sweeps boldly across the near northern horizon. Nowhere do those
mountains seem so majestic, or their forms so broken and beautiful;
nearer are the Olive mountains, beyond which flows the Esopus. Rondout
creek, the Wallkill, and the Hudson, water the fertile vales lying among
the hills. To the south stretches the line of the Shawangunk toward the
Delaware river, and on the extreme southern and southeastern horizon
rise the Highlands, with the river gap, the rifted sides of the Storm
King, the Beacons, the great broad shoulders of Schunemunk;--even the
white buildings on the plain at West Point may be seen glittering in the
afternoon sun. A clear atmosphere is needed for the full enjoyment of
the view, as the panorama is so vast that even a slight haze obscures
many of the more interesting distant objects. And what words could
describe the jutting headlands--wild, broken lines of white cliffs
stretching to the southward, deep chasms, steep, forest-clad mountains,
green or blue as distance, sunshine, or shadow may decree, and the
tranquil green lake, smiling as a deep, strong and cheerful spirit amid
the ruins of a shattered, wasted life? As our travellers gazed, they
thanked God that His world was so beautiful, and wondered if even Aunt
Sarah would not be willing to run the risk of being thought strong
minded to see so fair a corner of it.
The moon that night rose late; and the air was chill as the sisters
stood on a rock waiting until its rays should silver the placid waves.
Overhead ran a strange, broad, coruscating band of magnetic light,
meteors flashed down the sky, a solitary loon sent a wild, despairing
cry athwart the lake, and for the first time did our travellers feel
they were alone, eighteen hundred feet above the Hudson, far away from
other human habitation. A truly feminine shudder ran through their
hearts, as they turned toward the house and betook them to the cells
appropriated to their use. The following day they were driven down the
mountain by the owner (not the keeper) of the little inn beside the
lake. He was one of nature's own gentlemen; tall,--six feet,
perhaps,--gray haired, blue eyed, with every feature well cut, and with
the most honest expression ever beaming through a human countenance. The
hearts of the sisters warmed toward him, and never were they more
willing to acknowledge the solidarity of the race, the great fact of the
brotherhood of all humanity.
Cornwall once again safely reached, and the outlines of the journey duly
sketched, Aunt Sarah's first question was: 'Well, and what _is_ the name
of this famous lake?'
The travellers were forced to confess the ill success of their efforts
in discovering the proper appellation of that exquisite gem, and it was
not until many months later that, when visiting an exhibition of
paintings, they found their new friend accurately portrayed under the
name of--Mogunk Lake.
REASON, RHYME, AND RHYTHM.
'All arts are one, howe'er distributed they stand,
Verse, tone, shape, color, form, are fingers on one hand.'
PREFACE TO VOLUME SECOND.
Our first volume having been devoted to the Reason or Theory of Art in
general, it is our intention in the second, Rhyme and Rhythm, to bring
these comprehensive thoughts to a focus, and concentrate their light
upon the art of Versification. Indeed, this volume is to be considered
as a _manual_ of poetic Rhythm. Practical rules are given for its
construction and criticism; simple solutions offered of its apparent
irregularities and anomalies; and examples of sufficient length are
quoted from the best poets to afford just ideas of the scope and power
of the measure under consideration. The numerous citations given under
their appropriate metrical heads are intended not only to assist the
student in the analysis of verse, but to aid him in the choice of forms
in accordance with his subject, in case he should himself wish to create
Poems.
By its extrication from the entanglement of quantity and syllabic
accent, under which it has been almost buried, an effort has been made
to simplify the study of Rhythm: by tracing its origin and
characteristics, and by the citation of poems in which its power and
beauty are conspicuous, we have endeavored to render the subject one of
vivid interest.
CHAPTER FIRST.
RHYTHM.
What is Rhythm? The best definition of this perplexing word has been
given by the grand old Bohemian composer Tomaschek:
'The _order_ perceptible in a succession of sounds recurring in
_determinate_ portions of Time, which portions of Time are more
distinctly marked for the ear through the _accentuation_ of certain
determinate parts, constitutes Rhythm.
