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[page 102, continued:]
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[[NOTES UPON ENGLISH VERSE.]]
[[. . . .]]
[["Gilman" manuscript fragment:]]
I >>should prefer to<< <shall>
dismiss entirely, from the
consideration
of the principle of rhythm, the idea of versification, or the
construction
of verse. In so doing we shall avoid a world of confusion. Verse is,
indeed,
an afterthought, or an embellishment, or an improvement, rather than an
element of rhythm; and this is the fact which, perhaps, more than any
thing
else, has induced the easy admission, into the realms of Pöesy, of
such
works as the >>"Telemachus"<<
<"Télémaque"> of Fénélon. In the
elaborate modulation of
their
sentences they fulfil the idea of metre; and their arrangement, or
rather
their division, into lines (which could be readily effected) would do
little
more than present this idea in a popularly intelligible dress.
<Holding> >>Bearing<< these things
in view, the
prosodist who
rightly
examines that which constitutes the external, or most immediately
recognizable,
form of Poetry, will commence with the definition of Rhythm.
Now
rhythm, from the Greek [[Greek text:]] άριθμος [[:Greek Text]], number,
is
a term which, in
its present application, very nearly conveys its own idea. No more
proper
word could be employed to present the conception intended; for rhythm,
in prosody, is, in its last analysis, identical with time in
music. For
this reason I have used, throughout this article, as synonymous with
rhythm,
the word metre from [[Greek text:]] μετρου [[:Greek text]], measure.
Either the one or
the
other may be defined as the arrangement of words into two or more
consecutive,
equal, pulsations of time. These pulsations are feet. Two
feet,
at least, are requisite to constitute a rhythm; just as, in
mathematics,
two units are necessary to form number. The syllables of which
the
foot consists, when the foot is not a syllable in itself, are
subdivisions
of the pulsations. No equality is demanded in these subdivisions. It is
only required that, so far as regards two consecutive feet at least,
the
sum of the times of the syllables in one, shall be equal <to> the
sum of
the times of the syllables in the other. Beyond two pulsations there is
no necessity for equality of time. All beyond is arbitrary or
conventional.
A third and fourth pulsation may
embody
half, or double, or any proportion of the time occupied in the two
first.
[[. . . .]]
[["Holmes" fragments]]
The general rhythm of these lines will be at once
recognised
as dactylic, or equivalent to dactylic. The two first pulsations, or
feet,
consist of a spondee and a dactyl; each amounting to four short
syllables.
This order is now interrupted by a single long syllable; (the
cæsura foot;) and in the two succeeding, although the general
rhythm
remains
undisturbed, two dactyls supply the place of the original spondee and
dactyl.
The cæsura effects the lapse from <the initial rhythm> to a
variation of
it. We should >>then<< be taught to look upon the
cæsura as a variable
foot
which
accommodates itself to any rhythm whatever. I have designated
<it> "as a
single long syllable," because this is, apparently, its abstract
force
or value; but, in its application, it has the force of any foot
<whatever.> >>with the exception of the pyrrhic.<<
In the lines quoted just above, it has the value of a spondee, or
dactyl;
occupying precisely equal time. In the first verse above, we dwell upon
the "vis" just so long as it would take us to pronounce the "nas
ata" preceding. With this understanding of the cæsura (the
most
important
foot in the English, or in any metre, and most blindly rejected by our
prosodists) we can now proceed to an exemplification of what has been
said
respecting the arbitrary or conventional nature of mere
versification,
or the division of rhythms into verse. For this purpose let us quote
the
commencement of Lord Byron's "Bride of Abydos".
Know ye the land where the cypress
and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime
—
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into softness, now madden to crime?
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine,
And the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom?
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute?
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?
'T is the land of the East — 'tis the clime of the Sun —
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ?
Oh, wild as the accents of lovers' farewell,
Are the hearts that they bear and the tales that they tell.
