Chapter 28

LITERATURE AND ITS FORMS

It is not everyone who can tell readily what is meant by literature, nor can anyone in a few words define it. What the study of "literature" (only the adult's manner of saying "reading") is expected to accomplish was aptly described by Cardinal Newman when he wrote: "The object of literature in education is to open the mind, to correct it, to refine it, to enable it to comprehend and adjust its knowledge, to give it power over its faculties--application, flexibility, method, critical exactness, sagacity, address and expression." Reading at home and in the public schools as well as in the high school and colleges helps to accomplish these ends to a great extent.

Many persons fail to understand what literature is, and if they do realize its importance they do not comprehend the great variety of its forms nor the significance of each. To help such persons to a more comprehensive knowledge and a deeper insight into the functions of literature this chapter is written.

In its widest sense the word literature covers nearly every kind of printed matter, but it is in its more restricted meaning that the term is used here. Only that which is beautiful in form and expression, inspiring and helpful in spirit, noble and righteous in sentiment can be called literature as we are considering it. There may be weak and frivolous books, well-meaning but inept books, and really bad books, but none of them can be classed as literature.

Literary masterpieces are either prose or poetry, and in print the two are easily recognizable by their difference in form. Coleridge once said that prose consisted of words in their best order, while poetry was the best words in their best order, a poetic definition that does not convey a very accurate knowledge of the distinction. Poetry differs from prose not only in the choice and arrangement of words, but also to a lesser degree in sentiment and feeling. However, much verse, though faultless in form, can never be considered real poetry, while much prose has real poetic beauty.

_Prose_

The great bulk of the writings of the world is in prose. It is the medium of hard sense, of practical knowledge, of argument and of dialogue. Yet often it appeals to the imagination, charms with its beauty and inspires to heroic deeds.

It seems to be generally accepted that four methods of expression are to be found in prose: _narration_, _description_, _exposition_ and _argumentation_. Narration deals with things in action, description with the appearance of things, exposition explains the relations ideas bear to one another, and argumentation not only does this, but tries at the same time to convince. Theoretically, this distinction is very easy to make, for action is the life of narration, appearance the theme of description, explanation and exposition are synonymous, and no one argues but with the hope of convincing. What can man do more than to tell what has been done, tell how a thing looks, show how one thing follows from another or is related to it, and endeavor to bring another person to the same state of mind?

The accuracy and completeness of the classification is most evident until one attempts to apply it practically to existing literature, and then he finds that no literary masterpiece belongs entirely to any one of the classes, but that these mingle and unite, one or the other usually predominating. This ruling element, the one which is proportionately greater, will govern the classification of a selection. In any story, narration and description meet at every turn, and not infrequently exposition is found freely intermingled; while novels have been written with the avowed sole purpose of changing the beliefs of a people. _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ is a story of intense dramatic activity, and abounds in vivid descriptions of places and persons. It is generally dealing with incidents relating to the characters of the story, yet it really makes an exposition of the evils of slavery, and certainly was no small factor in stirring the American people into vigorous action against the slave dealers. Yet no one would classify the book otherwise than among the narratives. Although into Burke's _Conciliation_ other elements enter, yet everyone will admit it to be argumentative in the highest degree. So while it is well to classify the selections read, yet fine theoretical distinctions should be abandoned. It is not so necessary to classify and name as it is to compare and distinguish.

Narratives have been classified variously, but not more satisfactorily than have other forms of literature. A narrative is true or fictitious, and there appears the first principle of classification. Truthful narratives are personal when they are the simple account of the deeds of some person or thing, biographical when they show a clear and evident purpose to detail the events in the life of the person, historical when they deal with larger and more complicated questions and when the actors are as numerous as the actions are various. Fictitious narratives comprise short stories and novels. One prominent writer notes the following types: (1) The realistic novel that is true to actual life and often enters into the discussion of important questions of record. (2) The novel of life and manners which is largely descriptive and in which the exigencies of the plot give way to the study of customs. (3) The novel of incident in which the plot is everything and description and character study are avoided or subordinated to action. (4) The romance which usually deals with things as they were in days long past and with actions that little concern the present. Marvelous and even supernatural incidents crowd its pages. (5) The idealistic novel which paints the world as it should be and makes its actors more nearly perfect than the world accepts as typical. (6) The novel with a purpose which seeks to convert its readers by the vividness of its portraits rather than by argument, though by means of many detailed conversations its theories are often freely discussed and fully substantiated. Many great reforms have been brought about by novels of this character.

