RULE XXII.

A regular and dependent construction should be carefully preserved throughout the whole of a sentence, and all its parts should correspond to each other. There is, therefore, an inaccuracy in the following sentence; “Greenacre was more admired, but not so much lamented, as Burke.” It should be, “Greenacre was more admired than Burke, but not so much lamented.”

Of these two worthies there will be a notice of the following kind in a biographical dictionary, to be published a thousand years hence in America.

Greenacre.—A celebrated critic who so cut up a blue-stocking lady of the name of Brown, that he did not leave her a leg to stand upon.

Burke.—A famous orator, whose power of stopping people’s mouths was said to be prodigious. It is farther reported of him that he was only once hung up, and that on the occasion of the last speech he ever made.

Perhaps it may be said that the rule last stated comprehends all preceding rules, and requires exemplification accordingly. We therefore call the attention of the reader to the following paragraph, requesting him to consider what, and how many, violations of the maxims of Syntax it contains.

The Syntax of the Interjection has been sufficiently stated under Rule V. Interjections afford more matter for consideration in a Treatise on Elocution than they do in a work on Grammar; but there is one observation which we are desirous of making respecting them, and which will not, it is hoped, be thought altogether foreign to our present subject. Almost every interjection has a great variety of meanings, adapted to particular occasions and circumstances, and indicated chiefly by the tone of the voice. Of this proposition we shall now give a few illustrations, which we would endeavour to render still clearer by the addition of musical notes, but that these would hardly express, with adequate exactness, the modulations of sound to which we allude; and besides, we hope to be sufficiently understood without such help. This part of the Grammar should be read aloud by the student; or, which is better still, the interjection, where it is possible, should be repeated with the proper intonation by a class; the sentence which gives occasion to it being read by the preceptor. We will select the interjection Oh! as the source from which our examples are to be drawn.

“I’ll give it you, you idle dog: I will!”

“Oh, pray, Sir! Oh, pray, Sir! Oh! Oh! Oh!”

“I shall ever have the highest esteem for you, Sir; but as to love, that is out of the question.”

“Oh, Matilda!”

“I say, Jim, look at that chaffinch: there’s a shy!”

“Oh, Crikey!”

“Miss Tims, do you admire Lord Byron?”

“Oh, yes!”

“What do you think of Rubini’s singing?”

“Oh!”

“So then, you see, we popped round the corner, and caught them just in the nick of time.”

“Oh!”

“Sir, your behaviour has done you great credit.”

“Oh!”

“Oats are looking up.”

“Oh!”

“Honourable Members might say what they pleased; but he was convinced, for his part, that the New Poor Law had given great general satisfaction.”

“Oh! oh!”

There being now no reason (or rule) to detain us in the Syntax, we shall forthwith advance into Prosody, where we shall have something to say, not only about rules, but also of measures.

PART IV.
PROSODY.

Prosody consists of two parts; wherefore, although it may be a topic, a head, or subject for discussion, it can never be a point; for a point is that which hath no parts. Besides, there are a great many lines to be considered in the second part of Prosody, which treats of Versification. The first division teaches the true Pronunciation of Words, including Accent, Quantity, Emphasis, Pause, and Tone.

Lord Chesterfield’s book about manners, which is intended to teach us the proper tone to be adopted in Society, may be termed an Ethical Prosody.

Lord Chesterfield may have been a polished gentleman, but Dr. Johnson was of the two the more shining character.

CHAPTER I.

OF PRONUNCIATION.

SECTION I.

OF ACCENT.

Though penetrated ourselves by the desire of imparting instruction, we are far from wishing to bore our readers; and therefore we shall endeavour to repeat nothing here that we have said before.

Accent is the marking with a peculiar stress of the voice a particular letter or syllable in a word, in such a manner as to render it more distinct or audible than the rest. Thus, in the word théatre, the stress of the voice should be on the letter e and first syllable the; and in cóntrary, on the first syllable con. How shocking it is to hear people say con-tráry, the-átre! The friends of education will be reminded with regret, that an error in the pronunciation of the first of these words is very early impressed on the human mind.

“Mary, Mary,
Quite contráry,
How does your garden grow?”

How many evils, alas! arise from juvenile associations!

Words of two syllables never have more than one of them accented, except for the sake of peculiar emphasis. Gentlemen, however, whose profession it is to drive certain public vehicles called cabs, are much accustomed to disregard this rule, and to say, “pó-líte” (or “púr-líte”), “gén-téel,” “cón-cérn,” “pó-líce,” and so on: nay, they go so far as to convert a word of one syllable into two, for the sake of indulging in this style of pronunciation; and thus the word “queer” is pronounced by them as “ké-véer.”

The word “á-mén,” when standing alone, should be pronounced with two accents.