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The flow of these remarkable
lines has
been
the theme of universal admiration; and not more of admiration than
<of>
surprise
and embarrassment. While no one could deny their harmony, it has been
found
impossible to reconcile this harmony with their evident irregularity,
when
scanned in accordance with the rules of our Prosodies; for these
Prosodies,
insisting upon their bald and incomprehensive dogmas about mere verse,
>>had<< <have> neglected to afford a true conception
of rhythm; and this
conception
alone can furnish the key to the riddle. Of, perhaps, a hundred persons
whom I have heard discussing <the passage> >>these
lines<< ; not one seemed to have the
faintest
comprehension of >>their<< its true scanning. The division
into lines
forced
them into continual blunders. No one thought of looking beyond
the
line, or of referring one >>line<< to another. Each verse
was scanned
individually
and independently. Thus, the puzzle was, that, while the flow was
perfect,
while no harshness or break could be discovered in the harmony, the
lines
differed so remarkably among themselves. The Grammars had spoken of
dactylic
lines, and it was easily <seen> that
these
must be dactylic. The first verse was therefore thus divided:
| Knōw ўe thĕ | lānd whĕre thĕ |
cÿprĕss ănd | mÿrtlĕ. |
The concluding foot, however, was
still a
mystery;
but the Grammars said something about the dactylic measure's calling
for
a double or triple rhyme, occasionally; and the inquirer was content to
rest in the "double rhyme", without exactly perceiving what a "double
rhyme",
had to do with the question of an irregular foot. Quitting the first
verse,
the second was thus scanned:
| Āre ĕmblĕms | ōf dēēds thăt | āre
dŏne ĭn | thēir clĭme. |
But it was immediately seen that this
would not
do.
It was at war with the whole emphasis of the reading. It was certainly
never intended by Lord Byron, or by any one in his senses, that stress
should be placed upon such monosyllables as "are", "of",
and "their"; nor could "their clime", when compared with
"to crime" in the corresponding line below, be tortured into
anything
like "a double rhyme", so as to come within the category of the
Grammars.
But these Grammars were now silent. Farther they said not. The inquirer
fell back, therefore, (in spite of his appreciation of the harmony of
the
verses, when read without scanning) upon the idea that the "Are"
in the
beginning was a blunder, or excess, and, discarding it, scanned the
remainder
as follows:
| — ēmblĕms of | dēēds thăt ăre | dōne
ĭn thĕir | clīme. |
This would have been satisfactory,
but for the
forced
elision <of the "are"> and the difficulty of accounting for the
odd
syllable
"clime". The Grammars admitted no such foot as one of a single
syllable,
and besides the metre was dactylic. In despair, our inquirer turns over
the pages of his Prosody, and at length is blessed by a full solution
of
the riddle, in the learned "observation" quoted in the
commencement
of this paper — "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". This is enough. The
verse in question is pronounced to "form hypermeter" at the tail, and
to
be "catalectic" at the head. A slight difficulty still remains, to be
sure.
Upon continuing the examination of the lines, it is discovered that
what
flow>>ed<< <s> so harmoniously in perusal, is, upon
subjection to the scanning
process of the Grammars, a mere jumble, throughout, of catalecticism,
acatalecticism, and hypermeter.
By discarding, however, our clumsy
conventional
notions
of mere verse, we shall see, at once, that the lines are perfect in
flow
only because perfect in scansion — perfect in practice only because
perfect
in theory. They are, in fact, a regular succession of dactylic rhythms,
varied only at three points by equivalent spondees,
and separated into two distinct divisions by equivalent, terminating
cæsuras.
I must here beg the reader to notice that termination, or pause,
is one
of the chief offices, if not indeed the sole office of the
cæsura. In
taking upon itself the force, or time, of the pulsations which have
preceded
it, it produces a fulness of close not to be so well brought
about
by other means. But let us scan the passage under discussion.
|
Knōw yĕ thĕ | lānd
whĕre thĕ | cÿprĕss ănd | mÿrtlĕ arĕ | ēmblĕms ŏf |
dēeds
thăt ăre | dōne ĭn thĕir | clīme whĕre thĕ | rāge ŏf thĕ |
vūltŭre thĕ
|
lōve ŏf thĕ | tūrtlĕ nŏw | mēlt ĭntŏ | sōftnĕss nŏw | māddĕn tŏ | crime.