Rhythm has been surrounded with so much mystery, has been the subject of
so much learned debate and research, has called forth so many quartos
and folios, that few know what a familiar thing it is, how closely it
everywhere surrounds us, how constantly it beats within us. For the
pulsations of the heart are rhythmical, and the measured throbs of life
register in music every moment of our passing existence on the bosom of
Time. And when life manifests itself to the senses through the medium of
time, time being to the ear what space is to the eye, the Order of its
pulsations is Rhythm. Strange relation between our own marvellous being
and the march of time, for its mystic rhythm beats in tune with every
feeling that sweeps over the heart, forever singing its primeval chant
at the very core of our existence! The law of Rhythm is the law of
mortal life: the constant recurrence of new effort sinking but to
recover itself in accurately proportioned rest, rising ever again in new
exertion, to sink again in ever new repose:
'And our hearts, though true and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.'
This low music of the heart never ceases until stilled by the touch of
death, when the spirit, led by God, enters upon the waveless ocean of an
immeasurable eternity, where past and future meet in the eternal
present. Time with its rhythmic measures is then no more. The necessity
of 'effort and rest,' 'exertion and repose,' will exist no longer. What
the fuller music of that higher life is to be, 'it has not yet entered
into the heart of man to conceive.' But if the very _imperfection_ of
our being has been rendered so full of charm to us in the order and
proportion with which it records its law, 'effort and repose,' 'life and
death'--what may we not expect when this mortal shall have put on
immortality? We should think of this when that saddest of human sounds,
'it beats no more; it measures time no longer'--knells upon our ear the
silence of the throbbing, passionate heart.
Nor is inanimate nature without the quickening breath of Rhythm. It
cadences the dash of the wave, chimes in the flash of the oar, patters
in the drops of rain, whispers in the murmurings of the forest leaves,
leaps in the dash of the torrent, wails through the sighing of the
restless winds, and booms in the claps and crashes of heaven's thunders.
Only through _succession_ do we arrive at the idea of time, and through
a continual _being and ceasing to be_ are its steppings made sensible to
us. It is thus literally true, as sung by the Poet, that 'we take no
note of Time but from its loss.' Happy are we if so used that it may
mark our eternal progress.
There is but little mystery in the art of keeping time, since we may at
once gather a correct notion of it from the vibrations of the pulse, or
from our manner of walking. If we listen to the sound of our own step,
we find it equal and regular, corresponding with what is termed common
time in music. Probably the time in which we walk is governed by the
action of the heart, and those who step alike have pulses beating in the
same time. To walk faster than this gives the sensation of hurry; to
walk slower, that of loitering. The mere recurrence of sounds at regular
intervals by no means constitutes the properties of _musical_ time;
accent is necessary to parcel them out into those portions which Rhythm
and the ear approve. If we listen to the trotting of a horse or the
tread of our own feet, we cannot but notice that each alternate step is
louder than the other--by which we throw the sounds into the order of
common time. But if we listen to the amble or canter of a horse, we hear
every third step to be louder than the other two, owing to the first and
third foot striking the ground together. This regularity throws the
sounds, into the order of triple time. To one or other of these
descriptions may be referred every sort of time.
There is a sympathetic power in measured time which has not yet received
the attention it deserves. It has been found that in a watchmaker's shop
the timepieces or clocks connected with the same wall or shelf have such
a sympathetic effect in keeping time, that they stop those which beat in
irregular time; and if any are at rest, set agoing those which beat
accurately. What wonder then that the living, soldiers, artisans, such
as smiths, paviors, etc., who work in unison with the pulse, should
acquire habits of keeping time with the greatest correctness.
