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Beside all those forms of verse, the plays of our old dramatists contain a large quantity of prose. But it is only prose to the eye; for it is in reality as metrical as what is printed in separate metric lines, consisting of lines of five or six feet, each of two or three syllables, but printed continuously like prose. I therefore denominate it “Metric Prose” as being metric in substance, prose in form, and as, moreover, it is termed prose both by Chaucer and Shakespeare, probably from its less elevated character and from its being written continuously and without rime or alliteration. I am disposed to regard the former as being its inventor; and perhaps his reason for writing it continuously may have been merely the wish to save paper. We know, from M. de Maucroix’s letter to Boileau, that the French poet Racan, whose poems were of course in rime, also wrote them continuously, and, as it would appear, for the same reason, though paper must have been less valuable in his time. As, however, the Anglo-Saxon and early English alliterative verse was written continuously, Chaucer may have been only following an established mode. It may be remarked that the poetry of the Hebrew Scriptures is also written and printed continuously.
Surely it is no egotism to state a plain truth! I therefore say that, as far as I know, I am myself the very first who, for the last century or more, has discerned the existence of this metric prose. My discovery was very gradual. I first recognized it in the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, and, advancing step by step, I at length arrived at the certainty that for three centuries and a half, from Chaucer and Wickliffe to Dryden and Tillotson, almost every work claiming to be regarded as a literary composition is in this form. Such are histories from Sir T. More to Clarendon, translations, controversial and philosophical works, as those of Hooker, Brown, Taylor, and Cudworth, versions of the Scriptures from Wickliffe to the authorized one inclusive, sermons, inclusive of those of Barrow, South, and Tillotson, the Liturgy, except the Creeds, Te Deum, and Catechism, all prefaces, dedications and letters of compliment, &c. The chief exceptions were Hall and the other chroniclers, Purchas, Hakluyt, Fuller, Bunyan, Ludlow, L’Estrange, and Mrs. Hutchinson. The Ecclesiastical Policy, The Liberty of Prophesying, and The Areopagitica, for example, are as decidedly metrical as The Paradise Lost, only admitting more trisyllabic feet, and being printed continuously. Hence, too, in a great measure, arises the charm which we find in the prose of our old writers, and of which we have been ignorant of the secret source; as when Cowper styles Sidney “warbler of poetic prose.”
I do not, however, say that this prose was read as verse, with a slight elevation of tone at the end of each metric line. It was, I think, read as prose, as Cowper of course read the Arcadia; but the metre diffused a secret charm through it, which could be felt even by those who were ignorant of the cause. How easy, by the way, must this mode of writing prose have made verse-making to the writers of those days! and how rapidly that prose could be written is proved by the assertion of Sir Kenelm Digby, who says that in the space of twenty-four hours he sent out and bought the Religio Medici, read it through, and wrote his Observations on it, which fill upwards of seventy printed pages, and are metrical—a fact almost inconceivable.
The only writer of the last century who, as far as I am aware, used this metric prose—for we seek it in vain in Addison, Pope, Johnson, Gibbon, &c.—is the historian Robertson, of which fact Mr. Buckle seems to have had a dim conception; for he speaks of his “measured style.” It is a question where Robertson got it; for he could hardly have invented it, and I think it must have been in Knox, Spottiswoode, and the Scottish writers of the two preceding centuries, who all wrote like their English contemporaries. At the same period, however, his countryman Macpherson invented a new kind of metric prose for his ‘Poems of Ossian.’ Even the present century presents us with an instance in Mr. Lecky’s eloquent ‘History of Rationalism,’ which is as metrical as the Areopagitica of Milton. Possibly my own remarks on the subject in ‘Notes and Queries’ may have directed his attention to it.
Gascoigne’s comedy of The Supposes, performed in 1566, a translation from the Italian of Ariosto, appears to have been the first play written in this metric prose; Lyly also, somewhat later, wrote in it his courtly comedies; and it gradually, combined with blank verse, got entire possession of the scene. The last, I believe, to use it was Dryden. Ordinary prose—probably in imitation of the French and Italian comic drama—seems to have been first used after the Restoration, in the comedies of Killigrew, Shadwell, Wycherley, Etheridge, Sedley, and other dramatists of that period.