Knōw yĕ thĕ | lānd ŏf thĕ | cēdar ănd | vīne whĕre
thĕ |
flōw'rs ĕvĕr |
blōssŏm thĕ | bēams ĕvĕr | shīne whĕre thĕ | līght wĭngs ŏf | Zēphyr
ŏp- | prēss'd
wĭth pĕr- | fūme wāx | fāint o'ĕr thĕ | gārdĕns ŏf | Gūl ĭn
thĕir |
blōōm
whĕre
thĕ | cītrŏn ănd | ōlĭve ăre | fāirĕst ŏf | frūit ănd thĕ | vōice ŏf
thĕ |
nīghtĭngăle |
nēvĕr ĭs | mūte whĕre thĕ | vīrgĭns ăre | sōft ăs thĕ | rōsĕs thĕy | twīne
ānd | āll săvĕ the | spīrĭt ŏf | mān ĭs dĭ- | vīne 'tĭs thĕ | lānd
ŏf thĕ | Ēast
'tĭs
thĕ | clīme ŏf thĕ | Sūn can hĕ | smīle ŏn sŭch | dēēds ăs hĭs |
chīldrĕn
hăve | dōne ōh | wīld ăs thĕ | āccĕnts ŏf |
lōvĕrs' făre- | wēll ăre thĕ |
heārts
thăt thĕy | beār ănd thĕ | tāles thăt thĕy | tell.
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By all who have ears — not over long
— this will
be acknowledged as the true and the sole true scansion. The harmony is
perfect, and with the melody but a single fault can be found, and that
of minor importance. In the dactyl formed by the words, "smile on
such",
"such" is too obviously a long syllable, that is to say, it too
necessarily demands a long accentuation in common parlance, to justify
its use as a short syllable in verse.
| Can he smile on the deeds that
his children have done, |
would be an improvement of the melody; at the expense,
however, of
the
sense.
| Can he smile on the deeds which
his children have done, |
although more rigorously grammatical, than our line
first suggested,
is objectionable on the very ground which caused objection to the use
of
"such". The difficulty of pronouncing "which" has brought about its
exclusion
from poetry, among those who have keen musical perceptions: — see the
last
line of those just quoted.
I have italicized the cæsuras and
spondees
introduced.
The force and office of the cæsura have been already sufficiently
explained;
but it may be demanded — "Why is the continuous flow of the dactylic
succession
interrupted by spondees? Why were not dactyls here also employed?" The
answer which most readily suggests itself is, that the variation is for
the purpose of relieving the monotony; but however plausible this
reply,
it is by no means the true one. For, in fact, there is no
relief
of the monotone effected. The spondees used are to all intents and
purposes
(except with mere reference to the eye) equivalent to dactyls. The
cause of their introduction is to be found in the admission
of unusually
long syllables at certain points. In the spondee "fume wax", for
example, the "wax", which is composed of two of the most
difficult
consonants
in the language, could not have been tortured into brevity by any mode
of accentuation. Pronounce it as trippingly as we please, it will still
occupy such portion of time as will render it equal to two short
syllables.
If employed at all, therefore, it could not have been employed
otherwise,
in its present location, than as the final syllable of a spondee.
<The
emphasis
demanded upon the "oh" in "done oh" forces it, in the
same
manner, into length.>
That the division of the dactylic
rhythms into
verses,
or lines, is a point purely arbitrary, or conventional, will be
rendered
evident by a glance at these rhythms as we have run them together,
above.
