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[page 577, unnumbered, column 1:]
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THE RATIONALE OF VERSE.*
BY EDGAR A. POE.
The word "Verse" is here used not in
its strict
or
primitive sense, but as the term most convenient for expressing
generally
and without pedantry all that is involved in the consideration of
rhythm,
rhyme, metre, and versification.
There is, perhaps, no topic in polite
literature
which has been more pertinaciously discussed, and there is certainly
not
one about which so much inaccuracy, confusion, misconception,
misrepresentation,
mystification, and downright ignorance on all sides, can be fairly said
to exist. Were the topic really difficult, or did it lie, even, in the
cloud-land of metaphysics, where the doubt-vapors may be made to assume
any and every shape at the will or at the fancy of the gazer, we should
have less reason to wonder at all this contradiction and perplexity;
but
in fact the subject is exceedingly simple; one tenth of it, possibly,
may
be called ethical; nine tenths, however, appertain to the mathematics;
and
the whole is included within the limits of the commonest common sense.
"But, if this is the case, how," it
will be
asked,
"can so much misunderstanding have arisen? Is it conceivable that a
thousand
profound scholars, investigating so very simple a matter for centuries,
have not been able to place it in the fullest light, at least, of which
it is susceptible?" These queries, I confess, are not easily answered:
—
at all events a satisfactory reply to them might cost more trouble
than
would, if properly considered, the whole vexata quæstio [[questio]]
to
which
they have reference. Nevertheless, there is little difficulty or danger
in suggesting that the "thousand profound scholars" may have
failed,
first because they were scholars, secondly because they were
profound,
and thirdly because they were a thousand — the impotency of the
scholarship
and profundity having been thus multiplied a thousand fold. I am
serious
in these suggestions; for, first again, there is something in
"scholarship"
which seduces us into blind worship of Bacon's Idol of the Theatre —
into
irrational deference to antiquity; secondly, the proper "profundity" is
rarely profound — it is the nature of Truth in general, as of some ores
in particular, to [column 2:] be richest when most superficial;
thirdly, the
clearest
subject may be overclouded by mere superabundance of talk. In
chemistry,
the best way of separating two bodies is to add a third; in
speculation,
fact often agrees with fact and argument with argument, until an
additional
well-meaning fact or argument sets every thing by the ears. In one case
out of a hundred a point is excessively discussed because it is
obscure;
in the ninety-nine remaining it is obscure because excessively
discussed.
When a topic is thus circumstanced, the readiest mode of investigating
it is to forget that any previous investigation has been attempted.
But, in fact, while much has been
written on the
Greek and Latin rhythms, and even on the Hebrew, little effort has been
made at examining that of any of the modern tongues. As regards the
English,
comparatively nothing has been done. It may be said, indeed, that we
are
without a treatise on our own verse. In our ordinary grammars and in
our
works on rhetoric or prosody in general, may be found occasional
chapters,
it is true, which have the heading, "Versification," but these are, in
all instances, exceedingly meagre. They pretend to no analysis; they
propose
nothing like system; they make no attempts at even rule; every thing
depends
upon "authority." They are confined, in fact, to mere exemplification
of
the supposed varieties of English feet and English lines; — although in
no work with which I am acquainted are these feet correctly given or
these
lines detailed in anything like their full extent. Yet what has been
mentioned
is all — if we except the occasional introduction of some
pedagogue-ism,
such as this, borrowed from the Greek Prosodies: — "When a syllable is
wanting,
the verse is said to be catalectic; when the measure is exact, the line
is acatalectic; when there is a redundant syllable it forms
hypermeter."
Now whether a line be termed catalectic or acatalectic is, perhaps, a
point of no vital importance; — it is even possible that the student
may
be able to decide, promptly, when the a should be employed and
when
omitted, yet be incognizant, at the same time, of all that is
worth
knowing in regard to the structure of verse.
A leading defect in each of our
treatises, (if
treatises
they can be called,) is the confining the subject to mere Versification,
while Verse in general, with the understanding
given to
the
term in the heading of this paper, is the real question at issue. Nor
am
I aware of even one of our Grammars which so much as properly defines
the
word versification itself. "Versification," says a work now before me,
of which the accuracy is far more than [page 578:] usual — the
"English Grammar" of
Goold Brown — "Versification is the art of arranging words into lines
of
correspondent length, so as to produce harmony by the regular
alternation
of syllables differing in quantity." The commencement of this
definition
might apply, indeed, to the art of versification, but not to
versification
itself. Versification is not the art of arranging &c., but the
actual
arranging — a distinction too obvious to need comment. The error here
is
identical with one which has been too long permitted to disgrace the
initial
page of every one of our school grammars. I allude to the definitions
of
English Grammar itself. "English Grammar," it is said, "is the art of
speaking
and writing the English language correctly." This phraseology, or
something
essentially similar, is employed, I believe, by Bacon, Miller, Fisk,
Greenleaf,
Ingersoll, Kirkland [[Kirkham]], Cooper, Flint, Pue, Comly, and many
others. These
gentlemen, it is presumed, adopted it without examination from Murray,
who derived it from Lily, (whose work was "quam solam Regia Majestas
in omnibus scholis docendam præcipit,") and who appropriated
it
without
acknowledgment, but with some unimportant modification, from the Latin
Grammar of Leonicenus. It may be shown, however, that this definition,
so complacently received, is not, and cannot be, a proper definition of
English Grammar. A definition is that which so describes its object as
to distinguish it from all others: — it is no definition of any one
thing
if its terms are applicable to any one other. But if it be asked —
"What
is the design — the end — the aim of English Grammar?" our obvious
answer
is, "The art of speaking and writing the English language correctly:" —
that is to say, we must use the precise words employed as the
definition
of English Grammar itself. But the object to be obtained by any means
is,
assuredly, not the means. English Grammar and the end contemplated by
English
Grammar, are two matters sufficiently distinct; nor can the one be more
reasonably regarded as the other than a fishing-hook as a fish. The
definition,
therefore, which is applicable in the latter instance, cannot,
in the
former,
be true. Grammar in general is the analysis of language; English
Grammar
of the English.