The accents in which it usually is pronounced are very inelegant. Clerks, now-a-days, alas! are no scholars.

Dissyllables, formed by adding a termination, usually have the former syllable accented: as, “Fóolish, blóckhead,” &c.

The accent in dissyllables, formed by prefixing a syllable to the radical word, is commonly on the latter syllable: as, “I protést, I decláre, I entréat, I adóre, I expíre.”

ALL FOR LOVE.

Protestations, declarations, entreaties, and adorations, proclaim a swain to be simply tender; but expiration (for love) proves him to be decidedly soft.

A man who turns lover becomes a protest-ant; and his conduct at the same time generally undergoes a reformation, especially if he has previously been a rake.

The zeal, however, of a reformed rake, like that of Jack in Dean Swift’s “Tale of a Tub,” is sometimes apt to outrun his discretion.

When the same word, being a dissyllable, is both a noun and a verb, the verb has mostly the accent on the latter, and the noun on the former syllable: as,

“Molly, let Hymen’s gentle hand
Cemént our hearts together,
With such a cément as shall stand
In spite of wind and weather.

“I do preságe—and oft a fact
A présage doth foretoken—
Our mutual love shall ne’er contráct,
Our cóntract ne’er be broken.”

There are many exceptions to the rule just enunciated (so that, correctly as well as familiarly speaking, it is perhaps no rule); for though verbs seldom have an accent on the former, yet nouns frequently have it on the latter syllable: as,

“Mary Anne is my delíght
Both by day and eke by night;
For by day her soft contról
Soothes my heart and calms my soul;
And her image while I doze
Comes to sweeten my repóse;
Fortune favouring my desígn,
Please the pigs she shall be mine!”

The former syllable of most dissyllables ending in y, our, ow, le, ish, ck, ter, aye, en, et, is accented: as, “Gránny, nóodle,” &c.

Except allów, avów, endów, bestów, belów.

“Sir, I cannot allów
You your flame to avów;
Endów yourself first with the rhino:
My hand to bestów
On a fellow belów
Me!—I’d rather be—never mind—
I know.”

“Music,” in the language of the Gods, is sometimes pronounced “mú-síc!”

Nouns of two syllables ending in er, have the accent on the former syllable: as, “Bútcher, báker.”

It is, perhaps, a singular thing, that persons who pursue the callings denoted by the two words selected as examples, should always indicate their presence at an area by crying out, in direct defiance of Prosody, “But-chér, ba-kér;” the latter syllable being of the two the more strongly accented.

Dissyllabic verbs ending in a consonant and e final, as “Disclose,” “repine,” or having a diphthong in the last syllable, as, “Believe,” “deceive,” or ending in two consonants, as “Intend,” are accented on the latter syllable.

“Matilda’s eyes a light disclóse,
Which with the star of Eve might vie;
Oh! that such lovely orbs as those
Should sparkle at an apple-pie!

“Thy love I thought was wholly mine,
Thy heart I fondly hoped to rule;
Its throne I cannot but repíne
At sharing with a goosb’ry fool!

“Thou swear’st no flatterer can decéive
Thy mind,—thy breast no coxcomb rifle;
Thou art no trifler, I beliéve,
But why so plaguy fond of trifle?

“Why, when we’re wed—I don’t inténd
To joke, Matilda, or be funny;
I really fear that you will spend
The Honey Moon in eating honey!”

Most dissyllabic nouns, having a diphthong in the latter syllable, have the accent also on that syllable: as,

“A Hamlet that draws
Is sure of appláuse.”

A Hamlet that draws? There are not many who can give even an outline of the character.

In a few words ending in ain the accent is placed on the former syllable: as, “Víllain,” which is pronounced as the natives of Whitechapel pronounce “willing.”

Those dissyllables, the vowels of which are separated in pronunciation, always have the accent on the first syllable: as, lion, scion, &c.

When is a young and tender shoot
Like a fond swain? When ’tis a scíon.
What’s the most gentlemanly brute
Like, of all flow’rs? A dandy líon.

Trisyllables, formed by adding a termination or prefixing a syllable, retain the accent of the radical word: as, “Lóveliness, shéepishness, Whíggery, knávery, assúrance.”

The first syllable of trisyllables ending in ous, al, ion, is accented in the generality of cases: as in the words “sérious, cápital,” &c.

“Dr. Johnson declared, with a sérious face,
That he reckoned a punster a villain:
What would he have thought of the horrible case
Of a man who makes jokes that are killing?

“In his díction to speak ’tis not easy for one
Who must furnish both reason and rhyme;
Sir, the rogue who has utter’d a cápital pun,
Has committed a cápital crime.”

Trisyllables ending in ce, ent, ate, y, re, le, and ude, commonly accent the first syllable. Many of those, however, which are derived from words having the accent on the last syllable, and of those of which the middle syllable has a vowel between two consonants, are excepted.