Rhythm not only measures the footfall of the pedestrian, but exerts a
sympathetic power, so that if two are walking together, they feel its
spell, and unconsciously fall into the same step, not aware that they
are thus conforming to a Unity always engendered by the Order regulating
rhythmical motion. It is this entrancing sense of unity which wings the
feet of the dancers, and enables them to endure with delight a degree of
physical exertion which, without it, would be utterly exhausting. The
following extract from the _Atlantic Monthly_, of July, 1858, is so much
to our purpose, that we place it before the reader:
'The sailor does not lack for singing. He sings at certain parts of
his work;--indeed, he must sing, if he would work. On vessels of
war, the drum and fife or boatswain's whistle furnish the necessary
movement-regulator. There, where the strength of one or two hundred
men can be applied to one and the same effort, the labor is not
intermittent, but continuous. The men form on either side of the
rope to be hauled, and walk away with it like firemen marching with
their engine. When the headmost pair bring up at the stern or bow,
they part, and the two streams flow back to the starting point,
outside the following files. Thus in this perpetual
'follow-my-leader' way the work is done, with more precision and
steadiness than in the merchant service. Merchantmen are invariably
manned with the least possible number, and often go to sea
short-handed, even according to the parsimonious calculations of
their owners. The only way the heavier work can be done at all is
by each man doing his utmost at the same moment. This is regulated
by the song. And here is the true singing of the deep sea. It is
not recreation; it is an essential part of the work. It mastheads
the topsail yards, on making sail; it starts the anchor from the
domestic or foreign mud; it 'rides down the main tack with a will;'
it breaks out and takes on board a cargo; it keeps the pumps (the
ship's, not the sailor's) going. A good voice and a new and
stirring chorus are worth an extra man. And there is plenty of need
of both.
'I remember well one black night in the mid-Atlantic, when we were
beating up against a stiff breeze, coming on deck near midnight,
just as the ship was put about. When a ship is tacking, the tacks
and sheets (ropes which confine the clews or lower corners of the
sails) are let run, in order that the yards may be swung round to
meet the altered position of the ship. They must then be hauled
taut again, and belayed, or secured, in order to keep the sails in
their place and to prevent them from shaking. When the ship's head
comes up in the wind, the sail is for a moment or two edgewise to
it, and then is the nice moment, as soon as the headsails fairly
fill, when the mainyard and the yards above it can be swung
readily, and the tacks and sheets hauled in. If the crew are too
few in number, or too slow at their work, and the sails get fairly
filled on the new tack, it is a fatiguing piece of work enough to
'board' the tacks and sheets, as it is called. You are pulling at
one end of the rope--but the gale is tugging at the other. The
advantages of lungs are all against you, and perhaps the only thing
to be done is to put the helm down a little, and set the sails
shaking again before they can be trimmed properly. It was just at
such a time that I came on deck, as above mentioned. Being near
eight bells, the watch on deck had been not over spry; and the
consequence was that our big maincourse was slatting and flying out
overhead with a might that shook the ship from stem to stern. The
flaps of the mad canvas were like successive thumps of a giant's
fist upon a mighty drum. The sheets were jerking at the belaying
pins, the blocks rattling in sharp snappings like castanets. You
could hear the hiss and seething of the sea alongside, and see it
flash by in sudden white patches of phosphorescent foam, while all
over head was black with the flying scud. The English second mate
was stamping with vexation, and, with all his h's misplaced,
storming at the men: ''An'somely the weather mainbrace--'an'somely,
I tell you!--'Alf a dozen of you clap on to the main sheet
here--down with 'im!--D'y'see 'ere's hall like a midshipman's
bag--heverythink huppermost and nothing 'andy. 'Aul 'im in, Hi
say!' But the sail wouldn't come, though. All the most forcible
expressions of the Commination Service were liberally bestowed on
the watch. 'Give us the song, men!' sang out the mate, at
last--'pull with a will!--together men!--haltogether now!'--And
then a cracked, melancholy voice struck up this chant:
'Oh, the bowline, bully, bully bowline,
Oh, the bowline, bowline, HAUL!'
At the last word every man threw his whole strength into the
pull--all singing it in chorus, with a quick, explosive sound. And
so, jump by jump, the sheet was at last hauled taut.'