But to return to Versification as
defined in our
extract above. "It is the art," says the extract, "of arranging words
into
lines of correspondent length." Not so: — a
correspondence in
the
length of lines is by no means essential. Pindaric odes are, surely,
instances
of versification, yet these compositions are noted for extreme
diversity
in the length of their lines.
The arrangement is moreover said to
be for the
purpose
of producing "harmony by the regular alternation," &c. But harmony
is not the sole aim — not even the principal one. In
the
construction
of verse, melody should never be left out of view; yet this is
a
point which all our Prosodies have [column 2:] most
unaccountably forborne to
touch.
Reasoned rules on this topic should form a portion of all systems of
rhythm.
"So as to produce harmony," says the
definition,
"by the regular alternation," &c. A regular alternation,
as described, forms no part of any principle of versification. The
arrangement
of spondees and dactyls, for example, in the Greek hexameter, is an
arrangement
which may be termed at random. At least it is arbitrary.
Without
interference
with the line as a whole, a dactyl may be substituted for a spondee, or
the converse, at any point other than the ultimate and penultimate
feet,
of which the former is always a spondee, the latter nearly always a
dactyl.
Here, it is clear, we have no "regular alternation of syllables
differing
in quantity."
"So as to produce harmony," proceeds
the
definition,
"by the regular alteration of syllables differing in quantity,"
— in
other
words by the alteration of long and short syllables; for in rhythm all
syllables are necessarily either short or long. But not only do I deny
the necessity of any regularity in the succession of feet and,
by
consequence,
of syllables, but dispute the essentiality of any alternation,
regular
or irregular, or syllables long and short. Our author, observe, is now
engaged in a definition of versification in general, not of English
versification
in particular. But the Greek and Latin metres abound in the spondee and
pyrrhic — the former consisting of two long syllables; the latter of
two
short; and there are innumerable instances of the immediate succession
of many spondees and many pyrrhics.
Here is a passage from Silius Italicus:
Fallis te mensas inter quod credis
inermem
Tot bellis quæsita viro, tot cædibus armat
Majestas eterna ducem: si admoveris ora
Cannas et Trebium ante oculos Trasymenaque busta,
Et Pauli stare ingentem miraberis umbram. |
Making the elisions demanded by the classic
Prosodies, we should scan
these
Hexameters thus:
Fāllīs | tē mēn
| sās īn |
tēr
qūod | crēdĭs ĭn | ērmēm |
Tōt bēl | līs qūæ | sītă vĭ
| rō tōt | cædĭbŭs | ārmāt |
Mājēs | tās ē | tērnă dŭ |
cēm
s'ād | mōvĕrĭs | ōrā |
Cānnās | ēt Trĕbī | ānt' ŏcŭ
| lōs Trăsў | mēnăquĕ |
būstā [[ | ]]
ēt Pāu | lī stā | r'īngēn | tēm mī
| rābĕrĭs | ūmbrām |
|
It will be seen that, in the first and last of these
lines, we have only two short syllables in thirteen, with an
uninterrupted succession of no less than nine long syllables.
But how are we to reconcile all this with a definition of versification
which describes it as "the art of arranging words into lines of
correspondent length so as to produce harmony by the regular
alternation of syllables differing in quantity?"
It may be urged, however, that our prosodist's intention
was to speak of the English metres alone, and that, by omitting all
mention of the spondee and [page 579:] pyrrhic, he has
virtually avowed their
exclusion
from our rhythms. A grammarian is never excusable on the ground of good
intentions. We demand from him, if from any one, rigorous precision of
style. But grant the design. Let us admit that our author, following
the example of all authors on English Prosody, has, in defining
versification
at large, intended a definition merely of the English. All these
prosodists,
we will say, reject the spondee and pyrrhic. Still all admit the
iambus,
which consists of a short syllable followed by a long; the trochee,
which
is the converse of the iambus; the dactyl, formed of one long syllable
followed
by two short; and the anapæst — two short succeeded by a long.