They who would elegantly speak
Should not say “ímpudence,” but “cheek;”
Should all things éatable call “prog;”
Eyes “ogles,” cóuntenance “phisog.”
A coach should nóminate a “drag,”
And spécify as “moke,” a nag:
For éxcellent, use “prime” or “bang up,”
Or “out and out;” and “scrag,” for hang up.
The théatre was wont to teach
The public réctitude of speech,
But we who live in modern age
Consult the gallery, not the stage.

Trisyllables ending in ator have the accent placed on the middle syllable; as, “Spectátor, narrátor,” &c. except órator, sénator, and a few other words.

Take care that you never pronounce the common name of the vegetable sometimes called Irish wall-fruit, “purtátor.”

A diphthong in the middle syllable of a trisyllable is accented: as also, in general, is a vowel before two consonants: as, “Doméstic,” “endéavour.”

An endeavour to appear domesticated, or in common phraseology, to “do” the domestic, is sometimes made by young gentlemen, and generally with but an ill grace. Avoid such attempts, reader, on all occasions: and in particular never adventure either to nurse babies, or (when you shall have “gone up to the ladies”) to pour water into the tea-pot from the kettle. A legal or medical student sometimes thinks proper, from a desire of appearing at once gallant and facetious, to usurp the office of pouring out the tea itself, on which occasions he is very apt to betray his uncivilised habits by an unconscious but very unequivocal manipulation used in giving malt liquor what is technically termed a “head.”

Many polysyllables are regulated as to accent by the words from which they are derived: as, “Inexpréssibles, Súbstituted, Unobjéctionably, Désignated, Transatlántic, Délicacy, Decídedly, Unquéstionable.”

Words ending in ator are commonly accented on the last syllable but one, let them be as long as they may: as, respirátor, regulátor, renovátor, indicátor, and all the other ators that we see in the newspapers.

A cockney, quoting Dr. Johnson, said, “Sir, I love a good ator.”

Words that end in le usually have the accent on the first syllable: as, “Ámicable, déspicable,” &c.: although we have heard people say “despícable.” “I never see such a despícable fellow, not in all my born days.”

Words of this class, however, the second syllable of which has a vowel before two consonants, are often differently accented: as in “Respéctable, contémptible.”

“A respectable Man.”

Many words ending in ion, ous, ty, ia, io, and cal, have their accent on the last syllable but two: as, “Con-si-de-rá-ti-on, pro-dí-gi-ous, im-pe-ne-tra-bíl-i-ty, en-cy-clo-pæ´-di-a, brag-ga-dó-ci-o, an-ti-mo-nárch-i-cal,” all of which words we have divided into syllables, by way of a hint that they are to be pronounced (comically speaking) after the manner of Dominie Sampson.

Having, in compliance with grammatical usage, laid down certain rules with regard to accent, we have to inform the reader that there are so many exceptions to almost all of them, that perhaps there is scarcely one which it is worth while to attend to. We hope we have in some measure amused him; but as to instruction, we fear that, in this part of our subject, we have given him very little of that. Those who would acquire a correct accent had better attend particularly to the mode of speaking adopted in good society; avoid debating clubs; and go to church. For farther satisfaction and information we refer them, and we beg to say that we are not joking—to Walker.

SECTION II.

OF QUANTITY.

The quantity of a syllable means the time taken up in pronouncing it. As there is in Arithmetic a long division and a short division, so in Prosody is Quantity considered as long or short.

A syllable is said to be long, when the accent is on the vowel, causing it to be slowly joined in pronunciation to the next letter: as, “Flēa, smāll, crēature.”

A syllable is called short, when the accent lies on the consonant, so that the vowel is quickly joined to the succeeding letter: as “Crăck, lĭttle, dĕvil.”

The pronunciation of a long syllable commonly occupies double the time of a short one: thus, “Pāte,” and “Brōke,” must be pronounced as slowly again as “Păt,” and “Knŏck.”

We have remarked a curious tendency in the more youthful students of Grammar to regard the quantity of words (in their lessons) more as being “small” or “great” than as coming under the head of “long” or “short.” Their predilection for small quantities of words is very striking and peculiar; food for the mind they seem to look upon as physic; and all physic, in their estimation, is most agreeably taken in infinitesimal doses. The Homœopathic system of acquiring knowledge is more to their taste than even the Hamiltonian.

It is quite impossible to give any rules as to quantity worth reading. The Romans may have submitted to them, but that is no reason why we should. We will pronounce our words as we please: and if foreigners want to know why, we will tell them that, when there is no Act of Parliament to the contrary, an Englishman always does as he likes with his own.

SECTION III.

OF EMPHASIS.

Emphasis is the distinguishing of some word or words in a sentence, on which we wish to lay particular stress, by a stronger and fuller sound, and sometimes by a particular tone of the voice.

