical beauty； but a spiritual
element of thought and passion also； waking a new mood； it may be；
or stirring a fresh train of ideas； or opening by mere sweetness and
suggestion of sound some golden door at which the Imagination itself
had knocked in vain； rhyme； which can turn man's utterance to the
speech of gods； rhyme； the one chord we have added to the Greek
lyre； became in Robert Browning's hands a grotesque； misshapen
thing； which at times made him masquerade in poetry as a low
comedian； and ride Pegasus too often with his tongue in his cheek。
There are moments when he wounds us by monstrous music。 Nay； if he
can only get his music by breaking the strings of his lute； he
breaks them； and they snap in discord； and no Athenian tettix；
making melody from tremulous wings； lights on the ivory horn to make
the movement perfect； or the interval less harsh。 Yet； he was
great： and though he turned language into ignoble clay； he made
from it men and women that live。 He is the most Shakespearian
creature since Shakespeare。 If Shakespeare could sing with myriad
lips； Browning could stammer through a thousand mouths。 Even now；
as I am speaking； and speaking not against him but for him； there
glides through the room the pageant of his persons。 There； creeps
Fra Lippo Lippi with his cheeks still burning from some girl's hot
kiss。 There； stands dread Saul with the lordly male…sapphires
gleaming in his turban。 Mildred Tresham is there； and the Spanish
monk； yellow with hatred； and Blougram； and Ben Ezra； and the Bishop
of St。 Praxed's。 The spawn of Setebos gibbers in the corner； and
Sebald； hearing Pippa pass by； looks on Ottima's haggard face； and
loathes her and his own sin； and himself。 Pale as the white satin
of his doublet； the melancholy king watches with dreamy treacherous
eyes too loyal Strafford pass forth to his doom； and Andrea shudders
as he hears the cousins whistle in the garden； and bids his perfect
wife go down。 Yes； Browning was great。 And as what will he be
remembered？ As a poet？ Ah； not as a poet！ He will be remembered
as a writer of fiction； as the most supreme writer of fiction； it
may be； that we have ever had。 His sense of dramatic situation was
unrivalled； and； if he could not answer his own problems； he could
at least put problems forth； and what more should an artist do？
Considered from the point of view of a creator of character he ranks
next to him who made Hamlet。 Had he been articulate； he might have
sat beside him。 The only man who can touch the hem of his garment
is George Meredith。 Meredith is a prose Browning； and so is
Browning。 He used poetry as a medium for writing in prose。The
Critic as Artist
THE TWO SUPREME AND HIGHEST ARTS
Life and Literature； life and the perfect expression of life。 The
principles of the former； as laid down by the Greeks； we may not
realise in an age so marred by false ideals as our own。 The
principles of the latter； as they laid them down； are； in many
cases； so subtle that we can hardly understand them。 Recognising
that the most perfect art is that which most fully mirrors man in
all his infinite variety； they elaborated the criticism of language；
considered in the light of the mere material of that art； to a point
to which we； with our accentual system of reasonable or emotional
emphasis； can barely if at all attain； studying； for instance； the
metrical movements of a prose as scientifically as a modern musician
studies harmony and counterpoint； and； I need hardly say； with much
keener aesthetic instinct。 In this they were right； as they were
right in all things。 Since the introduction of printing； and the
fatal development of the habit of reading amongst the middle and
lower classes of this country； there has been a tendency in
literature to appeal more and more to the eye； and less and less to
the ear which is really the sense which； from the standpoint of pure
art； it should seek to please； and by whose canons of pleasure it
should abide always。 Even the work of Mr。 Pater； who is； on the
whole； the most perfect master of English prose now creating amongst
us； is often far more like a piece of mosaic than a passage in
music； and seems； here and there； to lack the true rhythmical life
of words and the fine freedom and richness of effect that such
rhythmical life produces。 We； in fact； have made writing a definite
mode of composition； and have treated it as a form of elaborate
design。 The Greeks； upon the other hand； regarded writing simply as
a method of chronicling。 Their test was always the spoken word in
its musical and metrical relations。 The voice was the medium； and
the ear the critic。 I have sometimes thought that the story of
Homer's blindness might be really an artistic myth； created in
critical days； and serving to remind us； not merely that the great
poet is always a seer； seeing less with the eyes of the body than he
does with the eyes of the soul； but that he is a true singer also；
building his song out of music； repeating each line over and over
again to himself till he has caught the secret of its melody；
chaunting in darkness the words that are winged with light。
Certainly； whether this be so or not； it was to his blindness； as an
occasion； if not as a cause； that England's great poet owed much of
the majestic movement and sonorous splendour of his later verse。
When Milton could no longer write he began to sing。The Critic as
Artist
THE SECRETS OF IMMORTALITY
On the mouldering citadel of Troy lies the lizard like a thing of
green bronze。 The owl has built her nest in the palace of Priam。
Over the empty plain wander shepherd and goatherd with their flocks；
and where； on the wine…surfaced； oily sea； ＇Greek text which cannot
be reproduced＇； as Homer calls it； copper…prowed and streaked with
vermilion； the great galleys of the Danaoi came in their gleaming
crescent； the lonely tunny…fisher sits in his little boat and
watches the bobbing corks of his net。 Yet； every morning the doors
of the city are thrown open； and on foot； or in horse…drawn chariot；
the warriors go forth to battle； and mock their enemies from behind
their iron masks。 All day long the fight rages； and when night
comes the torches gleam by the tents； and the cresset burns in the
hall。 Those who live in marble or on painted panel； know of life
but a single exquisite instant； eternal indeed in its beauty； but
limited to one note of passion or one mood of calm。 Those whom the
poet makes live have their myriad emotions of joy and terror； of
courage and despair； of pleasure and of suffering。 The seasons come
and go in glad or saddening pageant； and with winged or leaden feet
the years pass by before them。 They have their youth and their
manhood； they are children； and they grow old。 It is always dawn
for St。 Helena； as Veronese saw her at the window。 Through the
still morning air the angels bring her the symbol of God's pain。
The cool breezes of the morning lift the gilt threads from her brow。
On that little hill by the city of Florence； where the lovers of
Giorgione are lying； it is always the solstice of noon； of noon made
so languorous by summer suns that hardly can the slim naked girl dip
into the marble tank the round bubble of clear glass； and the long
fingers of the lute…player rest idly upon the chords。 It is
twilight always for the dancing nymphs whom Corot set free among the
silver poplars of France。 In eternal twilight they move； those
frail diaphanous figures； whose tremulous white feet seem not to
touch the dew…drenched grass they tread on。 But those who walk in
epos； drama； or romance； see through the labouring months the young
moons wax and wane； and watch the night from evening unto morning
star； and from sunrise unto sunsetting can note the shifting day
with all its gold and shadow。 For them； as for us； the flowers
bloom and wither； and the Earth； that Green…tressed Goddess as
Coleridge calls her； alters her raiment for their pleasure。 The
statue is concentrated to one moment of perfection。 The image
stained upon the canvas possesses no spiritual element of growth or
change。 If they know nothing of death； it is because they know
little of life； for the secrets of life and death belong to those；
and those only； whom the sequence of time affects； and who possess
not merely the present but the future； and can rise or fall from a
past of glory or of shame。 Movement； that problem of the visible
arts； can be truly realised by Literature alone。 It is Literature
that shows us the body in its swiftness and the soul in its unrest。…
…The Critic as Artist
THE CRITIC AND HIS MATERIAL
Who cares whether Mr。 Ruskin's views on Turner are sound or not？
What does it matter？ That mighty and