The art of scansion

In Short

This volume presents a singular, privately printed letter written by a twenty-one-year-old Elizabeth Barrett to her neighbor, the scholar Sir Uvedale Price. The correspondence functions as a sophisticated technical discourse on the metrics of classical languages and their uneasy relationship with English verse. By debating the nuances of dactylic and anapæstic rhythms, Barrett reveals her early, rigorous commitment to the craft of poetry. It remains an essential document for those interested in the intellectual development of a literary icon and the enduring, often contentious quest to master the music of language.

The Story

The narrative arc of this letter is defined by a rigorous, point-by-point examination of Sir Uvedale Price’s privately published theories on the pronunciation of ancient languages. Barrett approaches the exchange not as a novice seeking instruction, but as an intellectual peer eager to test the structural integrity of her correspondent’s arguments. She begins by addressing Price’s assertions regarding the "absurdity" of current academic practices in the Charterhouse, where Greek is read according to modern accents rather than ancient principles. She playfully notes that if one insists on being "uniformly and consistently absurd," they might as well do so with total commitment.

As the letter progresses, Barrett moves from general theory to the granular analysis of specific metrical feet. She introduces the French critic Marmontel to illustrate the vital distinction between the dactyl—which "leaps"—and the anapæst, which "precipitates." This serves as the foundation for her most striking contribution: a masterful deconstruction of a line from Milton. She argues that Milton’s construction of "bottomless pit" is not merely an aesthetic choice but a deliberate, sophisticated application of classical cadence, mirroring Hesiod’s own descriptions of descent. She successfully pushes Price to defend his rigid classifications, challenging him to reconcile his own theories with the undeniable vitality of Virgil’s imagery.

The latter half of the letter finds Barrett broadening her scope to include the English language’s capacity for classical structures, specifically the choriambus. She takes issue with Price’s dismissive attitude toward the presence of these feet in English poetry, offering a battery of examples—from Milton, Shakespeare, and Byron—to prove their harmonious integration. She acts as an advocate for the language, forcing Price to acknowledge that words like "plenipotent" or "righteousness" possess a rhythmic weight that defies his restrictive rules. She concludes by addressing Price’s correspondence with other scholars, noting where he has been misled by others and where his own arguments have inadvertently proven her point. The letter ends with a graceful return to the personal, thanking Price for his "percussion" against his adversaries and confirming the warmth of their neighborly relationship, even while maintaining her firm stance on the technical matters at hand. It is a portrait of a mind in full bloom, navigating the "Ægæan" of classical scholarship with a "scaphula"—a small boat—of her own making.

How It Unfolds

The opening challenge Barrett immediately establishes a tone of respectful defiance, acknowledging Price’s work while signaling that she intends to contest his conclusions. She uses a lighthearted, witty tone to prepare the ground for the serious linguistic work ahead.

The Miltonic evidence She shifts into a deep-dive analysis of prosody, using a specific line from Milton to demonstrate the deliberate, mathematical precision of great poetry. By comparing English structures to Hesiod’s Greek, she validates the idea that great poets inherently understand the physics of rhythm.

The defense of the choriambus Barrett pushes back against Price’s exclusion of certain metrical feet from English, providing a curated list of candidates that she argues deserve the rank. She demonstrates an exhaustive knowledge of her literary predecessors to bolster her technical claims.

Refining the rhythm The discussion moves toward the nature of English pyrrhics and the fluidity of accents when words are placed in juxtaposition. She forces Price to reckon with the reality that language is organic and that his rigid "suprema lex" often fails to account for the actual sound of the verse.

The concluding consensus Having exhausted her technical arguments, she gracefully transitions back to the social context of their correspondence. She reaffirms her status as his "grateful" student while leaving no doubt that she has held her own in the debate.

The People

Elizabeth Barrett appears here as a formidable, sharp-witted intellectual. She is deeply invested in the "gravity" of the poet’s vocation, viewing prosody not as an abstract exercise but as the essential bedrock of artistic truth. Her primary desire is to maintain the integrity of classical and English rhythm, and her main obstacle is the rigid, sometimes inconsistent logic of the older generation of scholars. She manages to be both "humbly obstinate" and intellectually fierce, emerging from the exchange as a woman who has successfully navigated a complex, male-dominated scholarly tradition.

Sir Uvedale Price serves as the catalyst for the discourse. A representative of the eighteenth-century school of thought, he is an expert on gardening and aesthetics who has turned his attention to the "modern pronunciation of Greek and Latin." He is, in Barrett’s eyes, a person of great learning whose theories on "division of property" in language are sometimes too rigid for the messy reality of poetic practice. While he stands as the authority figure, it is his interaction with Barrett that allows him to be challenged; he provides the structure that she, in turn, helps to dismantle or refine.

In Its Own Voice

"There is a difference in the character of the anapæstic and dactylic rapidity, and one that has been very happily marked by Marmontel in a very few words, 'le dactyl s’elance, et l’anapeste se précipite.'"

Barrett justifies her interest in metrical distinctions by citing a French critic to clarify the physical sensation of rhythm.

"The plea of expression in versification is something like the plea of expediency in morals; and the internal choriambi do not seem to me reduced to such a last resource."

Barrett argues against the idea that using specific metrical forms is merely a convenient shortcut, asserting instead that they serve an essential structural purpose.

What It's Really About

The central argument concerns the tension between fixed metrical "rules" and the organic, often chaotic expression found in great poetry. Barrett is interested in whether the prosody of ancient Greek and Latin can be legitimately applied to the English tongue without losing the essence of either. Beneath the technical debate lies a profound question about the nature of poetic authority: does the poet follow the established laws of prosody, or does the poet’s intention create the law? Barrett argues for the latter, suggesting that Milton and other masters knew exactly what they were doing when they bent the rules. The book ultimately explores the intersection of disciplined, scholarly rigor and the intuitive, "generous" spirit of creative genius.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the "backstage" view of literary history—the intense, often obsessive work that goes into a poem—will find this volume captivating. It offers a rare window into the early, formative years of a poet who would eventually change the landscape of English verse. Reading these pages feels like sitting in a quiet, sun-drenched library while a brilliant student prepares to rewrite the curriculum.

The primary difficulty lies in the density of the technical jargon. The text assumes a reader comfortable with classical terminology—"choriambi," "pyrrhics," "spondees"—and a willingness to follow complex arguments about vowel length and accentuation. For the modern reader, the vocabulary is challenging, and the period attitude toward classical education may feel foreign. However, the reward is an intimate encounter with a sharp, youthful mind. What stays with the reader is the sense of excitement Barrett feels for her craft; she treats prosody not as a dusty, dead subject, but as a living, breathing force. It is a testament to the fact that for the true poet, the mechanics of sound are as vital as the meaning of the words themselves. Anyone who has ever been moved by the "march" of a perfect line of verse will recognize in these pages the origins of that same passion.