A few illustrations of the importance of emphasis will be, perhaps, both agreeable and useful.

When a young lady says to a young gentleman, “You are a nice fellow; you are!”—she means one thing.

When a young gentleman, addressing one of his own sex, remarks, “You’re a nice fellow; you are;”—he means another thing.

“Your friend is a gentleman,” pronounced without any particular emphasis, is the simple assertion of a fact.

“Your friend is a gentleman,” with the emphasis on the words “friend” and “gentleman,” conveys an insinuation besides.

So simple a question as “Do you like pine-apple rum?” is susceptible of as many meanings as there are words in it; according to the position of the emphasis.

“Do you like pine-apple rum?” is as much as to say, “Do you, though, really like pine-apple rum?”

“Do you like pine-apple rum?” is tantamount to, “Can it be that a young gentleman (or lady) like you, can like pine-apple rum?”

“Do you like pine-apple rum?” means, “Is it possible that instead of disliking, you are fond of pine-apple rum?”

“Do you like pine-apple rum?” is an enquiry as to whether you like that kind of rum in particular.

And lastly, “Do you like pine-apple rum?” is equivalent to asking if you think that the flavour of the pine-apple improves that especial form of alcohol.

A well-known instance of an emphasis improperly placed was furnished by a certain Parson, who read a passage in the Old Testament in the following unlucky manner: “And he said unto his sons, Saddle me the ass; and they saddled him.”

Young ladies are usually very emphatic in ordinary discourse. “What a little dear! Oh! how sweetly pretty! Well! I never did, I declare! So nice, and so innocent, and so good-tempered, and so affectionate, and such a colour! And oh! such lovely eyes! and such hair! He was a little duck! he was, he was, he was. Tzig a tzig, tzig, tzig, tzig, tzig!” &c. &c. &c.

This emphatic way of speaking is indicative of two very amiable feelings implanted by nature in the female occiput, and called by the Phrenologists Adhesiveness and Philoprogenitiveness. Those who attempt to imitate it will be conscious, while forcing out their words, of a peculiar mental emotion, which we cannot explain otherwise than by saying, that it is analogous to that which attends the act of pressing or squeezing; as when, with the thumb of the right hand, we knead one lump of putty to another, in the palm of the left. Perhaps we might also instance, sucking an orange. In all these cases, the organ of Weight, according to Phrenology, is also active; and this, perhaps, is one of the faculties which induce young ladies to lay a stress upon their words. Nevertheless, we fear that a damsel would hardly be pleased by being told that her weight was considerable, though it would, at the same time, grievously offend her to accuse her of lightness. Here we need scarcely observe, that we refer to lightness, not of complexion, but of sentiment, which is always regarded as a dark shade in the character. This defect, we think, we may safely assert, will never be observed in emphatic fair ones.

But we have not yet quite exhausted the subject of emphasis, considered in relation to young ladies. Their letters are as emphatic as their language is, almost every third word being underlined. Such epistles, inasmuch as they are addressed to the heart, ought not to be submitted to the ear; nevertheless we must say that we have occasionally been wicked and waggish enough to read them aloud—to ourselves alone, of course. The reader may, if he choose, follow our example. We subjoin a specimen of female correspondence, endeared to us by many tender recollections, and admirably adapted to our present purpose.

The remainder of this letter being of a nature personally interesting to ourselves only, and likely, in the opinion of some readers, to render its insertion attributable to motives of vanity, we shall not be found fault with for objecting to transcribe any more of it.

SECTION IV.

OF PAUSES.

A Pause, otherwise called a rest, is an absolute cessation of the voice, in speaking or reading, during a perceptible interval, longer or shorter, of time.

Comic Pauses often occur in Oratory. “Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking,” is usually followed by a pause of this sort. A young gentleman, his health having been drunk at a party, afforded, in endeavouring to return thanks, a signal illustration of the Pause Comic. “Gentlemen,” he began, “the Ancient Romans,”—(A pause),—“I say, Gentlemen, the Ancient Romans,”—(Hear!)—“The Ancient Romans, Gentlemen,”—(Bravo! hear! hear!)—“Gentlemen—that is—the Ancient Romans”—“were very fine fellows, Jack, I dare say,” added a friend, pulling the speaker down by the coat-tail.

That notable Ancient Roman, Brutus, is represented by Shakspere as making a glorious pause: as,

“Who’s here so vile that would not love his country? If any, speak, for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.”

Here, of course, Brutus pauses, folds his arms, and looks magnanimous. We have heard, though, of an idle and impudent schoolboy, who, at a public recitation, when he had uttered the words “I pause for a reply,” gravely took out his penknife and began paring his nails.

This was minding his paws with a vengeance.

