This division includes the use made of the qualities of sound for the
purpose of adding to the melodiousness of verse, or of expressing in
some measure the ideas to be conveyed by means of the very sounds
employed. Sometimes this takes the form of alliteration, differing from
that of early English verse only in that it follows no regular
structural laws. On the other hand, it may take the form of
_onomatop[oe]ia_, the figure of speech in which sound and sense are
closely related,--as in descriptive words like _buzz_, _hiss_, _murmur_,
_splash_, and the like. The term Tone-color is formed by analogy with
the German _Klangfarbe_, an expression apparently due to the feeling
that the sound-qualities of speech have somewhat the same function as
the various colors in a picture. It is unquestionably true that the
selection of sounds, whether vowel or consonantal, has much to do with
the melodious effect of very much poetry. The poet may choose the
different sound-qualities (so far as the sense permits) just as the
musician may choose the varying qualities of the different instruments
in the orchestra or the different stops in the organ.
Strictly speaking, this matter of Tone-color is not a part of verse-form
in the same sense as matters of rhythm, rime, and the like; for it may
appear in prose as well as in verse, and is not in any case reducible to
formal principles or laws. Yet its use in actual verse is so important,
and it is so closely related to the use of sound-quality in the form of
rime and alliteration, that it seems well to include it here.[15]
Dr. Guest treats sounds as having in themselves the suggestion of
more or less definite ideas, this suggestiveness being explainable
by physical causes. Thus the trembling character of _l_ suggests
trepidation, as in "Double, double, toil and trouble." _R_ suggests
harsh, grating, or rattling noises; the sibilants are appropriate
to the expression of shrieks, screams, and the like; _b_ and _p_,
because of the compression of the lips, suggest muscular effort;
_st_, from a sudden stopping of the _s_, suggests fear or surprise;
_f_ and _h_ also fear, because of their whispering quality. Hollow
sounds (_au_, _ow_, _o_, and the like) suggest depth and fulness.
Guest quotes in this connection an interesting passage from Bacon's
_Natural History_ (ii. 200): "There is found a similitude between
the sound that is made by inanimate bodies, or by animate bodies
that have no voice articulate, and divers letters of articulate
voices; and commonly men have given such names to those sounds as
do allude unto the articulate letters; as trembling of hot water
hath resemblance unto the letter _l_; quenching of hot metals with
the letter _z_; snarling of dogs with the letter _r_; the noise of
screech-owls with the letter _sh_; voice of cats with the diphthong
_eu_; voice of cuckoos with the diphthong _ou_; sounds of strings
with the diphthong _ng_.
A. W. Schlegel went even farther in suggesting a subtle symbolism in
sounds apart from descriptive qualities. Thus he regarded _a_ as
suggestive of bright red, and as symbolizing youth, joy, or brightness
(as in the words _Strahl_, _Klang_, _Glans_); _i_ as suggestive of
sky-blue, symbolic of intimacy or love; and so with other vowel sounds.
(See Ehrenfeld's monograph, p. 57.) In general it may be said that it is
dangerous to attempt to explain the special effects of tone-color in
verse, except where it is obviously descriptive, the appreciation of
such effects being a subtle and a more or less individual matter. On
this subject Mr. Gurney makes some interesting observations, in the
essays cited above. He believes that the pleasurable effect of the
sound-qualities in verse can never be dissociated from the sense of the
words; that the most melodious verse cannot be appreciated if in a
foreign language, unless read with particular expressiveness; and that
the pleasure derived from what we roughly call melodious or harmonious
verses is always due to the mystical combination of the appropriate
sound with the poetic content.
Dr. Johnson ridiculed the idea of tone-color, as appearing in Pope's
teaching that the sound should be "an echo to the sense." See his _Life
of Pope_, and especially the _Idler_ for June 9, 1759, in which he
describes Minim the critic as reading "all our poets with particular
attention to this delicacy of versification." Such a critic discovers
wonders in these lines from _Hudibras_:
"Honor is like the glossy bubble,
Which cost philosophers such trouble;
Where, one part crack'd, the whole does fly,
And wits are crack'd to find out why."