It is rather remarkable that a union of verse and prose, similar to this union of regular and irregular verse of our drama, occurs also in that of India. Sir William Jones tells us, in his preface to Sacontala, that the Hindoo plays “are all in verse where the dialogue is elevated, and in prose where it is familiar.” Coleridge, who had not the slightest suspicion of the existence of metre in the dramatic prose, makes the following just remarks in a note on Fletcher’s Custom of the Country:—“In all comic metres the gulping of short syllables and the abbreviation of syllables ordinarily long, by the rapid pronunciation of eagerness and vehemence, are not so much a licence as a law—a faithful copy of nature.” This I think completely justifies the frequent use of the syncope and synæresis in metric prose.
The same critic again says of Milton’s noble conclusion of his treatise ‘Of Reformation in England,’ “Written in the fervour of his youthful imagination, in a high poetic strain that wanted metre only to become a lyrical poem.” He felt, but did not see, that the metre actually was there.
The fact of this prose being metric causes us sometimes to doubt whether a passage should be printed as verse or as prose; and sometimes what is verse in one edition is prose in another. Thus Mercutio’s celebrated account of Queen Mab, in Romeo and Juliet, which is most perfect decasyllabic verse, is properly printed as such in the 4to, 1597, while in all the subsequent early editions it is made prose; and prose it would probably have been at this day had no copy of that edition remained. On the other hand, most modern editors have most improperly printed the Nurse’s speeches in the preceding scene as verse, while they are, and rightly, prose in all the original editions. An editor is, I think, at perfect liberty to use his judgement in this matter.
The following extracts, in which the termination of each line is marked, will enable the reader to judge of the truth of my theory. I must at the same time remind him that such contractions as I’ll, I’ve, are rare in these prose scenes, such being left to the knowledge and skill of the actor or reader.
“As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion. | He bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns; | and, as thou sayest, charged my brother on his blessing | to breed me well; and there begins my sadness. | My brother Jacques he keeps at school, and report | speaks goldenly of his profit; for my part he keeps me | rustically at home, or, to speak more properly, | stays me here at home unkept; for call you that keeping | for a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from the stalling | of an ox? His horses are bred better; for besides that | they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manage, | and to that end riders dearly hired; but I, his brother,| gain nothing under him but growth, for the which | his animals on his dunghills are as much | bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he | so plentifully gives me, the something that Nature gave me | his countenance seems to take from me. He lets me feed | with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and as much as | in him lies mines my gentility with my education. | This it is, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, | which I think is within me, begins to mutiny | against this servitude. I will no longer endure it, | though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it.”—As You Like It, i. 1.
“I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation | prevent your discovery, and your secresy | to the king and queen moult no feather. I have of late |—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth, | foregone all custom of exercises, and indeed | it goes so heavily with my disposition, | that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile | promontory, this most excellent canopy, | the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, | this majestical roof, fretted with golden fire, | why, it appeareth nothing to me but | a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. | What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! | how infinite in faculties! in form and moving | how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! | in apprehension how like a god! | the beauty of the world! the paragon | of animals! And yet to me what is | this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; | no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.”—Hamlet, ii. 2.
“Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo.—Without his roe, | like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! | Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in; | Laura to his lady was a kitchen-wench; | marry, she had a better love to be-rime her; | Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gypsy; | Helen and Hero hildings and harlots; Thisby | a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose. | Signior Romeo, bon jour. There’s a French salutation | to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit | fairly last night.”—Romeo and Juliet, ii. 4.
“Nay, sure, | he’s not in hell. He’s in Arthur’s bosom, if ever | man went to Arthur’s bosom. ‘A made a finer end, | and went away as it had been any christom child. | ‘A parted even just between twelve and one, | even at the turning of the tide. For after I saw him | fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile | upon his finger’s end, I knew there was but one way; | for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and ’a babbled of green fields. | How now, Sir John! quoth I. What, man! be of good cheer! | So ’a cried out God, God, God! three or four times. | Now I, to comfort him, bid him he should not think of God; | I hoped there was no need to trouble himself | with any such thoughts yet. So ’a bade me lay | more clothes on his feet. I put my hand into the bed, | and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone. | Then I felt to his knees, and so upward and upward, and all was | as cold as any stone.”
—King Henry V. ii. 3.