CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
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 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
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 MUSIC LIBRAKV 
 
Cornell University Library 
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MUSIC AND POETRY 
 
BOOKS BY SIDNEY LANIER. 
 
 Music and Poetry. 
 
 A Volume of Essays, i^mo, $i>So. 
 
 The English Novel. 
 
 A Study in the Development of Personality. Netxi and 
 Revised Edition* Crown 8vo, $2.00. 
 
 The Science of English Verse. 
 Crown Svo, JS2.00. 
 
 Poems. 
 
 Edited by his Wife, with a Memorial by William 
 Hayes Ward. With portrait. New Edition. i2mo, 
 $2.00. 
 
 Select Poems of Sidney Lanier. 
 
 Edited, with an Introduction and Notes, by Prof. 
 Morgan Callaway, Jr., University of Texas. i2mo, 
 net^ $1.00. 
 
 The Boy's Library of Legend and Chivalry. 
 Edited by Sidney Lanier. Four volumes, illustrated. 
 8vo, each, $2.00. 
 
 The Boy's Froissart. By Alfred Kappes. 
 The Boy's King Arthur. By Alfred Kappes. 
 Knightly Legends of Wales ; or, The Boy's Mabi- 
 nogion. By Alfred Fredericks. 
 The Boy's Percy. By E. B. Bensell. 
 
 The set, four volumes in a dox, $7.00. 
 
MUSIC AND POETRY 
 
 ESSAYS 
 
 UPON 
 
 SOME ASPECTS AND INTER-RELATIONS 
 OF THE TWO ARTS 
 
 BY 
 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 I 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1898 , 
 
ML 
 
 A.I lo\\\ 
 
 Copyright, 1899, ' ' 
 By Mary D. Lanier. 
 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 
 
Contents 
 
 ^ Pagb 
 
 I. From Bacon to Beethoven i 
 
 .■^^ II. The Orchestra of To-day 25 
 
 III. The Physics of Music 47 
 
 X IV. Two Descriptive Orchestral Works : 
 The Ocean Symphony ; Raid of the 
 
 Vikings 68 
 
 V. The Maryland Musical Fest'ival ... 70 
 
 VI. The Centennial Cantata 80 
 
 VII. The Legend of St. Leonor 91 
 
 VIII. Nature-Metaphors . . 95 
 
 IX. A Forgotten English Poet . • us 
 
 X. The Death of Byrhtnoth ... . 136- 
 
 XI. Chaucer and Shakspere 159 
 
 XII. Review of Hayne's Poetry . . 197 
 
 XIII. John Barbour's Bruce 212 
 
Music and Poetry 
 
 From Bacon to Beethoven 
 
 Themistocles being "desired at a feast to touch a 
 lute, said ' he could not fiddle, but yet he could make a 
 small town a great city.' If a true survey be taken of 
 councillors and statesmen, there may be found (though 
 rarely) those that can make a small state great and yet 
 cannot fiddle ; as, on the other side, there will be found 
 a great many that can fiddle very cunningly but yet . . . 
 their gift lieth the other way, to bring a great and flour- 
 ishing estate to ruin and decay. And certainly those 
 degenerate arts and shifts whereby many councillors and 
 governors gain both favor with their masters and estima- 
 tion with the vulgar deserve no better name than fid- 
 dling, being things rather pleasing for the time, and 
 graceful to themselves only, than tending to the weal 
 and advancement of the state which they serve." 
 
 My Lord Bacon has here used the term " fiddling " — 
 with a propriety wholly unsuspected by himself — to 
 denote the whole corpus of musical art. He clearly be- 
 lieves that in discussing the value of musical as opposed 
 to political affairs he has expressed the pithiest possible 
 contempt for the former by the mere nickname he has 
 given them in translating the mot of Themistocles. 
 
 I 
 
2 Music and Poetry- 
 
 It was just about the time when the wise fool Francis 
 was writing his essay Of Kingdoms and Estates that 
 the world was beginning to think earnestly upon the real 
 significance of tones ; for it was in this period that music 
 — what we modems call music — was bom. The pro- 
 digious changes which the advent of this art has wrought 
 in some of our largest conceptions could not have 
 been foreseen even by the author of the Instauratio 
 Magna. 
 
 As for Themistocles, one can even sympathize with 
 his saying. Harmony is little more than three centuries 
 old, and the crude and meagre melodies which consti- 
 tuted the whole repertory of the " lute " players in 
 Themistocles's time could not have been likely to charm 
 away an ambitious man from the larger matters of state - 
 making. 
 
 It is, in truth, only of late years that one can announce, 
 without being liable to a commission of lunacy, an esti- 
 mate of the comparative value of music and statecraft so 
 different from that of Themistocles and Bacon as that it 
 affirms the approach of a time when the musician will 
 become quite as substantial a figure in every-day life as 
 the politician. There are those who think it wise to de- 
 clare to the young men of our age that what Lord Bacon 
 calls " the weal and advancement of the state " may be 
 as fairly forwarded by that citizen who shall be a good 
 fiddler — always provided that our definition of a good 
 fiddler be accepted — as by him that shall be versed in 
 the making of laws and treaties. 
 
 The amiable Tyndall relates that when he was once 
 about to perform a new experiment for Mr. Faraday in 
 his laboratory, the latter stopped him, saying, " First 
 tell me what I am to look for." Following this wise 
 
From Bacon to Beethoven 3 
 
 precaution, let the reader look for, and carry mainly with 
 him, in the following discussion, these principal ideas : — 
 
 That music is the characteristic art-form of the modern 
 time, as sculpture is of the antique and painting is of the 
 mediasval time ; 
 
 That this is necessarily so, in consequence of certain 
 curious relations between unconventional musical tones 
 and the human spirit, — particularly the human spirit at 
 its present stage of growth ; 
 
 That this growth indicates a time when the control of 
 masses of men will be more and more relegated to each 
 unit thereof, when the law will be given from within the 
 bosom of each individual, — not from without, — and 
 will rely for its sanctions upon desire instead of 
 repugnance ; 
 
 That in intimate connection with this change in man's 
 spirit there proceeds a change in man's relations to the 
 Unknown, whereby (among other things) that relation 
 becomes one of love rather than of terror ; 
 
 That music appears to offer conditions most favorable 
 to both these changes, and that it will therefore be the 
 reigning art until they are accomplished, or at least 
 greatly forwarded. 
 
 Perhaps the most effectual step a man can take in rid- 
 ding himself of the clouds which darken most specula- 
 tions upon these matters is to abandon immediately the 
 idea that music is a species of language, — which is not 
 true, — and to substitute for that the converse idea that 
 language is a species of music. A language is a set of 
 tones segregated from the great mass of musical sounds, 
 and endowed, by agreement, with fixed meanings. The 
 Anglo-Saxons have, for example, practically agreed that 
 
4 Music and Poetry 
 
 if the sound man is uttered, the intellects of all Anglo- 
 Saxon hearers will act in a certain direction, and always 
 in that direction for that sound. But in the case of 
 music no such convention has been made. The only 
 method of afSxing a definite meaning to a musical com- 
 position is to associate with the component tones of it 
 either conventional words, intelligible gestures, or fa- 
 miliar events and places. When a succession of tones is 
 played, the intellect of the hearer may move ; but the 
 movements are always determined by influences wholly 
 extraneous to the purely musical tones, — such as asso- 
 ciations with words, with events, or with any matters 
 which place definite intellectual forms (that is, ideas) 
 before the mind. 
 
 It is to this idiosyncrasy of music that it owes the 
 honor of having been selected by the modem Age as a 
 characteristic art-form. For music, freed from the 
 stern exactions of the intellect, is also freed from the 
 terrible responsibilities of realism. 
 
 It will be instructive to array some details of the work- 
 ing of this principle. . 
 
 • Let the general reader recall to himself three great 
 classifications of human activity. The universe consists 
 (say) of man, and of what is not man. These two being 
 co-existent, it is in the nature of things that certain rela- 
 tions shall straightway spring up between them. Of 
 such relations there are three possible kinds, regarding 
 them from the standpoint of man. These kinds are the 
 intellectual, the emotional, and the physical. Whenever 
 a man knows a thing, the intellectual relation is set up. 
 When he loves or desires a thing, the emotional relation 
 is set up. When he touches or sees a thing, the physi- 
 cal relation is set up. 
 
From Bacon to Beethoven 5 
 
 Now, whatever may be the class of relations with 
 which music deals, it is not the first class above named, 
 — the intellectual. This has sometimes been doubted. 
 But the doubt is due mainly to a certain confusion of 
 thought which has arisen from the circumstance that 
 the most common and familiar musical instrument hap- 
 pens to be at the same time what may be called an in- 
 tellectual instrument, — i.e., the organ of speech. With 
 the great majority of the human race the musical tones 
 which are most frequently heard are those of the human 
 voice. But these tones — which are as wholly devoid 
 of intellectual signification in themselves as if they were 
 enounced from a violin or flute — are usually produced 
 along with certain vowel and consonantal combinations 
 which go to make up words, and which consequently 
 have conventional meanings. In this way significations 
 belonging exclusively to the words of a song are often 
 transferred by the hearer to the tones of the melody. 
 In reality they are absolutely distinct. Nothing is easier 
 than to demonstrate this. Let any vocalist, for example, 
 execute the following passage : 
 
 Allegro tnoderato ma energico. 
 
 ^&C. 
 
 {> V y 
 
 -f- PI I < -V-\ 
 
 ZM. 
 
 3t 
 
 La la la la la la la la la la la la la. 
 
 The question may be safely put to any auditor, when 
 the vocalist has finished, what does this mean? As 
 long as the vague syllable la is used as the vehicle of 
 the tones, no human being can truthfully say that the 
 passage (it is the opening phrase of the Scherzo in a 
 lovely Symphony of Gade's) brings any report whatever 
 
6 Music and Poetry 
 
 to his intellect. If, instead of the meaningless particle 
 la, words should be employed, the case would not be 
 changed as to the tones of the musical phrase. The 
 hearers might associate the import of each word with 
 the tone upon which it happened to fall, but the tone 
 would not be thereby impressed with the meaning of 
 that word. It might occur a moment after, conjoined 
 with any number of different words. The mixture of 
 meaning and tone is merely mechanical, not chemical. 
 
 In other words, the intellectual relations are not 
 affected by pure tones, — not by the tones of the hu- 
 man voice any more than the tones of a violin. When- 
 ever intellectual relations are determined by tones, it 
 is not in virtue of their character as tones, but because 
 of certain conventional agreements whereby it has been 
 arranged that upon the hearing of these tones, as upon 
 the hearing of so many signals, the intellects of the 
 auditors will all move in certain directions. It may 
 strengthen the conception of this principle to recall 
 here that other signals than tones might have been 
 agreed upon for this purpose. Gestures, indeed, are 
 used with quite as much effect as tone-language in many 
 dramatic situations, and constitute the entire speech of 
 many persons. The selection of tones, rather than of 
 other sorts of signals, to convey ideas has not been 
 made because the tones had intrinsic significations, but 
 upon purely a posteriori and economic considerations, 
 the main one being that there is no means of producing 
 so great a variety of signals with so little expenditure of 
 muscular force comparable to that of the human voice. 
 
 This principle cannot be justly embarrassed with any 
 appearance of conflict between it and the doctrine of 
 the origin of language in imitative sounds. There is 
 
From Bacon to Beethoven 7 
 
 no incompatibility whatever. The imitative sound will 
 always owe its character of word-progenitor not to any 
 intrinsic meaning in the sound itself, but to a purely ex- 
 trinsic association by which the intellect has learned to 
 connect it with some phenomenon having a definite 
 meaning. To a person acquainted with the phenome- 
 non of thunder, for example, the sound of the word 
 "thunder" might suggest the phenomenon; but this 
 suggestion is the result of circumstances utterly apart 
 from any intellectual influence communicable by the' 
 mere tones of the vocable itself. 
 
 Once for all, — for it is a principle of such funda- 
 mental importance as to warrant its repetition in many 
 forms, — musical tones have in themselves no meaning 
 appreciable by the human intellect. 
 
 Some steaming-hot quarrels among modem musicians 
 clear away immediately before the steady application of 
 this doctrine. For example, there are many conscien- 
 tious and beautiful- souled artists who deny themselves 
 all the glory and delight to be found in the so-called 
 "programme-music." Their motives are unquestion- 
 ably those of rigorous conscientiousness. Programme- 
 music has been held up to them as a sort of unclean 
 thing. It is indeed no wonder at all that the steady- 
 going classicists should have been startled and alarmed 
 by the tremendous explosion of Berlioz in their midst. 
 At this distance of time, the quiet thinker who has not 
 been brought up in the traditions of any school can 
 easily see that in the state of music at that period a clap 
 of good rousing thunder was exactly the best thing which 
 could happen, and for this purpose Berlioz was sent. 
 Unfortunately, the shock of this vivid genius has been 
 transmitted from teacher to pupil in many instances, and 
 
8 ' Music and Poetry- 
 
 there are still large numbers who are unable to examine 
 the question of programme-music in any such tranquil 
 spirit as to warrant the hope of a philosophic conclu- 
 sion. When it is examined in this spirit, it does not 
 seem to present great difficulties. 
 
 "Programme-music," at first a sarcastic term, has 
 now come to be almost technical, as denoting a musical' 
 composition in which the otherwise vague effects of the 
 tones have been sought to be specialized and intellec-' 
 tualized by the employment of conventional words.y 
 These words are conjoined with the tones in various 
 ways. Sometimes, as in Liszt's so-called tone-poem 
 of Immortality, the words occur in the form of an ex- 
 tract from a poem which is prefixed to the musical 
 score. In this case the hearer is merely supposed to 
 have read the words ; and the effect of the whole pro- 
 ceeding is little more than an invitation that the hearer 
 will please send his intellect, during the playing of the 
 piece, in the direction marked out by the poetic pref- 
 ace. But again the attempt may be more completely 
 to unite the words and tones: as in the "Lelio" of 
 Berlioz or in the musical rendition of "Paradise and 
 the Peri" by Sterndale Bennett, where the words are 
 recited either along with, or between detached passages 
 of, the instrumental music. Now, why should not this 
 be done ? It can be shown that programme-music is 
 the very earliest, most familiar, and , most spontaneous 
 form of musical composition. For what is any song but 
 programme-music developed to its furthest extent ? [ A 
 song is, as has been shown on an earlier page, a double 
 performance: a certain instrument — the human voice 
 — produces a number of tones, none of which have 
 any intellectual value in themselves ; but, simultaneously 
 
From Bacon to Beethoven 9 
 
 with the production of the tones, words are uttered, 
 each in a physical association with a tone, so as to pro- 
 duce upon the hearer at once the effects of conventional 
 and of unconventional sounds. The unconventional 
 sounds might be made alone by the human voice : in 
 this event the song would simply be deprived of the 
 intellectual elements imparted by the words. Suppose, 
 now, that the singer shall play the air on a violin, and 
 pronounce the words in conjunction with their appro- 
 priate tones as he goes along. What difference can be 
 detected between playing the words and singing the 
 words ? It is but a change of instruments : instead of 
 the voice, which is a reed-instrument, he now employs 
 the violin, a stringed instrument. Why is not the latter 
 as legitimate as the former? 
 
 It is, as I have before intimated, only from a failure 
 to perceive the fact that the tones of the human voice 
 are in themselves as meaningless, intellectually, as the 
 tones of all other reed-instruments, that any hesitation 
 in answering this question could arise. Certainly if 
 programme-music is absurd, all songs are nonsense. 
 The principle of being of every song is that intellectual 
 impressions can be advantageously combined with mu- 
 sical impressions, in addressing the spirit of man. It is 
 precisely this principle that underlies programme-music. 
 Yet one of the most genuine music-lovers I have ever 
 met always comes away from Beethoven's Pastoral Sym- 
 phony with a melancholy sense of sin. He thinks he 
 ought not to have enjoyed it so much ; he feels that he 
 has done wrong in deriving pleasure from an inartis- 
 tic attempt even of the great king of tones. "It is 
 programme-music," he says. This same person will 
 listen with the most intense delight to Beethoven's cycle 
 
lo Music and Poetry 
 
 of songs, " To My Love Far Away," for example ; and 
 yet the latter is programme-music carried to such a 
 development that every single tone is supposed to bear 
 with it a special message to the intellect by virtue of its 
 amalgamation with the conventional signal of a word. 
 In the Pastoral Symphony the suggestions of ideas are 
 only made in the most evanescent way. There is not 
 the least attempt at puerile imitations. The Nightingale 
 is merely suggested, for example, since no mortal ear 
 could ever regard as an imitation the orchestral voice 
 which gives this particular hint. Beethoven wishes to ' 
 suggest a definite intellectual image to his hearer along 
 with a certain set of tones : instead of employing a con- 
 ventional word to accomplish his purpose, he chooses to 
 employ an imitative tone. Nothing could be more nat- 
 ural, nothing more legitimate. Why not hint a storm 
 with stormy tones, as well as describe a storm in stormy 
 words ? Why write one way for the reed in the clari- 
 net, another way for the reed in the throat? 
 
 In other words, if the composer choose to invite our 
 intellect to get up and ride, along with our emotion, 
 why should not we accept? There is but one question, 
 — can he carry double ? 
 
 Beethoven could. So, indeed, could Berlioz. What 
 good reason why we should not mount and off? 
 
 No man can say. In truth, one would wonder at the 
 blindness of artists who persistently keep themselves in 
 leading-strings for the purpose of avoiding purely fanci- 
 ful dangers, if one did not remember how music is yet 
 so young an art that we have not learned to make it, far 
 less to understand it. 
 
 What has now been said upon the matter of pro- 
 gramme-music is not at all by way of digression. It 
 
From Bacon to Beethoven 1 1 
 
 has illustrated in the best possible manner the main 
 thought so far insisted on, — to wit, how absolutely 
 non-intellectual is the effect of pure tone, insomuch that 
 if the composer wish to carry anything like a cognition 
 along with music he must do so either by employing 
 words or associations such as those suggested by imita- 
 tive sounds which the mind has learned to connect with 
 given phenomena. 
 
 A point is now reached from which an important step 
 may be taken in the argument. This peculiarity of 
 music completely separates it from all other arts, and 
 places it on a plane alone. One of the results of this 
 unique position has been already referred to. On an 
 earlier page I spoke of the non-liability of music to the 
 onerous exactions of realism. A somewhat more de- 
 tailed statement of this idea will carry us far on our 
 way towards an understanding of the satisfaction which 
 music brings to our modern needs in this connection.* 
 
 1 It is made necessary by some former experiences to add here 
 that no one must imagine the ensuing comparative remarks as 
 between music and painting (or sculpture) to be made in any 
 spirit of silly glorification of the former, or of equally silly depre- 
 ciation of the latter. There is no question of merit or demerit. 
 The argument is merely that music is the modern art because it 
 suits the modern need, and the attempt is to show how. At 
 another age painting might suit the need better, in which event 
 painting would be the art of the time ; but the ensuing remarks 
 would still hold gopd. 
 
 If any further profession be necessary, one joyfully embraces an 
 occasion to declare that the rise of landscape-painting seems 
 surely one of the most notable events in the history of art ; that 
 the Americans are, or are at least to be, the greatest in this 
 branch, and that some of ,them appear to me now among the 
 very sweetest preachers of beauty in all time. The Frenchmen 
 certainly show more technic thus far, but never such seizure of 
 Nature, such grasp of her unspeakable loveliness and nearness 
 to man. 
 
12 Music and Poetry 
 
 Let us compare it with painting from the point of 
 view of realistic necessities. 
 
 A painting is an imitation, upon a flat surface, of 
 things which are not flat; it is an imitation, upon a 
 surface lying wholly in one plane, of things whose 
 planes lie at all manner of angles with each other ; it is 
 an imitation of three dimensions by two, and of horizon- 
 tal distance upon vertical distance. These imitations 
 — of course " imitations " is not a precise word here — 
 can be accomplished because human vision is not un- 
 erringly keen. 
 
 It is through the limitations of the eye that painting 
 is possible. Perhaps this could not have been properly 
 understood before Bishop Berkeley unfolded the true 
 nature of vision and the dependence of the reports 
 brought in by the sense of sight upon many other 
 matters which are the result of judgments founded on 
 experience. It may fairly be said to have been estab- 
 lished by that acute speculator that we do not see either 
 distance or magnitude, — that is, that these two partic- 
 ulars are not immediate deliverances of the sense of 
 sight, but are the results of a comparison which the 
 mind draws between present and certain remembered 
 appearances gathered by touch, hearing, and other 
 senses. This comparison is made rapidly, and the 
 judgments founded on it are practically instantaneous ; 
 but the fact remains that distance and magnitude are 
 mainly not given by the eye, but deduced by reason as 
 inferences from several particulars which have been 
 communicated by other senses in addition to sight. 
 
 It is, then, this defective organ which is practised 
 upon (of course not in the bad sense) by the art of 
 painting. Every one, therefore, upon approaching a 
 
From Bacon to Beethoven 13 
 
 painting, goes through a preliminary series of allowances 
 and of (in a certain sense) forgivenesses. These al- 
 lowances are made so habitually that they frequently 
 become unnoticed, and many will be surprised at re- 
 membering that they are made at all. But something 
 like this typic discussion always occurs in practice when 
 one is before a painting for the first time. " Here," 
 says the eye, "is an imitation of a mountain." 
 
 " Absurd," replies the judgment, which has often be- 
 fore tested the reports of the eye by reports of the touch, 
 the ear, and other senses, and has learned to correct 
 them accordingly ; " the mountain is a mile high, while 
 the canvas is riot three feet. But let it pass." 
 
 " Here," continues the eye, " is a representation of 
 trees with round trunks, standing at various distances 
 from each other, along a wide landscape." 
 
 " Impossible, save by some trick of suggestion," re- 
 plies the judgment ; " for the canvas is flat ; and if you 
 Ipok closely you will see that the trees are merely placed 
 higher or lower than each other, the vertical being art- 
 fully made to do duty for the horizontal ; and the hori- 
 zontal itself is a mere make-believe ; do you not see it 
 is just as near you in reality as the foreground? But 
 let it pass." 
 
 Nor is this all. The eye, though defective in the par- 
 ticulars mentioned, is equally effective in others, and in 
 its turn it becomes the critic of the painting. For ex- 
 ample : Is this really like a mountain ? queries the eye, 
 and straightway falls to examining the imitation and 
 comparing it with realities. Is this genuine oak-foliage ? 
 Would these shadows fall in this manner, and is their 
 value truly estimated and depicted? A thousand such 
 preliminary questions the eye asks. If they are not sat- 
 
14 Music and Poetry 
 
 isfactorily answered by the painting, it fails at the very 
 start, and there is no use in going further to examine what 
 aesthetic appeal it may make. Through such a vestibule, 
 resisting the chill of these cold intellectual considerations 
 of vraisemblance, and sobered by all these allowances 
 and forgivenesses, must every soul pass on to the ulti- 
 mate purpose and meaning of a picture. 
 
 Now, it is easy to conceive a stage of growth of the 
 human spirit when the necessity of making these realistic 
 comparisons would be no hindrance at all, but a refresh- 
 ment and an advantage. In the mediaeval time, for ex- 
 ample, when the subtle disquisitions of the schoolmen 
 abandoned the real entirely and busied themselves with 
 pure figments of human fancy, — when bigotry was piled 
 upon bigotry, and fanaticism upon fanaticism, until all 
 trace of the actual earth and of actual human nature was 
 obscured, — in such a time, men's minds would experi- 
 ence a sense of relief and of security in contemplating 
 works of art composed of firm and definite forms whose 
 accuracy could be brought to satisfactory tests of actual 
 measurement. Accordingly, we find the artist of the 
 mediaeval time to be a painter, seeking refuge from the 
 instabilities and vaguenesses of the prevalent thought of 
 the time in the sharply-outlined figures which he could 
 fix upon his canvas. 
 
 These considerations apply with still greater force to 
 the antique time, with its peculiar art of sculpture. In 
 an age when men knew so little of the actual physical 
 world that the main materials and subjects of thought 
 were mere fancies and juggles of ingenious speculators, 
 it must have been a real rest for the mind to fix itself 
 upon the solid and enduring images of undeceptive stone 
 which the artists furnished forth from their wonderful 
 
From Bacon to Beethoven 15 
 
 brains and chisels. The need of such rest, though not, 
 of course, consciously recognized by the sculptors, was 
 really the reason of their being. In such matters Na- 
 ture takes care of her own. She knows the peculiar 
 hunger of an age, and fashions the appropriate satisfac- 
 tions to it. 
 
 Here, now, we are arrived at the crisis of the argu- 
 ment. What has been said of the relations of sculpture 
 and painting to the times in which they flourished is but 
 the special application of a general underlying principle 
 which may be thus stated : The Art of any age will be 
 complementary to the Thought of that age. 
 
 In the light of this principle, let us examine the atti- 
 tude of music towards the present time. A priori, one 
 will expect to find that in an age of physical science, 
 when the intellect of man imperiously demands the exact 
 truth of all actual things and is possessed with a holy 
 mania for reality, the characteristic Art will be one afford- 
 ing an outlet from the rigorous fixedness of the actual 
 and of the known into the freer regions of the possible 
 and of the unknown. This reasoning becomes verified 
 as soon as we collate the facts. With sufficient accuracy 
 in view of the size of the terms, it may be said that the 
 rise of modem music has been simultaneous with that 
 of modem physical science. And what more natural? I 
 have endeavored to show that music is of all arts that 
 which has least to do with realism, that which departs 
 most widely from the rigid definitions and firm outlines 
 which the intellect (I use this term always in its strict 
 sense as referring to the cognitive or thinking activity of 
 man, in contradistinction to the emotional or conative 
 activity) demands. In music there is no preliminary 
 allowance to be made by the ear, as was alleged to be 
 
1 6 Music and Poetry- 
 
 made by the eye in painting ; there is no forgiveness, in 
 consideration of the impossible ; there is no question of 
 vraisemblance, no chill of discussion, at the outset. 
 Even in the case of programme-music, where a sugges- 
 tion is made to the intellect by imitation of familiar sounds, 
 the imitation is, as already shown, really no imitation, does 
 not pretend to be or set up for a »^aw(?»z^/a«/ representa- 
 tion, but is a mere hint, with purposes wholly ulterior to 
 and beyond the small puerility which imitation would be 
 if sought as an end in itself. Moreover, in all cases of 
 programme-music, even if the attempt at carrying along 
 the intellect fails, the music as an emotional satisfaction 
 remains. If bad as a programme, it is still good as 
 music. 
 