"In these verses, says Minim, we have two striking accommodations of the
sound to the sense. It is impossible to utter the first two lines
emphatically without an act like that which they describe; _bubble_ and
_trouble_ causing a momentary inflation of the cheeks by the retention
of the breath, which is afterwards forcibly emitted, as in the practice
of _blowing bubbles_. But the greatest excellence is in the third line,
which is _crack'd_ in the middle to express a crack, and then shivers
into monosyllables."
In an article on "Some Technical Elements of Style in Literature"
(originally published in the _Contemporary Review_, April, 1885;
reprinted in the Scribner edition of Stevenson's Works, vol. xxii. p.
243) Robert Louis Stevenson discussed some of the more subtle effects of
vowel and consonant color, as appearing in both prose and verse. The
combination and repetition of the consonants PVF he found to be
particularly frequent. The pervading sound-elements in the two following
passages he analyzed by means of the key-letters in the margin:
"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan (KANDL)
A stately pleasure-dome decree, (KDLSR)
Where Alph the sacred river ran (KANDLSR)
Through caverns measureless to man, (KANLSR)
Down to a sunless sea." (NDLS)
(COLERIDGE.)
"But in the wind and tempest of her frown, W.P.V.F. (st) (ow)
Distinction with a loud and powerful fan, W.P.F. (st) (ow) L.
Puffing at all, winnows the light away; W.P.F.L.
And what hath mass and matter by itself W.F.L.M.A.
Lies rich in virtue and unmingled." V.L.M.
(SHAKSPERE: _Troilus and Cressida._)
No attempt has been made to classify the specimens that follow. Nor does
comment seem necessary, in order to make clear the particular qualities
of the sounds of the verse.
The heraudes lefte hir priking up and doun;
Now ringen trompes loude and clarioun;
There is namore to seyn, but west and est
In goon the speres ful sadly in arest;
In goth the sharpe spore in-to the syde.
Ther seen men who can juste, and who can ryde;
Ther shiveren shaftes up-on sheeldes thikke;
He feeleth thurgh the herte-spoon the prikke.
Up springen speres twenty foot on highte;
Out goon the swerdes as the silver brighte.
The helmes they to-hewen and to-shrede;
Out brest the blood, with sterne stremes rede.
With mighty maces the bones they to-breste.
He thurgh the thikkeste of the throng gan threste.
Ther stomblen stedes stronge, and doun goth al.
(CHAUCER: _Knight's Tale_, ll. 1741-1755.)
And in his house heap pearls like pebble-stones,
Receive them free, and sell them by the weight;
Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, amethysts,
Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-green emeralds,
Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds,
And seld-seen costly stones of so great price,
As one of them indifferently rated,
And of a carat of this quantity,
May serve in peril of calamity.
(MARLOWE: _The Jew of Malta_, I. i.)
Be kind and courteous to this gentleman;
Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes;
Feed him with apricocks and dewberries,
With purple grapes, green figs and mulberries;
The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees,
And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs,
And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes,
To have my love to bed and to arise;
And pluck the wings from painted butterflies,
To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes:
Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.
(SHAKSPERE: _Midsummer Night's Dream_, III. i. 167-177.)
Now entertain conjecture of a time
When creeping murmur and the poring dark
Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,
The hum of either army stilly sounds,
That the fix'd sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other's watch:
Fire answers fire; and through their paly flames
Each battle sees the other's umber'd face:
Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents
The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.
The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,
And the third hour of drowsy morning name.
(SHAKSPERE: _Henry V._, Chorus to Act IV.)
Forthwith the sounds and seas, each creek and bay,
With fry innumerable swarm, and shoals
Of fish that, with their fins and shining scales,
Glide under the green wave in sculls that oft
Bank the mid-sea. Part, single or with mate,
Graze the sea-weed, their pasture, and through groves
Of coral stray, or, sporting with quick glance,
Show to the sun their wav'd coats dropt with gold,
Or, in their pearly shells at ease, attend
Moist nutriment, or under rocks their food
In jointed armor watch; on smooth the seal
And bended dolphins play: part, huge of bulk,
Wallowing unwieldy, enormous in their gait,
Tempest the ocean. There leviathan,
Hugest of living creatures, on the deep
Stretch'd like a promontory, sleeps or swims,
And seems a moving land, and at his gills
Draws in, and at his trunk spouts out, a sea.