Description deals with the individual and not with the class. A fine description is a work of art in its highest sense and is closely allied to painting, than which it is even more delicate and refined; for while the painter lays his color on the canvas and our eyes see the entire picture in all its minutest detail, the writer can only suggest the idea and stimulate the imagination to create for itself the picture in the mind of the artist. Yet such is the marvelous power of words when handled by a master that one can see by them almost as vividly as by the sense of sight. The reader is transported to far-away lands, strange men and animals surround him, the skies glare above him, silver lakes sparkle in the sun, brooks murmur against their fern-covered sides, and birds move the soul with their sweet music. Evening draws on, and the landscape glimmering fades away; the stars come out one by one and by and by the moon steals slowly up the sky. Peace and quiet reign over the darkened world. Neither sculpture nor painting can depict these changes; it rests with the magic of words. But the reader must do his share. He must give time to his reading, must yield himself gently to its influence, must not force himself into the writer's mood but must receive and accept. Then descriptive literature will yield its keenest pleasures.

Exposition deals with the class, and is abstract. So the demands made upon the reader are infinitely greater. It assumes that the concrete examples and specific instances necessary to interpret the abstract are already in mind and that the barest allusion to them will be sufficient. So exposition naturally follows narrative and description.

Successful argumentation depends upon proof and persuasion. It is addressed to the reason or to the emotions. Burke and Webster endeavor to establish their respective positions by irrefutable arguments. When Beecher addressed the people on the slavery question he appealed strongly to their emotions and sought to make them act because of their intense feeling. One characteristic of all literary masterpieces is unity, but in none is this of more importance than in the expository and argumentative types.

As we study it, literary material may be grouped as fiction, essays, speeches (orations), and dialogue (drama). No classification can be rigid or exact, for one may blend into the other. At the same time in any one may be found the four forms, description, narration, exposition and argument. For our purposes, however, the following definitions will answer: _Fiction_ is a term covering those narratives which are either wholly or in part events that never happened and acts of individuals that never lived. Fiction is the work of the imagination, based upon the facts of life and observation. It appears as stories, in narrative poems or epics, and in novels.

_Essays_ deal with all subjects and in such a variety of ways that any attempt to classify them meets with difficulty. Originally an essay was an attempt, a mere outline or plan intended to be filled out at greater length or to be used in different form. It is in this sense that Bacon uses the word and his essays are condensed to the highest degree. In later years essays have come to be of the most highly finished type of literature and some of the most beautiful passages, the noblest thoughts, the most inspiring utterances, are to be found in them. Almost every conceivable topic is treated: there are biographical essays which do little more than narrate the facts of a man's life; there are descriptive essays whose only function is to make their readers see something as the author saw it; there are argumentative and didactic essays and essays on science, art, religion, and literary criticism. Some writers have given their whole time and attention to this form of composition, and the modern magazine has become their distributing agency. Much of the deepest, of the brightest, of the best of recent work has come to its readers through this medium.

The essay shows more of the author's self than any other form of literature. It is apt to be sincere, to be the deliberate expression of the writer's own views formulated with the desire to convince another. In the purely literary type this last characteristic is not so strikingly prominent, though it appears rather under the surface. In no form of literature is the artistic element more manifest. The prose writer makes of his essay what the poet does of his lyric--the most finished and beautiful expression of his thought. The thought is the writer's chief concern, but upon his manner of expressing it depend the force and value of his work. Accordingly he gives to his style his most careful attention and fits and polishes it with all his skill. The result is that in the essay are to be found the best examples of prose style. While the essay frequently appeals to our humorous sense and sometimes arouses our sympathy by its pathetic touches, yet no such opportunity is offered for emotional effect as that given by the novel or the drama.

The essay is written to be read, the _oration_ to be heard; the essay is to please, to entertain, perhaps to instruct, sometimes to convince; the oration is to arouse the feelings, to carry conviction, to stir the public to action. It is a formal production, addressed directly to its hearers; it is in form or meaning in the second person. Even when descriptive or eulogistic, it is a direct address. The orator says, "These are my opinions and my reasons for so thinking. Will you not accept my view and act accordingly?"