 Music, then, being free from the weight and burden 
 of realism, — its whole modus being different from that 
 of imitative and plastic art, — its peculiar activity being 
 in the same direction with that of those emotions by 
 which man relates himself (as I hope to show further 
 on) to the infinite, — what more natural than that the 
 spirit of man should call upon it for relief from the pres- 
 sure and grind of Fact, should cry to it, with earnest 
 pathos, " Come, lead me away out of this labyrinth of the 
 real, the definite, the known, into, or at least towards, 
 the region of the ideal, the infinite, the unknown : knowl- 
 edge is good, I will continue to thirst and to toil for it, 
 but, alas ! I am blind even with the blaze of the sun ; 
 take me where there is starlight and darkness, where my 
 eyes shall rest from the duties of verification and my 
 soul shall repose from the labor of knowing." 
 
 But this is only a rudimentary statement of the agency 
 of music in modem civilization, intended to bring prom- 
 inently forward its attitude towards science. The musi- 
 
From Bacon to Beethoven 17 
 
 cian is the complement of the scientist. The latter will 
 superintend our knowing; the former will superintend 
 our loving. 
 
 I use this last term advisedly, intending by it to ad- 
 vance a step in the investigation of the nature of music. 
 For the mission of music is not merely to be a quietus 
 and lullaby to the soul of a time that is restless with 
 science. This it does, but does as an incident of far 
 higher work. 
 
 On an earlier page, the reader's attention was recalled 
 to three classes of activities by which a man relates him- 
 self to that part of the universe which is not himself, — 
 namely, the cognitive (or " intellectual," as I have used 
 the term here, not to be too technical for the general 
 reader), the emotional, and the physical. Now, man 
 strives always to place himself in relation not only with 
 those definite forms which go to make up the finite world 
 about him, but also with that indefinite Something up to 
 which every process of reasoning, every outgo of emo- 
 tion, every physical activity, inevitably leads him, — God, 
 the Infinite, the Unknown. The desire of man is that 
 be may relate himself with the Infinite both in the cog- 
 nitive and in the emotional way. Sir William Hamilton 
 showed clearly how impossible was any full relation of 
 the former sort, in showing that cognition itself was a 
 conditioning (/. e., a defining, a placing of boundaries 
 appreciable by the intellect), and that therefore the 
 knowing of the Infinite was the conditioning of the Un- 
 conditioned, — in short, impossible. This seemed to 
 preclude the possibility of any relation from man to 
 God of the cognitive sort; but Mr. Herbert Spencer 
 has relieved the blankness of this situation by asserting 
 the possibility of a partial relation still. We cannot 
 
1 8 Music and Poetry 
 
 think God, it is true ; but we can think towards Him. 
 This in point of fact is what men continually do. The 
 definition in the catechism, "God is a spirit, infinite, 
 eternal, and unchangeable in His being, wisdom," etc., 
 is an effort of man to relate himself to God in the cog- 
 nitive, or intellectual, way: it is a thinking towards 
 God. 
 
 Now, there is a constant endeavor of man, but one to 
 which less attention has been paid by philosophers, to 
 relate himself with the Infinite not only in the cognitive 
 way just described, but also in the emotional way. Just 
 as persistently as our thought seeks the Infinite, does 
 our emotion seek the Infinite. We not only wish to 
 think it, we wish to love it ; and as our love is not sub- 
 ject to the disabilities of our thought, the latter of these 
 two wishes would seem to be capable of a more complete 
 fulfilment than the former. It has been shown that we 
 can only think towards the Infinite ; it may be that our 
 love can reach nearer its Object. 
 
 As a philosophic truth, music does carry our emotion 
 towards the Infinite. No man will doubt this who re- 
 flects for a moment on the rise of music in the Church. 
 The progress of this remarkable phenomenon will have 
 probably come, in some way, under the notice ot the 
 youngest person who will read this paper. 
 
 I remember when the most flourishing church of our 
 town regarded with intense horror a proposition to buy 
 an organ, considering it an insidious project of the devil 
 to undermine religion. The same church has now the 
 largest organ in the city, with a paid organist and choir. 
 Scarcely any person who has lived in the smaller towns 
 of the United States but will recall similar instances. At 
 present the organ, the song, are in all the growing 
 
From Bacon to Beethoven 19 
 
 churches. What would be Mr. Moody without Mr. San- 
 key, or Mr. Whittle without Mr. Bliss ? 
 
 And not only does music win its way into the Church, 
 but it gradually takes on more and more importance in 
 the service of worship. How many are there in these 
 days to whom the finest preaching comes from the organ- 
 loft ! Greater and greater every year grow the multi- 
 tudes of those who declare that no sermons, no words, 
 no forms of any sort, avail to carry them on the way 
 towards the desired sacred goal as do the tones of Pales- 
 trina, of Bach, of Beethoven, when these are given forth 
 by any 'organist of even moderate accomplishment. 
 Everywhere one finds increasing the number of fervent 
 souls who fare easily by this road to the Lord. From 
 the negro swaying to and fro with the weird rhythms of 
 " Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,'' from the Georgia Cracker 
 yelling the " Old Ship of Zion " to the heavens through 
 the logs of the piney-woods church, to the intense de- 
 votee rapt away into the Infinite upon a Mass of Pales- 
 trina, there comes but one testimony to the substantial 
 efficacy of music in this matter of helping the emotion 
 of man across the immensity of the known into the 
 boundaries of the Unknown. Nay, there are those who 
 go further than this : there are those who declare that 
 music is to be the Church of the future, wherein all 
 creeds will unite like the tones in a chord. 
 
 Now, it cannot be that music has taken this place in 
 the deepest and holiest matters of man's life through 
 mere fortuitous arrangement. It must be that there 
 exists some sort of relation between pure tones and the 
 spirit of man by virtue of which the latter is stimulated 
 and forced onward towards the great End of all love and 
 aspiration. What may be the nature of this relation, — 
 
20 Music and Poetry 
 
 why it is that certain vibrations sent forward by the tym- 
 panum along the bones and fluids of the inner ear should 
 at length arrive at the spirit of man endowed with such 
 a prodigious and heavenly energy, — at what point of 
 the course they acquire this capacity of angels, being, up 
 to that point, mere particles trembling hither and thither, 
 — these are, in the present state of our knowledge, mys- 
 teries which no man can unravel. 
 
 It is through this relation of music to man that it 
 becomes, as I said in the principles affirmed at the 
 outset, a moral agent. Let us not pester ourselves with 
 remembering how such and such a musician was a pro- 
 fligate, a beast, a trifler, and so on. This is only sub- 
 mitting ourselves to what our wise Emerson calls the 
 tyranny of particulars. The clear judgment in the 
 matter is to be formed by looking at the consummate 
 masters of the art. 
 
 Palestrina, Bach, Beethoven — what had these gentle- 
 men to do with sheriffs and police, with penalties and 
 legal sanctions? They were law-abiding citizens; but 
 their adherence to the law was the outcome of an inner 
 desire after the beauty of Order, not from fear of the 
 law's punitive power. 
 
 In short, they were artists, and they loved goodness 
 because goodness is beautiful. Badness was not a temp- 
 tation, because it is ugly, and the true artist recoils ener- 
 getically from ugliness. 
 
 I know very well how many names there are in art 
 which are associated with profligacy. But I think it 
 clearly demonstrable that in all these artists there was a 
 failure in the artistic sense precisely to the extent of the 
 failure in apprehending those enormous laws of nature 
 whose practical execution by the individual we call 
 
From Bacon to Beethoven 21 
 
 morality. You can always see where the half-way good 
 man was but the half-way artist. 
 
 One hears all about the world nowadays that art is 
 wholly un-moral, that art is for art's sake, that art has 
 nothing to do with good or bad in behavior. These are 
 the cries of clever men whose cleverness can imitate 
 genius so aptly as to persuade many that they have 
 genius, and whose smartness can preach so incisively 
 about art that many believe them to be artists. But 
 such catch-words will never deceive the genius, the true 
 artist. The true artist will never remain a bad man ; 
 he will always wonder at a wicked artist. The simplic- 
 ity of this wonder renders it wholly impregnable. The 
 argument of it is merely this : the artist loves beauty 
 supremely ; because the good is beautiful, he will clamber 
 continuously towards it, through all possible sloughs, over 
 all possible obstacles, in spite of all possible falls. 
 
 This is the artist's creed. Now, just as music increases 
 in hearty acceptance among men, so will this true artis- 
 tic sense of the loveliness of morality spread, so will the 
 attractiveness of all that is pure and lovely grow in power, 
 and so will the race progress towards that time described 
 in the beginning of this essay as one in which the law 
 would cease to rely upon terror for its sanction, but de- 
 pend wholly upon love and desire. 
 
 If any ask whether there are signs of such a beneficial 
 spreading of music among the general classes of men, 
 one has but to reply. Look around. In the first place, 
 there is the wonderful growth of music in the churches, 
 which has already been spoken of. But that is only half 
 the phenomenon. Turn from the churches into the 
 homes of the United States. It is often asserted that 
 ours is a materiaUstic age, and that romance is dead. 
 
22 Music and Poetry 
 
 But this is marvellously untrue, and it may be counter- 
 asserted with perfect confidence that there was never an 
 age of the world when art was enthroned by so many 
 hearthstones and intimate in so many common houses 
 as now. For the pianos are almost everywhere. Where 
 there are not pianos, there are cabinet-organs; and 
 where not these, the guitars ; not to speak of the stray 
 violins, the flutes, the horns, the clarinets, which lie 
 about in houses here and there and are brought out on 
 the nights when the sister is home from boarding-school 
 or when the village orchestra meets. These pianos have 
 done a great work for music. No one who knows the 
 orchestra well can admit the piano for itself as a final 
 good, because it is an instrument of fixed tones, and 
 therefore imperfect ; but when one thinks of the incal- 
 culable service which the piano has rendered in diffusing 
 conceptions of harmony (which is the distinguishing 
 characteristic of modern music) among the masses, one 
 must regard it with reverent affection. 
 
 Never was any art so completely a household art as 
 is the music of to-day; and the piano has made this 
 possible. 
 
 As the American is, with all his shortcomings of other 
 sorts, at any rate most completely the man of to-day, so 
 it is directly in the line of this argument to say that one 
 finds more "talent for music" among the Americans, 
 especially among American women, than among any 
 other people. The musical sense is very widely diffused 
 among us, and the capacity for musical execution is 
 strikingly frequent. 
 
 When Americans shall have learned the supreme value 
 and glory of the orchestra, — when we shall have ad- 
 vanced beyond the piano, which is, as matters now exist, 
 
From Bacon to Beethoven 23 
 
 a quite necessary stage in musical growth, — when our 
 musical young women shall have found that, if their 
 hands are too small for the piano, or if they have no 
 voices, they can study the flute, the violin, the oboe, the 
 bassoon, the viola, the violoncello, the horn, the corno 
 Inglese, — in short, every orchestral instrument, — and 
 that they are quite as capable as men — in some cases 
 much better fitted by nature than any man — to play all 
 these, then I look to see America the home of the or- 
 chestra, and to hear everywhere the profound messages 
 of Beethoven and Bach to men. 
 
 Meantime, what shall we say of an art which thus is 
 becoming so much the daily companion of man as to sit 
 by every fireside and in every church, — nay, which, I 
 might have added, thrusts itself into the crowded streets 
 in a thousand shapes, wherever the newsboy whistles, the 
 running clerk hums the bass he is to sing in the chorus, 
 the hand-organ drones, the street-band blares, which 
 presides at weddings, at feasts, at great funerals, which 
 marches at the head of battle, and opens the triumphant 
 ceremonials of peace ? 
 
 As for Beethoven, it is only of late that his happy 
 students have begun to conceive the true height and 
 magnitude of his nature. The educational value of his 
 works upon the understanding soul which has yielded 
 itself to the rapture of their teaching is unspeakable, and 
 is of a sort which almost compels a man to shed tears of 
 gratitude at every mention of this master's name. For 
 in these works are many qualities which one could not 
 expect to find cohering in any one human spirit. Taking 
 Beethoven's sonatas (which, by the way, no one will ever 
 properly appreciate until he regards them really as sym- 
 phonies, and mentally distributes the parts among flutes, 
 
24 Music and Poetry 
 
 reeds, homs, and strings as he goes through them), his 
 songs, his symphonies, together, I know not where one 
 will go to find in any human products such largeness, 
 such simplicity, such robust manliness, such womanly 
 tenderness, such variety of invention, such parsimony of 
 means with such splendor of effects, such royal grandeur 
 without pretence, such pomp with such modesty, such 
 unfailing moderation and exquisite right feeling in art, 
 such prodigious transformations and re-transformations 
 of the same melody, — as if the blue sky should alter- 
 nately shrink into a blue violet and then expand into 
 a sky again, — such love-making to the infinite and the 
 finite, such range of susceptibility, such many-sidedness 
 in offering some gift to every nature and every need, 
 such comprehension of the whole of human life. 
 
 There is but one name to which one can refer in 
 speaking of Beethoven : it is Shakspere. 
 
 For as Shakspere is, so far, our king of conventional 
 tones, so is Beethoven our king of unconventional tones. 
 And as music takes up the thread which language drops, 
 so it is where Shakspere ends that Beethoven begins. 
 
II 
 
 The Orchestra of To-day 
 
 Not long ago, a flute was found near Poictiers, in 
 France, among surroundings which pointed to the age 
 of pre-historic man as the epoch of its construction. It 
 lay among the implements of the stone age, and was 
 merely a piece of stag's-horn pierced with three holes, 
 which gave it a capacity of four tones, without counting 
 possible harmonics. The utmost discoursing of this 
 rude instrument must have been but trifling compared 
 with the weighty message of its silence, as it lay there 
 among its uncouth axes and knives; for it told the 
 strange story of instrumental melody backward to a 
 point beyond history, and hinted that man commenced 
 to hunger for music about the same time as for bread. 
 But along with this antiquity of orchestral constituents, 
 the thoughtful musician finds the seemingly incongruous 
 fact that what we call the orchestra is the product of 
 only the last two centuries. How is it that melody is 
 so old, and harmony so young? 
 
 The answer to this question involves considerations 
 extending to the very deepest springs of modern life, 
 and leads the Investigator into directions little suspected 
 at the outset. It would require far too much space to 
 be attempted here ; but before proceeding to Set forth 
 — as the main body of this paper is intended to do — 
 a plain and untechnical account, for non-musical readers. 
 
 25 
 
26 Music and Poetry 
 
 of the nature of orchestral instruments and the work of 
 their players, I wish at least to state the problem clearly 
 and to call the reader's attention to some circumstances 
 which look toward its solution ; hoping thus to present 
 a nucleus about which the scattered items of fact to be 
 subsequently conveyed may group themselves into port- 
 able form. 
 
 Consider, for example, how persistently the human 
 imagination, whenever it turned at all in the direction of 
 music, for long ages addressed itself to gigantic specu- 
 lations upon the power of it, rather than to the more 
 satisfactory business of expressing itself immediately in 
 terms of the musical art. Instead of making music, it 
 made a great ado about music. Hence we have (prac- 
 tically) no remains of ancient music ; but what a lot of 
 fablings, often beautiful and noble, upon it ! Compare 
 for a moment a whole mythology of these with the fruits 
 which the modern mind brings out of the same realm : 
 the results are striking enough. From the modern 
 musical imagination we get, not fables about melody, 
 but melodies; not unearthly speculations upon music, 
 but actual unearthly harmonies; not a god playing a 
 flute, but the orchestra. 
 
 Why has this immense development of music occurred 
 in our particular modern age, rather than in some other ? 
 
 It is already commonplace to say that what we call 
 the modern epoch is contra-distinguished from all others 
 by the two characteristic signs of the rise of music and 
 the rise of science. This contemporaneity of develop- 
 ment cannot be a merely accidental coincidence. That 
 same scientific spirit of which the modern time has wit- 
 nessed such an influx that one may not irreverently term 
 it Pentecostal, is the stimulus which, acting in one direc- 
 
The Orchestra of To-day 27 
 
 tion, has produced the body of modern music, in an- 
 other direction the body of modern science. For, if 
 the scientific spirit be but a passionate longing to put 
 oneself in relation with the substance of things — with 
 the truth as it actually exists outside of oneself, — then it 
 is easily conceivable that such a longing might influence 
 very powerfully both of those two great classes of man's 
 spiritual activities which we are accustomed to call, the 
 one intellectual, the other emotional ; and that, driven 
 by such a longing, intellectual activity might result in 
 science, emotional, in music. 
 
 We all know how invariably, from of old, every attempt 
 to draw near to the substance of things has ended in 
 quickly bringing the investigator to the same awful term, 
 to wit — God, though the investigator has often named 
 it far otherwise. And — if such be the real outcome of 
 science — can any one attend, on the other hand, to an 
 intelligent rendition of the Fifth Symphony without 
 finding beneath all its surface-ideas this same powerful 
 current of Desire which sets the soul insensibly closer 
 toward the Unknown by methods which are inarticu- 
 late and vague, as those of science are articulate and 
 precise ? 
 
 Moreover, when looked at from the standpoint of 
 any large classification of eras, we find the musicians 
 and the scientists about shoulder to shoulder in time ; 
 we find Copernicus, Galileo, Newton, Descartes, De 
 Maillet, Haller, Hunter, Harvey, Swedenborg, Vesalius, 
 Linnaeus, Lamarck, Cuvier, BufFon, Franklin, Hutton, 
 Lyell, Audubon, Faraday, Helmholtz, Agassiz, Le Conte, 
 Huxley, Tyndall, Darwin, to be substantially contempo- 
 raries of Palestrina, Purcell, the Scarlattis, Handel, Bach, 
 Gluck, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Cherubini, Schubert, 
 
28 Music and Poetry 
 
 Von Weber, Mendelssohn, Spontini, Spohr, Rossini, 
 Berlioz, Schumann, Chopin, Glinka, Gade, Kuhlau, 
 Boieldieu, Rubinstein, Raff, Gounod, Hamerik, Wagner. 
 In truth — and with this suggestion one can now come 
 to the more immediate purpose of this writing — per- 
 haps it will finally come to be seen that if we shred away 
 from music and science all that manifold husk of tempo- 
 rary and non-intrinsic matters which envelops the nut of 
 every important movement, we will find both presenting 
 themselves as substantially the forms in which the de- 
 voutness of our age has expressed itself — that devout- 
 ness without which no age is, and which comes down 
 from one to another in imperishable yet often scarcely 
 recognizable shapes ; insomuch that our great men are 
 as it were but more sensible re-appearances of monks — 
 our musicians having retired for worship into music, as 
 into a forest, and our scientific men sending out the 
 voice of uncontrollable devotion from a theory, as from 
 a Thebaid cave. 
 
 The instruments of which a full orchestra is composed 
 are of three general classes: "the wind," "the strings," 
 and the " instruments of percussion." 
 
 To begin some account of the first-named class : per- 
 haps nothing is more perplexing to one unfamiliar with 
 orchestras than the goings-on and general appearance 
 of the wind-side of it ; the shapes of the instruments 
 seem grotesque, and the arrangement of the keys on a 
 Bcehm flute (for example) or a bassoon seems utterly 
 lawless and bewildering. But perhaps by reducing all 
 wind-instruments to one common type and then clearly 
 setting forth the precise manner in which air, when set 
 in musical vibration by the human breath or otherwise, 
 
The Orchestra of To-day 29 
 
 is definitely controlled to this or that pitch, much of 
 the embarrassment of this apparent complexity can be 
 avoided. 
 
 Let this common type, then, be a straight tube of 
 wood, closed at one end, say two feet in length and an 
 inch in diameter, pierced with a hole at the distance of 
 an inch from the closed end, after the manner of a flute 
 embouchure. Let the lips now be applied to this em- 
 bouchure, and a stream of air constantly increasing in 
 force be sent across it. The first tone heard will be the 
 lowest tone of which the tube is capable ; from a tube 
 of the dimensions named, this lowest tone will not be a 
 great way from the middle C of the pianoforte, and we 
 will here assume it to be exactly that C. Now, most 
 persons who have not reasoned upon the subject are 
 found to expect that as the breath increases in force a 
 series of tones corresponding to the ascending scale 
 from C will be produced. But this is far from being 
 the case ; on the contrary, the tone first produced will 
 grow louder and louder, until suddenly its octave will 
 sound, and no management of the breath can by any 
 possibihty bring out an intermediate tone between this 
 normal C and its octave. If the force of the breath be 
 still increased, presently the g above this octave will be 
 heard; if still increased, the c above this g; still in- 
 creased, the e above this last c ; and so on, in a series 
 which I will not here further detail. This process is 
 typical for all tubes, of whatever size or material, and 
 however the air may be agitated in them. Its explana- 
 tion forms one of the most striking triumphs of modern 
 science, but is too long to be given here. 
 
 It appears, then, that our tube gives us already five 
 tones, without any appliances whatever except the simple 
 
JO Music and Poetry 
 
 expedient of increasing the force of the breath. Suppose, 
 now, that we shorten it by cutting off about an inch ; on 
 applying the breath gently at the embouchure, the iirst 
 tone heard will now be D (the next tone in the scale to 
 the C first mentioned) ; and if we continue to increase 
 the force of the breath, as at first, a series of tones will 
 be heard bearing the same relation to D as the first 
 series bore to C, that is, the d octave of D, then the a 
 above this d, then the d above this a, then the/ sharp 
 above this d, and so on. If we should again shorten the 
 tube by about an inch, then the first tone heard will be 
 E, or the second tone in the scale above the first C of 
 the long tube ; and, again forcing the breath, another 
 series exactly similar to the last will be produced. It 
 would thus seem that in order to produce those interme- 
 diate tones of the scale needed to fill up the gap between 
 the first C and the octave of it, we are under the neces- 
 sity of shortening the tube inch by inch. And so we 
 are, but there is a method of shortening the tube which 
 does not involve cutting it off. Piercing it with a hole 
 of from an eighth to a quarter of an inch in diameter is 
 found to have the same effect as if the tube were cut off 
 at the point where the hole is pierced, and this discovery 
 affords an easy method of producing on one tube all the 
 notes belonging to the gap between the two extremes of 
 the first octave ; for, instead of shortening the tube by 
 cutting it off, we successively shorten it by piercing holes 
 at the points where it ought to be shortened. If we 
 cover all these holes with the fingers, the tube is practi- 
 cally two feet long, and will give, on being blown, the C 
 first mentioned ; if we then open the hole farthest from 
 the embouchure by lifting up the finger which covers it, 
 the tube becomes practically shortened by an inch, and 
 
The Orchestra of To-day 31 
 
 gives us the next tone in the scale, D, which we can then 
 vary with all the hitherto enumerated changes which it 
 undergoes by merely increasing the force of the breath. 
 If we lift up the next finger, we again practically shorten 
 the tube by an inch and get the next tone of the scale, 
 E, together with its upper tones, or harmonics. It will 
 be observed that in obtaining these first seven tones 
 from the normal C to its octave, we have really obtained 
 an instrument capable of thirty-five tones, for each of 
 the first seven represents not only itself but the four har- 
 monics producible by merely forcing the breath upon it 
 without changing the position of the fingers. In prac- 
 tice, some of the higher tones of these harmonic series 
 are found not to be available — for reasons too abstruse 
 to be mentioned here ; but the lower ones are, and it 
 is upon a combination of the principle which they in- 
 volve with the principle of shortening the tube to make 
 the first octave, that all wind instruments are con- 
 structed. In the case of the trombone, one sees the 
 performer actually shortening and lengthening the nor- 
 mal tube, which is in two parts, one sliding into and out 
 of the other like a telescope-joint. In the other brass 
 instruments the long normal tube is bent into several 
 crooks which can be thrown into one tube or successively 
 shut off to diminish the aggregate length, by means of 
 the pistons or valves which the performer works with his 
 finger. 
 
 By remembering, therefore, these three things : that 
 the shortening of a tube heightens the pitch of its tone ; 
 that a tube may be shortened either by holes in the side 
 (as in the flutes, the oboes, the clarionets, the bassoons) , 
 or by shutting off some of its crooks (as in the horns, the 
 trumpets, and the like), or by directly contracting its 
 
32 Music and Poetry 
 
 length (as in the trombones) ; and that each of the 
 tones of the lowest (or first) octave produces from two 
 to five other tones by simply blowing it more strongly, 
 the reader will understand the principle, varying only 
 in details, which underlies the whole wind-side of the 
 orchestra. 
 
 The two largest classifications of the wind-instruments 
 are called among players " the wooden wind " and " the 
 brass." The first of these is further subdivided into the 
 reeds and the flutes. And first of the reeds, about which 
 I find the haziest ideas prevailing, even among the old- 
 est frequenters of orchestral performances. 
 
 The reed-instruments in common use are the oboes 
 (or hautboys), the bassoons, and the clarionets. 
 
 The oboe is an instrument somewhat like the familiar 
 clarionet in appearance, but of a slenderer make, and 
 differing entirely at the mouth-piece. This is composed 
 of two delicate pieces of reed, shaven quite thin, in 
 shape much like the blade of an oar, and bound face to 
 face. These pieces are attached to a quill which is in- 
 serted in the small end of the oboe tube. The mouth- 
 pieces are usually kept separate from the tube ; when 
 the performer is about to play, he opens a small box in 
 which they are protected from exposure, and proceeds 
 to select one by sucking each through the quill. That 
 one which first responds with a squeak is chosen ; the 
 quill is inserted in the tube, and the mouth-piece is 
 placed between the lips, the under-lip being slightly 
 drawn in. Much practice is required to become accus- 
 tomed to the tickling of the lips produced by the flutter- 
 ing of the thin reeds as the breath is forced over them. 
 The tone of the oboe, though intolerably nasal and harsh 
 when produced by an unskilful player, becomes exqui- 
 
The Orchestra of To-day ^3 
 
 sitely liquid and engaging if the performer be skillful. It 
 is peculiarly simple, child-like and honest in quality, and 
 orchestral composers delight to use it for expressing 
 ideas of spring-time, of green leaves, of sweet rural life, 
 of all those guileless associations connected with the 
 antique oaten pipe. Those who have been so fortunate 
 as to hear the rendition of Berlioz's " Dream of an 
 Artist " will remember the exquisite passages in which 
 the oboes represent the pipings and replyings of shep- 
 herds to each other from neighboring hills. In Schultz's 
 concert-piece called " Im Freien " (" In the Open 
 Air "), the two oboes lead off in a lovely candid open- 
 ing which seems to infuse one's soul with the very spirit 
 of young, green leaves, and of liberal spring airs. 
 