(MILTON: _Paradise Lost_, VII. 399-416.)
Then in the key-hole turns
The intricate wards, and every bolt and bar
Of massy iron or solid rock with ease
Unfastens. On a sudden open fly,
With impetuous recoil and jarring sound,
The infernal doors, and on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook
Of Erebus.
(_Ib._, II. 876-883.)
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones,
Forget not: in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
(MILTON: _Sonnet on the Late Massacre in Piedmont._)
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing said.
(MILTON: _Lycidas_, ll. 123-129.)
The soft complaining flute
In dying notes discovers
The woes of helpless lovers,
Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.
Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains and height of passion,
For the fair, disdainful dame.
(DRYDEN: _Song for St. Cecilia's Day_, 1687.)
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar:
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
The line too labors, and the words move slow;
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.
(POPE: _Essay on Criticism_, ll. 366-373.)
Was nought around but images of rest:
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between;
And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest,
From poppies breath'd: and beds of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets played,
And hurled everywhere their waters' sheen;
That, as they bickered through the sunny shade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
(THOMSON: _Castle of Indolence_, canto i. st. 3.)
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers will never breed the same.
(KEATS: _Ode to Psyche._)
Strike for the King and die! and if thou diest,
The King is King, and ever wills the highest.
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.
(TENNYSON: _The Coming of Arthur._)
He could not see the kindly human face,
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl,
The league-long roller thundering on the reef,
The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd
And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave,
As down the shore he ranged, or all day long
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge,
A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail:
No sail from day to day, but every day
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts
Among the palms and ferns and precipices;
The blaze upon the waters to the east;
The blaze upon his island overhead;
The blaze upon the waters to the west;
Then the great stars that globed themselves in heaven,
The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again
The scarlet shafts of sunrise--but no sail.
(TENNYSON: _Enoch Arden_, ll. 577-595.)
But follow; let the torrent dance thee down
To find him in the valley; let the wild
Lean-headed eagles yelp alone, and leave
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke,
That like a broken purpose waste in air:
So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales
Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth
Arise to thee; the children call, and I
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;
Myriads of rivulets hurrying through the lawn,
The moan of doves in immemorial elms,
And murmurings of innumerable bees.
(TENNYSON: _The Princess_, VII.)
Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes
Of labdanum, and aloe-balls,
Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes
From out her hair: such balsam falls
Down sea-side mountain pedestals,
From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,
Spent with the vast and howling main,
To treasure half their island-gain.
(BROWNING: _Paracelsus_, IV.)
Good sappy bavins that kindle forthwith;
Billets that blaze substantial and slow;
Pine-stump split deftly, dry as pith;
Larch-heart that chars to a chalk-white glow;
Then up they hoist me John in a chafe,
Sling him fast like a hog to scorch,
Spit in his face, then leap back safe,
Sing 'Laudes' and bid clap-to the torch.
(BROWNING: _The Heretic's Tragedy._)
'Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best,
Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire,
With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin.
And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush,
And feels about his spine small eft-things course,
Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh:...
He looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross
And recross till they weave a spider-web.
(BROWNING: _Caliban upon Setebos._)
Master of the murmuring courts
Where the shapes of sleep convene!
Lo! my spirit here exhorts
All the powers of thy demesne
For their aid to move my queen.
What reports
Yield thy jealous courts unseen?
Vaporous, unaccountable,
Dreamland lies forlorn of light,
Hollow like a breathing shell.
Ah! that from all dreams I might
Choose one dream and guide its flight!
I know well
What her sleep should tell to-night.
(ROSSETTI: _Love's Nocturn._)
When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,
The mother of months, in meadow or plain,
Fills the shadows and windy places
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain.
(SWINBURNE: Chorus in _Atalanta in Calydon._)
Till, as with clamor
Of axe and hammer,
Chained streams that stammer and struggle in straits,
Burst bonds that shiver,
And thaws deliver
The roaring river in stormy spates.
(SWINBURNE: _Winter in Northumberland._)
But, oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail;
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering, with a mazy motion,
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean.
(COLERIDGE: _Kubla Khan._)