It would be well if the philanthropist and utilitarian would stoop to
examine these primeval but neglected facts, for there is no doubt that
under the healthful and delicious spell of Rhythm a far steadier and
greater amount of labor would be cheerfully and happily endured by the
working classes. The continuous but rhythmed croon of the negro when at
work, the yo-heave-o of the sailor straining at the cordage, the rowing
songs of the oarsman, etc., etc., are all suggestive of what might be
effected by judicious effort in this direction. But man, ever wiser than
his Maker, neglects the intuitions of nature. Rendered conceited by a
false education, and heartless by a constant craving for gold, he
scorns the simple but deep intuitions which are his surest guide to
civilization, health, and cheerfulness. There can be no doubt that the
physical exercise so distasteful to the pale inhabitants of our cities,
yet so essential for the preservation of health and life, might be
rendered delightful and invigorating through the neglected powers of
rhythmical motion. Like Michal, the proud daughter of Saul, who despised
King David in her haughty heart when 'she saw him dancing with all his
might before the Lord,' we scorn the simple and innocent delights of our
nature, and, like Michal, we too are bitterly punished for our mistaken
pride of intellect, for, neglecting the rhythmical requisitions of the
body, we injure the mind, and may deprave the heart. Virtuously, purely,
and judiciously applied to the amusements and artistic culture of a
people, we are convinced the power of Rhythm would banish much of that
craving for false excitement, for drinks and narcotics, an indulgence in
which exerts so fatal an influence over the character and spiritual
progress of a nation. It is surely not astonishing that Rhythm should be
so pleasant to the senses, when we consider that the laws of order and
unity by which it is regulated are the proper aliment of the soul.
Strange pedantries have grown out of the neglect of music as a practical
pervading element in modern education. We should endeavor to reform this
fault; we should use this powerful engine of healing nature to remove
from us the reproach of being merely a shopkeeping and money-making
people.
The wildest savage is not insensible to Rhythm. It fires his spirit in
the war dance and battle chant, soothes him in the monotonous hum of the
pow-wow, and softens him in naive love songs. It is the heart of music,
and it can be proved that low and vulgar rhythms have a debasing effect
upon the character of a people. 'Let me write the songs of a people,'
said a great thinker, 'and I care not who makes its laws:'--if he
included the tunes, there was no exaggeration in his thought. Alas! a
meretricious age scorns and neglects the true, because it is always
simple in its sublimity, and, striving to banish God from His own
creation, would also banish nature and joy from the heart! A pedantic
age loves all that is pretentious, glaring, and assuming; and Rhythm
stoops to rock the cradle of the newborn infant; to soothe the negro in
the rice swamp or cotton field; to shape into beauty the national and
patriotic songs of a laborious but contented peasantry, as among the
Sclaves--but what cares the age for the happiness of the race? 'Put
money in thy purse,' is its consolation and lesson for humanity.
The beat of the healthful heart is in unison with the feelings of the
hour. Agitation makes it fitful and broken, excitement accelerates, and
sorrow retards it. And this fact should be the model for all poetical
and musical rhythm.
To show how readily we associate feelings with different orders of
sound, let us suppose we are passing the night somewhere, where a
stranger, utterly unknown to us, occupies a room from which we can hear
the sound of his footsteps. Suppose that through the tranquil hours of
the night we hear his measured tread falling in equally accented and
monotonous spondees, it is certain that a quick imagination will at once
associate this deliberate tread with the state of mind in the unknown
from which it will believe it to proceed, and will immediately suggest
that the stranger is maturing some great design of heavy import to his
future peace.
Should the character of the spondaic tread suddenly change, should the
footsteps become rapid, eager, and broken, we look upon the term of
meditation and doubt as over, the resolve as definitely fixed, and the
unknown as restlessly longing for the hour of its fulfilment.
When we hear steps resembling dactyls, anapaests, and choriambs thrown
hurriedly together, broken by irregular pauses, we begin to build a
whole romance on the steps of the stranger; we infer from them moments
of grave deliberation; the languor consequent upon overwrought thought;
renewed effort; resolve; alternations of passion; hope struggling with
despair; until all at last seems merged in impatient longing for the
hour of anticipated victory.
Nor has the imagination been alone in its strange workings; it has
whispered, as it always does, its secrets to the heart, and succeeded in
arousing its ever-ready affections, so that we cannot help feeling a
degree of interest in the unknown, whose emotions we have followed
through the night, reading their history in his alternating footsteps:
_for sounds impress themselves immediately upon the feelings, exciting,
not abstract or antagonistic thought, but uniting humanity in concrete
feeling_. (See vol. i.)
As the imagination necessarily associates different feelings with
different orders of Rhythm, it is the task of the Poet to select those
in the closest conformity with the emotions he is struggling to excite.