A very long pause, particularly accompanied by a very serious look on the part of the speaker, as good as tells the audience that something of great importance is coming. It is therefore necessary to have something of real consequence to bring out. The following extract from a political harangue will show how essential it is to attend to this point:—

SECTION V.

OF TONES.

Tones consist of the modulations of the voice, or the notes or variations of sound which we use in speaking: thus differing materially both from emphasis and pauses.

An interesting diversity of tones is exhibited by the popular voice at an election.

Also by dust-men, milk-women, and pot-boys; and by fruiterers, hearth-stone-venders, ballad-singers, Last-Dying-Speech-hawkers, and old clothesmen itinerant.

We cannot exactly write tones (though it is easy enough to write notes), but we shall nevertheless endeavour to give some idea of their utility.

A lover and a police-magistrate (unless the two characters should chance to be combined, which sometimes happens, that is, when the latter is a lover of justice) would say, “Answer me,” in very different tones.

Observe, that two doves billing resemble two magistrates bowing;—because they are beak to beak.

A lover again would utter the words “For ever and ever,” in a very different tone from that in which a Parish Clerk would repeat them.

A young lady, on her first introduction to you, says, “Sir,” in a tone very unlike that in which she sometime afterwards delivers herself of the same monosyllable when she is addressing you under the influence of jealousy.

As to the word “Sir,” the number of constructions which, according to the tone in which it is spoken, it may be made to bear, are incalculable. We may adduce a few instances.

“Please, Sir, let me off my imposition.”

“No, Sir!”

“Waiter! you, Sir.”

“Yes, Sir! yes, Sir!”

“Sir, I am greatly obliged to you.”

“Sir, you are quite welcome.”

“Your servant, Sir” (by a man who brings you a challenge).

“’Servant, Sir” (by a tailor bowing you to the door).

“Sir, you are a gentleman!”

“Sir, you are a scoundrel!”

We need not go on with examples ad infinitum. If after what we have said anybody does not understand the nature of Tone, all we shall say of him is, that he is a Tony Lumpkin.

CHAPTER II.

OF VERSIFICATION.

Hurrah!

It is with peculiar pleasure that we approach this part of Prosody; and we have therefore prefaced it with an exclamation indicative of delight. We belong to a class of persons to whom a celebrated phrenological manipulator ascribes “some poetical feeling, if studied or called forth;” and, to borrow another expression from the same quarter, we sometimes “versify a little;” that is to say, we diversify our literary occupations by an occasional flirtation with the muses. Now it gives us great concern to observe that popular literature is becoming very prosaic. Poetry and Boxing have gone out of favour together, and most probably,—though we have not quite time enough just at present to show how,—from the same cause; namely, bad taste. We mention Boxing along with Poetry, because it is remarkable that their decline should have been contemporaneous; and because we are of those who believe that there exists an essential similarity between all the branches of the Fine Arts; and moreover, because—and we mention it as a fact no less singular in itself than creditable to the paper in question—that a celebrated weekly periodical bestows especial patronage on both. With regard to Boxing, we are glad to see that a few patriotic individuals have of late been endeavouring to revive the taste for it; and we have some hope that their exertions, backed by certain cases of stabbing which every now and then occur, will eventually prove successful. But no one can be found to labour in an equal degree for the advancement of poetry. Our innate modesty is prompting us to say, that we fear we can do but little in the cause; but early impressions are known to be very strong and lasting: and we have a notion that, in teaching youth to make verses, we shall in a great degree contribute to the breeding up of a race of poets, and thereby secure, not only laurels, at least, for them, but also gratitude, veneration, and all that kind of thing, for ourselves.

We have a great respect for the memory of our old schoolmaster; notwithstanding which, we think we can beat him (which, we shall be told by the wags, would be tit for tat) at poet-making, though, indeed, he was a magician in his way. “I’ll make thee a poet, my boy,” he used to say, “or the rod shall.”

Let us try what we can do.

A verse consists of a certain number and variety of syllables, put together and arranged according to certain laws.

Verses being also called dulcet strains, harmonious numbers, tuneful lays, and so forth, it is clear that such combination and arrangement must be so made as to please the ear.

Versification is the making of verses. This seems such a truism as to be not worth stating; but it is necessary to define what Versification is, because many people suppose it to be the same thing with poetry. We will prove that it is not.

“Much business in the Funds has lately been
Transacted various monied men between;
Though speculation early in the week
Went slowly; nought was done whereof to speak.
The largest operations, it was found,
Were twenty-five and fifty thousand pound;
The former in reduced Annuities,
And in the Three per Cents. the last of these.”

We might proceed in the same strain, but we have already done eight verses without a particle of poetry in them; and we do not wish to overwhelm people with proofs of what a great many will take upon trust.

Every fool knows what Rhyme is; so we need not say anything about that.

OF POETICAL FEET.