 The bassoon is a long wooden instrument held verti- 
 cally in front of the player and running down along his 
 right side. From the wooden portion projects a small 
 silver tube, bent somewhat like the spout of a kettle, 
 into which a mouth-piece similar to that of the oboe 
 is inserted. Both the bassoon and the oboe are called 
 double-reed instruments, in distinction from the clario- 
 net, which has a mouth-piece constructed of a single 
 reed. The bassoon has at least two very distinct quali- 
 ties of tone ; in the upper and lower extremes of its 
 register it is weird and ghostly, but in the middle por- 
 tion warm and noble. For the production of ghostly 
 effects, for calling up those vague apprehensions of the 
 night, when churchyards yawn, and the like, it is much 
 used by composers. In a singular passage of the 
 "Artist's Dream," hereinbefore mentioned, it is made 
 the interpreter of a colossal, grotesque, and inconsolably 
 bitter sorrow. The beauty of its middle register seems 
 not to have been much employed ; but no one can listen 
 
 3 
 
34 Music and Poetry 
 
 to the ravishing bassoon-solo in the slow movement of 
 the concerto for piano and orchestra by Chopin which 
 Madame Schiller and Thomas have made known to 
 northern audiences, without perceiving in this portion of 
 the bassoon's compass a very remarkable combination 
 of gravity and sensuous richness — a combination much 
 like that suggested when we think of a very stately young 
 Spanish lady, high in blood and in color, and grandly 
 costumed. This instrument usually appears on the or- 
 chestral score &% fagotto, Italian for fagot, so called from 
 the resemblance of its lower portion to such a fagot as 
 might result from binding two stout pieces of wood to- 
 gether with a metal band. 
 
 The clarionet is, as was above remarked, a single-reed 
 instrument. This single reed, instead of playing against 
 another reed like itself, as in the oboe and bassoon, is 
 simply bound alongside of the bevelled plug which closes 
 the small end of the clarionet-tube, leaving a narrow slit 
 between the reed and the plug. The player usually has 
 three clarionets standing at his side : two of these are 
 constructed of a different pitch from the other non-trans- 
 posing instruments of the orchestra, so that the same 
 written note when played by them gives a wholly differ- 
 ent sound. The reasons for, and details of, this arrange- 
 ment would lead this paper beyond its scope ; and it' 
 will suffice to add that these three clarionets are known 
 as the C clarionet, the A clarionet, and the B-flat clario- 
 net, being so called from the tones of the other instru- 
 ments with which the C of each variety coincides. 
 Thus, if you sound a written C on the A clarionet, the 
 resulting tone is the same as the written A of the other 
 instruments; if you sound a written C on the B-flat 
 clarionet, the resulting tone is the same as if the other 
 
The Orchestra of To-day 35 
 
 instruments had played a written B-flat, and so on. It 
 is proper to add that in modern times clarionets have 
 been made in other keys — that is, have been made 
 with such lengths of tubes that their C's would respec- 
 tively coincide with other tones in the first octave of the 
 other instruments ; but the three above named are those 
 almost universally used in non-military orchestras. 
 
 Of course, the proper allowance has to be made for 
 this peculiarity of the clarionet's construction in writing 
 for it. The player always finds the words " A clario- 
 net," or " B-flat clarionet," at the head of his part, indi- 
 cating which one of his instruments he is to use ; and 
 the composer has to vary the key accordingly, all the 
 clarionets except the C clarionet necessarily playing in a 
 different key from the other instruments. 
 
 I have spoken of this peculiarity of the clarionet — 
 although unable here to explain or detail it — particu- 
 larly for the purpose of making intelligible to the reader 
 what I shall presently have to say with reference to the 
 work of the conductor of an orchestra. 
 
 The tone of the clarionet will be easily singled out by 
 most persons from among the mingling voices of the 
 orchestra, by its penetrating sweetness in the highest 
 part of its register, its liquid-amber quality in the middle 
 part, and its reedy but pathetic mellowness in the lower 
 part. No one will fail to be struck with the peculiarly 
 feminine character of its higher utterances. 
 
 Besides the clarionets already named, large orchestras 
 often employ the bass-clarionet. The name of this in- 
 strument indicates its nature ; its tube is longer and 
 larger than that of the others, and yields a tone much 
 lower in pitch, though of similar quality. 
 
 Having thus given a most meagre outline of the reed- 
 
^6 Music and Poetry 
 
 division of the " wooden wind," it will not be necessary 
 to say much of the other division, which is much more 
 familiar — the flutes. It will be useful, however, to 
 describe the Boehm flute — the modern form of the 
 old-fashioned flute — inasmuch as many persons are 
 unacquainted with this most happy of all the more mod- 
 ern improvements made "in orchestral instruments. For 
 a long time the flute was a black beast in the orchestra ; 
 it could not be made perfectly in tune throughout its 
 entire compass ; insomuch that all sorts of bad stories 
 (such as that there was but one thing in the world worse 
 than a flute, to wit : two flutes — and the like) were told 
 of it. The reason of this inability to make the flute 
 wholly in tune was this. In consequence of the peculiar 
 formation of the hand, the fingers would be unable to 
 adjust themselves to the holes of a flute if those holes 
 were (as they ought to be) of equal size, and placed 
 nearly at equal distances. To remedy this, the holes 
 had to be placed at unequal distances, and the errors 
 in tune thus produced were compensated by unequally 
 changing the size of the holes. But this compensation 
 was in the first place not thorough, for the instrument 
 was still out of tune ; it was, in the second place, 
 attended with the serious disadvantage of almost abolish- 
 ing the whole lower octave of the flute from orchestral 
 resources, since that octave was rendered so weak as to 
 be, one may say, silly in tone ; and, in the third place, 
 the equality of power and color was destroyed, some 
 tones sounding veiled and some open, some rich and 
 some thin, and so on. The invention which relieved the 
 flute from all this odium and brought it to the rank of a 
 true solo instrument dates from about the last quarter of 
 a century, and has been claimed both by Captain Gor- 
 
The Orchestra of To-day 37 
 
 don and by Boehm. The latter, at any rate, succeeded 
 in giving liis name to it, having manufactured for several 
 years the instrument now universally known as the 
 Bcehm flute. The nature of this invention was briefly 
 as follows. Instead of stopping the holes directly with 
 the balls of the fingers, as before, all the holes were 
 closed with padded keys ; and handles were so arranged 
 to these keys — by means of a very ingenious mechan- 
 ism of hollow shafts which allowed other shafts to pass 
 through and to play inside of them — that any hole on 
 the flute was brought practically in reach of any finger, 
 the fingers pressing upon the handles instead of directly 
 upon the holes. It now became possible to make all 
 the holes much larger than the ball of the finger could 
 cover directly — which had long been a much-desired 
 object, the large holes being found to yield a much more 
 powerful tone — and to place the holes at the precise 
 distances from each other demanded by the mathemati- 
 cal laws of vibration. 
 
 The first form of the new instrument received addi- 
 tional improvements from time to time, and the result 
 was the present Boehm flute — an instrument whose true 
 capacities, especially when used in masses, may be said 
 to be as yet almost unemployed by composers. The 
 lowest octave of the Bcehm flute, when sounded by a 
 player who knows how to avoid the disagreeable cornet- 
 tone which only vulgar ears affect, is of the most precious 
 character, at once soft, suggestive, rich, and passionate. 
 It is wholly different from any tone attainable from any 
 other instrument, and when sounded in unison by eight 
 or ten players is capable of the most delicate and yet 
 striking shades of expression. The failure of orchestral 
 composers to employ it, or, indeed, to learn of it, earlier. 
 
38 Music and Poetry- 
 
 is easily accounted for. Flute-soloists have rarely been 
 able to resist the fatal facility of the instrument, and 
 have usually addressed themselves to winning the ap- 
 plause of concert audiences by the execution of those 
 brilliant but utterly trifling and inane variations which 
 constitute the great body of existing solos for the flute. 
 These variations are written mainly for the second and 
 third octaves of the instrument, and the consequence has 
 been an utter lack of cultivation of the lower octave by 
 solo-players, and a necessarily resulting ignorance of its 
 capacity by composers. Not only the solo-players, in- 
 deed, have been thus led away from the lower octave ; 
 even the hack orchestral players suffered the same fate, 
 for the reason that the old flute had practically no lower 
 octave, and the old composers wrote entirely in the 
 upper two. At present there are rarely more than three 
 flutes even in the largest orchestras ; but this writer does 
 not hesitate to record his belief — even at the risk of 
 exciting the eyebrows of many steady-going musicians — 
 that the time is not far distant when the twenty violins 
 of a good orchestra will be balanced by twenty flutes. 
 
 And in view of the question which would probably be 
 asked by these objectors, to wit : Where would you get 
 the players for such a number of flutes i — I may with 
 propriety at this point diverge for a moment from the 
 direct course, to make a suggestion to my countrywomen 
 in which I feel a fervent interest. With the exception 
 of the double-bass (violin) and the heavier brass, — 
 indeed I am not sure that these exceptions are neces- 
 sary, — there is no instrument of the orchestra which a 
 woman cannot play successfully. The extent, depth, 
 and variety of musical capability among the women of the 
 United States are continual new sources of astonishment 
 
The Orchestra of To-day 39 
 
 and pleasure to this writer, although his pursuits are not 
 specially of a nature to bring them before his attention. 
 It may be asserted without extravagance that there is no 
 limit to the possible achievements of our countrywomen 
 in this behalf, if their efforts be once turned in the right 
 direction. This direction is, unquestionably, the orches- 
 tra. All the world has learned to play the piano. Let 
 our young ladies — always saving, of course, those who 
 have the gift for the special instrument — leave that and 
 address themselves to the violin, the flute, the oboe, the 
 harp, the clarionet, the bassoon, the kettledrum. It is 
 more than possible that upon some of these instruments 
 the superior daintiness of the female tissue might finally 
 make the woman a more successful player than the man. 
 On the flute, for instance, a certain combination of 
 delicacy with flexibility in the lips is absolutely necessary 
 to bring fully out that passionate yet velvety tone herein- 
 before alluded to ; and many male players, of all requi- 
 site qualifications so far as manual execution is concerned, 
 will be forever debarred from attaining it by reason of 
 their intractable, rough lips, which will give nothing but 
 a correspondingly intractable, rough tone. The same, 
 in less degree, may be said of the oboe and bassoon. 
 Besides, the qualities required to make a perfect orches- 
 tral player are far more often found in women than in 
 men ; for these qualities are patience, fervor, and fidelity, 
 combined with deftness of hand and quick intuitiveness 
 of soul. 
 
 To put the matter in another view : no one at all 
 acquainted with this subject will undervalue the benefits 
 to female health to be brought about by the systematic 
 use of wind-instruments. Out of personal knowledge, 
 the writer pleases himself often with picturing how many 
 
40 Music and Poetry- 
 
 consumptive chests, dismal shoulders, and melancholy 
 spines would disappear, how many rosy cheeks would 
 blossom, how many erect forms delight the eyes which 
 mourn over their drooping, — under the stimulus of 
 those long, equable, and generous inspirations and ex- 
 pirations which the execution of every moderately diffi- 
 cult piece on a wind-instrument requires. 
 
 But, returning to the main course : it is proper now to 
 speak of the other great division of wind-instruments 
 known as "the brass." This usually consists of the 
 trombones, the trumpets, and the horns, with perhaps a 
 comet-^-pistons, though this last is not thought by musi- 
 cians to be worthy of much rank in other than brass 
 bands and military orchestras. The trombone in its 
 older form is probably familiar to most persons as the 
 long brass instrument which the performer elongates and 
 shortens alternately by sliding it out and in. Its tone is 
 gigantic, jubilant, and vigorous. The trumpet tone is 
 also familiar for its bold and manly character, or for the 
 startling and crashing breaks which it sometimes makes 
 upon the softer harmonies. The horn is the instrument 
 which curls upon itself in a circular coil, the performer 
 often thrusting his unemployed hand into its large bell 
 to assist in controlling the great difficulties of pure into- 
 nation upon this instrument. Its tone is indescribably 
 broad, mellow, and noble, and is capable of very great 
 variation in degrees of loudness. Most persons who 
 have heard Thomas's orchestra will remember the lovely 
 long-drawn pianissimo notes of this instrument which 
 introduce the overture to " Oberon," or the far-off rav- 
 ishment with which it steals upon the enormous chord of 
 violin-tones in Asger Hamerik's " First Norse Suite." 
 
 Leaving now the wind-side of the orchestra, let us 
 
The Orchestra of To-day 41 
 
 pass over to " the strings." This term, in the ordinary 
 parlance of musicians, is understood to mean the four 
 classes of the viol-tribe, namely, the violins, tlie violas, 
 the violoncellos, and the contra-basses or double-basses. 
 In its largest apphcation it would of course include the 
 harps, and such rarely used instruments as the guitar 
 and the viol damour. The violin is too familiar to 
 need comment in so cursory a paper as this. The viola 
 is an instrument almost exactly like the violin, but some- 
 what larger, and four tones lower in pitch. It has not 
 the brittleness, the crispness, nor the brilUance of the 
 violin; but is distinguished by a melancholy and pa- 
 thetic tone quite peculiar to itself. Those who have 
 heard the " Italy " of Berlioz will easily recall the viola, 
 which is the hero of the whole piece. It is matter 
 of regret that this noble instrument has now so few 
 cultivators. 
 
 The violoncello is a more familiar instrument to most 
 persons than the viola. It is tuned just an octave lower 
 than that instrument. Since the time of Beethoven it 
 has been much cultivated, and passages are now freely 
 written for it which would have made the older players 
 stare and stop for another pinch of snuff. Its powers 
 are quite varied ; it is competent for a serenade or a 
 prayer ; for suggesting mere lazy tropical sensuousness 
 or manly protests against wrong. Perhaps the most 
 remarkable deliverance intrusted to it by a modern 
 composer occurs in the " Jewish Trilogy " of Hamerik. 
 Here, after a lovely harmonic conception, the whole 
 orchestra ceases, and one violoncello begins a strange 
 monody, which is continued for a long time : a monody 
 as of a prophet standing between the people and the 
 altar and recounting with intense passion the captivities, 
 
42 Music and Poetry 
 
 the escapes, the sins, the covenants, the blessings, in 
 truth, the whole romantic past, of the Jews — the entire 
 effect deriving extraordinary power from the sense of 
 tenacity due to the peculiar sustaining power of this 
 instrument, and from the sense of isolation excited by 
 the lonesomeness of its voice when thus lifted up in 
 the suddenly silent orchestra. 
 
 The double-basses are well known to all as the largest 
 of the violin-tribe ; and the harps are also familiar j so 
 that, although both are of great interest to the musician, 
 the points that make them so are too technical for men- 
 tion in this place, and we may pass on now to a word 
 about the instruments of percussion. Those in common 
 use are the commonly called bass-drum, the snare-drum 
 (employed by ordinary military companies), the cym- 
 bals, and the kettledrum. This latter, of which there 
 are always at least two in an orchestra, is like a 
 large, round-bottomed brass pot, the mouth of which is 
 covered with a membrane stretched across. Its pitch 
 is varied by screws which tighten the membrane ; the 
 two tones to which the two drums are tuned being 
 usually the tonic and the dominant of the key in which 
 the orchestra is playing. Those who remember the 
 lovely little " Scandinavian Wedding March " by Soder- 
 man will recall the adroit employment of the kettledrum 
 in the opening to intensify the mood of expectation 
 upon which the soft harmonies are presently to fall. 
 
 In closing this rapid account of the orchestral con- 
 stituents, it is proper to mention ' that several instru- 
 ments whose employment is more or less unusual have 
 been omitted ; such as the bass-flute (sometimes called 
 the alto-flute), which is of quite recent invention, and 
 bears much the same relation to the ordinary flute as 
 
The Orchestra of To-day 43 
 
 that of the viola to the violin ; the piccolo, which is 
 a very short small flute, set an octave higher than the 
 concert-flute, and which is in nearly every orchestra ; 
 the harmonicon, the small harmonium, the corno Inglese 
 (a large cousin of the oboe), the castanets, various sized 
 cymbals, the zither, and others. The zither has been 
 made known to many persons by the pretty tinkling 
 air it plays in a dream-piece by Lumbye, which one 
 used to find often recurring in Theodore Thomas's 
 programmes. 
 
 As soon as the members of the orchestra have as- 
 sembled, say for a rehearsal, the first business is to bring 
 all the instruments to the same pitch. For this purpose 
 the oboe, considered to be the least variable instrument, 
 sounds a long and insistent A, with which each player 
 proceeds to make his A (or the corresponding tone 
 if he has a transposing instrument) coincide. The con- 
 ductor mounts his platform and raps with his baton, 
 holding the latter poised aloft for a moment. Each 
 player must now have his eyes at once upon the con- 
 ductor and upon the written part before himself, — a 
 dual attention which must be maintained steadily 
 throughout the composition, and which requires more 
 concentration than one is at first inclined to appreciate. 
 With the first down-stroke of the conductor's baton the 
 first bar of the piece commences. Fancy, for example, 
 that you are first flute-player, and that the figures thirty- 
 seven occur over a blank space of the staff" on your part. 
 This means that you are not to come in until thirty- 
 seven bars are played by the other instruments; and 
 you are now to carry on a double set of countings in 
 your mind, the one recording the beats of each bar, 
 the other recording the number of bars. You there- 
 
44 Music and Poetry 
 
 fore commence, with the conductor's first down beat, 
 to count mentally, keeping a tally of each set of four 
 beats ; supposing the piece is in four-four time, that 
 is, that there are four of the conductor's beats to each 
 bar, you say, one (two-three- four), two (two-three-four), 
 three (two- three-four), /(7«r (two-three-four), yfe^ (two- 
 three-four), and so on. About the time you have 
 reached thirty-one (two-three-four), you will infallibly — 
 if an inexperienced player — fall to wondering whether 
 you did not omit to say thirty (two- three-four), and 
 while this inward debate is going on, you have, of 
 course, neglected the thirty-two (two-three-four), to 
 remedy which you jump to the thirty-three, but in so 
 doing reflect that you were probably discussing long 
 enough to occupy two bars, and ought to have jumped 
 to thirty-four, or, even perhaps thirty-five — by which 
 time your heart is thumping with anticipation of the 
 conductor's scowl, when you shall presently come in 
 wrong and compel him to stop the whole orchestra in 
 order to commence over — until finally you are in a 
 state of hopeless, inane confusion, and the chances are 
 a thousand to one that you do come in wrong, with all 
 manner of vile discord and resultant trouble. Of course 
 there are many passages which are easier, by reason of 
 one's familiarity with the composition. A certain auto- 
 matic precision of count comes with long experience. 
 
 But if the player's part is by no means the trifling 
 work which many imagine, the conductor's will certainly 
 impress one who becomes acquainted with it for the 
 first time as requiring an amount of mental strain little 
 suspected by those who only see the graceful curves of 
 the baton and the silent figure that moves it. The con- 
 ductor must read simultaneously all the bars written 
 
The Orchestra of To-day 45 
 
 for each class of the instruments in his orchestra, the 
 notes being written under each other, those for the 
 piccolo and flutes at the top, those for the double- 
 basses at the bottom, the rest between. But this large 
 collection of notes, which have thus to be instantane- 
 ously read, is written not only in different keys, but 
 with different clefs ; the horns and clarionets may each 
 be playing in different keys from the other instruments ; 
 the tenor trombones will be playing notes written upon 
 a still different system ; the violoncellos, notes written 
 upon a still different system ; the double-basses and 
 bassoons and bass-trombones and drums, notes written 
 upon yet another system. And this is not half; for 
 while the conductor's eye is reading these notes his ear 
 has to watch over each one of his sixty to a hundred 
 and fifty instruments, and instantly report the least 
 failure of one to play exactly what is written ; and this 
 is not nearly all ; for besides, the conductor's arm must 
 keep up the unceasing beats of time, and must make 
 the different expression-signs, i. e., the signals for loud 
 or soft, or slower or faster, and the like. Fancy, in 
 other words, that you had a class in elocution of sixty 
 pupils, all of whom simultaneously read aloud to you — 
 some in Greek, some in Hebrew, some in French, some 
 in Latin, some in English — and that the least fault 
 in pronouncing any word of any of these languages, 
 or the least error even in inflection or intonation, must 
 be detected. This is a fair analogy to the labor of the 
 orchestral conductor. 
 
 In the judgment of the writer, although the improve- 
 ments of the orchestra have been very great in modern 
 times, it is yet in its infancy as an adequate exponent 
 of those inward desires of man which find their best 
 
46 Music and Poetry- 
 
 solace in music. No prudent person acquainted with 
 the facts will now dare to set limits to the future ex- 
 pressive powers of this new and manifold voice which 
 man has found. The physics of music have made such 
 enormous advances under the scientific labors of Helm- 
 holtz, Alfred M. Mayer, and others, that the art cannot 
 but receive additional aid through the facts thus dis- 
 covered, and one cannot help looking to see new in- 
 struments before long which will indefinitely increase 
 the resources of the orchestra of the future. Many 
 reasons seem to justify the belief that the home of the 
 orchestra is to be in this country : meantime, one can 
 frame no fairer wish for one's countrymen than that 
 they may quickly come to know the wise expansions 
 and large tolerances and heavenly satisfactions which 
 stream into the soul of him that hath ears to hear, 
 out of the orchestra of the present. 
 
The Physics of Music 47 
 
 III 
 
 The Physics of Music* 
 
 Take if you please the lowest work of genius and the 
 highest work of talent : the former is always Art, the 
 latter always mere cleverness. The one is always in 
 some sense true : the other is often in all senses false. 
 In truth, there is that in the very nature of Cleverness 
 which renders it particularly liable to mislead either 
 itself or other people. Confront it with something new 
 that is to be taken account of: it has not that indescrib- 
 able insight of fervent love which lies at the bottom of 
 genius ; it cannot burn away the husk of things with that 
 instinct towards the kernel which genius possesses ; it is 
 busied, like a newspaper reporter, more with thinking 
 how much can be said than with observing the facts that 
 should be said ; it can evolve a paragraph easier than 
 record a circumstance. Its facile dexterity is often its 
 ruin — as if a hasty spider should mesh his own legs. 
 
 Now the doctrine oi falsus in uno is not true except 
 with very careful limitations ; but — to descend to par- 
 ticulars — if a man can be shown to have written a paper 
 every important proposition of which contains inac- 
 curacies, and several important propositions of which are 
 preposterous, then it would seem to be fair at least to 
 regard with suspicion all his utterances in other papers 
 upon the same general subject. 
 
 1 Written in 1875. 
 
48 Music and Poetry 
 
 The object of this present writing is, downright, to 
 discredit Mr. Richard Grant White as authority in any 
 matter whatever pertaining to music : and there are 
 grave reasons why this subject is a praiseworthy one, — 
 one, indeed, so far removed from a mere flippant dis- 
 cussion that it is thoroughly in the nature of a religious 
 purpose. For every fervent and pious lover of art must 
 look with displeasure upon the quarrel into which Mr. 
 White has been urging musicians through the columns 
 of the Galaxy for some months, actually entrapping 
 many of the unwary. The descriptive part of what is 
 called " descriptive music " has no arms, nor sheriff, 
 nor other physical sanction of law : not the least atom 
 of obligation rests upon any human being to go by the 
 programme of what is called " programme music " : any 
 soul may hear the music and draw just what glories of 
 delight or of sadness from it that his own whimsiest 
 mood may suggest. The only view of art is that of 
 " liberal applications," as Wordsworth happily called 
 them : that which, allowing a man to smile, or to shed 
 tears, over a violet {i. e.. Nature) just according as it 
 breeds in him a happy or a regretful mood, in the same 
 way allows him to interpret at his own will a picture, 
 a tone-poem, a word-poem, or any other artistic form. 
 It is all free trade in Art : there are no duties. 
 
 The heart of man is big enough and hungry enough 
 for all the good music that can ever be written, descrip- 
 tive or otherwise. If descriptive music is a mistake, let 
 it be : the mistake usually lies in the description only, 
 not in the music, for much of it is wonderfully lovely; 
 shall a Protestant reject all the Madonna pictures be- 
 cause he rejects the theology of their painters? The 
 solitary question to ask of a new composition is — not, is 
 
The Physics of Music 49 
 
 it descriptive, but is it beautiful in any, the largest, 
 sense of that term ? If it is, why then in God's name — 
 spoken with reverence — let us hear it, and hear it often. 
 
 Mr. White has recently printed in the Galaxy maga- 
 zine a paper entitled The Science and the Philoso- 
 phy of Music: the "Science" in this title meaning 
 the physical science of acoustics as far as it relates to 
 musical sounds, and not the science of music, proper, 
 whose existence the author has often denied. Of this 
 paper about the first four and a half pages concern 
 themselves with the " science," the remainder with the 
 " philosophy," of music. The former is the part to be 
 herein spoken of. 
 
 It is subdivided into twelve paragraphs, containing 
 more or less distinct propositions. Now, speaking with 
 scientific accuracy, there is not one of these paragraphs 
 but falls within the following categories, to wit: the 
 demonstrably absurd, the wrong in statement, the wrong 
 in substance : and some belong to all three at once. It 
 is so curiously wrong that there are scarce a half dozen 
 sentences which do not contain inaccuracies : and these 
 are sentences of connection rather than of matter. The 
 whole no better constitutes a view of the Science of 
 Music than a wrongly-wired skeleton constitutes a view 
 of the science of anatomy. It is the very climacteric 
 and crooked top-piece of error. 
 
 Of course such assertions as these are both trifling 
 and arrogant unless immediately followed up by detailed 
 proofs. In the course of what is hereinafter said, I shall 
 have occasion to quote nearly the whole of Mr. White's 
 paper as printed, so far as it refers to the science of 
 music. 
 
 He begins : " In a recent article I had occasion to 
 4 
 
50 Music and Poetry 
 
 show that the commonly-used phrase ' scientific music ' 
 is incorrect and misleading, because music is not a 
 science, but an art involving neither in its composition 
 nor its performance any knowledge whatever of any 
 science, either musical or other." 
 
 Each of the three clauses of this sentence is absurdly 
 erroneous. A science is a body of facts, classified upon 
 system, and generalized into laws. These laws are simply 
 expressions in short of the numbers of individual and sim- 
 ilar facts. The law of gravity, for instance, is only a short 
 summing up of all those multitudinous occasions when 
 men have observed that small bodies fall towards large 
 ones. There is a science of music, embodying a great 
 number of classified facts, and presenting a great num- 
 ber of scientific laws which are as thoroughly recognized 
 among musicians as are the laws of any other sciences 
 among their professors. There is a science of harmony, 
 a science of composition, a science of orchestration, a 
 science of performance upon stringed instruments, a sci- 
 ence of performance upon wind instruments, a science 
 of vocalization ; not a branch of the art of music but has 
 its own analogous body of classified facts and general 
 laws. Music is so much a science that a man may be 
 a thorough musician who has never written a tune and 
 who cannot play a note upon any instrument. One 
 asks with astonishment if it be possible that a writer in an 
 intelligently-conducted magazine could undertake a paper 
 on The Science and The Philosophy of Music, who was 
 ignorant of that great body of literature in which the 
 science of thorough-bass, the science of orchestration, 
 the science of execution, and the like, are formally set 
 forth ? But the case is worse : for Mr. White himself, a 
 little further on, employs some of the terras a^d l^CQg- 
 
The Physics of Music 51 
 
 nizes some of the laws of the Science of Thorough-bass. 
 We find him talking of the tonic, the third, the fifth, and 
 incidentally recognizing the law that, with any tone of 
 a scale as tonic, these three form a chord, of idiosyn- 
 cratic properties and relations : and we find him giving 
 quotations from Mr. Rice which bristle thickly with the 
 terminology of music. 
 