It is positively certain that we not only naturally and intuitively
_associate_ distinctive feelings with different orders of rhythmical
sounds, but that varied emotions are _awakened_ by them. Some rhythms
inspire calmness, some sublime and stately courage, some energy and
aggressive force, some stir the spirit to the most daring deeds, some,
as in our maddening Tarantulas, produce a restless excitement through
the whole nervous system, some excite mere joyousness, some whisper love
through every fibre of the heart, and some lead us in their holy calm
and unbroken order to the throne of God. Why is this? We need not look
in the region of the understanding for the philosophy of that which is
to be found only in the living tide of basic emotions. The pleasure we
receive from Rhythm is a feeling. Alternate accentuation and
non-accentuation are facts in the living organism of the universe; this
may be expressed, not explained. There is an order in the living
succession of musical sounds or poetic emotions, which order is
expressed by the words 'equality and proportion.' These things _are_.
What more can be said? Do comparisons help us? the waves in the eternal
ocean of vitality--the shuttle strokes of the ever-moving loom of
creation! Let us take it as it is, and rejoice in it. We cannot tell you
why we live--let us be glad that our life is music through every
heart-throb!
Rhythm is a species of natural but inarticulate language, in which the
_thought_ is never disengaged from the _feeling_; in language its aim
should be to awaken the _feeling_ properly attached to the thought it
modulates; it should be the _tune_ of the thought of the Poet. To write
a love song in alexandrines, an idyl in hexameters, would be to
incarnate the shy spirit of a girl in the brawny frame of a Hercules, to
incase the loving soul of a Juliet in a gauntleted Minerva. Genius and
deep sympathy with human nature can alone guide the Poet aright in this
delicate and difficult path; it lies too near the core of our
unconscious being to be susceptible of the trim regularity of rule--he
must trust his own intuitions while he studies with care what has
already been successfully done by our best poets. We may however remark
in passing that if the rhythm be abruptly broken without a corresponding
break in the flow of thought or feeling, the reader will be confused,
because the outward form has fallen into contradiction with its inner
soul, and he discerns the opposition, and knows not with which to
sympathize. Such contrarieties argue want of power or want of freedom in
the poet, who should never suffer the clanking of his rhythmical chains
to be heard. Such causeless breaks proceed from want of truth to the
subject, and prove a lack of the careful rendering of love in the
author. The poet must listen to the naive voice of nature as he moulds
his rhythms, for the ingenious and elaborate constructions of the
intellect alone will never touch the heart. Rhythm may proceed with
regularity, yet that regularity be so relieved from monotony and so
modified in its actual effects, that however regular may be the
structure of parts, what is composed of them may be infinitely various.
Milton's exquisite poem, 'Comus,' is an example of perfect rhythm with
ceaseless intricacy and great variety. It would indeed be a fatal
mistake to suppose that _proportion_ cannot be susceptible of great
variety, since the whole meaning of the term has reference to the
adjustment and proportional correspondence of _variable_ properties.
The appreciation of rhythm is universal, pertaining to no region, race,
nor era, in especial. Even those who have never _thought_ about it,
_feel_ order to be the law of life and happiness, and in the marking of
the _proportioned_ flow of time and the regular accentuation of its
_determinate_ portions find a perpetual source of healthful pleasure.
If we will but think of it, we will be astonished how many ideas already
analyzed we may find exhibited through rhythm. We may have: similarity,
variety, identity, repetition, adaptation, symmetry, proportion,
fitness, melody, harmony, order, and unity; in addition to the varied
feelings of which it becomes the symbolic utterance. The Greeks placed
rhythms in the hands of a god, thus testifying to their knowledge of
their range and power.
Wordsworth asserts that
'More pathetic situations and sentiments, that is, those which have
a greater proportion of pain connected with them, may be endured in
metrical compositions than in prose.'
The reason of this seems to be that the bright beams forever raying from
the Divine Sun of unity and order, shine through the measured beat of
the rhythm, and are always felt as life and peace, even when their
golden light is broken by the wild and drifting clouds of human woe, or
seen athwart the surging and blinding mists of mortal anguish.
Rhythm lurks in the inmost heart of language, accenting our words that
their enunciation may be clear and distinct; lengthening and shortening
the time of our syllables that they may be expressive, emotional, and
musical. Let the orator as well as the poet study its capabilities; it
has more power over the sympathies of the masses than the most labored
thought.