The oration naturally divides itself into three sections. There is an _introduction_, in which the speaker clears the way, opens the question and lays down the principles he proposes to advocate, or indicates the course of his argument. The _body_ follows. Here the principles are elucidated, the arguments advanced and properly established or the descriptions elaborated and finished. The last section is the _conclusion_, which may consist of a brief review or summary of the inferences drawn, or of a plea for belief and for action in accordance with the principles of the speaker.

Before the art of printing was invented, public opinion was molded almost entirely by public speaking, and for a great many years afterward the orator was the greatest of leaders. By the magic of his eloquence he changed the views of men and inspired them to deeds of valor. The fiery orations of a Demosthenes, of a Cicero; the thrilling words of a Peter the Hermit or a Savonarola; the unanswerable arguments of a Burke or a Webster, have more than once turned the course of history.

But when the newspaper first found its way into the hands of thinking men the power of the orator felt the influence of its silent opponent and began to wane. Today, it is not often that multitudes are swayed by a single voice. The debates and stump-speeches of a political campaign change but few votes. The preacher no longer depends wholly upon the convincing power of his rhetoric to make his converts. The representatives of a people in a parliament or a congress speak that their words may be heard through the newspapers by their constituents more than with the expectation that their speech will carry a measure through the House they are addressing.

Yet we will listen with pleasure to a fervid speaker whose earnestness of manner carries the conviction of his sincerity, and even against our will we are moved by elegant sentences and pleasing tones. The orator will continue to be a power, though in a different way. Conditions have changed, and the ponderous periods and elaborate figures that characterized the orators of classic epochs are giving place to the plain, lucid diction and the simple, true-hearted tones of the modern speaker.

The drama is objective, the author keeping himself out of sight as much as possible. His characters appear, speak their parts and vanish with no explanatory words from him except the occasional stage direction limited to the fewest possible words. There is no description, except when the actors give an account of something that does not occur upon the stage. There is little of narration, except to explain what does not appear upon the scene or to give clearness to the action. Argument is not infrequent, though it is usually in the form of a moving appeal to the emotions rather than to the reason. The play often leads to exposition, and many dramas are written with the evident intent of teaching a deep and forceful lesson.

The drama shows man in action and develops his character before the reader, but it is by acts and speech and not by direct description from the author. It deals with all human interests and frequently supernatural manifestations are introduced and become important factors in the plot, particularly when they are believed in by the people who appear in the drama. But in general it is a study of life and character.

Primarily the drama is to be heard, not read, and consequently its style is usually clear and its meaning easily apprehended, but the complexity of its incidents and the intricacies of its plot make it difficult to follow. The rapidity of its action, the necessity of gathering the meaning from a single hearing, and the intensity of feeling aroused would all unite to confuse the hearer were it not for the skill of the actor and the appropriateness of the stage settings. By the aid of these, understanding is in most cases not difficult. The changing scenery, the dress of the actors, their movements, the tones of their voices, and the expression of their faces all aid the hearer. But the interpretation then becomes that of the actor, so that the listener is once removed from the author. Moreover, to the actor everything is subservient to dramatic effect, and the study of an Othello descends into an effort to excite an audience rather than to portray correctly the shifting passions of the jealous Moor. The poet's creation is adapted to the actor's use by the omission of scenes, changes of scenes, and additions of scenes, by such verbal alterations and phrasal transpositions that one does not see Shakespeare's Shylock demanding his pound of flesh but watches Irving's Shylock whetting his savage knife; Hamlet is lost in Booth, and Juliet weeps in the tears of Mary Anderson.

But the pleasure a person derives from listening to their thrilling utterances is as distinct from that which comes to the appreciative reader as the pleasures of the palate differ from those of the eye. To the reader everything is his own. He carries his own theater with him. The scenery he must himself construct and he may alter it at will; the costumes and personal appearance of the characters are the creations of his own mind; his thunder has no metallic sound and his lightning always flashes. He may bring his favorites back with many an encore and may show his disapproval with hisses that would drown the gallery. He may linger over the passages he loves and find new encouragement in his defeats and ever fresh joys for his hours of gloom. He is never hurried: the lights never go out, the curtain is never rung down.