The
spondee
is improperly rejected, as I shall presently show. The pyrrhic is
rightfully
dismissed. Its existence in either ancient or modern rhythm is purely
chimerical,
and the insisting on so perplexing a nonentity as a foot of two
short syllables, affords, perhaps, the best evidence of the
gross
irrationality
and subservience to authority which characterize our Prosody. In the
meantime
the acknowledged dactyl and anapæst are enough to sustain my
proposition
about the "alternation," &c., without reference to feet which are
assumed
to exist in the Greek and Latin metres alone: for an anapæst and
a
dactyl
may meet in the same line; when of course we shall have an
uninterrupted
succession of four short syllables. The meeting of these two feet, to
be
sure, is an accident not contemplated in the definition now discussed;
for
this definition, in demanding a "regular alternation of syllables
differing
in quantity," insists on a regular succession of similar feet. But
here
is an example:
This is the opening line of a little ballad now
before
me, which proceeds in the same rhythm — a peculiarly beautiful one.
More
than all this: — English lines are often well composed, entirely, of a
regular
succession of syllables all of the same quantity: — the first
lines,
for instance, of the following quatrain by Arthur C. Coxe:
March! march! march!
Making sounds
as they tread,
Ho! ho! how they step,
Going down to
the
dead!
|
The line italicized is formed of three
cæsuras. The cæsura, of which I have much to say hereafter,
is rejected by the
English
Prosodies and grossly misrepresented in the classic. It is a perfect
foot
— the most important in all verse — and consists of a single long
syllable;
but the length of this syllable varies.
It has thus been made evident that
there is not
one point of the definition in question which does not involve an
error. And for anything more satisfactory or more intelligible we shall
look
in
vain to any published treatise on the topic. [column 2:]
So general and so total a failure can
be referred
only to radical misconception. In fact the English Prosodists have
blindly
followed the pedants. These latter like, les moutons de Panurge, have
been occupied in incessant tumbling into ditches, for the excellent
reason
that their leaders have so tumbled before. The Iliad, being taken as a
starting point, was made to stand instead of Nature and common sense.
Upon
this poem, in place of facts and deduction from fact, or from natural
law,
were built systems of feet, metres, rhythms, rules, — rules that
contradict
each other every five minutes, and for nearly all of which there may be
found twice as many exceptions as examples. If any one has a fancy to
be
thoroughly confounded — to see how far the infatuation of what is
termed
"classical scholarship," can lead a book-worm in the manufacture of
darkness
out of sunshine, let him turn over, for a few moments, any one of the
German
Greek Prosodies. The only thing clearly made out in them is a very
magnificent
contempt for Leibnitz's principle of "a sufficient reason."
To divert attention from the real
matter in hand
by any farther reference to these works, is unnecessary, and would be
weak.
I cannot call to mind, at this moment, one essential particular of
information
that is to be gleaned from them; and I will drop them here with merely
this one observation: that, employing from among the numerous "ancient"
feet the spondee, the trochee, the iambus, the
anapæst, the
dactyl,
and the cæsura alone, I will engage to scan correctly any
of the
Horatian
rhythms, or any true rhythm that human ingenuity can conceive. And this
excess of chimerical feet is, perhaps, the very least of the scholastic
supererogations. Ex uno disce omnia. The fact is that Quantity
is
a
point
in whose investigation the lumber of mere learning may be dispensed
with,
if ever in any. Its appreciation is universal. It appertains to no
region,
nor race, nor æra in especial. To melody and to harmony the
Greeks
hearkened
with ears precisely similar to those which we employ for similar
purposes
at present; and I should not be condemned for heresy in asserting that
a pendulum at Athens would have vibrated much after the same fashion as
does a pendulum in the city of Penn.
Verse originates in the human
enjoyment of
equality,
fitness. To this enjoyment, also, all the moods of verse — rhythm,
metre,
stanza, rhyme, alliteration, the refrain, and other analagous
effects —
are to be referred. As there are some readers who habitually confound
rhythm
and metre, it may be as well here to say that the former concerns the character
of feet (that is, the arrangements of syllables) while
the
latter has to
do with the number of these feet. Thus by "a dactylic rhythm"
we express a sequence of dactyls. By "a dactylic
hexameter" we
imply
a line or measure consisting of six of these dactyls. [page 580:]
To return to equality. Its
idea embraces
those
of similarity, proportion, identity, repetition, and adaptation or
fitness.
It might not be very difficult to go even behind the idea of equality,
and show both how and why it is that the human nature takes pleasure in
it, but such an investigation would, for any purpose now in view, be
supererogatory.
It is sufficient that the fact is undeniable — the fact that
man
derives enjoyment from his perception of equality. Let us examine a
crystal.
We are at once interested by the equality between the sides and between
the angles of one of its faces: the equality of the sides pleases us;
that
of the angles doubles the pleasure. On bringing to view a second face
in
all respects similar to the first, this pleasure seems to be squared;
on
bringing to view a third it appears to be cubed, and so on. I have no
doubt,
indeed, that the delight experienced, if measurable, would be found to
have exact mathematical relations such as I suggest; that is to say, as
far as a certain point, beyond which there would be a decrease in
similar
relations.
