state the laws of composition which have been observed by those whom the world recognizes as poets. Then from this we may draw practical rules of art for the poet or the reader."

An acquaintance with the technical terms, a knowledge of the rules of the art, will not suffice to make any one of us a poet. But an ignorance of the underlying principles of verse will prevent now any one, however gifted by nature, from attaining eminence as a poet. The earlier verse-writers had to work by instinct only at first, guided by their intuitive feeling for rhythm; in time their successors had the solid support of tradition; and to-day every poet can profit by a study of the means whereby his great predecessors wrought their marvels. No doubt, delicacy of ear still guides him more securely than any rule of thumb; and yet he will find assistance in a knowledge of the science of verse which underlies the art of poetry. Apprentice poets may now find this science set forth more or less accurately in the treatises of the critics, or they may absorb it for themselves by reverent study of the great masters of verse.

It is true that versification is only the carved vase which holds the precious wine of poetry; and yet without the vase the wine would be spilled and wasted. On the other hand, the vase itself stands empty unless the poet has within himself that which will fill it worthily. Amiel asserted that the group of French poets in the nineteenth century who were known as the Parnassians "sculptured urns of agate and of onyx; but what do these urns contain? Ashes!" Yet the blunder of these Parnassians was not in the curious care with which they carved their urns of agate and

of onyx; it was in their failure to fill the urns with an elixir worthy of receptacles thus adorned. It was their fault or their misfortune that they had nothing better than ashes to pour into their urns.

Still, after all, the urns themselves had their own beauty. Every lover of poetry could cite numberless lyrics which delight him by their art alone, by their melody, by their merely external fascination, without regard to their content, to their ultimate meaning. Indeed, there are not a few lovely lyrics in our language the meaning of which is doubtful or even vague and intangible. They charm our ears with their music, even if they fail to appeal to our intellect. They live by melody, and almost by melody alone. And if this is a fact, surely it is well worth our while to seek for an understanding of the principles of an art which can work these marvels.

2

If there are a few lyrics which survive by form rather than by content, none the less is it true that in poetry form and content are inseparable; and poetry demands for its full appreciation an understanding of versification. Indeed, Professor Bradley does not go too far when he asserts that "the value of versification, when it is indissolubly fused with meaning, can hardly be exaggerated. The gift for feeling it, even more perhaps than the gift for feeling the value of style, is the specific gift for poetry, as distinguished from the other arts." And Leigh Hunt went even further, for he insisted that "versification itself becomes part of the sentiment of a poem. . . . I know of no very fine versification unaccompanied with fine poetry; no poetry of a mean order accompanied with verse of the highest."

CHAPTER II

RHYTHM

Our new empiricism, following where intuition leads the way, comprehends the functions of vibrations: it perceives that every movement of matter, seized upon by universal force, is vibratory; that vibrations, and nothing else, convey through the body the look and voice of nature to the soul; that thus alone can one incarnate individuality address its fellow; that, to use old Bunyan's imagery, these vibrations knock at the ear-gate, and are visible to the eye-gate, and are sentient at the gates of touch of the living temple. The word describing their action is in evidence; they "thrill" the body, they thrill the soul, both of which respond with subjective, interblending vibrations, according to the keys, the wave-lengths of their excitants. - EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN: The Nature and Elements of Poetry.

IN any consideration of versification, we need to begin by reminding ourselves that poetry is always intended to be said or sung. Its appeal is primarily to the ear and only secondarily to the eye. At first, poetry was certainly sung, because it came into being long before the invention of the art of writing. After a while, poetry was both said and sung; it was recited, either with or without the accompaniment of music. Only after long centuries, during which it survived on the tongue and in the ear, was it written down to reach the eye also. "To pass from hearing literature to reading it is to take a great and dangerous step," said Stevenson; "with not a few, I think, a large proportion of their pleasure then comes to an end, they read thenceforward by the eye alone and hear never again the chime of fair words or the march of the stately syllable." Even now, the real approach of

poetry to the soul of man is through his ears; and we do not feel its full force until we speak it ourselves or hear it from others. It might almost be asserted that poetry is like music, in which the notation in black and white is only a device to preserve it and to transmit it; and that like music, poetry does not fully exist until it is heard. As a result of this resemblance to music, poetry is likely to lose something of its power when the poet thinks rather of his readers than of his hearers.

Therefore, the true principles of versification can be seized only when we keep this fact always in mind, that the poet has intended his lines to be heard by the ear, to be spoken or chanted or sung by one for the pleasure of others. His verses, lyric or dramatic as they may be, are meant to be spoken and so they must adjust themselves to the vocal organs of man; and they are meant to be heard and so they must be measured to the capacity of the human ear. Indeed, nearly all the elements of the art of versification are the direct result of this condition of oral delivery.

The most important of these elements is rhythm. All nature is rhythmic. The tides rise and fall; day follows night; and the seasons recur one after the other, year by year. Human nature is rhythmic also; and emotion, which is the subject-matter of poetry, tends always to express itself rhythmically. Passionate language has its marked beats. Primitive man casts his war-songs and his love-songs into a rude but emphatic rhythm. The wail of the tribe over its dead is rhythmic; and so is the crooning of the mother over her babe in the cradle by her side. The chant of triumph has its rise and fall. In all these examples, the

character of the rhythm may be open to question; but the existence of the rhythm itself is beyond dispute. Lowell singled out for praise the song of Deborah and Barak: "Awake, awake, Deborah! Awake, awake, utter a song! Arise, Barak, and lead thy captivity captive, thou son of Abinoam!"

This rhythmic utterance in moments of poignant emotion is spontaneous even to-day in our children. A few years ago the young daughter of a friend of mine was stricken to the heart by the crushing of a cherished doll under a rocking-chair. When the mother returned she found the little girl so pitiful and pathetic that she took the child in her arms and asked what had happened. And then the little daughter broke out in this lament :

My dolly is dead! My dolly is dead!

I loved my dolly, and I did n't want her to die!
But she died, and I buried her.

And I wanted to bury her

In the worst place I could find;

So I looked all over the flat

For the very worst place I could find.

And I buried her in the pail

In the pail under the sink in the kitchen,

In the pail where we put the old dinners

And the old breakfasts and my crusts when I won't

eat 'em :

And I buried her there.

It was the very worst place I could find.

I buried her on top of the dinner

And under the breakfast,

And there's oatmeal where her head ought to be.

And Annie will put her on the dumbwaiter,

And she 'll send her down to the janitor,

And the janitor will put her into the barrel,

And he'll put the barrel out on the sidewalk;