 The truth is, that the concluding clause of Mr. White's 
 first sentence calls for flat contradiction, term for term : 
 and that music is an art which does involve both in its 
 composition and its performance a precise knowledge of 
 musical science. 
 
 " It is nevertheless true, as was then intimated, that 
 there is a science of music, a very exact and absolute 
 science, the laws of which control the vibration of every 
 string in a grand orchestra, and to which every chord 
 struck or uttered must conform. But of this science 
 there were probably never four persons more ignorant 
 than Handel, Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven. This I 
 do not mean to assert positively, for I do not know it to 
 be true : but I know of no fact in the life of either that 
 points to a knowledge of this science, which would not 
 have been of any service to them whether as composers 
 or performers. This science is not that of acoustics, 
 although it is an acoustic science. The science of 
 acoustics includes the science of music. 
 
 " A little book has lately been published which may 
 be made the occasion of giving an idea of what this 
 science of music is, upon which depends the construc- 
 tion of every musical phrase, the performance of every 
 musical artist, and which yet is of no more service to a 
 composer or to a singer than an acquaintance with 
 chemistry or with optics would be to a painter." 
 
52 Music and Poetry 
 
 Now without stopping to chide the petty artifice of 
 language by which Mr. White endeavors to make the 
 unsuspecting reader glow with wonder at the fact that 
 Handel, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, with all their four- 
 fold force, could not break through the physical laws of 
 nature, /. e., that although these men were ignorant of 
 the physical laws of vibration, yet nevertheless every 
 fiddle-string upon which their compositions were played 
 did verily and in the strangest manner vibrate always 
 according to the natural laws of vibration ; and without 
 doing more than barely pointing out how, so far from its 
 being true, as Mr. White declares, that the construction 
 of every musical phrase depends on the physical science 
 of music, the fact is that the construction of no musical 
 phrase depends in the least degree on the physics of music 
 and would not be in the remotest way affected if every law 
 of vibration were reversed or if all of them were abol- 
 ished : let us confine our attention to the last clause of 
 this last extract, and inquire if Mr. White can really 
 conceive a painter unacquainted with optics? What 
 kind of pictures would that artist paint who did not 
 have literally at his fingers'-ends the laws of perspective, 
 the laws of the radiation of light in right lines, the laws 
 of shadows, the laws of apparent projection upon plane 
 surfaces? Or, — to go further into the mere curiosities 
 of error — will Mr. White undertake to say, in view of 
 the aniline dyes and the like, that a painter acquainted 
 with chemistry might not discover new pigments more 
 brilliant, more various, more powerful, than any now 
 known, and that it would not be " of service " to him ? 
 Nay, — leaving these merely childish cui bono views — 
 what can a gentleman of Mr. White's culture mean by 
 this strenuous limitation of the artist to ignorant work, 
 
The Physics of Music 53 
 
 and by these persevering asseverations that the artist, 
 be he painter, musician, or other, would be no whit the 
 better for an intelligent understanding of those won- 
 derful and beautiful phenomena which occur when his 
 dreams take physical form ? Why, but to know them is 
 a new and illimitable inspiration in itself; and he is a 
 bold man who will attempt, at this particular stage of 
 progressive physics, to prescribe the boundaries of that 
 flight which music will compass when musicians shall 
 have learned to feather the arrow of their art with the 
 guidances of their whole science. 
 
 "The author of this work," (proceeds Mr. White) 
 " Sedley Taylor (who, however, confesses his obligations 
 to Professor Helmholtz, a very profound investigator 
 into the laws of acoustics), tells us that he aims at 
 placing before persons unacquainted with mathematics 
 an intelUgible and succinct account of that part of the 
 theory of sound which constitutes the physical basis of 
 the art of music." 
 
 Than the last seventeen words of which, nothing could 
 more clearly illustrate that employment of inexact lan- 
 guage which results in absurdity. How can a theory 
 (of sound, or of anything else) constitute a physical 
 basis of the art of music, or of any other art or thing ? 
 The physical basis of the art of music is, roughly speak- 
 ing, ist, vibrations; 2d, air; and 3d, man's auditory 
 apparatus. Can a theory — nay, a part of a theory — 
 "constitute " these? 
 
 " He assumes no preliminary knowledge save of 
 arithmetic, and of the musical notation in common use. 
 No lover of music need therefore be deterred, by fear 
 of incompetence from the perusal of his very interesting 
 little volume, of which, however, we shall concern our- 
 
54 Music and Poetry- 
 
 selves only with the elementary parts. For they are not 
 only the most generally interesting, but they present all 
 that is necessary to the understanding of those relations 
 of sounds without which the thing that modern and civ- 
 ilized people call music would be impossible. Passing 
 over therefore what is said by the author upon sound in 
 general, which all who read this article probably know is 
 always the product of vibration — the vibration, for 
 example, of a string, of a column of air (as in a wind 
 instrument), of a piece of parchment, as in a drum, 
 which vibration communicates itself to the surrounding 
 air and is thus conveyed to the ear — we come to the 
 consideration of musical sound proper. Mr. Taylor 
 defines ' a musical sound as a steady sound, and a non- 
 musical sound as an unsteady sound.' Without pro- 
 fessing to be able to give a more descriptive and exact 
 definition of a musical sound, I cannot accept this one 
 as either exact or descriptive." 
 
 In which last sentence one finds Mr. White attacking, 
 as neither exact nor descriptive, the very fundamental 
 definition of a book which he has just declared, in the 
 third sentence back, to '■' present all that is necessary to 
 the understanding those relations of sounds " which 
 render music possible. It may be said, indeed, that 
 Mr. Taylor, in the effort to render his book easily 
 understood, has made his definition perhaps needlessly 
 meagre. Every person of average intelligence can 
 understand the principle upon which musical scientists 
 differentiate a musical sound from sound in general or 
 mere noise, to wit, that a musical sound is one produced 
 by vibrations recurring in equal times. Further than 
 this no man can go. Musicalness — in the sense in 
 which Mr. White attempts to "define " it — is a quality 
 
The Physics of Music 55 
 
 perceived by the ear, just as sweetness is a quality per- 
 ceived by the tongue. Will any man " define " the 
 taste of sugar? 
 
 " There are many sounds which are steady and which 
 are not musical, except in a very loose and unscientific 
 as well as inartistic use of that term. Such are the 
 humming of a bee, the roar of a waterfall, the rumbling 
 of a ninepin ball, and the fiUng of a saw. Perhaps a 
 musical sound might be safely defined to be a sound 
 produced by regular vibrations, giving pleasure to the 
 human ear, and capable of being used as a means of ex- 
 pression. It might be said that regularity of vibration 
 always produces steadiness of sound. This is true : and 
 steadiness of sound is one, and an essential element of 
 musical tone. But it is not the only one. The capa- 
 bility of exciting pleasure and that of being used as a 
 means of expression seem to be no less essential qualities 
 of any sound properly called musical." 
 
 This " definition " of Mr. White's cannot stand a mo- 
 ment. A single illustration will demolish it : the quar- 
 ter tones, for example, and all tones less than half tones, 
 are certainly musical sounds : yet they fail in two out of 
 Mr. White's three particulars ; for they do not give pleas- 
 ure, and there is no known method by which they can be 
 used as a means of expression. 
 
 " The possibility of music as an art depends not only 
 upon regularity of vibration, but on certain relations 
 of the vibrations by which sounds are produced. These 
 have been discovered by experiment, and are found to 
 have certain laws which are of mathematical nature and 
 precision. Upon these relations harmony depends ; and 
 without harmony there is no music ; for every melody 
 supposes a harmony upon which it is said to be based." 
 
£6 Music and Poetry 
 
 But no : the possibility of music does not so depend, 
 nor does that of harmony : and without harmony there 
 verily can be music. There has been music without 
 harmony pretty much ever since we knew of anything 
 that has been : and Melody was an old man when Har- 
 mony was born. The Greeks had a great deal of music : 
 but Mr. Donkin, who is authority, does not think they 
 had any harmony. 
 
 " A vibrating string affords the simplest and perhaps 
 the most trustworthy .means of testing and analyzing these 
 relations. A string made to vibrate with sufficient rapid- 
 ity produces sound which will be of a certain pitch. 
 Now if that string be lightly touched exactly in the 
 middle," — (but why " lightly touched " ? It will do the 
 same thing if heavily touched, or if in any way made 
 half as long. Mr. White is thinking of harmonic tones, 
 or overtones.) — "and the vibration kept up, the pitch 
 of the sound produced rises exactly an octave ; that is, 
 the sound maintains the same relations to the musical 
 scale which it had before, but it is higher. To define an 
 octave in this sense is exceedingly difficult, simple as the 
 conception of it is to every musically endowed person. 
 For a note and its octave are the same and yet not the 
 same. A melodic phrase repeated in various octaves 
 has precisely the same melodic and harmonic relations ; 
 it is the same phrase, the same melody; and yet 
 the actual sounds produced may be as unlike and as 
 remote as the highest and shrillest tone of a violin 
 and those of the lowest grumblings of a double-bass 
 viol." 
 
 The sweeping assertion cannot be made that an oc- 
 tave has the same harmonic relations as its fundamental 
 tone : and any person can demonstrate for himself that 
 
The Physics of Music 
 
 57 
 
 it often has not. Let any one, for example, strike tlie 
 following tones together on a piano, 
 
 fe 
 
 and he will produce a jangle entirely hideous ; but let 
 him strike the following : 
 
 i 
 
 and although the latter chord is wholly composed of oc- 
 taves of the notes composing the former one, the exper- 
 imenter will hear a sound so beautiful that, for one, I 
 can never get upon it without lingering and lingering, 
 for the pure sensuous beauty of it, — and that in spite of 
 the fact that it is a chord of progress imperatively calling 
 for speedy relief from the tonic. " This rising of an 
 octave in the sound of the vibrating string is found to be 
 caused by the doubling of the rapidity of the vibrations. 
 The string on being touched in the middle divides itself 
 into two parts, and each of these parts vibrate just twice 
 as fast as the whole string does. An increase of the rap- 
 idity of the vibration does not produce any difference in 
 the intensity or the volume of sound, only in its pitch. 
 On the other hand, increased loudness of sound is 
 produced by an increase of the distance of vibration. 
 The violin player when he wishes to increase the volume 
 and the intensity of his tone, presses his bow upon the 
 string more firmly and moves it more rapidly. The 
 
58 Music and Poetry 
 
 string vibrates further — that is, through a greater space 
 than before — but it makes no more vibrations in a 
 second than it does when he produces the same note as 
 lightly and as softly as possible." 
 
 This last proposition is true only within limits : be- 
 yond which the rapidity of vibration does vary with the 
 force with which the vibrating body is agitated. Inexpe- 
 rienced violin players are often astonished, upon striking 
 an open string with the bow, to hear the octave come out 
 instead of the fundamental tone : by being struck too 
 hard, the string has been caused to form a node in the 
 middle, and thus divide itself into two vibrating sections, 
 giving its octave. Many of the high notes on wind instru- 
 ments are made simply by increasing the force of the 
 breath. 
 
 "A vibrating string may be infinitesimally divided; 
 the finger may be run up and down the whole length of 
 it, and the pitch of the sound thus produced will rise and 
 fall accordingly. But of the sound thus produced only 
 that which is heard at certain degrees is at all available 
 for the purpose of musical art. These degrees are those 
 which produce what is called the diatonic scale.'' 
 
 In these last two sentences Mr. White sweeps out of 
 existence, at one blow, the chromatic scale, and all the 
 vast fabric of loveliness which has been built on it : for 
 he declares that only the sounds heard at such degrees 
 as produce the diatonic scale are at all available for the 
 purposes of musical art ; and inasmuch as the chro- 
 matic sounds (what the general reader calls fiats and 
 sharps') are not and cannot be heard at the diatonic 
 degrees, — ergo, the chromatic sounds are not avail- 
 able, etc. 
 
 One may safely venture to say that such an assertion 
 
The Physics of Music 59 
 
 was never made in the columns of the Galaxy or any 
 other magazine before. 
 
 " It is found that the string will divide itself into the 
 vibrating sections which produce these notes, on being 
 lightly touched (not shortened by being pressed down) 
 at certain places. This diatonic scale is therefore not 
 arbitrary, but the result of a law of acoustics. It exists 
 in nature." 
 
 But the fact is not so : the string will not make the 
 diatonic scale, when thus treated : the diatonic scale is 
 not the result of any known law of acoustics : and it does 
 not exist in nature. Of which any reader, musical or 
 otherwise, can judge, after the following short explana- 
 tion. 
 
 If you will take a tube in the shape of any horn, with- 
 out keys or other ventages than just the mouth and bell, 
 and of such a length as to make (say) the tone C upon 
 blowing into it with a certain force : then, upon increas- 
 ing the force of blowing, it will presently make the C an 
 octave above ; it cannot be caused to make any inter- 
 mediate note, by force of breath solely. Blow, now, with 
 more force, and you will get the G above the last C ; 
 with more force still, you will get the C above that ; 
 with more, the E above ; more, G above ; more, A 
 above ; more, a note something like B flat above, but 
 not B flat nor E natural ; more, C ; and so on ; or, to 
 present the result at a glance, you will get the following, 
 
 in order from the bottom : 
 
 nearly 
 
 W-- 
 
 Octave below. 
 
6o Music and Poetry 
 
 A string will divide itself in the same way, when,' lightly 
 touching, the finger is run down it. The phenomenon is 
 invariable, and is caused by the singular property which 
 vibrating bodies have of dividing themselves into sections, 
 separated by nodes. 
 
 The above series of notes represents then what Mr. 
 White would get from his string ; but the diatonic scale 
 is this series of notes : 
 
 -&c 
 
 S' r r f f F 
 
 r 
 
 Let any one compare the two, and say whether Mr. 
 White has enounced as a fundamental scientific principle 
 what is really only the fanciful hypothesis of a theorizer. 
 
 " The melody and harmony which are possible only by 
 means of this scale are therefore dependent upon cer- 
 tain ratios of rapidity in vibration. For example, as we 
 have seen that the octave or unison is the product of vi- 
 brations which are as 2 to i, we find that the fifth, the 
 most perfect concord, is the product of vibrations which 
 are as 3 to 2. In other words, when two sounds differ 
 by a fifth, the higher sound is the product of three vibra- 
 tions and the lower of two vibrations during the same 
 time. So when two sounds difier by a fourth, the higher 
 sound is the product of four vibrations and the lower of 
 three vibrations during the same time. To follow these 
 proportions throughout the scale is needless, and would 
 be uninteresting : for our purpose here is only to con- 
 sider the nature of this science, not to examine its de- 
 tails." 
 
 The first division of this last sentence belongs also 
 among the curiosities of error. The following of the pro- 
 
The Physics of Music 6i 
 
 portions referred to, throughout the scale, is not only not 
 " needless," but it is necessary, in any meagre examina- 
 tion of the nature of musical physics ; and if the reader 
 should think this hyper-criticism, I have only to refer 
 hira to a point a little farther on in Mr. White's article 
 where this very need has forced itself on him, and where 
 he has actually done the very thing he here declares 
 needless, — to wit, given these very proportions through- 
 out the whole diatonic scale. 
 
 And again : the following of these proportions through- 
 out the scale is not only »oi " uninteresting," but it is 
 precisely in this connection that some of the most bril- 
 liant triumphs of modern science, — certainly the most 
 striking ones, to general readers- — have been achieved. 
 The wonderful methods of reducing these proportions of 
 vibration to curves visible to the eye, carried to such an 
 extent that among musical scientists tones are known by 
 their curves ; and curious applications of them to other 
 departments of science, are always sure to bring down 
 a lecture-audience ; and when the lecturer proceeds to 
 cast these proportions upon a screen, in bands of brilliant 
 light, and to bring out the most graceful and beautiful 
 figures, ever increasing in complexity as he superimposes 
 curve upon curve of note after note, the enthusiasm of 
 the dullest person is sure of being aroused. The very 
 culminating fascination of a science which is surely the 
 least dry of all physics, — this is what Mr. White has se- 
 lected to pronounce " needless and uninteresting." 
 
 But the limits of this paper are being rapidly reached, 
 and the smaller errors in what follows must be passed 
 over without mention, in order to give room for the ex- 
 posure of one or two more of great importance. 
 
 After explaining the phenomenon of resonance in a 
 
62 Music and Poetry 
 
 very objectionable way, Mr. White reiterates in the next 
 paragraph the doctrine that the knowledge of the physics 
 of music is " needless to the artist-musician " : which 
 has already been discussed. 
 
 He then proceeds: "Musical sounds heard together 
 are concordant or discordant. Discord is produced by 
 what is called ' beats ' : that is, the vibrations of the two 
 sounding bodies are so close to each other in their rapid- 
 ity that they clash, and produce a roughness of sound 
 which is painful to the sensitive ear." 
 
 Leaving aside the thorough insufficiency of Mr. White's 
 explanation of " beats," and regretting, particularly on 
 account of the prominence of this phenomenon in 
 modern musical physics, that the deficiency cannot be 
 remedied here, it must be said that the theory of " beats " 
 as the physical origin of discord has been so qualified 
 and eviscerated even by those who were most committed 
 to it, that it has been practically abandoned. It was 
 first announced by Professor Helmholtz ; but, in spite of 
 the magnificent authority which that great philosopher 
 exercises in all departments of physical science, the the- 
 ory was found to fail utterly, by practical musicians : 
 it had to be modified, limited ; and so, what with 
 modification and limitation, it may now be said to 
 be pretty much no theory. The very book which Mr. 
 White is reviewing in this article is careful to protect it- 
 self on this point ; yet Mr. White announces it as if it 
 were an unquestioned principle. In truth, — without at 
 all wishing to be dogmatic, — it can be mathematically 
 shown, and experimentally shown, that beats have nothing 
 whatever to do with discord, in the generally received 
 sense of the word " discord " : and it is only by making 
 the word " discord " have the same meaning as the word 
 
The Physics of Music 6;^ 
 
 " concord " that its most desperate advocates have been 
 able to maintain any ground : which is much as if one 
 should assert that a horse is a cow, and then protect his 
 assertion by the proviso that in using the term " horse " 
 he meant — not the animal commonly so named — but an 
 animal with horns and a milk-bag. 
 
 After instancing some discordant intervals, the paper 
 proceeds : 
 
 " Concords consist at most of but three notes. From 
 the largest orchestra, as from a mere stringed quartette 
 or a pianoforte, if we hear a concord, we hear but three 
 notes — doubled, trebled, or quadrupled through the 
 octaves included within the range of the instruments. 
 And the following triads include all the concords that 
 can be heard : 
 
 i 
 
 fe: 
 
 is 
 
 3E 
 
 n 
 
 -«- 
 
 These triads contain the tonic in combination with the 
 minor third and fifth, with the major third and fifth, 
 with the minor third and minor sixth, with the major 
 third and major sixth, with the fourth and the minor 
 sixth, with the fourth and the major sixth. Their char- 
 acter is determined by the third, in whatever part of the 
 triad it appears. There are three major triads and 
 three minor. These chords, or their inversions, are all 
 the concords that we hear." 
 
 To this there are five serious objections. First, upon 
 any reader not already thoroughly familiar with the sub- 
 ject it makes an impression just as wrong as wrong can 
 be : and this impression will linger until the reader is 
 told that the words " concord " and " discord," " con- 
 
64 Music and Poetry 
 
 cordant " and " discordant," as here used, have no ref- 
 erence to the common signification of those words as 
 denoting chords agreeable or disagreeable to the ear. 
 The chord which was given just now by me as one of 
 the most beautiful chords in all music, contains one of 
 those sevenths which Mr. White declares to be the most 
 " discordant " interval of the scale : and the whole 
 chord is a discord, in the terminology here used by Mr. 
 White. How this anomalous terminology has grown up 
 in Thorough-bass cannot here be explained. Bearing 
 this anomaly in mind, any reader will perceive that the 
 wonder intended to be excited by the second sentence 
 of this last extract will necessarily be wholly based on a 
 misunderstanding by the reader of the word " concord " 
 therein used. 
 
 But this is scarcely the beginning of transgressions, 
 with this unlucky last extract. It contains at least two 
 errors of statement, and three of substance. I have 
 already spoken of one of the errors of statement. The 
 other is contained in the last sentence of the extract, 
 when taken in connection with the rest. Mr. White 
 says : " These chords, or their inversions, are all the 
 concords that we hear." If Mr. A. T. Stewart should 
 cause a clipping as big as a pin-head to be made from 
 off each different sort of goods in his retail-store, and 
 holding them all in his hands should declare that what 
 he there held, was all he had in that store, we would 
 either understand him to mean that what he held was a 
 sample of all in the store, or we would understand him 
 to be crazy. Mr. White's well-demonstrated force of in- 
 tellect will not admit such a supposition as this last; 
 therefore every musician must believe that in this state- 
 ment he merely means that tlie chords he enumerates 
 
The Physics of Music 65 
 
 are samples as it were of all the technical concords we 
 hear. But I submit if any untechnical reader would 
 gather aught but error from the statement as made. 
 
 To go on, however, to errors of substance : the state- 
 ment, as made, is absurdly erroneous in point of fact. 
 The chords numbered i and 2 (they have been num- 
 bered by me for convenient reference) are the only 
 generic chords (in the technical sense which Mr. White 
 is here himself employing) in the enumeration ; the 
 other four are only inversions of chords identical in for- 
 mation with the first two. No. 3 is only an inversion 
 of a triad which is formed on A flat in precisely the 
 same way as number 2 is formed on C. So, also, 4 and 
 S are only inversions of a minor chord formed precisely 
 as I is formed. When, therefore, Mr. White speaks, in 
 the last sentence of this extract, of "these chords or 
 their inversions " (" these chords " being, as detailed in 
 the previous sentence, the "three major triads and 
 three minor triads"), he speaks an absurdity as to four 
 out of the six chords : for those four are themselves in- 
 versions, and are not capable of inversion, which is a 
 process performed only upon such triads as i and 2. 
 
 The second error of substance is : that Mr. White's 
 enumeration of triads entirely omits the well-known 
 diminished triad formed on the seventh degree of the 
 scale, which is generically different from both i and 2. 
 
 A third error of substance consists in Mr. White's 
 failure to mention the method of varying the typical 
 chords by dispersion, — a method co-extensive with that 
 vast range of notes found between the double-bass and 
 the piccolo, and quite as effectual as inversion. 
 
 The next paragraph of Mr. White's paper is devoted 
 to temperament ; it is the one which contains the de- 
 
 5 
 
66 Music and Poetry 
 
 tailed enumeration of the proportions of vibration be- 
 tween all the notes in the scale, which has been herein 
 before referred to. This paragraph is also in error. 
 " But even they " («'. e., stringed instruments) " are not 
 absolutely perfect, because they must have four notes of 
 a fixed pitch, whereas absolutely perfect intonation ad- 
 mits of but one note the pitch of which is fixed, — the 
 tonic." 
 
 Now the violin (for example : the same remark ap- 
 plies to all the strings), so far from having four notes 
 fixed, has but one ; and that one is only fixed, quoad 
 flattening ; it can be made as much sharper as the per- 
 former desires. The D, A, and E of the violin's open 
 strings can be varied at will. 
 
 I will not pursue the next paragraph, in which Mr. 
 White discusses with Mr. Taylor whether a basso would 
 be able to take an E flat true, after an F sharp with 
 thirteen bars rest. Mr. Taylor thinks the basso could 
 not, and wishes to recommend a system of notation 
 which would help him to do it better than the system 
 now in use. Mr. White thinks the basso would do it 
 without difficulty; he is sure he would after the first 
 trial, "because he would feel intuitively the position 
 of E flat in the chord on which he was to come in." 
 But if he came in no chord, in solo : or if, coming in on 
 a chord, he had no intermediate cue from the other 
 voices, how then? In fact — by way of reply to Mr. 
 White's airy dismissal of Mr. Taylor's point — I have 
 seen the oldest strings in the orchestra boggle over much 
 easier intervals than that from F sharp to E flat after 
 thirteen bars' rest. 
 
 And now, inasmuch as here ends the scientific portion 
 of Mr. White's article, one would think he could not 
 
The Physics of Music 67 
 
 commit any more errors on that subject. Yet he has ; 
 and they are worse than any that have been specified. 
 They consist in what he has not said. 
 
 What would be thought of any presentation, however 
 meagre, of the science of optics which did not even so 
 much as mention the fact that white light is composite, 
 and which contained not a solitary reference to the 
 prism or the spectroscope? 
 
 The fault of omission in the paper we have been dis- 
 cussing is precisely similar. It does not so much as 
 mention that the musical tones ordinarily heard are 
 highly composite in their nature, — a fact from which 
 flow many of the most interesting portions of the physi- 
 cal science of music ; nor does it contain a solitary refer- 
 ence to the Siren — that beautiful instrument, the vade 
 mecum of the musical physicist, with which he has 
 accomplished so many wonders. 
 
 In truth, when one reads in the concluding paragraph 
 of this presentation of musical physics, that " from what 
 has been said the musical reader will gather something 
 of what the Science of Music really is," may not one 
 ask, without incurring any accusation of flippantly taking 
 words out of one's opponent's mouth, if " from what has 
 been said " the musical reader will not gather a great 
 deal of what the Science of Music really is noti 
 
68 Music and Poetry 
 
 IV 
 
 Two Descriptive Orchestral Works 
 
 Rubinstein's " Ocean Symphony " and Hart- 
 mann's " Raid of the Vikings " 
 
 [The following is a fragment of Mr. Lanier's interpretation of 
 these two musical works upon the occasion of their production at 
 the first Peabody concert of 1880. Much of the original article, 
 indeed most of the discussion from the standpoint of a musical 
 critic, was omitted by the daily paper in which it appeared. The 
 " Maryland Musical Festival," in the next chapter, is also very 
 fragmentary, from the same reason.] 
 