The perception of pleasure in the
equality of sounds
is the principle of Music. Unpractised ears can appreciate only
simple
equalities, such as are found in ballad airs. While comparing one
simple
sound with another they are too much occupied to be capable of
comparing
the equality subsisting between these two simple sounds taken
conjointly,
and two other similar simple sounds, taken conjointly. Practised ears,
on
the other hand, appreciate both equalities at the same instant —
although
it is absurd to suppose that both are heard at the same
instant.
One is heard and appreciated from itself the other is heard by the
memory;
and the instant glides into and is confounded with the secondary,
appreciation.
Highly cultivated musical taste in this manner enjoys not only these
double
equalities, all appreciated at once, but takes pleasurable cognizance,
through memory, of equalities the members of which occur at intervals
so
great that the uncultivated taste loses them altogether. That this
latter
can properly estimate or decide on the merits of what is called
scientific
music, is of course impossible. But scientific music has no claim to
intrinsic
excellence — it is fit for scientific ears alone. In its excess it is
the
triumph of the physique over the morale of music. The
sentiment
is overwhelmed by the sense. On the whole, the advocates of the simpler
melody and harmony have infinitely the best of the argument; — although
there
has been very little of real argument on the subject.
In verse, which cannot be
better
designated
than as an inferior or less capable Music, there is, happily, little
chance
for complexity. Its rigidly simple character not even Science — not
even
Pedantry can greatly pervert.
The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be
found in
the spondee. The very germ of a thought seeking
satisfaction in
equality
of sound, would result [column 2:] in the construction of words
of two syllables,
equally
accented. In corroboration of this idea we find that spondees most
abound
in the most ancient tongues. The second step we can easily suppose to
be
the comparison, that is to say, the collocation of two spondees — or
two
words composed each of a spondee. The third step would be the
juxta-position
of three of these words. By this time the perception of monotone would
induce farther consideration: and thus arises what Leigh Hunt so
flounders
in discussing under the title of "The Principle of Variety in
Uniformity."
Of course there is no principle in the case — nor in maintaining it.
The
"Uniformity" is the principle: — the "Variety" is but the
principle's
natural safeguard from self-destruction by excess of self.
"Uniformity,"
besides, is the very worst word that could have been chosen for the
expression
of the general idea at which it aims.
The perception of monotone having
given rise to
an
attempt at its relief, the first thought in this new direction would be
that of collating two or more words formed each of two syllables
differently
accented (that is to say, short and long) but having the same order in
each word: — in other terms, of collating two or more iambuses, or two
or
more trochees. And here let me pause to assert that more pitiable
nonsense
has been written on the topic of long and short syllables
than on any other subject under the sun. In general, a syllable is long
or short, just as it is difficult or easy of enunciation. The natural
long syllables are those encumbered — the natural short
ones
are those unencumbered, with consonants; all the rest is mere
artificiality
and jargon. The Latin Prosodies have a rule that "a vowel before two
consonants
is long." This rule is deduced from "authority" — that is, from the
observation
that vowels so circumstanced, in the ancient poems, are always in
syllables
long by the laws of scansion. The philosophy of the rule is untouched,
and lies simply in the physical difficulty of giving voice to such
syllables
— of performing the lingual evolutions necessary for their utterance.
Of
course, it is not the vowel that is long (although the rule
says
so) but the syllable of which the vowel is a part. It will be seen
that
the length of a syllable, depending on the facility or difficulty of
its
enunciation, must have great variation in various syllables; but for
the
purposes of verse we suppose a long syllable equal to two short ones: —
and
the natural deviation from this relativeness we correct in perusal. The
more closely our long syllables approach this relation with our short
ones,
the better, ceteris paribus, will be our verse: but if the
relation
does not exist of itself, we force it by emphasis, which can, of
course,
make any syllable as long as desired; — or, by an effort we can
pronounce
with unnatural brevity a syllable that is naturally too long. Accented
syllables are of course always long — but, where unencumbered
[page 581:] with
consonants, must be classed among the unnaturally long. Mere
custom
has declared that we shall accent them — that is to say, dwell upon
them;
but no inevitable lingual difficulty forces us to do so. In fine, every
long syllable must of its own accord occupy in its utterance, or must
be made to occupy, precisely the time demanded for two
short ones.
The only exception to this rule is found in the cæsura — of which
more
anon.
The success of the experiment with
the trochees
or
iambuses (the one would have suggested the other) must have led to a
trial
of dactyls or anapæsts — natural dactyls or anapæsts —
dactylic or anapæstic words. And now some degree of
complexity has been
attained. There is an
appreciation, first, of the equality between the several dactyls or
anapæsts,
and, secondly, of that between the long syllable and the two short
conjointly.
But here it may be said that step after step would have been taken, in
continuation of this routine, until all the feet of the Greek Prosodies
became exhausted. Not so: — these remaining feet have no existence
except
in the brains of the scholiasts. It is needless to imagine men
inventing
these things, and folly to explain how and why they invented them,
until
it shall be first shown that they are actually invented. All other
"feet"
than those which I have specified, are, if not impossible at first
view,
merely combinations of the specified; and, although this assertion is
rigidly
true, I will, to avoid misunderstanding, put it in a somewhat different
shape. I will say, then, that at present I am aware of no rhythm — nor
do I believe that any one can be constructed — which, in its last
analysis,
will not be found to consist altogether of the feet I have mentioned,
either
existing in their individual and obvious condition, or interwoven with
each other in accordance with simple natural laws which I will
endeavor
to point out hereafter.