Poetical feet! Why, Fanny Elsler’s feet and Taglioni’s feet are poetical feet—are they not? or else what is meant by calling dancing the Poetry of Motion? And cannot each of those artistes boast of a toe which is the very essence of all poetry—a ΤΟ` ΚΑΛΟ`Ν?

No. You may make verses on Taglioni’s feet, (though if she be a poetess, she can do that better than you, standing, too, on one leg, like the man that Horace speaks of); but you cannot make them of her feet. Feet of which verses are composed are made of syllables, not of bones, muscles, and ligaments.

Feet and pauses are the constituent parts of a verse.

We have heard one boy ask another, who was singing, “How much is that a yard?” still the yard is not a poetical measure.

The feet which are used in poetry consist either of two or of three syllables. There are four kinds of feet of two, and an equal number of three syllables. Four and four are eight: therefore Pegasus is an octoped; and if our readers do not understand this logic, we are sorry for it. But as touching the feet—we have

1. The Trochee, which has the first syllable accented, and the last unaccented: as, “Yānkĕe dōodlĕ.”

2. The Iambus, which has the first syllable unaccented, and the last accented: as, “Thĕ māid hĕrsēlf wĭth roūge, ălās! bĕdaūbs.”

3. The Spondee, which has both the words or syllables accented: as, “Āll hāil, grēat kīng, Tōm Thūmb, āll haīl!”

4. The Pyrrhic, which has both the words or syllables unaccented: as, “Ŏn thĕ tree-top.”

5. The Dactyl, which has the first syllable accented and the two latter unaccented: as, “Jōnăthăn, Jēffĕrsŏn.”

6. The Amphibrach has the first and last syllables unaccented and the middle one accented: as, “Oĕ’rwħelmĭng, trănspōrtĕd, ĕcstātĭc, dĕlīghtfŭl, ăccēptĕd, ăddrēssĕs.”

7. The Anapæst (or as we used to say, Nasty-beast) has the two first syllables unaccented and the last accented: as, “Ŏvĕrgrōwn grĕnădiēr.”

8. The Tribrach has all its syllables unaccented: as, “Matrĭmŏny̆, exquĭsĭtenĕss.”

These feet are divided into principal feet, out of which pieces of poetry may be wholly or chiefly formed; and secondary feet, the use of which is to diversify the number and improve the verse.

We shall now proceed to explain the nature of the principal feet.

Iambic verses are of several kinds, each kind consisting of a certain number of feet or syllables.

1. The shortest form of the English Iambic consists of an Iambus, with an additional short syllable, thus coinciding with the Amphibrach: as,

“Whăt, Sūsăn,
My beauty!
Refuse one
So true t’ ye?
This ditty
Of sadness
Begs pity
For madness.”

2. The second form of the English Iambic consists of two Iambuses, and sometimes takes an additional short syllable: as,

“My̆ eȳe, whăt fūn,
With dog and gun,
And song and shout,
To roam about!
And shoot our snipes!
And smoke our pipes!
Or eat at ease,
Beneath the trees,
Our bread and cheese!
To rouse the hare
From gloomy lair;
To scale the mountain
And ford the fountain,
While rustics wonder
To hear our thunder.”

Everybody has heard of the “Cockney School,” of course.

3. The third form consists of three Iambuses: as in the following morceau, the author of which is, we regret to say, unknown to us; though we did once hear somebody say that it was a Mr. Anon.

“Jăck Sprāt ĕat āll thĕ fāt,
His wife eat all the lean,
And so between them both,
They lick’d the platter clean.”

In this verse an additional short syllable is also admitted: as,

“Ălēxĭs, yoūthfŭl ploūgh-bŏy,
A shepherdess adored,
Who loved fat Hodge, the cow-boy,
So t’other chap was floored.”

4. The fourth form is made up of four Iambuses: as,

“Ădieū my̆ bōots, cŏmpāniŏns ōld,
New footed twice, and four times soled;
My footsteps ye have guarded long,
Life’s brambles, thorns, and flints among;
And now you’re past the cobbler’s art,
And Fate declares that we must part.
Ah me! what cordial can restore
The gaping patch repatch’d before?
What healing art renew the weal
Of subject so infirm of heel?
What potion, pill, or draught control
So deep an ulcer of the sole?”

5. The fifth species of English Iambic consists of five Iambuses: as,

“Cŏme, Trāgĭc Mūse, ĭn tāttĕr’d vēst ărrāy’d,
And while through blood, and mud, and crimes I wade,
Support my steps, and this, my strain, inspire
With Horror’s blackest thoughts and bluest fire!”

The Epic of which the above example is the opening, will perhaps appear hereafter. This kind of Iambic constitutes what is called the Heroic measure:—of which we shall have more to say by and by; but shall only remark at present that it, in common with most of the ordinary English measures, is susceptible of many varieties, by the admission of other feet, as Trochees, Dactyls, Anapæsts, &c.