_Poetry_

The reality of poetry is its beauty, its power of inspiration, its truth. Its beauty lies in its choice of words, in its figures of speech, in its music and in its sentiment. Any definition that is not purely formal is hard to give. Professor Shairp defined the soul of poetry when he wrote: "Whenever the soul comes vividly in contact with any fact, truth, or existence, which it realizes and takes home to itself with more than common intensity, out of that meeting of the soul and its object there arises a thrill of joy, a glow of emotion; and the expression of that _glow_, that _thrill_, is poetry."

_The Structure of Poetry_

The form and structure of poetry should be studied, but not to so great an extent as to blind the eye or deaden the appreciation of its beauty and sentiment. Brown, who wrote the beautiful story _Rab and His Friends_, has said, "It is with poetry as with flowers and fruits. We would all rather have them and taste them than talk about them. It is a good thing to know about a lily, its scientific ins and outs, its botany, its archæology, even its anatomy and organic radicals; but it is a better thing to look at the flowers themselves and to consider how they grow."

If one reads poetry aloud he soon becomes sensible of a certain rhythm or regular recurrence of accented syllables that gives a measured movement to the lines. It is a recognition of this rhythm that makes a child read in a "sing-song" tone, as natural a thing as it is to sing. If we hear constantly repeated at frequent and regular intervals any noise, there is a tendency to group these separate sounds and measure them off regularly. The clock ticks with always the same force and with the same space of time between the ticks, yet we hear _tick_-tack, _tick_-tack; we can prove the difference to be in our ear, for it requires but little effort to hear tick-_tack_ or _tack_-tick, _tack_-tick. The ticking has not varied in the least.

The poet takes advantage of this rhythmical tendency of nature and by using accented syllables at regular intervals compels us to recognize the swing of his lines. When he reduces this to a system he has established the _meter_ of his production. The poetical accents sometimes fall on unaccented syllables and sometimes on monosyllabic words that are not emphatic, but usually the metrical accent of any given word corresponds to its logical accent. The accentuation of a syllable tends to lengthen the time used in the pronunciation of that syllable, and so we call it long, although the sound of its vowel may be short. Short syllables are those which are unaccented, even though the vowel has the long sound.

Verse appeals to the ear by its melodious combinations of sounds and also by the regular recurrence of similar sounds in _rhymes_. These usually occur at the ends of verses. In order that a rhyme may be perfect the two rhyming syllables must both be accented, the vowel sound and the consonants following must be identical, and the sounds preceding the vowel must be different. For example, _fate_ and _late_ rhyme; _fat_ and _late_ do not; _fate_ and _lame_ do not; _debate_ rhymes with _relate_, but not with _prelate_. Double rhymes occur frequently, as in the words _bowlders, shoulders_.

Take this stanza from Hood's _Song of the Shirt_:

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread-- Stitch! Stitch! Stitch! In poverty, hunger and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "song of the shirt."

Here the first and third lines are unrhymed, the second and fourth, the fifth and seventh, and the sixth and eighth lines rhyme alternately in couplets. If the beginnings of the verses are noticed it will be seen that the indentations of the lines correspond with the rhymes.

Rhymes are not always used in poetry. Most of Shakespeare's plays are written in _blank verse_, which is unrhymed iambic pentameter, called _heroic verse_. _Hiawatha_ and _Evangeline_ are not rhymed, the former being trochaic tetrameter and the latter largely dactylic hexameter.

Frequently appeal is made to the ear by a similarity of sound at the beginning of words. This is known as _alliteration_. In early English poems this was of prime importance and subject to rigid rules, but more recently it has been used without rule, subject merely to the author's will. This is seen to a marked degree in many writers. Here are several lines taken from Poe's _The Bells_:

What a world of _m_erriment their _m_elody foretells, What a _t_ale of _t_error now their _t_urbulency _t_ells. In a mad expostulation with the dea_f_ and _f_rantic _f_ire.

In many cases alliteration is very skilfully handled, as where Whittier uses the liquid consonants to make more smooth and harmonious to the ear the line that tells the friendliness of the brooklet whose murmurings could not be heard in winter, but--

"The music of whose _li_quid _li_p Had been to us companionship"

during the long summer days.

The number of verses in a stanza varies from two to an indefinite number. When there are two verses the stanza is called a couplet; a three line stanza is called a tercet; a four line stanza, a quatrain. The five line stanza is not common, but six is a frequent number.