We might form what is termed versification thus:
Know ye the | land where the
Cypress and | myrtle are
Emblems of | deeds that are
Done in their | clime where the &c |
or thus:
Know ye the | land where the |
cypress and
Myrtle are | emblems of | deeds that are &c.
|
or thus:
Know ye the | land where the |
cypress and | myrtle are
Emblems of | deeds that are | done in their | clime where the &c
|
or thus:
Know ye the | land where the |
cypress and | myrtle are |
emblems of
Deeds that are | done in their | clime where the | rage of the |
vulture
the &c
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In short the lines may be of any
length which
shall
include a full rhythm, or two pulsations. Beyond doubt, we often see
such
lines as
Know ye
the
Land where the &c.
|
and our Grammars admit such; but most improperly; for
common sense
would
dictate that every <so obvious> >>such<< division of
a poem, as is made by verse,
should include within itself all that is necessary for its own
comprehension
or appreciation; but here we can have no appreciation of the rhythm;
which
depends upon the idea of equality between two pulsations. These
pseudo-verses,
and those which are met in mock Pindaric Odes, and consist sometimes of
but a single long syllable, can be considered as rhythmical, only in
connexion
with what immediately precedes; and it is this want of independent
rhythm,
which adapts them to the purposes of burlesque, and of this alone.
Their
effect is that of incongruity — the principle of mirth; for they
intrude
the blankness of prove amid the harmony of verse.
One word here in regard to rhyme.
Its
employment is quite as arbitrary as that of verse
itself. Our books
speak
of it as "a similarity of sound between the last syllables of different
lines". But how absurd such definition, in the very teeth of the
admitted
facts, that rhymes are often used in the middle of verses, and
that
mere similarity of sound is insufficient to constitute them in
perfection!
Rhyme may be defined as identity of sound occurring among rhythms,
between
syllables or portions of syllables of equal length, at equal intervals,
or at interspaces the multiples of these intervals.
The Iambic, the Trochaic, the Anapæstic, and
the
Dactylic, are the usually admitted divisions of English verse. These
varieties,
in their purity, or perfection, are to be understood as mere indefinite
successions of the feet or pulsations, respectively, from which are
derived
their names. Our Prosodies cite examples of only the most common
divisions
of the respective rhythms into lines; but profess to cite instances of
all
the varieties of English verse. These varieties
are,
nevertheless,
unlimited, as will be readily seen from what has been said; but
>>the assertions of<< the
books
have done much, by their dogmas, in the way of prohibiting invention. A
wide field is open for its display, in >>the construction
of<< novel combinations of metre. The
immenseness of the effect derivable from the harmonious combination various
rhythms, is a point strangely neglected or misunderstood. We have,
in
America,
some few versifiers of fine ear, who succeed to admiration in the
building
of the ordinary established lines — the <Iambic> Pentameters of
Sprague,
for example, surpass even those of Pope — but we have had few evidences
of originality in the division of the old rhythms, or in the
combination
of their varieties. In general, the grossest ignorance prevails, even
among
our finest poets, <and even> in respect to the common-place
harmonies
upon
which they are most habitually employed. If we regard at the same time
accuracy of rhythm, melody, and invention, or <novel>
combination, of
>>novel<< metre,
I should have no hesitation in saying that a young <and true>
poetess of
Kentucky, Mrs Amelia Welby, has done more in the way of really good
verse
than any individual among us. I shall be pardoned, nevertheless, for
quoting and commenting upon an excellently <well conceived and well
managed> >>well managed and well conceived<<
specimen of versification, which will aid in developing some of the
propositions
already expressed. It is the "Last Leaf" of Oliver W. Holmes.
I saw him once before
As he pass'd by the door
And again
The pavement stones resound
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.
—
They say that in his prime
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the crier on his round
Through the town.
—
But now he walks the streets
And he looks at all he meets
So forlorn;
And he shakes his feeble head
That it seems as if he said
They are gone.
—
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
—
My grandmama has said —
Poor old lady! she is dead
Long ago, —
That he had a Roman nose
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.
—
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff;
And a crook is in his back
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
—
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here,
But the old three-corner'd hat
And the breeches and all that
Are so queer!
—
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring, —
Let them smile, as I do now
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.
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[[. . . .]]
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