 The opening movement (of Emil Hartmann's overture 
 " The Raid of the Vikings ") seems to show us the Vikings 
 taking a tender leave of wives and sweethearts, and 
 solemnly committing themselves to the Higher Powers 
 as they embark on their expedition. A sudden change 
 in the music presents the great sea ships bounding off 
 before a keen and whistling wind, impatient warriors 
 striding about the deck, eager preludes of the battle- 
 tune. Other changes bring forward in succession the 
 fierce descent on the coast, the march into battle, the 
 fight, the victorious return. As this is an overture, these 
 changes take place without such pauses between them as 
 separate the longer movements of "a symphony. In 
 Rubinstein's Symphony we have still the sea, but a wholly 
 different sea of associations. The first movement opens 
 
Two Descriptive Orchestral Works 69 
 
 up to us the expanse of the ocean ; we exult in a free 
 and melodious swing of waves; we "hear old Triton 
 blow his wreathed horn," the waters laugh in the sunlight, 
 yet withal a certain mystery creeps about, especially 
 where, while the violins are sending out a clear and 
 fluent melody, we distinguish the clarionet, in a strange, 
 broken, and wholly different tune, singing like a siren 
 under the sea of sound. In the second movement noth- 
 ing could be more suggestive of the interminable wallow 
 and welter of waves than the singular violoncello accom- 
 paniment to the lovely melody of violins and clarionet, 
 immediately following the first two chords of this move- 
 ment. The terror of the great deep, the perils of them 
 that go down to the sea in ships, the helplessness of man 
 before this prodigious power, the inexorable riddle of 
 sudden death, the despair of the drowning man, tem- 
 pests turned into melodious lamentation, prayer, the 
 endless protest and longing of bereaved love, — all these 
 are typified in this movement. The third movement 
 pictures the uncouth and awkward jollity of sailors on 
 ship-board, and the fourth, after many monstrous ideas, 
 alternating with solemn chorales, ends in a mighty sea- 
 hymn. 
 
70 Music and Poetry 
 
 V 
 
 The Maryland Musical Festival* 
 
 The whole of the music during the evening was 
 Beethoven's, and it was so selected as to present an 
 admirable opportunity for studying the , genius of this 
 Shakspere of tone in its two greatest aspects, to wit : 
 with regard to his love for physical nature and his love 
 for human nature. 
 
 The Seventh Symphony, with which the concert 
 opened, cannot be properly criticised without reference 
 to the curious relation which Beethoven bears to the dis- 
 tinctive culture of our day. That culture is rooted in 
 physical science. The thirst after exact knowledge of 
 the secrets of the physical universe is the characteristic 
 mark by which the modern epoch differentiates itself from 
 the mediaeval and the antique. (Now it is a circumstance 
 probably not yet sufficiently appreciated that the same 
 age which has developed physical science to an extent 
 undreamed of by ancient philosophers has also developed 
 music to an extent undreamed of by ancient artists. 
 
 The hearer of the Seventh Symphony last night — and, 
 it may be added, of the descriptive piece called " The 
 Calm of the Sea " — will find himself at the verge of a 
 whole new field of appreciation for those pieces if he 
 
 1 A Musical Festival held in Baltimore in May, 1878, and ex- 
 tending over several days. 
 
The Maryland Musical Festival 71 
 
 will remember that the same era which produces Maillet, 
 Darwin, Spencer, Huxley, and Tyndall has produced also 
 Beethoven in music and the landscape school in painting. 
 For these three phenomena — the modern scientist, the 
 musician, and the landscape painter — are merely three 
 developments, in different directions, of one mighty im- 
 pulse which under-runs them all. This impulse is that 
 direct sympathy with physical nature which the man of 
 to-day possesses, and which the man of old did not 
 possess. The Greek had an intermediate set of beings 
 between him and his mother earth; he invented the 
 Faun, the Oread, and the Nymph to stand between man 
 on the one side, and the forest, the mountain, the stream 
 on the other. 
 
 We are under no such necessity. Our Darwin boldly 
 takes hold of Nature as if it were a rose, pulls it to pieces, 
 puts it under the microscope, and reports to us what he 
 saw without fear or favor. Beethoven, on the other 
 hand, approaching the same good Nature — from a dif- 
 ferent direction, with different motives — and looking 
 upon it with the artist's — not the scientist's — eye, finds 
 it a beautiful whole ; he does not analyze, but, pursuing 
 the synthetic process, shows it to us as a perfect rose, 
 reporting his observations to us in terms of harmony. 
 
 Now those who reverently listened to the performance 
 of the Seventh Symphony of last night, as if Beethoven 
 had come back from a journey under bases of mountains 
 and roots of flowers, and was telling us what he saw, 
 were in the way towards a proper reception of the 
 majesty and delicacy of this wonderful music. As the 
 first movement opened with a full chord the hautboys 
 emerged from the mass of tone like the slender fairy 
 emerging from the petals of the great lily in the Panto- 
 
72 Music and Poetry 
 
 mime. The introduction then proceeded with continu- 
 ous majesty to the curious dialogue of the flute and 
 reeds, which seems as if two voices were calling to each 
 other from the opposite ends of creation, and then these 
 two voices fused and begun the vivacious melody which 
 continues to the end of the movement. As the orches- 
 tra began the strange sigh which initiates the second 
 movement, there was a perceptible setthng of the audi- 
 ence, and a quietude or attention that gave admirable 
 scope to the low throbbing which the strings set up, as 
 if one were in that silence which Lord Houghton has so 
 well described in his famous 
 
 " The beating of our own hearts 
 Was all the sound we heard." 
 
 The strings beat like a heart. This second movement 
 is in fact a wonderful march, in which the rhythm of the 
 step is also the rhythm of the human heart-beat. We 
 all remember where our own poet uses this same associa- 
 tion of rhythms in the sentiment that our hearts, like 
 muffled drums, are beating funeral marches to the tomb. 
 I make no doubt Beethoven was thinking of this typical 
 organ of man's life beating its way through the dangers 
 of physical nature from birth to death. 
 
 It is interesting to compare the final utterance of great 
 souls in the presence of this death, the most enormous 
 phenomenon which confronts him who looks into Nature. 
 Life, cries an old Greek poet, is but a passage from the 
 tomb to the tomb. Our little life, says Shakspere, is 
 rounded with a sleep. What Beethoven says in this 
 second movement is essentially the same. No one 
 could have failed to notice the profound sigh which the 
 wind instruments so admirably rendered last night at 
 
The Maryland Musical Festival 73 
 
 the beginning and again at the close of this movement. 
 In thus inclosing the beating of the human heart be- 
 tween two sighs, the great musician has but echoed 
 Shakspere and the Greek poet. From a sigh to a sigh 
 — that is the musical exclamation of Beethoven when 
 confronting the awful physical facts of birth and death. 
 
 The third movement of the symphony changed the 
 theme to the wild, lonesome, and secret powers of Nature. 
 Some weeks ago a suggestion in regard to this move- 
 ment was made in a public print, which was so striking 
 and beautiful that it should not be allowed to pass 
 away. It was that this third movement was like the 
 flight of bats and swallows from a ruin. 
 
 Every one who heard the movement played last night 
 must remember how perfectly this idea of the rallying 
 forth of birds, and their constant return, from and to a 
 ruin, at twilight or in darkness, was embodied by the 
 flutterings out and in of the wind- tones, which constantly 
 skimmed out, sailed around, and then returned to hide 
 themselves in the crevices of silence. 
 
 In the fourth movement, again, we saw the gigantic 
 figure of jovial animality in nature careering about the 
 world of tone in unrestrained jubilation. It was the 
 play of that impulse under which the colts caper 
 in meadows and students yell burschen songs over 
 their beer. One could but remember, as the orchestra 
 crashed and thundered through this movement, the 
 words of Mozart when he heard the young Beethoven 
 play: "This youth," he said, "will one day make a 
 noise in the world." The fourth movement of the 
 symphony certainly fulfilled the prediction in both 
 senses. 
 
 The " Calm of the Sea " was admirably rendered, both 
 
74 Music and Poetry 
 
 by orchestra and chorus. It is not necessary here to 
 interpret Beethoven's nature-worship in this remarkable 
 composition, for the words of the song are like stage 
 directions to the mighty sea drama which was enacted 
 in his mind during its composition. Every one could 
 understand the broad, blue, transparent phrases of the 
 calm, and the riotous exultation of bounding wave and 
 favorable breeze, with the jovial yo-heave of the sailors 
 in the succeeding strain. The performance of the 
 chorus brought great and deserved applause from the 
 house. The body of tone was certainly glorious. 
 
 I have taken these two pieces together because they 
 belong to the nature-loving side of Beethoven's genius. 
 When we came to the other pieces on the programme 
 we find them all flowing out of his other side, the 
 humanly affectionate passions in which he was so 
 mighty. As representing these emotions Mr. Rem- 
 mertz sang " In Questa Tomba " and " Adelaide." His 
 rendition of these works was, for the first, exceedingly 
 noble and mournful, and for the last, full of the ecstasy 
 of passionate tenderness. If " Adelaide " is the most 
 tender love song, " In Questa Tomba " is the most ma- 
 jestic death song in the world. Mr. Remmertz's beauti- 
 ful voice interpreted those compositions well ; and one 
 can say little more than that. 
 
 The piano concerto (in G — played by Madame Falk- 
 Auerbach) refers also to the human side of Beethoven. 
 The second movement particularly impresses all as a 
 great discussion between justice on the one hand and 
 mercy on the other, the stern strings in unison repre- 
 senting the former, and the serene piano tones the latter. 
 Madame Auerbach's conception and execution of this 
 piece is beyond all praise. Her greatness and simplic- 
 
The Maryland Musical Festival 75 
 
 ity seem to be genuine emanations from Beethoven's 
 genius. 
 
 The Leonora Overture has been often heard and criti- 
 cised here, and it is only necessary to say now that it 
 was, as a whole, the best orchestral performance of the 
 evening as to technical merit. 
 
 The well-known Hallelujah chorus from the " Mount 
 of Olives" terminated in fine style the most notable 
 concert ever given in Baltimore. 
 
 With last night's concert closed the first Maryland 
 musical festival, at the Academy of Music. An audience 
 larger and, if possible, more brilliant than that of the 
 opening, attended and enthusiastically applauded it to 
 the end. As on Tuesday evening too, it was upon the 
 conjunction of chorus, orchestra, piano, and soli that 
 expectancy mainly rested, and that stood the severest 
 test of merit. The soli in the Choral Fantasy from Bee- 
 thoven, which united the whole force of the festival, 
 were Misses Baraldi, Kate Benner, Jennie Myers, 
 Chisholm, Seeger, Herman, Gillett, Emma Dressel, and 
 Mrs. Neilson; Messrs. John Schomann, Schmidt, Kai- 
 ser, Wahman, Bitter, SteinmuUer, and Mr. Brown, of 
 Wilmington, Del. The receipts of the festival, although 
 not yet officially ascertained, will be in the neighborhood 
 of ;?i3,ooo. 
 
 Coming now to the set programme, there is a point 
 of view from which it becomes exceedingly interesting 
 to compare the Gade Symphony (opus 5, C minor), 
 which opened the first part of the programme, with the 
 beautiful " Jewish Trilogy " of Hamerik, which opened 
 the second part, and for this purpose the latter will 
 have to be considered out of its order. It must have 
 
yG Music and Poetry 
 
 forcibly struck every one who heard the Jewish Trilogy 
 last night that from beginning to end it breathes forth 
 the vital spirit of that wonderful race in a veritable 
 orchestral song. That a young composer, the pupil 
 and friend of Gade (that most Norse of modern Norse- 
 men), and saturated from early life with those striking 
 idiosyncrasies which so thoroughly differentiate Norse 
 compositions in general from all others, should thus 
 successfully project himself beyond himself and into the 
 very heart of a culture so complex and unique as that 
 of the Jews, argues a dramatic power which should be 
 welcomed with pride and delight. It was for the pur- 
 pose of calling special attention to this display of dra- 
 matic power in the Trilogy that a comparison of it with 
 the Gade Symphony was invited in the beginning of 
 this article. The latter is, perhaps, the loveliest and 
 most conclusive type of the whole genius of Norse 
 music ever written. The waves of the wild seas, the 
 depths of great forests in which hunters roam and elves 
 dance by night, the passionate love-making of men at 
 once fierce and tender, and, finally, the marches and 
 jubilations of heroes with blonde beards and massive 
 sinews, — in fine, all those representative ideas which pass 
 through our minds at the mention of the Norseman's 
 name, are set forth in this symphony with a clearness 
 and gracious splendor of instrumental effects beyond de- 
 scription. When, therefore, those who heard the Sym- 
 phony and the Trilogy in such close contact last night 
 remember how captivating are the strongly marked 
 harmonic progressions of the former, and how firmly 
 they must have fixed themselves in the nature of one 
 who comes, as does Mr. Hamerik, from the very home 
 of such music, they will readily perceive that the Trilogy, 
 
The Maryland Musical Festival 77 
 
 which differs from the Symphony as widely as a Jew 
 differs from a Dane, is a real exploit of genius. 
 
 Madame Auerbach's performance of the piano part in 
 the Choral Fantasy displayed all those qualities which 
 have given her an easy place among the first artists of 
 the world. Without notes, as usual, and with a sim- 
 plicity of behavior as truly admirable as it is unusual, 
 she sat at the piano, and throughout the whole long part 
 given to that instrument sustained the solo singers, the 
 chorus, and the orchestra with her surprising airy disposal 
 of technical difficulties and her bright precision of attack. 
 
 Those who heard Mr. Remmertz's powerful rendition 
 of the air from Handel's " Samson " will not hesitate 
 at sympathizing with the utterance of Moscheles upon 
 his great work : " Handel's ' Samson,' which always 
 strengthens and elevates my soul. The first time I 
 heard it I was in ecstasies of delight; since then I 
 have heard every rehearsal and performance of this 
 masterpiece, and always found myself refreshed anew." 
 Handel's mother had herself become blind, and he must 
 have known personally that passion of tenderness which 
 cries in the aria, " Whilst I have eyes, he wants no 
 light." This oratorio was brought out, too, after Han- 
 del's triumphant re-entry into London, which he had 
 quitted in debt and disfavor. One easily fancies that 
 a certain strain of triumph, born out of these memo- 
 ries, is also to be detected in these broad and manly 
 phrases which Mr. Remmertz rendered with such noble 
 conception. 
 
 The last three numbers of the programme were de- 
 voted to Richard Wagner. Of the " Siegfried Idyl " — 
 the first of these three — an analysis is not possible in 
 the limited space at command, but there is one view of 
 
yS Music and Poetry 
 
 it so curious as to merit special mention. We have all 
 seen a certain cyclic tendency of modern things to 
 return to old forms. We have seen modern science 
 reverting to and reaffirming the atomic theories of an 
 ancient Greek speculator. We have seen medicine re- 
 confirming itself with the maxims of old Hippocrates, 
 and Hahnemann erecting into a practical system the 
 similia similibus of Paracelsus. In the same way one 
 finds Wagner in the " Siegfried Idyl " using, with a 
 freer development, the old form of music known as the 
 Discant. From the thirteenth centur}' to the sixteenth 
 the Discant was the typic form of concerted music. It 
 consisted of several melodies, which were sung inde- 
 pendently by different voices, but which were so con- 
 structed as not to jar with each other save in merely 
 passing discords. Wagner appears to revive this form 
 of polyphonic music in the Idyl — and, indeed, in much 
 of his other orchestral work — and to support it with 
 the wholly modern art of harmony. 
 
 This is the explanation of much of the difficulty which 
 most persons feel in perceiving the drift of Wagner's 
 pieces. Probably it will be long before the ears of 
 average audiences will be practised to such keenness 
 that they can detect the multitudinous melodies which 
 arise, sing together, vanish, and re-appear, all through 
 the Idyl. First the violins give out a beautiful tune: 
 presently from another side of the orchestra a different 
 tune strikes in, then another from another side, and so 
 on until every instrument is engaged simultaneously in 
 playing independent tunes. To follow these through 
 their sinuous windings and interweavings is possible only 
 to a practised ear and concentrated attention. An idea 
 of the continual motion of these strange tunes will be 
 
The Maryland Musical Festival 79 
 
 gained by any one who has ever stood near the pool 
 in Druid Hill Park and watched the fish in the depths 
 of the water. First one sees the gleam of an upturned 
 silvery side far down, as one hears some bright momen- 
 tary phrase in the Idyl ; then a subdued flash here and 
 there below the surface of the water calls our attention 
 to dimly outlined forms swimming underneath; then 
 the whole brilliant shoal rises to the top and shines 
 in the sunlight, as in those glorious crescendos and 
 sudden outbursts when Wagner puts the whole orches- 
 tra to bowing and beating for dear life ; then the shoal 
 again sinks, the dark forms of the fish move hither and 
 thither under the water, and finally all disappear. 
 
 In the Scene and Romance from " Tannhauser," Mr. 
 Remmertz merited all that praise which becomes mo- 
 notonous when we have to speak of his performance. 
 
 The concert closed with the March and Chorus from 
 " Tannhauser," and it is enough praise for this special 
 performance to say that it was a fitting termination to 
 the two concerts. The chorus which has gone through 
 these trying rehearsals deserve every mark of recognition 
 for its constancy and its musical grasp of the conductor's 
 ideas. The brilliant outburst of tone in the sharp key 
 of the Tannhauser Chorus revealed the capabilities of 
 the choral members perhaps more clearly than anything 
 they have sung, and bred the universal wish that the 
 organization thus begun might become permanent in 
 the form of a choral association. Taken as a whole, 
 the concert was probably a more enjoyable one to an 
 average audience than that of the previous night, and 
 the heartiness and spontaneity of the applause crowned 
 with unmistakable approval this first effort towards a 
 Maryland musical festival. 
 
8o Music and Poetry 
 
 VI 
 
 The Centennial Cantata 
 
 [A letter printed in the New York Tribune, in May 1876: 
 when the premature publication of the Cantata — in advance of 
 its musical presentation — had subjected it to widespread 
 misconception.] 
 
 I ASK space in your columns for calling the atten- 
 tion of my brother artists in America to a field of 
 inquiry whose results, though as yet partial, are so curi- 
 ous that I cannot but believe some account of them will 
 be at once of genuine service to American art and of in- 
 terest to your readers. 
 
 Probably there are not five English-speaking persons 
 who have ever given an hour's systematic thought to the 
 following question : What changes have been made in 
 the relations of Poetry to Music by the prodigious mod- 
 ern development of the orchestra ? 
 
 It is probably known to most even of non-musical 
 readers that the orchestra of to-day compares with the 
 early orchestra much as a railway train with a stage- 
 coach. Many of the old instruments have been vastly 
 improved ; new ones have been invented ; improved 
 schools of technique have brought about that passages 
 which once would have been entrusted only to solo 
 artists are now written without hesitation for the ordi- 
 nary orchestral player. This extension of orchestral 
 
The Centennial Cantata 8i 
 
 constituents has been accompanied by a corresponding 
 extension of the province of orchestral effects. To the 
 modern musical composer the human voice is simply an 
 orchestral instrument; while on the other hand each 
 orchestral instrument has become a genuine voice with 
 its own peculiar rSle of expression. A composer, there- 
 fore, of the modern school in setting words to music will 
 no longer, as of old, write a solo for the human voice 
 with an accompaniment for the orchestra; but he will 
 write for the orchestra proper, bringing prominently 
 forward in his harmonization only those voices (whether 
 human or merely instrumental) whose peculiar expres- 
 sive powers appear to be required in order to interpret 
 the conceptions of the poetic text. 
 
 Now, what purely intellectual conceptions (for clearly 
 not all) are capable of such orchestral interpretation. 
 This question is intended to leave wholly untouched the 
 great province of emotional expression, in which this 
 author believes the power of music to be supreme and 
 unlimited. The inquiry, strictly stated, is now : What 
 common ground exists to conventionally significant 
 words and the unconventionally significant tones of the 
 modem orchestra? • 
 
 Before advancing to state some very unexpected prin- 
 ciples which will result from this inquiry, it is here neces- 
 sary to observe that the attitude of American criticism 
 toward a recent poem of the author's, known as the 
 Centennial Cantata — an attitude varying between the 
 extremes of enthusiastic admiration and brutal abuse — 
 has clearly revealed the circumstance that the fundamen- 
 tal question herein mooted has not even occurred to 
 more than one or two either of those who blamed or 
 those who praised, though it would seem that not only a 
 
 6 
 
82 Music and Poetry 
 
 discussion but some definite solution of that question 
 must necessarily precede anything like an intelligent 
 judgment of the poem. 
 
 It is necessary, also, to state one final consideration 
 which makes it the plain duty of this author to begin 
 that discussion in person. Much of this praise has come 
 from the section in which he was born, and there is rea- 
 son to suspect that it was based often on sectional pride 
 rather than on any genuine recognition of those artistic 
 theories of which his poem is — so far as he now knows — 
 the first embodiment. Any triumph of this sort is cheap 
 because wrongly based, and to an earnest artist is in- 
 tolerably painful. Here is a situation which leaves me 
 no resource except to make some systematic declaration 
 of the principles underlying this matter, so that what- 
 ever praise or blame they deserve may be meted out to 
 them rather than to the wholly immaterial matter of the 
 locality of the author's birth. 
 
 I desire, therefore, first to propound three principles 
 which appear to result from that new attitude of poetry 
 toward music brought about by the modern extension of 
 the orchestra ; secondly, to verify these a priori deduc- 
 tions by facts a posteriori, that is to say, by examples of 
 the precise sort of ideas which have been actually se- 
 lected by the greatest masters of modern music for rep- 
 resentation in tone ; and thirdly, having thus supported 
 theory by fact, to call attention in the briefest manner 
 to the minute particularity with which these principles 
 are followed out in the poem alluded to. 
 
 In any poem offered by a poet to a modern musical 
 composer, the central idea, as well as every important 
 subordinate idea, should be drawn only from that class 
 of intellectual conceptions which is capable gf being 
 
The Centennial Cantata 83 
 
 adequately expressed by orchestral instruments. The 
 possibility of such expression, emerging from the beauti- 
 ful soul of Gluck, has come down to the modern artist 
 strengthened by occasional holy sanctions from Schubert 
 and Beethoven, by startling confirmations from Berlioz 
 and Liszt and Saint Saens, and even by occasional 
 recognitions from Meyerbeer (notably in his interpreta- 
 tion of a ghost with the bassoons), and from Rossini (as 
 in the William Tell overture). Finally, the gigantic 
 illustrations of Richard Wagner, while they refer more 
 particularly to the interpretation of ideas by tones with 
 the additional assistance of the stage properties — i. e., 
 the musical drama — have nevertheless widened the 
 province of orchestral effects to such a magnificent hori- 
 zon that every modern musical composer, whether con- 
 sciously Wagnerite or not, is necessarily surrounded with 
 a new atmosphere, which compels him to write for the 
 whole orchestra, and not for the human voice as a solo 
 instrument and for the orchestra as a subsidiary one. 
 This principle (a) would therefore seem to be self- 
 evident, inasmuch as every part of the text which does 
 not conform to it is manifestly not available for the 
 musical composer, and is so much waste matter quoad 
 music. 
 
 (U) Inasmuch as only general conceptions are capable 
 of such interpretation, a poem for (say) a cantata should 
 consist of one general idea, animating the whole ; be- 
 sides this, it should be composed of subordinate related 
 ideas; each of these subordinate ideas should be the 
 central idea of a separate stanza, or movement ; each 
 stanza should be boldly contrasted in sentiment with its 
 neighbor stanzas, in order to permit those broad outlines 
 of tone-color which constitute the only means known 
 
§4 Music and Poetry 
 
 to music for differentiating ideas and movements from 
 each other; and, finally, the separate central ideas of 
 these subordinate stanzas, or movements, should not run 
 into each other, but begin and end abruptly. 
 
 An attentive consideration of this principle (b) will go 
 far toward effecting a complete reversal of the generally- 
 received opinion that a poem for musical representation 
 ought necessarily to be perfectly clear, smooth, and natu- 
 ral. For consider : without now having the space to 
 detail an exhaustive list of such conceptions as can be 
 reproduced in music, it is sufficient to say that those 
 conceptions are necessarily always large, always general, 
 always abruptly outlined when in juxtaposition. An 
 illustration drawn from the art of painting will at once 
 make this plain. The illuminating power of music (if 
 one may so express it) is, when compared with that of 
 the non-musical inflections of the human voice in pro- 
 nouncing words, about as moonlight when compared 
 with sunlight. Now fancy that a capricious sovereign 
 should order his court-painter to execute a picture which 
 was to be looked at only by moonlight ; what would be 
 the artist's procedure? In the first place he would 
 choose a mystical subject : for moonlight, with its vague 
 and dreamy suggestions, would be favorable to its treat- 
 ment. He would next select gigantic figures, for the 
 same reason ; and while these figures would have to be 
 even harshly outlined in order to make them distinct, 
 the painter would permit himself indefinite liberty as to 
 the background and as to the space between separate 
 figures, in order to fill these as far as possible with 
 the same vague and dreamy subtleties appropriate to 
 moonlight. 
 
 The poet, called on to write a cantata-text for music. 
 
The Centennial Cantata 85 
 
 is precisely in the position of a painter called on to 
 paint a picture for moonlight; and the author desires 
 that this illustration should be kept in mind when he 
 comes to show presently how this parallel course has 
 been followed. 
 
 {c) When a poetic text is to be furnished for an 
 orchestra in which the human voices greatly outnumber 
 the instrumental voices, the words of the poem ought to 
 be selected carefully with reference to such quality of 
 tone as they will elicit when sung. For example, when 
 a language consists, as ours, mainly of the two classes 
 of Saxon and Latin derivations, and when the nature 
 of the orchestral effect desired is that of a big, manly, 
 yet restrained jubilation, I think the poem ought to be 
 mainly of Saxon words rather than the smoother-sound- 
 ing Latin forms of our language. At any rate, I tried 
 this experiment in the poem alluded to; and I shall 
 presently have occasion to refer to the satisfactory result 
 of it 
 
 Having thus announced — let it here be said, with all 
 disclaimer of dogma and with all the timidity which 
 every pioneer should preserve — these meagre outlines of 
 principles, I come to the second part of my task, which 
 is to verify them by inquiring which kind of ideas or 
 poems have been selected by the greatest musical mas- 
 ters of modern times for orchestral representation. 
 
 The noblest work of Berlioz immediately occurs, in 
 support of the position that a text for music should pre- 
 sent gigantic figures, broadly outlined and even abruptly 
 so sometimes, but giving backgrounds and spaces of 
 vagueness which the artist leaves to the hearer's im- 
 agination to fill up; I mean the well-known "Opium 
 Dream of an Artist," where the first movement presents 
 
86 Music and Poetry 
 
 gigantic horrors surrounding the vision of the loved one, 
 the second contrasts this with a ballroom scene, the 
 third this with a pastoral scene, the fourth this with the 
 march of a doomed man to the scaffold, and so on. 
 Passing from Berlioz to Liszt, I instance the latter's 
 nobler translation into music of Lamartine's Meditation 
 upon Death. 
 
