to learn as much as we may about its delightful mysteries, just as we must acquire a certain acquaintance with the conditions of building before we can gain a real insight into the beauty of architecture. This knowledge will increase our enjoyment of poetry, for it will give us a twofold interest, in the manner as well as in the matter. The more we know about versification, the better equipped we are to perceive the skill with which the poet has wrought his marvels and also to feel deeply his charm and his power. The more we know, the better we shall understand the real nature of poetic inspiration. It is very natural," so Reynolds declared in another of his "Discourses on Painting," "for those who are unacquainted with the cause of anything extraordinary to be astonished at the effect, and to consider it as a kind of magic. They who have never observed the gradation by which art is acquired, who see only what is the full result of long labor and application of an infinite number and infinite variety of acts, are apt to conclude, from their entire inability to do the same at once, that it is not only inaccessible to themselves, but can be done by those only who have some gift of the nature of inspiration bestowed upon them."

This book is intended, not so much for those who may desire to write verse, as it is for those who wish to gain an insight into the methods of the poets that they may have a keener and a deeper appreciation of poetry; and yet its suggestions are available also for those who may feel themselves moved to speak in numbers. Attention may be called to the fact that it never pretends to declare how verse ought to be written; all that it endeavors to do is to show how verse has

been written by the poets who have enriched our literature. If any laws emerge into view, these are the result of a modest attempt to codify the practice of the poets themselves and to deduce the underlying principles. It is never the privilege of the critic to lay down arbitrary rules for any art; it is his duty to examine what the great artists have given us, and to discover, if he can, the subtle means whereby they achieved their masterpieces. And it is a humble examination of this kind which is undertaken in this inquiry.

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As this is the main object of the present volume, the reader must not expect to find here things not germane to this intent. He will not have his attention distracted by any investigation into the origins of English verse. He will not be called upon to consider the conflicting theories of English prosody. He will not be confused by constant references to the ferent metrical system which was employed by the Greek and the Latin poets. These things are discussed at length in many other books; and in this book they would be out of place. To consider them in these pages would interfere with the main purpose of the present volume, which is to provide the lover of poetry with an elementary knowledge of the principles that govern modern English versification.

Exact definition tends to precision of thought; and an acquaintance with technical terms is necessary to any scientific investigation. As Professor Mayor has declared, "the use of Prosody is to supply a technical language by which each specimen of verse is brought before us; to distinguish the different kinds of verse, to establish a type of each, by reference to which existing varieties may be compared; and, finally, to

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.

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, acEDMUND cording to the keys, the wave-lengths of their excitants. CLARENCE STEDMAN: The Nature and Elements of Poetry.

IN

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

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