We have now gone so far as to suppose
men
constructing
indefinite sequences of spondaic, iambic, trochaic, dactylic, or
anapæstic
words. In extending these sequences, they would be again
arrested
by the sense of monotone. A succession of spondees would immediately
have displeased; one of iambuses or of trochees, on
account of the
variety included within the foot itself, would have taken longer to
displease;
one of dactyls or anapæsts still longer: but even the last, if
extended
very far, must have become wearisome. The idea, first, of curtailing,
and
secondly, of defining the length of a sequence, would thus at once have
arisen. Here then is the line, of verse proper.* The principle [column 2:]
of
equality being constantly at the bottom of the whole process, lines
would
naturally be made, in the first instance, equal in the number of their
feet; in the second instance there would be variation in the mere
number;
one line would be twice as long as another; then one would be some less
obvious multiple of another; then still less obvious proportions would
be adopted: — nevertheless there would be proportion, that is
to
say a phase of equality, still.
Lines being once introduced, the
necessity of
distinctly
defining these lines to the ear, (as yet written verse does not
exist,)
would lead to a scrutiny of their capabilities at their
terminations:
— and now would spring up the idea of equality in sound between
the
final syllables — in other words, of rhyme. First, it would be
used
only in the iambic, anapæstic, and spondaic rhythms, (granting
that the
latter had not been thrown aside, long since, on account of its
tameness;)
because in these rhythms the concluding syllable being long, could
best
sustain the necessary protection [[protraction]] of the voice. No great
while could
elapse,
however, before the effect, found pleasant as well as useful, would be
applied to the two remaining rhythms. But as the chief force of rhyme
must
lie in the accented syllable, the attempt to create rhyme at all in
these
two remaining rhythms, the trochaic and dactylic, would necessarily
result
in double and triple rhymes, such as beauty with duty (trochaic)
and beautiful with dutiful (dactylic).
It must be observed that in
suggesting these
processes
I assign them no date; nor do I even insist upon their order. Rhyme is
supposed to be of modern origin, and were this proved, my positions
remain
untouched. I may say, however, in passing, that several instances of
rhyme
occur in the "Clouds" of Aristophanes, and that the Roman poets
occasionally
employ it. There is an effective species of ancient rhyming which has
never descended to the moderns; that in which the ultimate and
penultimate
syllables rhyme with each other. For example:
| Parturiunt montes et nascitur
ridiculus mus. |
and again —
| Litoreis ingens inventa sub ilicibus
sus. |
The terminations of Hebrew
verse, (as far as
understood,)
show no signs of rhyme; but what thinking person can doubt that it did
actually exist? That men have so obstinately and blindly insisted, in
general, even up to the present day, in confining rhyme to the ends
of lines, when its effect is even better applicable
elsewhere,
intimates,
in my opinion, the sense of some necessity in the connexion of
the
end with the rhyme — hints that the origin of rhyme lay in a necessity
which connected [page 582:] it with the end — shows that
neither mere accident nor
mere fancy gave rise to the connexion — points, in a word, at the very
necessity which I have suggested, (that of some mode of defining lines to
the ear,) as the true origin of rhyme. Admit this and we throw the
origin far back in the night of Time — beyond the origin of written
verse.
But to resume. The amount of
complexity I have
now
supposed to be attained is very considerable. Various systems of
equalization
are appreciated at once (or nearly so) in their respective values and
in
the value of each system with reference to all the others. As our
present ultimatum of complexity, we have arrived at
triple-rhymed,
natural-dactylic
lines, existing proportionally as well as equally with regard to other
triple-rhymed, natural-dactylic lines. For example:
Virginal
Lilian,
rigidly, humblily dutiful;
Saintlily, lowlily,
Thrillingly, holily
Beautiful!
|
Here we appreciate, first, the absolute equality
between
the long syllable of each dactyl and the two short conjointly;
secondly,
the absolute equality between each dactyl and any other dactyl — in
other
words, among all the dactyls; thirdly, the absolute equality between
the
two middle lines; fourthly, the absolute equality between the first
line
and all the others taken conjointly; fifthly, the absolute equality
between
the last two syllables of the respective words "dutiful" and
"beautiful;"
sixthly, the absolute equality between the two last syllables of the
respective
words "lowlily" and "holily;" seventhly, the proximate equality between
the first syllable of "dutiful" and the first syllable of "beautiful;"
eighthly, the proximate equality, between the first syllable of
"lowlily"
and that of "holily;" ninthly, the proportional equality, (that of five
to one,) between the first line and each of its members, the dactyls;
tenthly,
the proportional equality, (that of two to one,) between each of the
middle
lines and its members, the dactyls; eleventhly, the proportional
equality
between the first line and each of the two middle — that of five to
two;
twelfthly, the proportional equality between the first line and the
last —
that of five to one; thirteenthly, the proportional equality between
each
of the middle lines and the last — that of two to one; lastly, the
proportional
equality, as concerns number, between all the lines, taken
collectively,
and any individual line — that of four to one.