_Kinds of Poetry_

Poems may be classified as epic, lyric and dramatic.

The word _epic_ is by some writers restricted in its application, but it is preferred here to use it in a broad sense to include various forms of narrative poetry, and to use the term greater, or heroic, epic to designate the smaller class of narratives which the older writers knew as epics. Thomas Arnold's definition of the greater epic is: "The subject of the Epic Poem must be some one, great, complex action. The principal personages must belong to the high places of the world, and must be grand and elevated in their ideas and in their bearing. The measure must be of sonorous dignity, befitting the subject. The action is carried on by a mixture of narrative, dialogue, and soliloquy. Briefly to express its main characteristics, the epic treats of one great complex action, in grand style, and with fullness of detail."

Under such a definition there can be but few really great epics in any language. Comparatively few poets have cared to undertake so great a task and many of those who have been willing to make the attempt have failed conspicuously in the execution. But most of the great languages of the world have each one surpassing epic which has held the interest of its readers and established an immortality for itself. Homer gave the Greeks the grandeur of his _Iliad_; Virgil charms the Latin race and every cultivated people since with the elegance of his _Aeneid_; Dante with Virgil for his model and Beatrice as an inspiration wrote in Italian the _Divina Commedia_, in which he described with all-powerful pen the condition of the dead in the Inferno, Purgatory, and Paradise; and our Milton after years of preparation, from the dark realm of his own blindness, produced the sublime measures of _Paradise Lost_. These are the Greater Epics, greater by far than anything else written by man. With them this course does not concern itself to any great extent.

The term lesser epic includes the numerous forms of narrative poems from the old-time ballad to the modern story-telling poem. The epic is essentially different from the lyric. While in the latter the personality of the author is always apparent, and properly so, in the epic the intrusion of the poet's self is usually a defect. The lyric is subjective, the epic objective. To tell a story effectively and well is the prime motive, to tell it beautifully and in a way to excite the imagination and move the feelings of the reader is the contributory poetic impulse. Of the lesser epics groups might be set apart. The ballad is the oldest form. It was originally the production of wandering minstrels or glee-men and was not reduced to writing and kept in permanent form. Being passed from mouth to mouth there naturally came to be great variations in its form, and even the incidents were modified to suit the taste of the singer. After poetry came to be a study of the cultured and refined, the minstrel's power declined, though he was a welcome guest at the feasts of the wealthy, where his song added to the gayety of the occasion or gave dignity to the host as his deeds were sung by the hireling bard. In the sixteenth century these singers disappeared from view in the blaze of the Elizabethan Age.

The highest type of literary expression is poetry, and the most perfect creation of poetic imagination is the lyric. Technically a lyric is a song, a short poem that can be set to music. But this must be interpreted in a wide sense, for though all the songs that are sung are lyrics, the greater number of lyrics were never intended to be fitted to the closer requirements of vocal harmony. They deal with all subjects and have few requirements of form, though form is an essential element and a matter of great importance, for to the perfection of form much of the intense effect of the lyric is due. Like the essay the lyric is a subjective composition; it is confessedly the expression of the poet's personal emotion and his own experiences. His mind, his soul, speak to us; he does not interpret the thoughts and feelings of another. The lyric is usually contemplative and full of the choicest results of the poet's meditations. It influences action indirectly through direct appeals to the emotions.

Songs form a class of lyrics as varied in content as the possible subjects in life. One might consider them as sacred and secular and under the former recognize the psalms, which our poets have many times rendered into metrical form, not infrequently detracting from the sublimity of the originals. "The Lord is my Shepherd" needs no change, no remodeling from the biblical version to make it a true lyric, but that it may be sung to the tunes of our churches it has more than once been paraphrased.

Hymns are religious songs expressing devout reverence for the deity, displaying confidence and faith in the goodness of God, breathing a prayer for help in hours of difficulty and distress, or for consolation in the hour of affliction. Our literature is full of these noble poems, and their lofty sentiments, clothed in beautiful words sung to the thrilling music of other inspired composers, have been potent factors in culture and refinement.

Secular songs are written upon nearly every conceivable topic of human interest and are more numerous than any other form of literature, but so many of them are inferior in composition and so dependent upon the jingle of the tunes to which they are sung that their life is little longer than the time consumed in their production. But a large number are conceived in the true spirit of art and are as worthy of immortality as anything we read.