 This immediately suggests the very striking tone-pic- 
 ture which Saint-Saens has made of a French verse de- 
 scribing a dance of skeletons ; indeed, the first line of 
 the verse itself is pure gibberish, being only " Zig, zig, 
 zig." 
 
 As a final example the author may mention that a 
 short time ago, the Peabody orchestra, a band of forty- 
 six musicians at Baltimore, directed by Asger Hamerik, 
 was requested by Dr. Hans von Btilow to play for him, 
 as a personal favor, his own composition called Des 
 Sanger's Fluch (The Minstrel's Curse), being a tone- 
 translation of Uhland's poem of the same name. Late 
 in an afternoon we accordingly met (the author was a 
 member of that orchestra) in the hall of the Peabody 
 Academy, no one being present besides Dr. von BUlow, 
 Mr. Hamerik, and the orchestra. Dr. von Bulow 
 mounted the stand and conducted his own piece with 
 electric fire, and of course with intelligent comprehen- 
 sion. During this highly advantageous rendition noth- 
 ing could have been clearer than the justice of the 
 principles which have been herein before announced; 
 for although Uhland's poem of the Minstrel's Curse 
 is a connected narrative, yet in the tone-rendering 
 all such parts of the poem as were (what I may call) 
 connective tissue, were simply skipped over and there 
 emerged from the magnificent mass of tones only the 
 
The Centennial Cantata 87 
 
 large conception of the two minstrels, the King, the 
 Queen, the farewell, the curse, and so on; and these 
 were the points which the director accentuated in his 
 leading of the band, practically leaving all else to his 
 hearers' imaginations. 
 
 Without the space to multiply these examples, the 
 author now proceeds to the third and last part of 
 this paper, which is an illustration from the Centennial 
 Cantata itself of the manner in which the foregoing 
 principles were carried out in that poem. 
 
 When the author received his very unexpected ap- 
 pointment from the Centennial Commission to write the 
 text for a cantata which was to be interpreted by an 
 orchestra of one hundred and fifty instruments and a 
 chorus of eight hundred voices, it immediately suggested 
 itself to him that the principal matter upon which the 
 citizens of the United States could legitimately felicitate 
 themselves at this time was the fact that after a hundred 
 years of the largest liberty ever enjoyed by mortals they 
 had still a repubUc unimpaired. The idea, then, of the 
 Triumph of the Republic over the opposing powers of 
 nature and of man immediately suggested itself as logi- 
 cally proper to be the central idea of the poem ; and 
 inasmuch as the general idea of triumph over opposition 
 is considered reproducible by well-known orchestral 
 effects, it was made at once the logical and musical 
 Refrain of the work, nature and man shouting several 
 times, " No ! thou shalt not be ! " and the Land finally 
 exclaiming in triumph, " I was, I am, and I shall be." 
 Thus was satisfied the principle above marked (a) . In 
 accordance with principle (i) the poem was constructed 
 in eight different metred stanzas, each of which was 
 informed by its own sentiment, and was differentiated 
 
88 Music and Poetry 
 
 from its neighbor by making that sentiment such as 
 required strong musical contrasts as compared with the 
 sentiment preceding or following it. For example, the 
 first stanza of ten lines was to be interpreted by sober, 
 firm, and measured progressions of chords, representing 
 a colossal figure in meditation. The next (Mayflower) 
 stanza contrasted this with an agitato sea movement, 
 rising gradually to a climax with the shouted Refrain, 
 " No ! it shall not be." The next (Jamestown) move- 
 ment contrasted this with a cold and ghostly tone-color, 
 the author having filled the stanza with long e vocables 
 in order to bring out a certain bassoon quality of tone 
 from the human voices on the "thee, thee," "ye," and 
 the like, and having made the stanza itself a gaunt and 
 bony one in metre and form, to type the trials of the 
 early colonists as they rose before the meditative eye of 
 Columbia out of the weltering sea of the Past. The 
 next (Tyranny) stanza contrasted this with a renewed, 
 but different, fury of agitato movement, presenting to the 
 musical composer a lot of ideas — religious and political 
 oppression, war, error, terror, rage, crime, a windy night, 
 voices of land and sea, and finally a climacteric shout of 
 the Refrain, " No ! thou shalt not be," — all of which were 
 easily reproducible in tone by the resources of the modern 
 orchestra; the next (Huguenot) stanza contrasted this 
 with a rapid and somewhat stealthy movement of alter- 
 nating hope and fear ; the next brought its contrast of 
 the outburst of Triumph in, " I was, I am," etc. ; the 
 next offered an entire contrast in the Angel's Song, 
 which I wrote with the understanding that Mr. Whitney 
 of Boston was to sing it ; and finally this basso solo was 
 contrasted by the unrestrained outburst of all the voices 
 into the jubilation and welcome of the last stanza. 
 
The Centennial Cantata 89 
 
 These separate characterizations were indicated upon 
 the original copy of the form sent the musical composer 
 by marginal notes affixed to each stanza ; and the author 
 cannot think it improper for him to avail himself of this 
 occasion to acknowledge the intelligent comprehension 
 with which Mr. Buck seized these ideas and the drama- 
 tic fire with which he embodied them in tone. Finally, 
 to conclude these illustrations drawn from the Cantata 
 — the author desiring to experiment upon the quality 
 of tone given out by choral voices when enunciating 
 Saxon words, as compared with that from smoother 
 Latin derivatives, wrote his poem almost entirely in the 
 former. Disregarding their hardness in reading — the 
 poem was to be sung, not read — he unhesitatingly dis- 
 carded smooth Latin derivatives for the sake of Saxon 
 ones, being all the more decided in this course by the 
 logical propriety of it. The result was a complete vin- 
 dication. The manner in which the short, sharp, 
 vigorous Saxon words broke, rather than fell, from 
 the lips of the chorus, and a certain suggestion of big 
 manliness produced by the voices themselves in enun- 
 ciating these abrupt vocables, will probably never be 
 forgotten by any unprejudiced person who was in hear- 
 ing of the chorus on the opening day of the Interna- 
 tional Exhibition. 
 
 In closing this paper, the author begs to remind the 
 reader that all herein said of his cantata-text has refer- 
 ence solely to its technical adaptability to musical in- 
 terpretation, and that when he had thought out the 
 principles herein announced his task had but begun; 
 for it still remained to evolve out of these materials any- 
 thing possessing such unity as might entitle it to the 
 name of poem. In point of fact, the course pursued 
 
9o Music and Poetry 
 
 was simply to saturate his mind with these ideas and 
 then wait for the poem to come. 
 
 Nor does the author desire it to be considered that 
 he indorses all the claims of modem music so far as 
 they profess to include the genuine reproduction of 
 pure intellectual conceptions by orchestral tones. In 
 the present stage of his thought, without daring to have 
 a decided opinion either way, he simply awaits further 
 evidence. But for the purposes of this cantata-text, 
 inasmuch as it was to be put forth as representative 
 — to the limits of its province — of American art, the 
 author considered that the doctrines of what is unques- 
 tionably the predominant school of music ought to be 
 recognized in all their fulness. 
 
 Which latter remark enables the author to close his 
 paper by putting the following question : 
 
 Since, taking the meanest possible view of his cantata- 
 text, it was at all events a faithful attempt to embody 
 the status of poetry with regard to the most advanced 
 musical thought of the time, made upon carefully evolved 
 laws and with clear artistic purposes, which is more 
 worthy of his countrymen's acceptance, that, or the far 
 other endeavor of certain newspapers to belittle the 
 largest anniversary's celebration of our country by the 
 treatment of one of its constituent features in a manner 
 which evinced not only a profound unconsciousness of 
 principles, even preliminary to the possibility of any 
 right judgment in the matter, but also a more inexcu- 
 sable disregard for the proprieties of a dignified occasion 
 and for the laws of respectable behavior? 
 
 New York, May 19, 187& 
 
The Legend of St. Leonor 91 
 
 VII 
 
 The Legend of St. Leonor 
 
 [A fragment from an unfinished lecture on "The Relations of 
 Poetry and Science."] 
 
 The scientific man is merely the minister of poetry. 
 He is cutting down the Western Woods of Time ; pres- 
 ently poetry will come there and make a city and gar- 
 dens. This is always so. The man of affairs works 
 for the behoof and use of poetry. Scientific facts have 
 never reached their proper function until they merge into 
 new poetic relations established between man and man, 
 between man and God, or between man and Nature. 
 
 I think I can show you that this has been precisely 
 recognized by the hard practical sense of the common 
 people in other times. I have called the man of sci- 
 ence a pioneer who cuts down the Western Woods of the 
 Universe, in order that presently Poetry may come to 
 that spot and build habitations and pleasances good for 
 man. Now I never think of the man of science without 
 comparing him to one of those wonderful monks of the 
 sixth, seventh, and eighth centuries who came over into 
 the stern forests of Armorica, bearing religion with them, 
 but depending, mark you, on the felling of the forest and 
 the cultivation of the ground as initial steps in the con- 
 version of the people. And hereby hangs the legend 
 which I wish to relate. 
 
92 Music and Poetry 
 
 Once upon a time St. Leonor, with sixty disciples, 
 came to an inhospitable region at the mouth of the 
 Ranee in Armorica, and settled. Their food was of the 
 rudest description, being only what they could obtain 
 from the woods and waters. One day the good Bishop 
 Leonor, while praying, happened to see a small bird car- 
 rying a grain of wheat in its beak. He immediately set 
 a monk to watching the bird, with instructions to follow 
 it when it flew away. The monk followed the bird, and 
 was led to a place in the forest where he found several 
 stalks of wheat growing. This was probably the last relic 
 of some ancient Gallo-Roman farm. St. Leonor, on ■ 
 learning the news, was overjoyed. " We must clear the 
 forest and cultivate the ground," he exclaimed, and im- 
 mediately put the sixty at work. Now the work was 
 hard, and the sixty disciples groaned with tribulation as 
 they toiled and sweated over the stubborn oaks and the 
 briary underbrush. But when they came to plough, the 
 labor seemed beyond all human endurance. I do not 
 know how they ploughed ; but it is fair to suspect that 
 they had nothing better than forked branches of the 
 gnarly oaks with sharpened points for ploughs, and as 
 there is no mention of cattle in the legend, the presump- 
 tion is fair that these good brothers hitched themselves 
 to the plough and pulled. This presumption is strength- 
 ened by the circumstance that, in a short time, the sixty 
 rebelled outright. They begged the Bishop to abandon 
 agriculture and go away from that place. " Pater " 
 (naively says the Bollandist recounter of the legend), — 
 " Pater," cried the monks, " oramus te ut de loco isto 
 recedas." 
 
 But the stout old father would not recede. No ; we 
 must get into beneficial relations with this soil. Then 
 
The Legend of St. Leonor 93 
 
 the monks assembled together by night, and, having 
 compared opinions, found it the sense of the meeting 
 that they should leave the very next day, even at pain of 
 the abandonment of the Bishop. So, next morning, when 
 they were about to go, behold ! a miracle stopped them : 
 twelve magnificent stags marched proudly out of the 
 forest and stood by the ploughs, as if inviting the yoke. 
 The monks seized the opportunity. They harnessed the 
 stags, and these diligently drew the ploughs all that day. 
 When the day's work was done, and the stags were 
 loosed from harness, they retired into the forest. But 
 next morning the faithful wild creatures again made their 
 appearance and submitted their royal necks to the yoke. 
 Five weeks and three days did these animals labor for 
 the brethren. 
 
 When the ground was thoroughly prepared, the Bishop 
 pronounced his blessing upon the stags, and they passed 
 quietly back into the recesses of the forest. Then the 
 Bishop sowed his wheat, and that field was the father of 
 a thousand other wheat-fields, and of a thousand other 
 homes, with all the amenities and sweetnesses which are 
 implied in that ravishing word. 
 
 Now, here is the point of this legend in this place. 
 Of course, the twelve stags did not appear from the 
 forest and plough ; and yet the story is true. The thing 
 which actually happened was that the Bishop Leonor, by 
 his intelligence, foresight, practical wisdom, and faithful 
 perseverance, reclaimed a piece of stubborn and imprac- 
 ticable ground, and made it good, arable soil. (It is 
 also probable that the story was immediately suggested 
 by the re-taming of cattle which the ancient Gallo-Roman 
 people had allow^ed to run wild. The bishops did this 
 sometimes.) This was a practical enough thing ; it is 
 
94 Music and Poetry 
 
 being done every day ; it was just as prosaic as any com- 
 mercial transaction. But, mark you, the people — for 
 this legend is a pure product of the popular imagination 
 of Brittany — the people who came after saw how the 
 prosaic wheat-field of the Bishop had flowered into the 
 poetical happiness of the rude and wild inhabitants who 
 began to gather about his wheat patch, and to plant fields 
 and build homes of their own ; and, seeing that the prose 
 had actually become thus poetic, the people (who love 
 to tell things as they really are, and in their deeper rela- 
 tions) the people have related it in terms of poetry. 
 The bird and the stags are terms of poetry. But, notice 
 again, that these are not silly, poetic licenses ; they are 
 not merely a child's embellishments of a story ; the bird 
 and the stags are not real ; but they are true. For what 
 do they mean? They mean the powers of Nature. 
 They mean, as here inserted, that if a man go forth, sure 
 of his mission, fervently loving his fellow-men, working 
 for their benefit; if he adhere to his mission through 
 good and evil report ; if he resist all endeavor to turn him 
 from it, and faithfully stand to his purpose, — presently 
 he will succeed; for the powers of Nature will come 
 forth out of the recesses of the universe and offer them- 
 selves as draught-animals to his plough. The popular 
 legend is merely an affirmation in concrete forms of this 
 principle ; the people, who are all poets, know this truth. 
 We moderns, indeed, — we whose practical experiences 
 beggar the wildest dreams of antiquity, — have seen a 
 wilder (beast) creature than a stag come out of the 
 woods for a faithful man. We have seen steam come 
 and plough the seas for Fulton ; we have seen lightning 
 come and plough the wastes of space for Franklin and 
 Morse. 
 
Nature-Metaphors 95 
 
 VIII 
 
 Nature-Metaphors 
 
 Metaphors come of love rather than of thought. 
 They arise in the heart as vapors; they gather them- 
 selves together in the brain as shapes; they then 
 emerge from lip, from pen, from brush, from chisel, from 
 violin, as full works, as creations, as Art. 
 
 Love — a term here used to signify the general under- 
 lying principle of all emotion, the to {nroKciftevov of all 
 passion — originates metaphors by reason of its essential 
 duality. Like Novalis' " Pupil," love " can see nothing 
 alone." It exists upon a necessary hypothesis of two 
 parties, one loving and one beloved. As between these 
 two parties, the overwhelming desire of love is always 
 union. Marriage, indeed, is a large term. For all loves, 
 human, divine, friendly, social, political, ethnical, and 
 certain other loves for which we have yet no name, since 
 man has but recently come into the full possession and 
 exercise of them, — all these primarily and immediately 
 demand some sort of union, some sort of marriage, be- 
 tween the two parties. 
 
 It is the last-named kind of these loves — the kind 
 for which we have yet no name — that specially concerns 
 us in this writing, for the unions or marriages produced 
 by this kind of love are what I have called nature- 
 metaphors. 
 
96 Music and Poetry 
 
 I speak of the love of man for physical nature, and of 
 that strange and manifold transfusing of human nature 
 into physical nature which has developed the most inter- 
 esting phasis of modern culture and which constitutes 
 the most striking characteristic of modem art. 
 
 In a certain sense — which will appear in what follows 
 — this humanization of physical nature is not only a 
 striking but also a distinctive characteristic of modern as 
 opposed to ancient art. To transfer actions, thoughts, 
 and feelings to natural objects and phenomena ; to rep- 
 resent these as existing and occurring, if not consciously, 
 at least by the will and pleasure of inhabiting divinities ; 
 nay, to completely transform these so that they were re- 
 cognized and alluded to as beings, loving, fighting, work- 
 ing, planning : it is true that even in the ancient times 
 this was a quite common procedure of that old instinct 
 in man which draws him into blind love and reverence 
 for the sun-risings, the star-gatherings, the seas, the 
 storms, the trees, the mountains ; and these old meta- 
 phors of the first poets reappear to us sometimes in the 
 strangest guises. We find them becoming, after the 
 lapse of years, fair religions which govern the hearts and 
 control the souls of great peoples for long ages. Recent 
 comparative philology, examining the mythologies of 
 Greece, of Persia, of Egypt, of India, of Scandinavia, 
 assures us with much show of truth that these systems 
 which once, while in their primary purity, commanded 
 the loving respect of men, derive their origin in great 
 measure from stocks of metaphorical names applied by 
 the old poets to natural objects and occurrences, espe- 
 cially to the sun and his doings. 
 
 But nature-metaphors, after having in the ancient days 
 played so important a part, — of giving a faith to the 
 
Nature-Metaphors 97 
 
 otherwise untutored and uncontrollable soul of the young 
 world, — continue in far other fashion to exert their fine 
 influences upon men in these later days. Yet even now 
 the nature-metaphor finds among us a recognition which, 
 though universal and unequivocal, is still inexplicit and 
 undefined to such a degree that by a large class of very 
 intelligent critics the reproach of metaphor-mongering 
 has been cast upon poets whose hold on the popular 
 heart is impregnable. Nor is this all. Of the many 
 people whose lives are daily refreshed by those good 
 streams of subjective and domestic poetry which flow so 
 freely of late days, few enjoy the pure and serene delight 
 of metaphors without feeling a certain sense of shame in 
 deriving pleasure from what is explicitly regarded as not 
 the highest in art, or without endeavoring to find under- 
 neath the mere beauty some didactic truth or wholesome 
 aphorism to chaperone their young delight, to protect it 
 from light company, and to shed dignity upon it. These 
 persons cannot free themselves from the haunting recol- 
 lection that the ascendant criticism of the day regards 
 nature-metaphors rather in the light of " fancies," and 
 calls vociferously for something solid to underlie all beau- 
 tiful expressions of that sort. 
 
 This inconsistency between our instinctive taste — 
 which undoubtedly loves nature-metaphors — and our 
 critical education — which undoubtedly is a little afraid 
 of them — leads one to go behind it, and to inquire 
 what after all is precisely the nature-metaphor, how does 
 it as a poetic form consist with the modem modus of 
 thought, and what is its importance to the interests of 
 modern culture. 
 
 It has been -before remarked that the metaphor is 
 always a union of two objects. The nature-metaphor is 
 
 7 
 
g8 Music and Poetry 
 
 a union of human nature with physical nature. Clay 
 informed with a soul, this is a type of the nature-meta- 
 phor. Man himself precisely answers these conditions. 
 Man is clay informed with a soul. It is therefore only a 
 seemmg stretch of language to say that man is the first 
 metaphor. In this union of the physical and the spirit- 
 ual, such as man himself presents, there is a most taking 
 sweetness, since the parties to it are the two most widely 
 differing forms in the universe. Matter is in itself dead.\ 
 Traditions prove it to have been so regarded by all na- ' 
 tions in all times. Even the heathen find themselves 
 under the necessity of inventing deities to preside over 
 all its movements, over the thunder, over the growing of 
 the grass, over the moving of the winds and seas, over 
 the flowing of the rivers. In all the mythologies these / 
 things go on by virtue of divinities within, never by virtue 
 of themselves. 
 
 Spirit, on the other hand, lives, and by some name or 
 another is recognized everywhere and at all times as the 
 converse of matter in this respect. 
 
 When, therefore, these two come together and a beau- 
 tiful One is formed ; when, that is, a nature-metaphor is 
 made, in which soul gives life to matter and matter gives 
 Antsean solidity to soul, each complementing the other's 
 significance, each meaning the other in such will-o'-wisp 
 transfigurations as the mind cannot easily analyse — one 
 must confess that here is something more than a mere 
 "frothy fancy," however light may be the apparent 
 weight of the ideas employed. One must see that each 
 metaphor of this kind is noble by divine lineage, since 
 God has decreed the correlative intersignificance of man 
 and man's earth : noble by long pedigree, since the 
 youngest nations of known time found their delight and 
 
Natxire-Metaphors 99 
 
 their faith in the wildest of metaphors, and since all the 
 highest love-songs, the Song of Solomon, the Gita- 
 Govinda, the /Eneid, all, down to our most loving poetry 
 of to-day, are burdened with metaphoric sweetness j and 
 lastly, noble by virtue of innate greatness and goodness 
 and captivating loveliness, for all men respond to meta- 
 phor, all hearts open to give it place, and all souls in 
 their inmost confessions acknowledge its power. One 
 must believe that the poet who has uttered a beautiful 
 metaphor is conscious of having beautifully re-created 
 himself in petto. Fair Protean Nature, fair Protean Soul, 
 I have married you again, I have given you another 
 honeymoon ! — must be the happy cry of the artist. 
 
 Essentially, then, the first of the questions proposed is 
 now answered. Our nature- metaphor is a beautiful 
 eternal bridal of spirit and matter, in which the immor- 
 tality of the former gains \heform of the latter, and the 
 form of the latter gains the immortality of the former ; 
 each being transfused with the other like the souls of 
 true man and wife, and both having given without losing, 
 and acquired without taking away. 
 
 How, then, does this so intrinsically noble form of 
 expression consist with the modern mode of thought? 
 And what, first, is the modern mode of thought ? 
 
 This last question cannot be better answered than by 
 observing the difference between the genius of modern 
 language and the genius of ancient language ; for these 
 physical forms of thought exhibit a very rigid parallelism 
 with, and indeed mould themselves by, thought itself. 
 To illustrate more moderate differences by an extreme 
 one, let us compare, in only a few prominent particulars, 
 the English tongue with the Greek. 
 
 One notices at first view that the English performs the 
 
lOO Music and Poetry 
 
 work — or more than the work — of the Greek with far 
 less cumbersome machinery. Isi the Greek, for instance, 
 one finds, as regards the nouns, three methods of declen- 
 sion, each with its five forms of inflection, terminating 
 differently in singular, dual, and plural numbers. Three 
 of these forms, the genitive, dative, and accusative, sus- 
 tain complicated relations to the verbs and the preposi- 
 tions. The adjectives, in all their degrees, which are 
 themselves of complex form, have also their quintuple 
 inflections, which again vary among themselves according 
 to the gender. Still more cumbrous complexities pre- 
 sent themselves in the numerous tense-forms, voice- 
 form, and mood-forms of the verbs. 
 
 Opposed to this, one finds in English nouns but a 
 single inflection; while English prepositions and verbs 
 are as precise and as plastic as Greek prepositions and 
 verbs aided by manifold changes of termination. 
 
 So to the Greek adjective, varied by five cases differ- 
 ing as the adjective is masculine, feminine, or neuter, 
 differing further as the adjective is singular, dual, or 
 plural, and still further as positive, comparative, or 
 superlative, the English adjective opposes its form un- 
 inflected as to case, unchanged for gender or number, 
 and varying mostly by simple laws only for degrees of 
 comparison. 
 
 In the same way one finds that the English verb 
 (excluding irregular verbs common to both languages) 
 with a few simple changes of form expresses, by the not 
 complex machinery of the auxiliary verbs, all the shades 
 of meaning possible to the Greek verb. 
 
 No less is the prosodial machinery of the Greek 
 language embarrassed by intricacies which do not ap- 
 pear in the English. One can scarcely imagine a cir- 
 
Nature-Metaphors loi 
 
 cumstance, aside from fundamental structural harshness, 
 more unfavorable to melody of poetic expression than 
 those very rules of rigid "quantity" which have been 
 supposed by modern insane Grecians to conduce to 
 music. An English poem written in the metre, or 
 rather the metres, of the Prometheus Bound, would be 
 far less rhythmical and far less melodious than many 
 pages selected at random from the prose-writings of 
 English authors who could be named. 
 
 When to all these complexities of the Greek tongue 
 one adds the varying position and number of the accents, 
 and the changes in the sound of the same word pro- 
 duced by the occurrence of long or short vowels in the 
 oblique cases, together with the lawless superposition of 
 the accent in the nominative case, one cannot fail to 
 conclude that the English has in a wonderful degree at 
 once simplified the machinery and extended the possible 
 range of language as a working instrument in prose and 
 as a singing instrument in poetry. 
 
 Now these characteristic differences between the 
 Enghsh and Greek languages will be found to be at 
 bottom the characteristic differences also between mod- 
 ern and ancient thought. The change from ancient to 
 modem modes of thought and language is quite parallel 
 with and is well illustrated by that which has occurred in 
 military tactics and organizations. The heavy infantry 
 of only a few years ago, with its straight lines, its angular 
 movements, and its prescribed slow gait, is gone : in its 
 place we have the hght-armed troops who move either 
 in right lines, curved Hnes, or oblique lines, who walk, 
 trot, run, kneel, lie down, who load and fire at will or 
 command, who separate at five paces and rally by fours 
 or by regiment, as occasion requires. 
 
I02 Music and Poetry 
 
 Ancient thought was strong: modern thought has 
 retained this strength and added to it a wonderful 
 agiUty. Ancient thought was a huge Genie : modern 
 thought is a Genie or a lightsome Ariel at will. 
 
 These then being the peculiarities of modem thought, 
 how does the nature-metaphor fulfil the requirements 
 of this modem intellectual modus, which is so simple 
 and so wide-spanning, so domestic and so daring? 
 
 Truly, the two seem made for each other. The met- 
 aphor by its very constitution demands of the artist the 
 utmost simplicity of construction, and rewards the artist 
 with the widest range of application and significance. 
 For instance, the most meagre description of Napoleon 
 and Washington will have instantly acquired, so far as 
 the poetic impression upon the mind of the reader is 
 concerned, a force and a beauty unattainable by any 
 amount of detail, when the writer finishes it with : 
 " Napoleon was lightning, Washington was sunlight." 
 Here in a simple sextiole of words are bound up the 
 most prominent characteristics of the men, to be un- 
 folded at the reader's leisure. But now the idea of 
 lightning, though so conjoined with the name of the 
 great soldier, is by no means limited to this association ; 
 for in the next moment the poet may sing, without fear 
 of confusion, of the lightning in a lady's eye, and so on 
 to eternity. 
 
