thing. It is of little use to idealize upon everyday facts; to think of a feast when we have no food. But when sorrows are imaginary, as in the forebodings of uncertain futurity, they may yield to the power of a poet's solacement.

The Idealizing process is demanded for the paramount condition of HARMONY, so essential to Art.

It is by harmonizing all the circumstances of a theme, whether narrative, descriptive, moralizing, or life-guiding, that we produce an artistic work. In the literality, many things jar with each other, and with the general effect; the artist must efface all discords. In real life, an aristocrat may occasionally fall below the proprieties of his type; a plebeian may rise above his; the poet and romancist would set both right. It is a kind of paradox to learn that very successful portrayers of classtypes have had little personal contact with examples of them. George Eliot gives a public-house colloquy, accepted as true to the life, without having any personal experience of such scenes. Perhaps a literal report of what was said on an actual occasion would seem less truthful than her version. Knowing the characters in general life, she divined what would be most suitable to each, although not exactly corresponding to any single occurrence.

The necessities of Harmony do not imply any great amount of distortion of fact, being fulfilled by the most realistic of poets and artists. To idealize for this end is not merely commendable, it is essential to Art. A painter must group his colours, according to the laws of his art. A poet must see that his language is melodious in itself, and in keeping with his thoughts. He may idealize much or little, but if he fails to harmonize, neither the interest of his story, nor any amount of life-criticism will make him a poet. It is a main part of minute criticism, as abundantly shown in the foregoing Lessons, to inquire into the keeping of images with the subject and

METRE FITS A CERTAIN TONE OF MIND.

249

with each other. In such subtle harmonies most frequently consists the poetic thrill.

VERSE.

It has to be seen how far VERSE makes part of the Definition of Poetry. It is when we enter on this question that our attention is most strongly drawn to the peculiar change of mental tone that accords with poetry. In conducting the affairs of life, in science, and even in many forms of persuasive address, we are in a calm, impassive mood; whereas music and poetry are alike calculated to rouse us to a higher, indefinable, strain of emotion. Indeed, it is one of the marks of poetical composition, in its purest type, to be able to put us into this loftier vein of feeling.

Now there is a felt consistency between the march of metre and the tone of mind described as elevation or loftiness of strain. When we rise out of our calm and commonplace moods into a high pitch of emotional excitement, our carriage and mode of expressing ourselves are found to be quite differ ent; and to that difference the language of metre is somehow more suitable than the language of prose. As the words that we make use of by preference are distinguished by strength, intensity, emphasis, so the form or rhythm is peculiar; and though we cannot declaim in verse off-hand, we feel that verse is the form most appropriate to the situation. In the presence of a sublime scene of nature, if we express our feelings in words, they must be words of a high order of majesty and dignity; and if we were able on the spot, we should impart to them a measured rhythm or metre, as most accordant with the feeling that possesses us.

Such is a statement of the fact, with no attempt to assign any reasons arising out of general laws of the mind. That, when our mood is changed from a calm, ordinary pitch, to one of high or intense emotion, the manner of expressing

ourselves should also change, is what might be expected. That, on such occasions, we should choose the words that have been always in use for venting high emotions, is likewise quite natural. But we are without a reason for the choice of metre, except in the fact that metre has, by long usage, become associated with a lofty emotional strain. There, however, remains the question, why metre should have been originally chosen for such occasions, and why it should be retained as intrinsically suitable to poetical feeling. True, something different from common prose is needed; nevertheless the selection of an entirely distinct vocabulary might be accepted as a sufficient change.

There are two circumstances that may be assigned as rendering metre more suitable than prose for the excitement of intense emotion. The first is that, being simpler, we fall into it more easily; we know better how to graduate and adapt our emphasis in pronouncing verse, than in the uncertain accentuation of prose.

ments.

Now, it is the nature of excitement to lower our intellectual quality of discriminative selection and adaptation of our moveIn passion, we are more energetic but less capable of delicately adjusting our movements; hence a simple rhythm suits us better than one which is complex: the simplest measures of all, the Lyric, are connected with the greatest intensity of passion. According as we can approach a subject with more calmness, we can accommodate ourselves to greater complication of metre, as in the reflective sonnet.

A second way that metre acts, is in controlling or regulating our passionate excitement. When we are very much roused, our movements are violent, irregular, and transitory; by falling into a set march, the excitement is subdued and prolonged. Metre is like the regularity of the dance, which gives vent to the stimulus of music and society in a measured style; it is an agreeable and yet effective controlling power.

ASSOCIATIONS WITH VERSE.

251

To these considerations may be added the influence on the mind of regular and recurring beats, which yield a pleasure of very extensive occurrence in the Fine Arts.

This being so, let us revert now to the remark already made, that the form of verse has become indelibly associated with the diction and the elevation of poetry. Indeed, so much is this the case, that, whenever we set ourselves to compose in verse, the language that comes to our mind is the language of poetry. Our recollection of words falls into totally different channels from the recollection of prose diction. Many can write better in poetry than in prose; their choicest thoughts and expressions having come to them by reading the poets. This is quite irrespective of an original predisposition to the form of verse, as seen, for example, in Pope.

Verse is not poetry without the accompaniments of a poetic vocabulary, and all the figures and arts that are accounted poetic; such as inversion, ellipsis, exclamation, and other wellknown departures from prose. The putting into verse of the ordinary prose style is not poetry. It is often done in comic writing, as in Hudibras: the comic effect is obtained by the degradation of the lofty form of poetry to a vulgar use; being an indirect testimony to the intrinsic dignity of the metrical form. We have frequent examples of blank verse intentionally becoming prosaic. This is seen, for example, in Shakespeare, who uses blank verse with unexceptionable propriety, when his subject is familiar and prosaic; in which case, however, he departs from the diction and devices of typical poetry.

Our English Literature has given birth to a species of elevated prose, which is illustrative, both by agreement and by contrast, of the connection of verse with poetry. The grand prose style of Jeremy Taylor, of Milton, and of many more recent writers, as De Quincey, or Carlyle, approaches to poetry in the elevated diction, and in some of the poetical figures, as

thing. It is of little use to idealize upon everyday facts; to think of a feast when we have no food. But when sorrows are imaginary, as in the forebodings of uncertain futurity, they may yield to the power of a poet's solacement.

The Idealizing process is demanded for the paramount condition of HARMONY, SO essential to Art.

It is by harmonizing all the circumstances of a theme, whether narrative, descriptive, moralizing, or life-guiding, that we produce an artistic work. In the literality, many things jar with each other, and with the general effect; the artist must efface all discords. In real life, an aristocrat may occasionally fall below the proprieties of his type; a plebeian may rise above his; the poet and romancist would set both right. It is a kind of paradox to learn that very successful portrayers of classtypes have had little personal contact with examples of them. George Eliot gives a public-house colloquy, accepted as true to the life, without having any personal experience of such scenes. Perhaps a literal report of what was said on an actual occasion would seem less truthful than her version. Knowing the characters in general life, she divined what would be most suitable to each, although not exactly corresponding to any single occurrence.

The necessities of Harmony do not imply any great amount of distortion of fact, being fulfilled by the most realistic of poets and artists. To idealize for this end is not merely commendable, it is essential to Art. A painter must group his colours, according to the laws of his art. A poet must see that his language is melodious in itself, and in keeping with his thoughts. He may idealize much or little, but if he fails to harmonize, neither the interest of his story, nor any amount of life-criticism will make him a poet. It is a main part of minute criticism, as abundantly shown in the foregoing Lessons, to inquire into the keeping of images with the subject and