under such circumstances, tend to multiply so that every syllable is hammered out, and too much force is as disastrous for the general effect as too little. The discipline imposed by the verse-forms is invaluable here. The rhythm becomes measured: the recurrence of the stresses regular. A clear apprehension of this will help us to avoid a radical error in our view of poetry. Verse-rhythm is not an artificial measure imposed upon the ordinary expression of a thought so as to produce a pretty effect or a pleasing sound, but a natural mode that has been evolved out of necessity.

When in early days the members of a community wished to celebrate some fortunate happening, such as a great victory over their foes, they did so, not by speech merely, but also by song and dance. Such of these "ballad-dances" as remain to us form our earliest literature. When the might of Egypt was overthrown, and "the horses of Pharaoh went in with his chariots and with his horsemen into the sea, and the Lord brought again the waters of the sea upon them

Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances." And the magnificent pæan which she sang we may still read.

In this bit of elemental literature we may see

the three constituents speech, song, and gesture all represented. As Sir Henry Newbolt says, "The oldest ballads were literally ballata, that is, dances: the narrative was sung by the minstrel, and the refrains were sung with actions by the dancers." He says further, "The rhythmic instinct of life begot the movement of dancing: dancing was accompanied and regulated by the beating of the measure in monotone: and this drum-rhythm was then impressed upon language, which became thereby more beautiful, more emotional, and more memorable." So we have achieved our verse-rhythm, which has lasted, and will last, because there comes a point in the experience of every man when the ordinary speech-rhythm is totally inadequate as a means of expression. When feelings run high, and the very depths of the spirit are stirred, then with the loose rhythm of prose as his sole instrument a man splutters and falters ineffectually until all power of utterance goes. Only by the sterner discipline of verse can he retain coherence. Examples of exalted prose-rhetoric, such as Meg Merrilies' denunciation just quoted, or the praise of famous men in Ecclesiasticus, are comparatively so rare as to leave the truth of this statement undisturbed.

Passing then to the consideration of meter or measured rhythm, we see that the basic principle

is the regular recurrence of the stress. The rhythm is restrained, and this restraint gives the emotion which it expresses a lofty dignity otherwise unattainable. Not only so, but the ear soon learns to anticipate the stress, and receives pleasure from the fulfilment of expectation. The simplest form of verse-rhythm is seen where we have a stressed syllable followed by one that is unstressed, or vice versa. If there is an initial stress, as in the word "robber," we get a trochaic line: if the stress is terminal, as in "attempt," the line is iambic.

Of how humdrum and unspeakably tedious these measures can become without inspiration we have too many examples. But it is one of the chief delights in reading poetry to note how the master-craftsmen have manipulated these same conventional measures to achieve precisely the result they wanted. A sense of difficulty, whether in the idea or in its expression, seems to find the terminal measure its fittest vehicle.

Unéasy líes the héad that wears a crówn.

I énd as Í begán,

I think as first I thought;
Woe worth the world if Man
Only of dust is wrought.

In the first example the difficulties are felt to be insuperable; in the second they have been trium

phantly surmounted, but in each case we are made conscious of effort and a great struggle. The strong accent of the initial measure, however, rapped out without preliminary warnings, strikes a note of positive assurance.1 No difficulties are seen in the way.

Wélcome, wild North-éaster!

Sháme it ís to sée
Odes to every zephyr;
Ne'er a verse to thee.

Gód for King Charles! Pym and such cárles To the devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles!

It is the declaration of a strong faith that knows nothing of doubt. It is interesting, from this point of view, to take Wordsworth's To a Skylark, and compare the rhythm of

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?

with that of Shelley's triumphant lines on the same subject:

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

Bird thou never wert.

The comparison will incidentally give us the key

1 Yet Shelley, as Lafcadio Hearn points out, could wring an expression of regret even out of the trochaic measure. See the exquisite song beginning: "Rarely, rarely, comest thou, Spirit of Delight."

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to temperamental differences between the two poets.

It will be noticed that in the lines from Browning quoted above, beginning "Gód for King Chárles!" the stress is immediately followed by two unstressed syllables. This triple measure gives the effect of great speed; the grouping of the stresses may vary, as in "satisfy," "important," and "promenade," but in any case a "galloping" rhythm is the result:

I róde through the Búsh in the búrning nóon
Over the hills to my bride.

Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel will furnish abundant examples of changes in rhythm to suit the sense, and illustrates further what has been said already concerning the various measures. The first line,

The way was lóng, the wind was cold,

suggests labor and difficulty, very different from the swing of

Níne-and-twénty knights of fáme

Hung their shields in Branksome Hall.

Then we pass to the breathless hurry of

"O swiftly can spéed my dápple-gray stéed,
Which drinks of the Teviot clear";