There are comic songs that sparkle with wit and whose music laughs with the hearer; sentimental and love songs whose sensuous cadences intensify the passion of their words; convivial songs where toasts are drunk to the accompaniment of the clinking glasses; and patriotic songs that roll with the ringing cheers of thousands and the tramp of armed men.

There are still three large classes of lyrics each distinct in itself, though, as we see if we try to draw the lines closely, shading off into one another. Usually these are in the nature of a direct address to some person, place, or thing, and are distinguished one from another by the nature of the subject or the rules of form. All are in a greater or less degree complimentary to the thing addressed and show interest, respect, admiration or love. The ode and elegy have most in common, although the latter is a tribute to the dead. The sonnet partakes deeply of the nature of the others, but is set off by very arbitrary limitations of form.

There are no rules governing the form of the ode; the poet is at liberty to select whatever form seems best adapted to his purpose. The length of the stanza, the meter, the rhyme, may be as varied as his fancy dictates, but the ode is an address direct and personal, an address with praise for its object. The subject may be a flower, a piece of pottery, a person, a bird or a nation, but some definite inciting object is necessary. The ode is subjective in that the poet expresses his own feeling of admiration or reverence. Often there is an acknowledgment of a benefit conferred, a lesson learned, or affection returned. From these conditions, namely, the liberty of form, the direct and powerful inspiration, the sincere desire to return a favor, a poet might naturally be expected to produce his choicest work, and so he has done.

A mournful song, in stately measure, praising the dead for his virtues, full of the grief that remains with the living, believing in the happiness of the departed and hoping for a blessed reunion in the hereafter: this is the typical _elegy_. On the one side it shades off into the ode, some poems being susceptible of classification in both groups; on the other it may take the form of sonnets, many of which answer every requirement of the dirge. Many poems are therefore elegiacal that are not strictly elegies. A rigid classification is never necessary, but an association of these beautiful pieces, all thoroughly impregnated with the personal grief of the author, gives to each a greater power, a more thrilling significance. They arise from the deepest emotion and so are the offspring of divinest inspiration; love is in the heart of the writer and so the flight of song is best sustained; they are intended to show to the world respect and admiration for the one whose virtues they celebrate and so they are refined and polished to the last degree. Where grief, love and a hope to give earthly immortality to the object of his affection move the poet, we expect the finest efforts of his genius. These elegies include some of the grandest, the most perfect productions of poetic skill.

When man sees his loved one laid away forever, he naturally longs to preserve the memory of the departed to succeeding generations, to erect some permanent memorial. Funereal monuments are characteristic of every race and have proved the most enduring records of the past. The inscriptions upon these tombs are early records of the elegiac spirit.

The epitaph is elegy in miniature. "To define an epitaph is useless; everyone knows it is an inscription on a tomb. An _epitaph_ is indeed commonly panegyrical, because we are seldom distinguished by a stone but by our friends," says Dr. Johnson.

This epitaph was written by Robert Wilde in the seventeenth century:

Here lies a piece of Christ; a star in dust; A vein of gold; a china dish that must Be used in heaven, when God shall feast the just.

The _sonnet_ may be addressed to any person or thing and is the direct personal expression of the author's feeling. It is like the ode, and also partakes of the general nature of the elegy, but it differs from both in the rigidity of the rules of form that govern it. Sonnets originated in Italy, and the genuine Italian sonnet is very exacting in form. It must consist of exactly fourteen lines of iambic pentameter. These lines are divided into two groups, one of which consists of eight lines or two _quatrains_, the whole known as the _octave_. The remaining six lines constitute the _sestet_. The first and last line of each quatrain rhyme together, while the middle lines of each form the second rhyme. In the sestet usually the first line rhymes with the fourth, the second with the fifth and the third with the sixth. As a whole the sonnet contains one idea, which in the octave is general, in the sestet specific, for the sestet expresses the conclusion of the octave.

The difficulties of composition under such arbitrary limitations are evident, and it is not to be wondered at that even famous poets have utterly failed when they have essayed to write in this form. The sonnet has met with severest criticism, some writers failing to see any beauty in it. Coleridge says: "And when at last the poor thing is toiled and hammered into fit shape, it is in general racked and tortured prose rather than anything resembling poetry." Though Lord Byron wrote a few himself he defined the sonnet as "The most puling, petrifying, stupidly Platonic composition."