6. Our Iambic in its sixth form, is commonly called the Alexandrine measure. It consists of six Iambuses: as,

“Hĭs wōrshĭp gāve thĕ wōrd, ănd Snōoks wăs bōrne ăwāy.”

The Alexandrine is sometimes introduced into heroic rhyme, and when used, as the late Mr. John Reeve was wont to say, “with a little moderation,” occasions an agreeable variety. Thus, the example quoted is preceded by the following lines:—

“What! found at midnight with a darkey, lit,
A bull-dog, jemmy, screw, and centre-bit
And tongueless of his aim? It cannot be
But he was bent, at least, on felony;
He stands remanded. ‘Ho! Policeman A!’
His Worship gave the word, and Snooks was borne away.”

7. The seventh and last form of our Iambic measure is made up of seven Iambuses. This species of verse has been immortalised by the adoption of those eminent hands, Messrs. Sternhold and Hopkins. It runs thus:—

“Goŏd pēoplĕ āll, Ĭ prāy drăw nēar, fŏr yōu Ĭ neēds mŭst tēll,
That William Brown is dead and gone; the man you knew full well.
A broad brimm’d hat, black breeches, and an old Welch wig he wore:
And now and then a long brown coat all button’d up before.”

The present measure is as admirably adapted for the Platform as for the Conventicle.

“My name it is Bill Scroggins, and my fate it is to die,
For I was at the Sessions tried and cast for felony.
My friends, to these my dying words I pray attention lend,
The public-house has brought me unto this untimely end.”

Verses of this kind are now usually broken into two lines, with four feet in the first line, and three in the second: as,

“Ĭ wīsh Ĭ wēre ă līttlĕ p̄ig
To wallow in the mire,
To eat, and drink, and sleep at ease
Is all that I desire.”

Trochaic verse is of several kinds.

1. The shortest Trochaic verse in the English language consists of one Trochee and a long syllable: as,

“Bīlly̆ Blāck
Got the sack.”

Lindley Murray asserts that this measure is defective in dignity, and can seldom be used on serious occasions. Yet it is Pope who thus sings:

“Dreadful screams,
Dismal gleams.
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,” &c.

And for our own poor part, let us see what we can make out of a storm.

“See the clouds
Like to shrouds
All so dun,
Hide the Sun;
Daylight dies;
Winds arise;
Songsters quake,
’Midst the brake;
Shepherds beat
Swift retreat:

“Lo you there!
High in air
Whirlwinds snatch
Tiles and thatch!
Steeple nods!
Oh! ye Gods!
Hark!—that bang!—
Brazen clang!
There the bell
Thund’ring fell!
Thunder rolls—
Save our souls!—
Welkin glares—
Lightning flares,
While it splits
Oak to bits—
Hail comes down—
Oh, my crown!
Patter crack!
Clatter whack!
How it pours!
Ocean roars,
Earth replies—
Mind your eyes—
Here’s a cave—
Oh! that’s brave!
Gracious Powers
Safety’s ours!”

2. The second English form of the Trochaic consists of two feet: as,

“Vērmĭcēllĭ,
Cūrrănt jēlly̆.”

It sometimes contains two feet, or trochees, with an additional long syllable: as,

“Yoūth ĭnclīned tŏ wēd,
Go and shave thy head.”

3. The third species consists of three trochees: as,

“Sīng ă son̄g ŏf sīxpĕnce.”

or of three trochees, with an additional long syllable: as,

“Thrīce my̆ cōat, hăve ō’er thĕe rōll’d,
Summer hot and winter cold,
Since the Snip’s creative art
Into being bade thee start;

“Now like works the most sublime,
Thou display’st the power of Time.
Broad grey patches plainly trace,
Right and left each blade-bone’s place;
When thy shining collar’s scann’d,
Punsters think on classic land:
Thread-bare sleeves thine age proclaim,
Elbows worn announce the same;
Elbows mouldy-black of hue,
Save where white a crack shines through;
While thy parting seams declare
Thou’rt unfit for farther wear—
Then, farewell! “What! Moses! ho!”
“Clo’, Sir? clo’, Sir? clo’, Sir? clo’?”

4. The fourth Trochaic species consists of four trochees: as,

“Ūgh! yŏu līttlĕ lūmp ŏf blūbbĕr,
Sleep, oh! sleep in quiet, do!
Cease awhile your bib to slobber—
Cease your bottle mouth to screw.

“How I wish your eyelids never
Would unclose again at all;
For I know as soon as ever
You’re awake, you’re sure to squall.

“Dad and Mammy’s darling honey,
Tomb-stone cherub, stuff’d with slops,
Let each noodle, dolt, and spooney
Smack, who will, your pudding chops.