 True, however, as is this consonance of the nature- 
 metaphor with modern intellectual processes, this truth 
 is yet not the gravest one in this connection, and does 
 not lie at the root of the matter. For — if one did not 
 fear to write too much about love lest one (alas, the 
 times !) be suspected of lightness — the question might 
 have been asked, how does the nature-metaphor suit the 
 
Nature-Metaphors 103 
 
 tendency of modern love, rather than of modern thought i 
 This indeed would have been the appropriate inquiry; 
 for wherever society locates its love (that is, its want, 
 its desire), there she sends intellect to work in its ser- 
 vice j and if one wish to discover whither the thought of 
 a time is flying, one must discover iirst whither the love 
 (or want, or desire) of the time has flown. 
 
 Now, nothing strikes the thoughtful observer of mod- 
 ern literature more quickly or more forcibly than the 
 great yearning therein displayed for intimate companion- 
 ship with nature. And this yearning, mark, justifies 
 itself upon far other authority than that which one finds 
 in, for example, the Greek nature-seeking. Granted 
 the instinctive reverence for nature common to both 
 parties : the Greek believed the stream to be inhabited 
 by a nymph, and the stream was wonderful to him be- 
 cause of this nymph ; but the modern man believes no 
 such thing. One has appeared who continually cried 
 love, love, love — love God, love neighbors; and these 
 "neighbors" have come to be not only men-neighbors, 
 but tree-neighbors, river-neighbors, star-neighbors. The 
 stream — to carry on the Greek parallel — has acquired 
 so much individuality independent of any inhabiting 
 nymph, that men may love it, may be neighbors to it 
 and neighbored by it, and may live life with it in the 
 finest harmony. 
 
 Here, then, it is seen how nature, which before 
 depended on mere blind reverence and on imagined 
 indwelling deities for its hold on man's soul, has now 
 become so far able to dispense with these as to claim a 
 genuine love from man on its own individual account. 
 How infinite is the field so added to the range of man's 
 love ! How beautiful and how numerous the unions of 
 
I04 Music and Poetry- 
 
 human emotion and physical phenomena made possible 
 in virtue of this wholly new and sweet relation between 
 humanity and nature ! 
 
 This way, then, society has now sent its love — towards 
 nature ; and the manifold relation between society and 
 nature, demanding expression, finds it in the nature- 
 metaphor, and revels in this with the finest and com- 
 pletest of satisfactions. 
 
 It must be remarked that one finds in the Hindu charac- 
 ter a far nearer approach to this modern view of nature 
 than in the Greek and Roman. Let us see by actual 
 experiment how differently the hearts of the Hindu, 
 of the Roman, and of the Englishman framed their 
 nature-metaphors. Hear the poet Jayadeva, in the 
 Gita- Govinda : — 
 
 The gale that has wantoned around the beautiful clove-plant 
 breathes from the hill of Malaya. . . . 
 
 The Tamila, with leaves dark and fragrant, claims a tribute 
 from the Musk, which it vanquishes. . . . 
 
 The tender blossom of the Caruna smiles to see the whole 
 world laying sham aside. . . . 
 
 The fresh Malica seduces with rich perfume even the hearts of 
 hermits, while the Amra-tree with blooming tresses is embraced 
 by the gay creeper Atimucta. . . . 
 
 Another stands meditating on the Lotus of his face. . . . 
 
 Whose mantle gleams like a dark-blue cloud illumined with 
 rainbows. . . . 
 
 Lips brilliant and soft as a dewy leaf. . . . 
 
 Her face, with eyebrows contracting themselves through a just 
 resentment, resembles a fresh Lotus over which two black bees 
 are fluttering. . . . 
 
 Her face is like a water-lily veiled in the dew of tears. . . . 
 
 Her sighs are flames of fire kindled in a thicket ; herself is a 
 timid roe, and love is the tiger who springs on her like Yama, the 
 genius of death. . . . 
 
 Her eyes, like blue water-lilies, with broken stalks dropping 
 lucid streams. . . . 
 
Nature-Metaphors 105 
 
 Long has she been heated with sandal-wood, moonlight and 
 water-lilies, with which others are cooled. . . . 
 
 Many a ilower points his extended petals to pierce the bosoms 
 of separated lovers. . . . 
 
 The breeze which has kissed thy cheek. . . . 
 
 A mind languid as a drooping wing, feeble as a trembling 
 leaf. . . . 
 
 O thou who sparkiest like lightning 1 . . . 
 
 He is a blue gem on the forehead of the three worlds. . . . 
 
 Drowned in a sea of rapturous imaginations. . . . 
 
 The moon spread a net of beams over the groves of Vrindavan, 
 and looked like a drop of liquid sandal on the face of the sky, 
 which smiled like a beautiful damsel. 
 
 Flowers are indeed the arrows of love, and he plays with them 
 cruelly. . . . 
 
 Her face, like the moon, is graced with clouds of dark 
 hair. . . . 
 
 She floats on the waves of desire. . . . 
 
 He fixes white blossoms on her dark locks, where they gleam 
 like flashes of lightning among the curled clouds. . . . 
 
 Her arms graceful as the stalks of the water-lily, and adorned 
 with hands glowing like the petals of that flower. . . . 
 
 Whose wanton eyes resemble blue water-lilies, agitated by the 
 breeze. . . . 
 
 His azure breast glittered with pearls of unblemished lustre, 
 like the full bed of the cerulean Yamuna interspersed with curls 
 of white foam. . . . 
 
 Liquid bliss. . . . 
 
 The fire of separation. . . . 
 
 These are nearly all the metaphorical expressions in 
 the Gita-Govinda. 
 
 Hear now the Hindu's opposite, Virgil. One will 
 notice in passing how the multitudinous imagery of the 
 Hindu, devoted to some phase of love, is contrasted 
 with the monotonous figures of the Roman used for the 
 same purpose. These are mostly variations of some idea 
 connected with fire: it is always urit ("she burns"), 
 amore incensus ("inflamed with love"); this, too, in 
 
io6 Music and Poetry 
 
 spite of the fact that Virgil approaches nearer the pas- 
 sion-unfolding poets of later days than most ancient 
 writers. The following are nearly all the metaphorical 
 expressions in the first two hundred lines of the Fourth 
 Book of the yEneid, in which book it might be sup- 
 posed that the climax of Dido's hot indecision would 
 be revealed in the strongest forms of expression known 
 to the poet. These strongest forms are almost always 
 nature-metaphors. The translation is, of course, for such 
 a purpose, literal : 
 
 She fosters the wound in her vems, and is consumed with 
 hidden fire. 
 
 The following Aurora was lighting the lands with Fhoebean 
 lamp, and had removed the humid shadow from the sky. 
 
 Tossed \jactatus\ by the fates \sc. as by the waves of the sea]. 
 
 I recognize the marks of the old flame [of love]. 
 
 But would that the earth might gape for me to the bottom, 
 would that the omnipotent father might hurl me with lightning to 
 the shades, the pallid shades, of Erebus and to profound night. 
 
 O dearer to thy sister than life \luce, light] shalt thou alone, 
 sad, through thy whole youth be wasted \carpSre: be plucked, as 
 a flower which therefore dies]. 
 
 With these words she inflamed a soul already burning with love. 
 
 Winter and watery Orion grew fierce upon the sea. 
 
 Meanwhile the soft flame eats her marrow. 
 
 Unhappy Dido burns As an arrow-pierced doe among 
 
 the woods of Crete, whom incautious some pursuing shepherd 
 has shot and ignorantly left wounded, wanders in flight through 
 woods and groves Dictsean. 
 
 The obscure moon by turns conceals her light and the setting 
 stars invite sleep. 
 
 When to-morrow's sun [Titan] shall have netted the earth vrith 
 his beams. 
 
 Meantime, the Morning, arising, left the ocean. 
 
 First Tellus and Juno, the marriage-goddess, give sign : light- 
 nings glittered, and the air conscious of the nuptials, and from the 
 summit of the peak chanted the nymphs. 
 
 Inflames his mind with words. 
 
Nature-Metaphors 107 
 
 And now the master. How he makes all nature alive 
 in The Tempest! — 
 
 Blow [addressing the storm] till thou burst thy wind, 
 if room enough ! 
 
 Boats. — You do assist the storm. 
 
 Gon. — Nay, good, be patient. 
 
 Boats. — When the sea is. Hence I What care these roarers 
 for the name of King ? 
 
 He '11 be hanged yet, though every drop of water swear against 
 it, and gape at wid'st to glut him. 
 
 The sky, it seems, would pour down stinlcing pitch, 
 But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek. 
 Dashes the fire out. 
 
 The very minute bids thee ope thine ear. 
 
 He was 
 The ivy which had hid my princely trunk 
 And sucked the verdure out on't. 
 
 I' the dead of darkness. 
 
 To cry to the sea that roared to us : to sigh 
 To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again, 
 Did us but loving wrong. 
 
 Our sea-sorrow. 
 
 In the veins o' the earth. 
 
 His bold waves. 
 
 It was mine art 
 
 That made gape 
 
 The pine, and let thee out. 
 
 I will rend an oak 
 
 And peg thee in his knotty entrails. 
 
 Wicked dew. 
 
 Come unto these yellow sands. 
 And there take hands. 
 Curtsied when you have, and kissed 
 ( The wild waves whist), 
 
io8 Music and Poetty 
 
 Foot itfeatly here and there. 
 And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. 
 Hark, hark 1 
 
 [Burden] Bowgh, wowgh, 
 
 The match-dogs bark. 
 [Burden] Bowgh, wowgh. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! I hear 
 
 The strain of strutting Chanticlere 
 
 Cry Cock-a-doodle-doo. 
 
 Most sure, the goddess 
 On whom these airs attend. 
 
 Mine eyes, ne'er since at ebb. 
 
 I saw him beat the surges under him 
 
 And ride upon their baclss : he trod the water 
 
 Whose enmity he flung aside : 
 
 ... his bold head 
 'Bove the contentious waves, and oared 
 Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke 
 To the shore that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd. 
 As stooping to relieve him. 
 
 It is foul weather in us all, good sir, 
 When you are cloudy. 
 
 That from Naples 
 
 Can have no note unless the sun were post 
 
 (The man in the moon 's too slow). 
 
 'T is fresh morning with me 
 When you are by at night. 
 
 Whom destiny . . . 
 The never surfeited sea. 
 Hath cause to belch up. 
 
 Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it. 
 Him and his innocent child. 
 
 For which foul deed 
 The powers . . . have 
 Incensed the seas and shores. 
 
 The billows spoke and told me of it : 
 The winds did sing it to me. 
 
Nature-Metaphors 109 
 
 Night, kept chained below. 
 
 Virgin snow. 
 
 Thy banks with peonied and lilied brims. 
 Which spungy April at thy hest betrims. 
 
 Spring come to you at farthest 
 In the very hand of harvest. 
 
 They smote the air 
 
 For breathing in their faces ; beat the ground 
 
 For kissing of their feet. 
 
 His tears ran down his beard like winter's drops 
 From eaves of reeds. 
 
 Called forth the mutinous winds, 
 
 And 'twixt the green sea and the azure vault 
 
 Set roaring war. 
 
 And as the morning steals upon the night, 
 Melting the darkness, so their rising senses 
 Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle 
 Their clearer reason. 
 
 Though the seas threaten, they are merciful. 
 
 These specimens of nature-metaphors exhibit very 
 clearly the differing relations of the ancient and of the 
 modern poet to nature. The ancient is rigorously re- 
 stricted in his use of those rich materials which nature 
 affords for the expression of beauty and passion. He is not 
 only restricted in the use, but in the material itself : nature 
 does not furnish so much to him as to his later brother. 
 At best, nature comes to him in the person of the deities 
 and half-deities which inhabit it ; these divinities have 
 each an appointed office and a conventional significance, 
 and to these pre-appointments and conventionalities he 
 is limited in his employment of nature for poetic pur- 
 poses. Thus, when Virgil has brought Dido and .(Eneas 
 to the same cave on the mountain-side, with the instinct 
 
no Music and Poetry 
 
 of a poet he makes resort to nature for the purpose of 
 strengthening and heightening the climacteric situation. 
 He cites Tellus, and pronuba Juno, and ignes and con- 
 scius ^ther, and the ululating nymphs. But how limited 
 his use of these ! What an intense climax of human 
 passion, long fought against, now conquering, brought to 
 reach of its burning satisfaction amid rain-rivers rushing 
 from the mountains (ruunt amnes de montibus), cloud 
 with hail intermingled {commixta grandine nimbus), and 
 all those fearful accessories of the storm which beat out 
 the outer world and for the time annihilate the whole 
 universe except these two passionate hearts that now 
 come together for the first time ! How gloriously might 
 this have been told by a modern poet, to whom nature, 
 instead of being a few rigidly-defined personalities, means 
 all things, and helps him to say all things, according only 
 as his soul has power to grasp and wield what is oifered 
 him. 
 
 In the Hindu poet one finds nature a little more 
 freed from constraint, yet still limited. The principal 
 parts she plays are mostly drawn either from love or from 
 war, and only the most prominent characteristics of natu- 
 ral objects — such as the foam of the water, the color 
 and shape of the leaf and the flower, and the like — are 
 employed. Here are none of those inexhaustible re- 
 sources which lie in such details of natural appearances 
 as, although less prominent, are -yet quickly recalled to 
 the recollection of the most cursory observer of nature. 
 In George Eliot's Spanish Gypsy, for instance, the suc- 
 cessive gradations of light in a Spanish sunset are made 
 to do noble work ; each changing tint, from the glitter of 
 the first glories to the gray twilight, comes thronged with 
 marvellous-sweet images and meanings to which the 
 
Nature-Metaphors 1 1 1 
 
 ancient poet was a stranger. The ancient poet would 
 have dismissed the sunset as a single scene, — a glory 
 which subsided and was not. 
 
 And this brings us to the Tempest images, in which one 
 sees nature still personal, it is true, but so far from being 
 definitely personified, nature is here one person, or all 
 persons, or any person, or any passionate phase of any 
 person. And herein lies the gist of the matter. Nature 
 is like music. The meanings of the tones are not — as 
 in language — preconcerted among men ; each tone is 
 free to mean all things, depending on its situation ; nay, 
 further, each hearing soul may translate the same tone 
 differently for itself, may bend the music to its own par- 
 ticular need, as the humor strikes. And so with nature. 
 Its objects and its phenomena are at the will and pleasure 
 of the poet, to be informed with whatever spiritual phasis 
 he may choose to perpetuate. No caprice of the poet's 
 but he may find some nature-form to put it in. 
 
 And this, of caprice, introduces another peculiarity of 
 the modern nature-metaphor as opposed to the ancient. 
 In regarding these peculiarities, especially as exhibited 
 by our greatest poets, one cannot help being struck with 
 such forms of expression as occur in the song above 
 quoted from The Tempest. Ariel is singing to the sprites, 
 while he hovers over Ferdinand's head : 
 
 " Come unto these yellow sands, 
 And then take hands. 
 Curtsied when you have, and kissed 
 (The wild waves whist), 
 Foot it featly here and there. 
 And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. 
 Hark, harkl " 
 
 — and suddenly, by an apparently immeasurable and un- 
 accountable transition of thought, occurs — 
 
112 Music and Poetry 
 
 " Bowgh, wowgh. 
 The watch-dogs bark, 
 
 Bowgh, wowgh, 
 Hark I hark I I hear 
 The strain of strutting Chanticlere 
 Cry, Cock-a-doodle-doo." 
 
 Now — and this is far from being Shakspere-worship, 
 since many similar instances are adducible out of other 
 writers — surely no delicately-tuned poetic soul but must 
 find in this bizarre introduction of watch- dog and 
 chanticlere a rare exquisite pleasure. The secret of this 
 pleasure, however, and the principle upon which the ap- 
 parently so irrelevant idea of watch-dogs and crowing 
 cocks is thrust into a song of sprites, are not so easy to 
 discover. It is under the impression that these are gen- 
 uine metaphorical expressions, in which the link between 
 the primary and the conferred significations is refera- 
 ble to intangible and quickly-vanishing trains of thought, 
 that they are cited in this place. For this impression 
 strong grounds are not wanting. Who that has gazed 
 upon a barking dog has not had come over him some- 
 what of that evanescent out-world sensation which arises 
 when one (for instance) repeats a familiar word many 
 times until it grows unfamiliar and wholly mysterious? 
 Who has not begun to dream of the weird powers of na- 
 ture that float, rather in suggestion than in person, in the 
 strange eye of the animal ? Who has not shivered at the 
 evil secrets which seem to dwell in the red-rimmed eye of 
 the crowing cock, secrets which somehow seem to link 
 themselves on the one hand with that wild moment in 
 which a cock announced to the unseen ears of the 
 thronged night the treachery of Peter, and on the other 
 hand with those fascinating tales which among all nations 
 
Nature-Metaphors 113 
 
 reveal a suspicion of inner meanings in animal-cries, — 
 such, for instance, as the tale of the female magicians in 
 the Arabian Nights, who learn the language of animals and 
 gather strange news and prophecies from them? This 
 — if indeed my words convey any trace of those ideas 
 which are so intangible that they cannot be directly im- 
 parted but only chance-awakened by some happy sugges- 
 tion — is the conferred meaning which, in the song 
 alluded to, gives to the ideas of dog and cock their meta- 
 phorical character. 
 
 Such instances are not found in the ancient poets. 
 They require a delicacy of organization both in writer 
 and reader not likely to be found in earlier ages than 
 this. In old poets one finds rather strength than deli- 
 cacy, rather power than beauty. And this is the order 
 of nature. In art, as in all things, Jupiter conquers Sa- 
 turn, beauty supplants strength; or — abetter fable — 
 strength dies and is born again as beauty. 
 
 If we come now, in accordance with the procedure 
 suggested, to inquire lastly what is the importance of the 
 nature-metaphor to the interests of modem culture, we 
 are, it is hoped, already prepared to declare that it is 
 great, almost transcendant. In spite of the cries of 
 distressed theologians who dream that their large cities 
 constitute the world, and who proclaim with much lamen- 
 tation that the said world is given over to materialism, the 
 open-eyed observer of our era must decide that all those 
 important institutions of society which depend for their 
 well-being on spiritual strength and knowledge and loving 
 sympathy, are now far in advance of the best olden times. 
 Any one who will compare the idea of marriage, for in- 
 stance, as developed in Plato's Republic, with the idea of 
 marriage as developed in Tennyson's Princess, will sat- 
 
 8 
 
114 Music and Poetry 
 
 isfy himself on this point. The age which proceeded 
 on Plato's idea must have been at bottom a barbarous age, 
 no matter what products of intellectual culture may have 
 sprung from it. The age, on the other hand, in which 
 Tennyson's idea is so universally diffused that no penny-a- 
 liner in the country newspapers but turns it daily into in- 
 tolerable verse, must be a hopeful age, no matter what 
 vices flaunt in its avenues. Indeed, the cries of theolo- 
 gians in favor of idealism are based upon a mistaken no- 
 tion, and are full of a harm which it will be the province 
 of our nature-metaphors in some measure to counteract. 
 For idealism, as a sole theory of life, is no better than 
 materialism, and each is bad if dissociated from the other. 
 Why shall men sunder the spirit of man from nature, 
 which God hath joined together? The soul and the 
 body work, in harmony well, in enmity ill. The meta- 
 phoric " flesh " of Scripture, which is to be mortified, has 
 not stronger reference to the body than to the soul ; for as 
 many of the sins comprehended under that term are spirit- 
 ual as are physical, and are so enumerated in the Bible. 
 
 This harmonious union of soul and body, of spirit and 
 nature, of essence and form, is promoted by the nature- 
 metaphor, which reveals with wonderful force how these 
 two, united from of old, still have new points of sweet 
 and thrilling contact, and still adorn and complement 
 each other. Spirit needs form, and finds it in nature, 
 which is formal ; nature needs life, and finds it in spirit, 
 which is life-giving. Never be these two sundered ! For- 
 ever may the nature-metaphor stand a mild priest, and 
 marry them, and marry them, and marry them again, and 
 loose them to the free air as mated doves that nestle and 
 build and bring forth mildnesses aad i^aeeknesses and» 
 Christ-loves in men's hearts ! 
 
A Forgotten English Poet 115 
 
 IX 
 
 A Forgotten English Poet 
 
 It is not only from our environment in space that our 
 thoughts and tastes take on that illogical bent called 
 provincialism. There is a parallel process whereby our 
 minds become unreasonably prejudiced against things 
 which are foreign, not to our country, but to our era, 
 and from which we estimate our distance in years rather 
 than in miles. Every wise traveller knows how, upon 
 reaching a new country, he is compelled to make a thor- 
 ough readjustment of himself in order to arrive at sound 
 conclusions with regard to many matters which are apt 
 to seem outrageous simply because they are unfamiliar. 
 In the same way he who journeys back through time 
 to read a poem written long ago, must make quite sure 
 that he seems no more grotesque to the poem than the 
 poem seems to him. There is a provincialism of the 
 period as well as of the parish ; and it is interesting to 
 observe that those who have thoroughly emancipated 
 themselves from the latter are often found to betray un- 
 mistakable symptoms of the former. It is curious to 
 note how diiferent is the influence which the civilization 
 of steam has exerted upon the provincialism of the parish 
 from the influence which it has excited on the provincial- 
 ism of the period. It may be said of the civilized world 
 in general that the " outlandish " is a much less potent 
 
ii6 Music and Poetry 
 
 factor in opinion since we have learned to be shy of pro- 
 nouncing all things absolutely grotesque which are only 
 relatively unfamiliar. But this very enlargement from 
 the restraint of the parish boundary which has come to 
 us along with an increased facility of travel has plumped 
 us into the middle of the new with such suddenness that 
 we seem immeasurably removed from the pre-locomotive 
 past. Thus, while we have ceased to find amusement or 
 offence in that which is foreign, many of us are still in the 
 bonds of a very rigid provincialism as to that which is 
 old. Steam has carried us nearer to our brethren, but 
 farther from our ancestors. 
 
 The necessity of struggling against this state of mind, 
 and of resolutely chasing from our door that stupid Cer- 
 berus of prepossession which scares so many pleasures 
 away from narrow souls, is particularly strong when the 
 reader of to-day is first appealed to by the English son- 
 net of the sixteenth century. The sonnet itself, at the 
 outset, simply as a form of verse, comes at a disadvan- 
 tage : it seems too rigidly speciahzed to a mind which 
 rejoices in a general sense of possession of the whole 
 universe and is constitutionally averse to precise patterns 
 and methods. Further, as to the substance of these old 
 English sonnets, most readers have a vague preconcep- 
 tion that they are a sort of thing really hardly worth the 
 attention of an earnest person, a mass of strained device 
 and a string of toys, altogether too idle for this realistic 
 generation. It cannot be denied that such a precon- 
 ception legitimately arises from the perusal of many 
 of the current slim octavo manuals of English literature 
 which so many of us dutifully study at our schools, and 
 thereafter pass through life with a certain comfortable 
 sense of being well acquainted with the movement of the 
 
A Forgotten English Poet 117 
 
 English mind since Csedmon. The work of the English 
 sonnet-makers of the sixteenth century — a work which 
 is the glory of our tongue and the endless delight of 
 those who really know it — is too often perfunctorily 
 dismissed in these ill-assorted collections and imperfect 
 treatises as little more than a bundle of conceits, or at 
 best as a kind of formal old garden of ideas clipped into 
 shapes of impossible griffins and absurd lovers. 
 
 "Conceits," of course, abound; but they must be 
 handled very carefully. All poetry is made up of " con- 
 ceits," in the good sense of the phrase ; and the bound- 
 ary-line between the good sense and the bad sense must 
 be pushed energetically and liberally outward by the 
 reader in bringing the artistic work of a period three 
 hundred years past into a fair relation with our own 
 time. What would be intolerably fantastic now was not 
 so then, and will not be so to him who largely makes his 
 now a then, in order to get at the heart of all this beauty. 
 Shakspere in trunk hose and slashed doublet would 
 cut a very preposterous figure sauntering down Broadway 
 these frosty mornings, yet not more so than one of our 
 merchants in surtout and overshoes walking soberly along 
 the Fleet in the days of EUzabeth. 
 
 It behoves us to remember and to appreciate that 
 these sonnet-makers belong to, and many of them are 
 important characters in, a time of superlatively energetic 
 and daring men; a time of good honest flesh and of 
 very red blood ; a time that ventured forth over the un- 
 known seas, dared the cannibal, searched the four corners 
 of the earth, colonized, conquered, thought profoundly, 
 fought gallantly, and in many ways furnished the world 
 with strong fibre. These were not the men to create a 
 dandy time nor to pet a dandy poetry. Sonnets which 
 
1 1 8 Music and Poetry 
 
 pleased Raleigh and Essex, Burleigh and Bacon, cannot 
 be despised as a trifling collection of " conceits." 
 
 The sonnets may be clipped shrubs and of grotesque 
 shapes, if so please the provincialism of the nineteenth 
 century ; but would you only stay a minute you will hear 
 a bird in every bush. 
 
 No figure could better describe that particular son- 
 neteer whom the present paper will occupy itself with 
 bringing before the reader. Bartholomew Griffin is, in 
 fact, only a name which we connect with a certain sweet 
 song that comes to us, like that of a hidden bird, out of 
 the very thickest clump of obscurity. A single copy of 
 his original work exists in the Bodleian Library. The 
 title-page is inscribed to 
 
 " FiDESSA, MORE 
 
 CHASTE THEN 
 
 KINDE 
 
 By B. Griffin, gent. 
 
 Printed by the 
 
 •widdow Or win for 
 
 Matthew Lownes 
 
 1596." 
 
 and the dedication 
 
 " To the Most Kinde and Vertuous gentleman, Mr. William 
 Essex of Lamebourne in the countie of Barke Esquire" — 
 
 consists of a few modest and simple sentences, depre- 
 cating its liberty, and finally saying : 
 
 "Daign (Sweete Sir) to pardon the matter, judge favorably 
 of the manner, and accept both : so shall I ever rest yours in 
 all dewtifull affection. 
 
 " Yours ever, B. Griffin." 
 
A Forgotten English Poet 119 
 
 Several years ago, Dr. Phillip Bliss — a man held in 
 loving remembrance by all students of English poetry — 
 laid the world under obligation by printing a hundred 
 copies of this Bodleian volume ; and recently the Rev. 
 A. J. Grosart has given forth an edition of fifty copies, 
 to subscribers only, in which some errors of the former 
 edition are corrected and several critical notes are added. 
 But in spite of many assiduous inquiries set on foot by 
 Bliss and Grosart, absolutely nothing can be learned of 
 our poet's personal history. Who he was, and who Fi- 
 dessa was, except that the latter is referred to in one of 
 the sonnets as 
 
 " Sweet modell of thy far -renowned Sire," 
 
 is all blank. From an old local chronicle there does 
 emerge the meagre circumstance that on the 3d of April, 
 1582, a certain Bartholomew Griffin obtained a license 
 from John, Bishop of Worcester, to eat meat in Lent ; 
 but this cannot be considered satisfactory to the loving 
 searcher, even if we had any assurance that the luxury 
 of this dispensation was enjoyed by our sonneteer. After 
 all this research, therefore, it must be acknowledged that 
 the one hundred and fifty-one copies just specified, each 
 containing its sixty-two sonnets to Fidessa, constitute at 
 present the entire acquaintance existing between the 
 world and Bartholomew Griffin. 
 