The consideration of this last
equality would
give
birth immediately to the idea of stanza* —
that
is to say, the
insulation
of lines into equal or obviously proportional masses. In its primitive,
(which was also its best,) form, the stanza would most probably have
had
absolute unity. In other words, the removal of any one of its lines
would
have rendered it imperfect; as in the case above, where if the last
line,
for example, be taken away, there is left no rhyme to the "dutiful" of
the
first. Modern stanza is excessively loose, and where so, ineffective as
a matter of course.
Now, although in the deliberate
written statement
which I have here given of these various systems of equalities, there
seems
to be an infinity of complexity — so much that it is hard to conceive
the
mind taking cognizance of them all in the brief period occupied by the
perusal or recital of the stanza — yet the difficulty is in fact
apparent
only when we will it to become so. Any one fond of mental experiment
may
satisfy himself, by trial, that, in listening to the lines, he does
actually,
(although with a seeming unconsciousness, on account of the rapid
evolutions
of sensation,) recognize and instantaneously appreciate, (more or less
intensely
as his ear is cultivated,) each and all of the equalizations detailed.
The
pleasure received, or receivable, has very much such progressive
increase,
and in very nearly such mathematical relations, as those which I have
suggested
in the case of the crystal.
It will be observed that I speak of
merely a
proximate
equality between the first syllable of "dutiful" and that of
"beautiful;"
and it may be asked why we cannot imagine the earliest rhymes to have
had
absolute instead of proximate equality of sound. But absolute
equality
would have involved the use of identical words; and it is the duplicate
sameness or monotony — that of sense as well as that of sound — which
would
have caused these rhymes to be rejected in the very first instance.
The narrowness of the limits within
which verse composed of natural
feet alone, must necessarily have been confined, would have led, after
a very brief interval, to the trial and immediate
adoption of
artificial
feet — that is to say of feet not constituted each of a
single
word,
but two or even three words; or of parts of words. These feet would be
intermingled with natural ones. For example:
| ă brēath |
căn māke |
thĕm ās
| ă breāth | hăs māde. |
This is an iambic line in which each iambus is formed of two words.
Again:
| Thĕ ūn | ĭmā |
gĭnā |
blĕ
mīght | ŏf Jōve. |
This is an iambic line in which the first foot is formed of a word and
a part of a word; the second and third of parts taken from the body or
interior of a word; the fourth of a part and a whole; the fifth of two
complete words. There are no natural feet in either lines.
Again: [page 583:]
Cān ĭt bĕ |
fānciĕd
thăt
| Dēĭty | ēvĕr vĭn |
dīctĭvely |
Māde ĭn hĭs | īmăgĕ ă |
mānnĭkĭn
| mĕrely tŏ | māddĕn ĭt? | |
These are two dactylic lines in which
we find
natural
feet, ("Deity," "mannikin;") feet composed of two words ("fancied
that,"
"image a," "merely to," "madden it;") feet composed of three words
("can
it be," "made in his;") a foot composed of a part of a word
("dictively;")
and a foot composed of a word and a part of a word ("ever vin.") [[.]]
And now, in our supposititious
progress, we have
gone
so far as to exhaust all the essentialities of verse. What
follows
may, strictly speaking, be recorded as embellishment merely — but even
in
this embellishment, the rudimental sense of equality would
have
been
the never-ceasing impulse. It would, for example, be simply in seeking
farther administration to this sense that men would come, in time, to
think
of the refrain, or burden, where, at the closes of the several
stanzas
of a poem, one word or phrase is repeated; and of
alliteration,
in whose simplest form a consonant is repeated in the
commencements
of various words. This effect would be extended so as to embrace
repetitions
both of vowels and of consonants, in the bodies as well as in the
beginnings
of words; and, at a later period, would be made to infringe on the
province
of rhyme, by the introduction of general similarity of sound between
whole
feet occurring in the body of a line: — all of which modifications I
have
exemplified in the line above,
| Made in his image a mannikin
merely
to madden
it. |
Farther cultivation would improve also the refrain by
relieving
its monotone in slightly varying the phrase at each repetition, or,
(as I have attempted to do in "The Raven,") in retaining the phrase and
varying its application — although this latter point is not strictly a
rhythmical
effect alone. Finally, poets when fairly wearied with
following
precedent — following it the more closely the less they perceived it in
company with Reason — would adventure so far as to indulge in positive
rhyme
at other points than the ends of lines. First, they would put it in the
middle of the line; then at some point where the multiple would be less
obvious; then alarmed at their own audacity, they would undo all their
work by cutting these lines in two. And here is the fruitful source of
the infinity of "short metre," by which modern poetry, if not
distinguished,
is at least disgraced. It would require a high degree, indeed, both of
cultivation and of courage, on the part of any versifier, to enable him
to
place his rhymes — and let them remain — at unquestionably their best
position,
that of unusual and unanticipated intervals.