But this is hardly fair to the many exquisitely beautiful lyrics that in this form grace the English language. Those "little pictures painted well," those "monuments of a moment" are among our most graceful poems, and the reader who has not learned to delight in a beautiful sonnet has missed the most refined pleasure English literature has to give.

The following exquisite sonnet, _Victor and Vanquished_, by Longfellow, is formed on the Italian model:

As one who long hath fled with panting breath Before his foe, bleeding and near to fall, I turn and set my back against the wall, And look thee in the face, triumphant Death. I call for aid, and no one answereth; I am alone with thee, who conquerest all; Yet me thy threatening form doth not appall, For thou art but a phantom and a wraith; Wounded and weak, sword broken at the hilt, With armor shattered, and without a shield, I stand unmoved; do with me what thou wilt; I can resist no more, but will not yield. This is no tournament where cowards tilt; The vanquished here is victor of the field.

How many verses in this sonnet? What is the meter? What is the rhyme scheme? Through how many lines is the rhyme scheme the same as that followed in the Italian sonnet?

Is there a unity of thought in this sonnet? Does the poet consistently allude to some one thing? Was Longfellow old or young when he wrote this? What does Longfellow represent himself to be? Why does he "set his back against the wall"? In these days of Mauser rifles would it do any good to set one's back against the wall for protection against an approaching enemy? Was it ever an advantage? Who is the foe that follows him? How can Death be "but a phantom and a wraith" and at the same time follow the poet triumphantly? What do his weapons and his armor indicate as to what he represents himself? What is the "broken sword"? Who fight in tournaments? What is there appropriate in the word "tilt"? How can the one who is vanquished be victor still? Is the figure of medieval knighthood well sustained?

The earliest European _dramas_ of which we have any record were the plays performed in ancient Greece five hundred years before Christ. There were very few characters introduced, sometimes only one or two, and a chorus was the most important part of the representation. This chorus served to fill the gaps in the action, to state what had preceded and at times even to comment upon the actors, to exhort or to praise or condemn their behavior. The Greek dramatists carefully followed the so-called rule of _three unities_: unity of time, whereby the action must be compressed into one day; unity of place, by which only one place must be represented; and unity of action, whereby the movement of the piece must be continuous, all the incidents be connected so as to form one main line of thought. The rule of three unities was followed very closely by the French dramatists up to comparatively recent times; but in England, beginning with the Elizabethan era, no restraint was placed upon dramatic technique except unity of action, which still remains essential.

During the Middle Ages the drama was represented by _miracle_ and _mystery plays_ dealing with sacred history. They differed in subject only. The miracle plays represented the lives of saints and their miraculous deeds; the mysteries, the mysterious doctrines of Christianity and various biblical events. During an age when preaching was unusual, the clergy reached the souls of their people by means of these rude plays which were at first given in churches; but later, when the town guilds and trade organizations began to present them, the stage was a traveling cart, roughly fitted up with rude scenery. Still later, before theaters were built, the wandering players acted in inn yards or courtyards. Female parts were always taken by boys, and it was not until after Shakespeare's time that women appeared on the stage.

In the reign of Henry VI the mysteries were in part superseded by the _morality plays_, although the former did not wholly go out of style until the time of Elizabeth. The passion play given every ten years at Oberammergau, Bavaria, is a survival of the old mystery play. The moralities personified the virtues and vices common to man, and attempted to teach moral lessons by allegorical representations. When popular interest in these dramas began to lag, current topics were introduced into the dialogue, and characters from real life appeared on the stage for the first time. Early in the sixteenth century John Heywood invented a farcical composition called _The Interlude_ to relieve the tiresome monotony of existing plays. But it was in 1540 that the first comedy appeared, and it is not too much to say that this play marks the beginning of modern English drama. Nicholas Udall, head master of Eton College, being accustomed to write Latin plays for his boys, concluded to try his hand at an English drama. The result was _Ralph Royster Doyster_, the first comedy. In 1562 Queen Elizabeth was entertained by the presentation of the first English tragedy, a play entitled _Gorboduc_, by Thomas Sackville.