“As for me, as soon I’d smother,
As I’d drown a sucking cat,
You, you cub, or any other
Nasty little squalling brat.”

“Would you, you disagreeable old Bachelor?”

This form may take an additional long syllable, but this measure is very uncommon. Example:

“Chrōnŏnhōtŏnthōlŏgōs thĕ Grēat,
Godlike in a barrow kept his state.”

5. The fifth Trochaic species is likewise uncommon; and, as a Bowbellian would say, “uncommon” ugly. It contains five trochees: as,

“Hēre lĭes Māry̆, wīfe ŏf Thōmăs Cārtĕr,
Who to typhus fever proved a martyr.”

These are a specimen of the “uncouth rhymes” so touchingly alluded to by Gray.

6. The sixth form of the English Trochaic is a line of six trochees: as,

“Mōst bĕwītchĭng dāmsĕl, c̄harmĭng Ārăbēllă,
Prithee, cast an eye of pity on a fellow.”

The Dactylic measure is extremely uncommon. The following may be considered an example of one species of it:

“Cēliă thĕ crūĕl, rĕsōlv’d nŏt tŏ mārry̆ sŏon,
Boasts of a heart like a fortified garrison,
Bulwarks and battlements keeping the beaux all off,
Shot from within knocking lovers like foes all off.”

Anapæstic verses are of various kinds.

1. The shortest anapæstic verse is a single anapæst: as,

“Ĭn thĕ glāss
There’s an ass.”

This measure, after all, is ambiguous; for if the stress of the voice be laid on the first and third syllables, it becomes trochaic. Perhaps, therefore, it is best to consider the first form of our Anapæstic verse, as made up of two anapæsts: as,

“Sĕt ă schōolbŏy ăt wōrk
With a knife and a fork.”

And here, if you like, you may have another short syllable: as,

“Ănd hŏw sōon thĕ yoŭng glūttŏn
Will astonish your mutton!”

2. The second species consists of three anapæsts: as,

“Ămărȳllĭs wăs slēndĕr ănd tāll,
Colin Clodpole was dumpy and fat;
And tho’ she did’n’t like him at all,
Yet he doted on her for all that.”

This metre is sometimes donominated sing-song.

3. The third kind of English Anapæstics may be very well exemplified by an Irish song:

“Hăve yŏu ē’er hăd thĕ lūck tŏ sĕe Dōnny̆brŏok Fāir?”

It consists, as will have been observed, of four anapæsts. Sometimes it admits of a short syllable at the end of the verse: as,

“Ĭn thĕ dēad ŏf thĕ nīght, whĕn wĭth dīre cătĕrwāulĭng
Of grimalkins in chorus the house-tops resound;
All insensibly drunk, and unconsciously sprawling
In the kennel, how pleasant it is to be found!”

The various specimens of versification of which examples have been given, may be improved and varied by the admission of secondary feet into their composition; but as we are not writing an Art of Poetry, we cannot afford to show how: particularly as the only way, after all, of acquiring a real knowledge of the structure of English verse, is by extensive reading. Besides, there yet remain a few Directions for Poetical Beginners, which we feel ourselves called upon to give, and for which, if we do not take care, we shall not have room.

The commencement of a poet’s career is usually the writing of nonsense verses. The nonsense of these compositions is very often unintentional; but sometimes words are put together avowedly without regard to sense, and with no other view than that of acquiring a familiarity with metrical arrangement: as,

“Approach, disdain, involuntary, tell.”

But this is dry work. It may be necessary to compose in this way just at first, but in our opinion, there is a good and a bad taste to be displayed even in writing nonsense verses; that is, verses which really deserve that name. We recommend the young poet to make it his aim to render his nonsense as PERFECT as possible. He will find many bright examples to follow in the world of literature: but perhaps, for the present, he will put up with our own.

“Conclusive tenderness; fraternal grog,
Tidy conjunction; adamantine bog,
Impetuous, arrant toadstool; Thundering quince,
Repentant dog-star, inessential Prince
Expound. Pre-Adamite eventful gun,
Crush retribution, currant-jelly, pun.
Oh! eligible Darkness, fender, sting
Heav’n-born Insanity, courageous thing.
Intending, bending, scouring, piercing all,
Death like pomatum, tea, and crabs must fall.”

A very good method of making nonsense verses, consists in taking bits, selected here and there at random, out of some particular poet, or phrases in his style, and then putting them together with a few additions of your own secundùm artem. Sometimes, however, it answers very well to copy a page or so of an author word for word. Nonsense verses composed in this manner, form not only a beneficial exercise, but are also very useful for insertion in young ladies’ albums; as they can be made without much trouble, and when made, are not only thought just as well of as the most sensible productions would be, but very often cried over into the bargain, as affecting and pathetic.