On account of the stupidity of some
people, or,
(if
talent be a more respectable word,) on account of their talent for
misconception
— I think it necessary [column 2:] to add here, first, that I
believe the
"processes"
above detailed to be nearly if not accurately those which did occur
in the gradual creation of what we now call verse; secondly, that,
although
I so believe, I yet urge neither the assumed fact nor my belief in it,
as
a part of the true proposition of this paper; thirdly, that in regard
to the aim of this paper, it is of no consequence whether these
processes
did occur either in the order I have assigned them, or at all; my
design
being simply, in presenting a general type of what such processes might
have been and must have resembled, to help them,
the
"some people," to an easy understanding of what I have farther to say
on
the topic of Verse.
There is one point which, in my
summary of the
processes,
I have purposely forborne to touch; because this point, being the most
important of all, on account of the immensity of error usually involved
in its consideration, would have led me into a series of detail
inconsistent
with the object of a summary.
Every reader of verse must have
observed how
seldom
it happens that even any one line proceeds uniformly with a succession,
such as I have supposed, of absolutely equal feet; that is to say, with
a succession of iambuses only, or of trochees only, or of dactyls only,
or of anapæsts only, or of spondees only. Even in the most
musical
lines
we find the succession interrupted. The iambic pentameters of Pope, for
example, will be found on examination, frequently varied by trochees in
the beginning, or by (what seem to be) anapæsts in the body, of
the
line.
ŏh thōu |
whătē |
vĕr tī |
tlĕ
pleāse | thĭne eār |
Dĕan Drā | piĕr Bĭck | ĕrstāff
| ŏr Gūl [[Gūll]] | ĭvēr |
Whēthĕr | thŏu choōse | Cĕrvān |
tĕs' sē | rĭoŭs ăir |
ŏr laūgh | ănd shāke | ĭn Rāb | ĕlaĭs'
eā | sў chaīr. |
|
Were any one weak enough to refer to the Prosodies for the solution of
the difficulty here, he would find it solved as usual by a rule,
stating the fact, (or what it, the rule, supposes to be
the fact,)
but
without the slightest attempt at the rationale. "By a synæresis
of the two short syllables," say the books, "an
anapæst may
sometimes
be employed for an iambus, or a dactyl for a trochee. . . . In the
beginning
of a line a trochee is often used for an iambus."
Blending is the plain English
for synæresis
— but there should be no blending; neither is an
anapæst ever employed for an iambus, or a dactyl for a
trochee.
These feet
differ
in time; and no feet so differing can ever be legitimately
used
in the same line. An anapæst is equal to four short syllables —
an
iambus
only to three. Dactyls and trochees hold the same relation. The
principle
of equality, in verse, admits, it is true, of variation at
certai [[certain]]
points, for the relief of monotone, as I have already [page 584:]
shown, but the
point
of time is that point which, being the rudimental one, must
never
be tampered with at all.
To explain: — In farther efforts for
the relief
of
monotone than those to which I have alluded in the summary, men soon
came
to see that there was no absolute necessity for adhering to the precise
number of syllables, provided the time required for the whole foot was
preserved inviolate. They saw, for instance, that in such a line as
| ŏr lāugh | ănd
shāke | ĭn
Rāb
| ĕlaĭs ēa | sy chāir, | |
the equalization of the three syllables elais ea with the two
syllables
composing any of the other feet, could be readily effected by
pronouncing
the two syllable [[syllables]] elais in double quick time. By
pronouncing
each
of the syllables e and lais twice as rapidly as the
syllable sy, or the syllable in, or any other short
syllable, they
could
bring the two of them, taken together, to the length, that is to say to
the time, of any one short syllable. This consideration enabled them to
effect the agreeable variation of three syllables in place of the
uniform
two. And variation was the object — variation to the ear. What sense is
there, then, in supposing this object rendered null by the blending
of the two syllables so as to render them, in absolute
effect, one?
Of course, there must be no blending. Each syllable must be
pronounced
as distinctly as possible, (or the variation is lost,) but with twice
the
rapidity in which the ordinary short syllable is enunciated. That the
syllables elais ea do not compose an anapæst is
evident,
and the
signs
( ˘ ˘ ¯ ) of their accentuation are erroneous. The
foot
might be written thus ( ˆ ˆ ¯ ) the inverted
crescents expressing
double quick time; and might be called a bastard iambus.
Here is a trochaic line:
| Sēe thĕ |
dēlĭcăte |
fōotĕd
| rēin-deĕr. | |
The prosodies — that is to say the most considerate
of them — would here decide that "delicate" is a dactyl used
in
place of a trochee, and would refer to what they call their "rule," for
justification. Others, varying the stupidity, would insist upon a
Procrustean
adjustment thus (del'cate) — an adjustment recommended to all such
words
as silvery, murmuring, etc., which, it is said, should be not
only
pronounced, but written silv'ry, murm'ring, and so on,
whenever
they
find themselves in trochaic predicament. I have only to say that
"delicate,"
when circumstanced as above, is neither a dactyl nor a dactyl's
equivalent;
that I would suggest for it this ( ¯ ˆ ˆ ) accentuation; that
I
think it as well to call it a bastard trochee; and that all words, at
all
events, should be written and pronounced in full, and as
nearly
as possible as nature intended them. [column 2:]
About eleven years ago, there appeared in "The
American
Monthly
Magazine,"
(then edited, I believe, by Mess. Hoffman and Benjamin,) a review of
Mr.
