The Rationale of Verse — 1902 historical reading — reading text

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 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. Ǒh thōu | whătē | vĕr tī | tlĕ pleāse | thĭne eār | Dĕan Drā | piĕr Bĭck | ĕrstāff | ŏr Gūll | ĭvēr | Whēthĕr | thŏu choōse | Cĕrvān | tĕs’ sē | rĭoŭs ăir | Ǒr laūgh | ănd shāke | ĭn Rāb | ĕlaĭs’ eā | sy 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 certain points, for the relief of monotone, as I have already 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 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 (ăăā) of their accentuation are erroneous. The foot might be written thus (ăăā) 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 (ăăā ) 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. 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 trochee. 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. One of our finest poets, Mr. Christopher Pearse Cranch, begins a very beautiful poem thus: Many are the thoughts that come to me In my lonely musing; And they drift so strange and swift There's no time for choosing Which to follow; for to leave Any, seems a losing. “A losing” to Mr. Cranch, of course — but this en passant. It will be seen here that the intention is trochaic; — although we do not see this intention by the opening foot, as we should do — or even by the opening line. Reading the whole stanza, however, we perceive the trochaic rhythm as the general design, and so, after some reflection, we divide the first line thus: Many are the | thōughts thăt | cōme tŏ | mē. | Thus scanned, the line will seem musical. It is — highly so. And it is because there is no end to instances of just such lines of apparently incomprehensible music, that Coleridge thought proper to invent his nonsensical system of what he calls “scanning by accents” — as if “scanning by