During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries amateur dramatic productions called _masques_ were presented. Sometimes even nobles and members of the royal family took part. These plays were accompanied by music, dancing, and spectacular effects. The literary character of the masque developed into the compositions of Ben Jonson, and culminated in Milton's _Comus_. During the reign of Elizabeth the productions of Kyd, Peele, Greene, Marlowe, and Beaumont and Fletcher raised the drama to such a lofty plane that only the genius of a Shakespeare could surmount it.

There are two distinct classes of modern dramas--tragedies and comedies. In the former, events crowd irresistibly on to some terrible conclusion, usually resulting in the death of the principal characters. An atmosphere of gloom surrounds it, and the flashes of light serve but to intensify the general darkness. Even when the soul of the reader recognizes the justice of the end it rebels against the horrors of the situation. The deeper and darker passions predominate; love is swallowed up in hate and happiness drowned in grief. The comedy is in a lighter and happier vein; its situations may be trying but they end happily; the sun shines and the air is clear; if storms appear they are the showers of a summer day, not awful tempests. The comedy descends through various forms to the travesty and farce whose purpose is solely to excite laughter by ludicrous scenes and absurd incidents. The melodrama abounds in thrilling situations and extravagant efforts to excite emotions, but its final outcome is a happy one, and the villain is punished and virtue is comfortably rewarded.

Dramas may be written in prose or in poetic form. The tendency is toward prose in comedy and poetry in tragedy, though in the same play both prose and poetry are sometimes used. The most common form for the poetic composition is the unrhymed iambic pentameter or blank verse (heroic measure). Rhymes are in use but usually their purpose is definite and specific and they may occur occasionally in plays which are otherwise in blank verse. Lyrics are often introduced, and in them both rhyme and meter are varied at the pleasure of the author.

_Journeys Through Bookland_ contains numerous illustrations of the facts of this chapter and plentiful examples of every form of literature except the sonnet, of which a type has just been given. The outline which follows will summarize this chapter and show a few of the examples that may be formed.

LITERATURE

I. PROSE. 1. Forms of Prose Composition. A. Narration. _The Pine Tree Shillings_: IV, 192. _A Christmas Carol_: VI, 244.

B. Description. _Brute Neighbors_: VII, 260. _The Alhambra_: VIII, 153. _Children's Books of the Past_: V, 101.

C. Exposition. _Imitation of Christ_: VI, 134. _The Cubes of Truth_: VII, 406. _Reading History_: V, 394.

D. Argument. _Poor Richard's Almanac_: VI, 407.

2. Kinds of Prose. A. Fiction. _Aladdin_: III, 288. _Tom Brown at Rugby_: V, 469. _The Adventure of the Windmills_: VII, 438.

B. Essays. _Childhood_: VI, 124. _Dream Children_: VIII, 335. _The Vision of Mirza_: IX, 285.

C. Orations. _The Gettysburg Address_: IX, 321. _Abraham Lincoln_: IX, 324.

II. POETRY. 1. Structure of Poetry. A. Rhyme. _The Country Squire_: VI, 474. _To My Infant Son_: VI, 478.

B. Meter. _The Daffodils_: VII, 1. _The Old Oaken Bucket_: VII, 11. _Bannockburn_: VII, 15. _Boat Song_: VII, 17.

2. Kinds of Poetry. A. Epics. a. Heroic Epics. _Death of Hector_: IV, 364. _Wooden Horse_: IV, 383. b. Lesser Epics. _Saint Nicholas_: II, 202. _Pied Piper of Hamelin_: III, 384. _Incident of the French Camp_: IV, 174. _Sohrab and Rustum_: VI, 173.

B. Lyrics. a. Songs. (1) Sacred. _Nearer Home_: IV, 126. _Lead, Kindly Light_: V, 110. (2) Secular. _Annie Laurie_: VI, 119. _Auld Lang Syne_: VI, 228. _Those Evening Bells_: VII, 340. (3) Patriotic. _Battle Hymn of the Republic_: V, 399. _America_: VIII, 60. b. Odes. _To the Fringed Gentian_: VII, 4. _Ode to a Skylark_: VII, 275. _To H. W. L._: IV, 84. c. Elegies. _Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard_: VI, 360. d. Sonnet. e. Drama. _The Tempest_: VIII, 364.