Willis' Poems; the critic putting forth his strength, or his weakness,
in an endeavor to show that the poet was either absurdly affected, or
grossly
ignorant of the laws of verse; the accusation being based altogether on
the fact that Mr. W. made occasional use of this very word "delicate,"
and other similar words, in "the Heroic measure which every one knew
consisted
of feet of two syllables." Mr. W. has often, for example, such lines as
That binds him to a woman's delicate
love —
In
the gay
sunshine,
reverent in the storm —
With its invisible fingers my loose
hair.
|
Here, of course, the feet licate love, verent in, and sible
fin, are bastard iambuses; are not anapæsts and are not
improperly used. Their employment, on the
contrary, by
Mr. Willis
is but one of the innumerable instances he has given of keen
sensibility
in all those matters of taste which may be classed under the general
head
of fanciful embellishment.
It is also about eleven years ago, if I am not
mistaken,
since Mr.
Horne,
(of England,) the author of "Orion," one of the noblest epics in any
language,
thought it necessary to preface his "Chaucer Modernized" by a very long
and evidently a very elaborate essay, of which the greater portion was
occupied in a discussion of the seemingly anomalous foot of which we
have
been speaking. Mr. Horne upholds Chaucer in its frequent use; maintains
his superiority, on account of his so frequently using it,
over
all English versifiers; and, indignantly repelling the common idea of
those
who make verse on their fingers — that the superfluous syllable is a
roughness
and an error — very chivalrously makes battle for it as "a grace." That
a grace it is, there can be no doubt; and what I complain of
is,
that the author of the most happily versified long poem in existence,
should
have been under the necessity of discussing this grace merely as
a
grace,
through forty or fifty vague pages, solely because of his inability to
show how and why it is a grace — by which showing the
question
would have been settled in an instant.
About the trochee used for an iambus, as we see in
the
beginning of
the line,
| Whēthĕr thou choose Cervantes'
serious air, |
there is little that need be said. It brings me to the general
proposition
that, in all rhythms, the prevalent or distinctive feet may be varied
at
will, and nearly at random, by the occasional introduction of
equivalent
feet — that is to say, feet the sum of whose syllabic times is equal to
the sum of the syllabic times of the distinctive feet. Thus the
troches [page 585:] whēthĕr, is equal, in the sum of
the times of its
syllables, to
the
iambus, thŏu choōse, in the sum of the times of its syllables;
each foot being, in time, equal to three short syllables. Good
versifiers
who happen to be, also, good poets, contrive to relieve the monotone of
a
series of feet, by the use of equivalent feet only at rare intervals,
and
at such points of their subject as seem in accordance with the startling
character of the variation. Nothing of this care is
seen in the
line
quoted above — although Pope has some fine instances of the duplicate
effect.
Where vehemence is to be strongly expressed, I am not sure that we
should
be wrong in venturing on two consecutive equivalent feet —
although
I cannot say that I have ever known the adventure made, except in the
following
passage, which occurs in "Al Aaraaf," a boyish poem, written by myself
when
a boy. I am referring to the sudden and rapid advent of a star:
Dim was its
little disk,
and angel eyes
Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
Whĕn fīrst thĕ phāntǒm's cōurse
wǎs
fōund tǒ bē
Hēadlǒng hīthĕrward o'er
the
starry sea.
|
In the "general proposition" above, I speak of the occasional
introduction of equivalent feet. It sometimes happens
that unskilful
versifiers,
without knowing what they do, or why they do it, introduce so many
"variations"
as to exceed in number the "distinctive" feet; when the ear becomes at
once baulked by the bouleversement of the rhythm. Too many
trochees,
for example, inserted in an iambic rhythm, would convert the latter to
a
trochaic. I may note here, that, in all cases, the rhythm designed
should
be commenced and continued, without variation, until the ear
has
had full time to comprehend what is the rhythm. In violation of
a rule
so obviously founded in common sense, many even of our best poets, do
not
scruple to begin an iambic rhythm with a trochee, or the converse; or a
dactylic with an anapæst, or the converse; and so on.
A somewhat less objectionable error, although still
a
decided one,
is
that of commencing a rhythm, not with a different equivalent foot, but
with
a "bastard" foot of the rhythm intended. For example:
| Māny ǎ |
thoūght
wĭll | cōme tǒ | mĕmǒry. | |
Here many a is what I have explained to be a bastard trochee,
and
to be understood should be accented with inverted crescents. It is
objectionable
solely on account of its position as the opening foot of a
trochaic
rhythm. Memory, similarly accented, is also a bastard trochee,
but unobjectionable, although by no means demanded.
The farther illustration of this point will enable
me to
take an
important
step.
(To be continued.)
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