 Yet if it be indeed worth while to be remembered in 
 one's personal history by future generations, a different 
 fate from that which has befallen him was deserved by 
 young Griffin — since young he evidently was when he 
 wrote. For in him there certainly were many qualities 
 precious even when single, much more so in combina- 
 tion, and which abundantly entitle his pathetic praises 
 
I20 Music and Poetry 
 
 of Fidessa to take their place in our regard beside the 
 Amoretti of Spenser, the Ideas of Drayton, the Sonnets 
 of Daniel to Delia, of Sidney to Stella, of William Drum- 
 mond to his short-lived lady, of Raleigh and of Con- 
 stable, not to speak of Nicholas Breton, the Vauxs, the 
 Fletchers, Warner, Peele, Greene, Watson, Lodge, Barn- 
 field, Nicholson, and that ilk, all of whom may be found 
 duly named, at least, in many of the current histories of 
 English literature which yet omit all mention of Griffin. 
 It is now proper to give the reader some taste of the 
 qualities thus generally referred to. In the first place, no 
 unbiassed reader can fail to be struck, at first view of 
 Griffin's handiwork, by the remarkable ease with which 
 our English idioms run into the mould of the sonnet.* 
 A very general but also very vague impression is abroad 
 that our language is somehow incompatible with the son- 
 net, which is regarded as at best a form of poetry 
 imported and alien, a sort of tour deforce or exercise of 
 technical skill. Such an impression is certainly a naive 
 proof of our singular lack of acquaintance, at first hand, 
 with the work of our poets. Every one is familiar with 
 the process by which, when we hear day after day the 
 name of some one whom we have never seen, we uncon- 
 sciously construct a physiognomy and general shape in 
 our minds with which we associate the name ; and every 
 one knows how it always happens that when the individ- 
 ual thus bodied forth by our fancy comes to be actually 
 beheld, the first exclamation is. How different you are 
 from what I had pictured ! It is much in this way that 
 
 1 The " English " sonnet — as distinguished from the stricter 
 form now generally called the Italian, or Legitimate, sonnet — is 
 here meant ; though the remark may be sustained as to both forms 
 without difficulty. 
 
A Forgotten English Poet 121 
 
 many of us believe ourselves to be familiar with English 
 literature, because our manuals have made us famihar 
 with certain well-known names. But if, at any time, 
 good fortune leads us actually to read the works of these 
 writers, we are at once amazed at the completeness of 
 our previous ignorance and enchanted by the depth of 
 our new delight. To our astonishment, we may then dis- 
 cover that the sonnet, instead of being a verbal toy, is 
 the very primitive art-form of the modern Englishman ; 
 and if we pursue the subject we presently know that, for 
 the last three hundred years, whenever an English poet 
 has had any peculiarly holy, private, and personal emo- 
 tion to give forth in the poetic way, he has usually chosen 
 the sonnet form for this purpose. After Casdmon wrote 
 Saxon English, and Chaucer, Norman English, when we 
 come to Wyat and Surrey and the stricter Elizabethans, 
 we see modem English poetry springing into being in 
 the form of the sonnet. It is of no great moment that 
 the form had existed before in Italy. The notion that 
 sonnets are foreign and merely dilettante forms of Eng- 
 lish poetry is a mere argument of the neglect with which 
 many of the most artistic users of our tongue have been 
 treated. We can understand and forgive Ben Jonson, 
 when he declared in his big, frank, blundering way to 
 William Drummond that the sonnet was a Procrustean 
 bed for ideas. Jonson spoke from small experience, not 
 then being able to look — as we can — from the vanish- 
 ing standpoint which commands these last wonderful 
 three hundred years. Had he even fully known the very 
 man to whom he was talking, he could not have said 
 what he did. Some of Drummond's sonnets are — one 
 must use the word — simply adorable ; and if this sounds 
 extravagant there are " Be as thou wast, my Lute," and 
 
122 Music and Poetry 
 
 " Dear Quirister who from these shadows sends," and 
 twenty more, to speak for themselves in such wise as no 
 man may gainsay. We can only forgive Jonson because 
 he knew them not ; but the ignorance, which was a good 
 plea in his mouth, will not avail in face of the sweet irre- 
 sistible multitude of Enghsh sonnets which have been 
 printed since 1590. What, for example — before pro- 
 ceeding to specify other qualities peculiar to Griffin's 
 work — could be more simple, more direct, more like 
 thoughts uttering themselves without the aid of culture 
 and without the sense of criticism, than the following 
 sonnet to Fidessa? The poor young lover, fearful of 
 being consumed in an unrewarded passion, speaks his 
 fear with as little circumlocution as a child asking for 
 water or a ploughman calling to his horse. In every word, 
 collocation, turn of phrase, sentence, and idiom, the 
 English ear will recognize its own ; it is so straightfor- 
 ward as to form a communication, unobjectionable from 
 the scriptural point of view, being but yea, yea, and nay, 
 nay, yet it is, though by no means Griffin's best, very 
 good music, and makes one think of a blue-eyed child 
 singing about death : — 
 
 " The sillie bird that hasts unto the net 
 
 And flutters to and fro till she be taken 
 Doth looke some foode or succour there to get, 
 
 But looseth life, so much is she mistaken ; 
 The foolish flie that flieth to the flame 
 
 With ceaseless hovering, and with restless flight, 
 Is burnid straight to ashes in the same 
 
 And finds her death where was her most delight; 
 The proud aspiring boye that needs would prie 
 
 Into the secrets of the highest seate 
 And some conceite to gain contente thereby, 
 
 Or else his foUie sure was wondrous great, 
 There did through foUie perish all and die, 
 And (though I know it) even so doe I." 
 
A Forgotten English Poet 123 
 
 No experienced craftsman in words will fail to per- 
 ceive that the limpid transparency of these sentences 
 is not a happy accident, but an achievement of delib- 
 erate art j , for it is supported by too many other beauties 
 which would also have to be considered results of acci- 
 dent, namely, by the exquisite variations in the sequences 
 of vowel sounds, the perfect anastomosis of terminal 
 letter with initial letter, the light and delicate use of 
 alliteration, not only to mottle the prevalent rhythm, 
 but to intensify a logical antithesis, and other technical 
 particulars. 
 
 Again, in Griffin's sonnets, the beginning has always 
 an eye to the end. Each intermediate circumstance, 
 too, has a convergent direction by which, at last, all 
 meet, substantially, in a keen and effective point, like 
 the incidents which form the plot of every well-con- 
 ducted story or drama. Indeed, every good sonnet is 
 a drama ; and the critical reader need desire no more 
 perfect test for the hidden art of a sonnet than the com- 
 pleteness with which it answers to the requirements of 
 dramatic unity. True, the whole sonnet is but a short 
 soliloquy ; nevertheless it must have its due beginning, 
 its convergent plot, and its crisis in the last lines. In 
 the following sonnet, for instance, the general dramatic 
 type is artfully varied by keeping in suspense the nature 
 of the crisis through a number of incidental particulars 
 bearing on it only in the one point of time : 
 
 " So soone as peeping Lucifer, Aurora's starre,* 
 The skie with golden percings doth spangle, 
 
 1 It is difficult to tell whether the redundancy of syllables in 
 this line is an oversight, or intended to be made up by such a 
 rapid utterance of the word " Lucifer " as to give all three of its 
 syllables the value of one short in the iambus with " Au." It is 
 most probably the oversight of an evidently young writer. 
 
124 Music and Poetry 
 
 So soone as Phoebus gives us light from farre, 
 
 So soone as fowler doth the bird untangle, 
 Soone as the watchful! birde (clocke of the morne) 
 
 Gives intimation of the dayes appearing, 
 Soone as the joUie Hunter windes his home, 
 
 His speech and voyce with customs Eccho clearing, 
 Soone as the hungrie Lion seekes his praie. 
 
 In solitary range of pathles mountaines, 
 Soone as the passenger sets on his waie. 
 
 So soone as beastes resort unto the fountaines ; 
 So soone mine eyes their office are discharging, 
 And I my griefes with greater griefes inlarging." 
 
 Or, note the same suspension carried on through thir- 
 teen lines, with the quaint intensification of pathetic 
 hopelessness wrought by the " and I not be," of the thir- 
 teenth, to the last line, which, by a perfect feeling for 
 art, is made, together with the thirteenth, a foot shorter 
 than the others. 
 
 " When never-speaking silence proves a wonder, 
 
 When ever-flying fame at home remaineth, 
 When all-concealing night keepes darknes under, 
 
 When men-devouring wrong true glorie gaineth, 
 When soule-tormenting griefe agrees with joy. 
 
 When Lucifer forerunneth baleful night, 
 When Venus doth forsake her little boye. 
 
 When her untoward boye attaineth sight, 
 When Sysiphus doth cease to roule his stone. 
 
 When Othes shaketh off his heavie chaines. 
 When Beautie Queene of pleasure is alone, 
 
 When Love and Vertue quiet peace disdaines, 
 When these shall be, and I not be. 
 Then will Fidessa pitie jne." 
 
 Again, besides this faculty of rounding the sonnet 
 into a dramatic whole. Griffin has a certain bright viva- 
 city which is constantly presenting the reader with 
 charming surprises by suddenly changing the statuesque 
 
A Forgotten English Poet 125 
 
 dramatis personce of a demure tableau into actual and 
 active people. For example, in this sonnet on Sleep — 
 to which the reader's attention is asked on other ac- 
 counts which will be specified presently — the sudden 
 and vivid introduction of the figures of Fidessa and of 
 Sleep, in active underplay, cuts delightfully in upon the 
 drowsy sonnet, and gives real character to the last line, 
 which is as artless as the earnest quest of the child ask- 
 ing its mother when will Santa Claus come again. 
 
 " Care-charmer sleepe, Sweete ease in restless miserie,i 
 
 The captive's libertie and his freedome's song ; 
 Balm of the bruised heart, man's chief felicitie ; 
 
 Brother of quiet death, when life is too, too long ; 
 A Comedie it is, and now an Historic. 
 
 What is not sleepe unto the feeble minde ? 
 It easeth him that toyles and him that 's sorrie ; 
 
 It makes the deafe to hear, to see the blinde. 
 Ungentle sleepe, thou helpest all but me. 
 
 For when I sleepe my soule is vexfed most. 
 It is Fidessa that doth master thee ; 
 
 If she approach (alas) thy power is lost. 
 But here she is : see how he runnnes amaine ; 
 I fear at night he will not come againe." 
 
 The treatment of the same subject by several authors 
 always affords an interesting method of bringing their 
 individual characteristics into clear relief. This is par- 
 ticularly the case when they have not only treated the 
 same subject, but treated it in the same special form. 
 It so happens that three of Griffin's contemporaries — 
 Daniel, Drummond, and Sir Philip Sidney — also wrote 
 
 1 It is impossible not to believe that this line, and the three 
 immediately succeeding the next were purposely made Alexan- 
 drines for the sake of length and drowsiness ; as the two last lines 
 of the sonnet just previously quoted were shortened in order to 
 gain a certain abrupt strength and point. 
 
126 Music and Poetry 
 
 sonnets on sleep, and it will therefore help the reader 
 toward a distinct idea of our poet's mental personality to 
 repeat here the sonnets of these three for the sake of 
 comparison. 
 
 Consider first Sir Philip Sidney's, which, take it for all 
 in all, is much the best specimen of his poetic handi- 
 work now in existence. Note — and truly who that has 
 ever spent a sleepless night can fail to note ? — the 
 keeping and harmonious collocation of the smooth pil- 
 lows, the sweetest bed, the chamber deaf to noise and 
 blind to light, the rosy garland, and the weary head. 
 Then the turn of thought in which he attempts to bribe 
 Sleep, other inducements failing, by promising him, if 
 he will come, to show him the best picture of Stella that 
 ever was taken, to wit, the picture graven in his own 
 lover's heart — with the necessarily inferred compliment 
 that no god can hold out against that heavenly prospect 
 — is altogether cunning and graceful. In these respects, 
 and in the pith and point of the introductory items, it is 
 finer than Griffin's ; while the latter, on the other hand, 
 greatly excels in musical flow and in dramatic vivacity. 
 
 " Come sleep, O sleep, the certain knot of peace, 
 
 The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe. 
 The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release. 
 
 The indifferent judge between the high and low. 
 With shield of proof shield me from out the prease * 
 
 Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw : 
 Oh Uiake in me those civil wars to cease : 
 
 I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 
 Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 
 
 A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, 
 A rosy garland and a weary head : 
 
 And if these things, as being thine by right, 
 Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me 
 Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see." 
 
 1 »'. t., press, throng. 
 
A Forgotten English Poet 127 
 
 Sidney appears to have written under the disadvantage 
 of a notable lack of the musical sense. Many of his 
 sonnets, filled with exquisite conceptions, nevertheless 
 come as gratingly upon the ear — to use a favorite simile 
 among musicians — as broken crockery falling down- 
 stairs. Thus, as was said, his sonnet is inferior to Grif- 
 fin's in all that makes music. But compare the two with 
 the following, also on Sleep, by Samuel Daniel. In a 
 certain tender swing of movement, attained by great art 
 in the selection of words presenting sounds upon which 
 the tongue and ear can linger, and which at the same 
 time suavely melt into each other with the true liquid 
 flow of genuine poetic sequences, Daniel must be es- 
 teemed the greatest English artist. While the following 
 sonnet does not show him at his best in this respect, 
 — not so well, for example, as " Let others sing of 
 Knights and Palladines," which is well-nigh the best 
 music ever made with English words, — it is yet suf- 
 ficiently beautiful, and serves well to individualize him 
 in the reader's mind, as distinguished from Griffin and 
 Sidney. 
 
 " Care-charmer Sleepe, Sonne of the sable night, 
 
 Brother to death, in silent darkness born, 
 Relieve my languish and restore the light ; 
 
 With dark forgetting of my care, retume. 
 And let the day be time enough to mourne 
 
 The shipwracke of my ill-adventred youth : 
 Let waking eyes suflSce to waile their scorn 
 
 Without the torment of the night's untruth. 
 Cease dreames, the Images of day desires 
 
 To modell forth the famous of to-morrow : 
 Never let rising sunne approve you Hers, 
 
 To add more griefe to aggravate my sorrow. 
 Still let me sleepe, imbracing clouds in vaine, 
 And never wake to feel the day's disdain." 
 
128 Music and Poetry 
 
 Here one immediately perceives a cast of thought 
 still beautiful but strikingly different from that of either 
 Sidney or Griffin. The absolute agreement between the 
 conception and its embodiment — between idea and 
 word — is finer than in either of the two latter. No 
 man ever more completely identified spiritual cadences 
 with physical than does Daniel; the soul of his music 
 presides with absolute control over its body, and the result 
 is a poem in which the logical arrangement is the pre- 
 cise analogue of the prosodial, so that to criticise the 
 thought is to scan the verse. The tone of tender plead- 
 ing which is Daniel's favorite genre — and which is so 
 loyal and manly withal that we wonder continually how 
 Delia could have held out so long against it — forms a 
 well-marked characteristic for his sonnets as opposed to 
 the more strongly-colored and more vigorous scenes of 
 Griffin. 
 
 The epithet " care-charmer," with which both Griffin 
 and Daniel begin their sonnets, is probably not a plagiar- 
 ism; and the same may be said of the other similar 
 thoughts which occur in this quartet of poems, all treat- 
 ing of the same subject. There is nothing suspicious in 
 such likenesses ; the thought is natural, and suggests itself 
 too readily to appear to be stolen. Plagiarism was not 
 much thought of in those simpler days. The frequent 
 occurrence of the same ideas and the same expressions 
 in poets of the period is evidence of nothing else than 
 the free use of materials regarded on all sides as com- 
 mon stock. Shakspere takes a play bodily, without 
 hesitation, and uses its plot for a new drama. Ben 
 Jonson paraphrases " Drink to me only with thine eyes," 
 from the Greek. Wyat, and the anonymous writers in 
 the early collections freely appropriate from the Italian. 
 
A Forgotten English Poet 129 
 
 Nay, long before them, Chaucer had made translations 
 upon all sides, and had never dreamed of crime in 
 stamping his name upon the wares which he had thus 
 fused and moulded over again. That men are more 
 scrupulous in these days may be a sign of the general 
 clarification of conscience. It is, at least, a develop- 
 ment of men's conceptions of truthfulness which has 
 been in great part occasioned by the growing spirit of 
 exactness in all things which increases with each new 
 generation. 
 
 It is not so much that the literary men of our earlier 
 period borrowed from each other, as that they were not 
 so careful either to acknowledge obligations or to elim- 
 inate real or apparent foreign matter from their work. 
 This the modern writer is certainly more solicitous in 
 doing than has ever been the case before ; it does not, 
 however, prove that he is honest and the Elizabethan a 
 thief, but only that the general conception of honesty 
 has advanced in point of definiteness and of delicacy. 
 
 Upon these considerations, as was said, the charges of 
 plagiarism, as against men like Daniel and his fellows, are 
 merely fitted to waste the time of pottering antiquarians 
 in whom all sense of pure beauty has long ago decayed, 
 only to be replaced by a heartless desire to find what 
 some one else has not found, without reference to any 
 intrinsic value in the fact discovered. 
 
 Without therefore lingering to ascertain whether 
 Griffin was debtor to Daniel in the item of this epithet 
 " care-charmer," or whether any of these poets borrowed 
 from the other the notion of Sleep as the brother of 
 Death — a common legacy indeed out of the classic 
 times — let us now compare with the three sonnets already 
 given a fourth one on Sleep by William Drummond, of 
 
 9 
 
I JO Music and Poetry 
 
 Hawthornden. The different treatment is readily ob- 
 served. The whole tone here is grayer and soberer; 
 and in the previous three there is nothing like 
 
 "... With that face 
 To inward light which thou art wont to show '' 
 
 of the ninth and tenth lines, which contains a wonderful 
 and subtle summing up of the strange introversion by 
 which in dreams our senses change their whole direction 
 of activity, making themselves dead to that world which 
 lies without the body, and alive to that which is within 
 it ; while the terminal line rises to a point of profound 
 subUmity. 
 
 " Sleep, Silence' Child, sweet father of soft rest, 
 Prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings. 
 Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings, 
 Sole comforter of minds which are opprest ; 
 Lo, by thy charming-rod all breathing things 
 Lie slumbering with forgetfulness possest. 
 And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings 
 Thou spar'st (alas) who cannot be thy guest. 
 Since I am thine, oh come, but with that face 
 To inward light which thou art wont to show ; 
 With fainfed solace ease a true-felt woe ; 
 Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace. 
 Come as thou wilt, and, what thou wilt, bequeath, 
 I long to kiss the image of my death." 
 
 In contrast with this measured and sombre march, the 
 liveUness of Grififin's pace becomes very clearly marked, 
 while at the same time his child-like naivety and sim- 
 plicity are in strong contrast with the sedate maturity of 
 Drummond's thought. 
 
 It remains to notice a very engaging characteristic of 
 Griffin's work, which gives him a special claim to atten- 
 tion. This displays itself in certain of his sonnets, 
 
A Forgotten English Poet 131 
 
 wherein, mingled with the extravagance of the despairing 
 lover's cries, is a roguish consciousness of that extrava- 
 gance plainly to be seen peeping forth at intervals so as 
 to make a sort of interplay between the real pathos and 
 the real absurdity of the situation. Sometimes a deli- 
 cately-shaded variation of this interplay occurs, most 
 easily perhaps to be described by the comparison of a 
 bright young girl in amateur tableaux playing Hagar in 
 the Wilderness, counterfeiting intelligently enough the 
 desolate woman, save that a certain arch-twinkle in the 
 eye will break out from an underlying sense of the ridic- 
 ulous in the whole situation. 
 
 For example, take the forty-eighth sonnet, wherein, 
 apparently, after some quite intolerable cruelty on the 
 part of coy Fidessa, the lover rushes off and relieves 
 himself in hnes which play hide-and-seek betwixt jest 
 and earnest until the last two lines are reached, when 
 suddenly we come upon a sentiment at once Roman in 
 scope and thoroughly Elizabethan in pith and epigram- 
 matic keenness. Fancy Fidessa frowning on him; 
 " Murder ! " he cries : 
 
 " Murder, oh, murder I I can crie no longer : 
 
 Murder, oh, murder I is there none to ayde me ? 
 Life feeble is in force, death is much stronger : 
 
 Then let me dye, that shame may not upbrayde me, 
 Nothing is left me now but shame or death. 
 
 I feare she feareth not foul murther's guilt. 
 Nor doe I feare to loose a servile breath ; 
 
 I know my blood was given to be spilt. 
 What is this life but maze of countless strayes. 
 
 The enemie of true felicitie : 
 Fitly compared to dreames, to flowers, to playes ? 
 
 O life, no life to me but miserie ! 
 Of shame or death, if thou must one. 
 
 Make choice of death, and both are gone." 
 
132 Music and Poetry 
 
 Again, he makes a comical kind of refrain for a son- 
 net out of the word " more " — after a fashion in vogue 
 at that time for constructing a poem which should turn 
 upon some verbal pivot — and pours forth a sort of jolly 
 lamentation as follows : 
 
 LX. 
 
 " Oh let me sigh, weepe, waile, and crye no more ; 
 Or let me sigh, weepe, waile, cry more and more j 
 Yea, let me sigh, weepe, waile, crie evermore ; 
 ITor she doth pitie my complaints no more 
 Than cruell Pagan, or the savadge Moore : 
 But still doth add unto my torments more. 
 Which grievous are to me by so much more 
 As she inflicts them and doth wish them more. 
 Oh let thy mercie (mercilesse) be never more ! 
 So shall sweet death to me be welcome more 
 Than is to hungrie beastes the grassie moore. 
 Ah, she that to affliction adds yet more 
 Becomes more cruell by still adding more, 
 Wearie am I to speak of this word (more). 
 Yet never wearie she to plaugue me more." 
 
 He throws in a preposterous touch, to increase the 
 damnable iteration of his torments, by tacking on a 
 supernumerary line and making the sonnet consist of 
 fifteen instead of the regulation number of fourteen 
 lines. 
 
 He can write, however, in good earnest, and can find 
 expression for true and profound passion. Instance the 
 following, where the observant reader will note also that 
 there is absolutely no sprinkling of random adjectives, 
 but that every least word materially increases the weight 
 of thought and tends straight towards the mark set up in 
 the last two lines : 
 
A Forgotten English Poet 133 
 
 xux. 
 
 " My cruell fortunes clowded with a frowne, 
 
 Lurke in the bosom of eternall night : 
 My climing thoughts are basely halfed down, 
 
 My best devices prove but after-sight. 
 Poore outcast of the world's exilfed roome, 
 
 I live in wildernesse of deep lament : 
 No hope reserv'd me but a hopeless tombe, 
 
 When fruitles life and fruitfuU woes are spent. 
 Shall Phosbus hinder little starres to shine, 
 
 Or loftie Cedar Mushroome leave to grow t 
 Sure mightie men at little ones repine, 
 
 The riche is to the poore a common foe. 
 Fidessa, seing how the world doth goe, 
 Joyeth with fortune in my overthrow." 
 
 In the following sonnet Griffin shows a meditative 
 sympathy with the lower forms of nature which brings 
 to us very delightfully the fresh scent of the sixteenth 
 century. Every one will be reminded, by the first line, 
 of the "Wee timorous cowerin' beastie," which Robert 
 Burns stirred up in the field. The last two lines also 
 exhibit a happy application of the belief that death 
 brings us an opening of the eyes whereby we shall see 
 all things, very different in its quiet resignation from the 
 frantic and half absurd cries of some of the other 
 sonnets. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 "Poore worme, poore sillie worme, (alas, poor beast) 
 
 Feare makes thee hide thy head within the ground. 
 Because of creeping things thou art the least, 
 
 Yet every foot gives thee thy mortall wound. 
 But I, thy fellow-worme, am in worse state, 
 
 For thou thy Sunne enjoyest, but I want mine : 
 I live in irksome night : O cruel fate I 
 
 My sunne will never rise, nor ever shine. 
 
134 Music and Poetry 
 
 Thus blind of light, mine eyes misguide my feete. 
 And baleful! darknes makes me still afraide : 
 
 Men mocke me when I stumble in the streete, 
 And wonder how my yong sight so decaied. 
 
 Yet doe I joy in this (even when I fall) 
 
 That I shall see againe, and then see all." 
 
 It will, too, probably be inferred, from the dismal hue 
 of the sonnets so far given, that Fidessa was a relentless 
 coquette, a man-devourer without mercy ; wherefore we 
 feel in honesty bound to redeem this young person's 
 character from such a stigma, by showing unmistaka- 
 ble hints, occurring here and there, and indicating that 
 when occasion served she could come out sweetly 
 enough as a true woman and helpful soul in time of 
 trouble. There is a very grateful sonnet, written after 
 an illness during which, to his heavenly delight, she had 
 been good enough ! — alas that Fidessas of the nine- 
 teenth century eschew so lovely a custom ! — to nurse 
 him ; and there is other evidence that the " cruelty " 
 which occasions most of the sonnets is little more than 
 that uprising of maidenhood which appears to be a sort 
 of prudential arrangement of nature whereby the weaker 
 sex instinctively holds off the stronger for a time, at 
 least long enough for reflecting upon the attractive 
 slavery before irrevocably submitting to it. In fact, one 
 finds in Fidessa not only a young maiden of great 
 discretion, but detects occasional manifestations of a 
 prudence which may sometimes have passed into prig- 
 gishness, if we may be allowed to use so unpoetical a 
 phrase concerning the heroine of a whole volume of 
 sonnets. What is more interesting, the priggishness 
 seems very modern in type. For example, the writer 
 knew some while ago a maiden — and one of the bright- 
 
A Forgotten English Poet 135 
 
 est of the time in heart and mind — who for some 
 months was quite seriously possessed with the following 
 idea : // was impossible, she would declare, with a very 
 pretty fervor and modesty, and with some show of de- 
 spair, that she could ever love a man who loved her, 
 because forsooth she knew her own worth to be so small 
 that she could not admire a man with a soul little enough 
 to prize it I 
 
 Quite a distinct trace of similar young woman's logic 
 displays itself in sonnet number XX. Here we find that 
 Fidessa has acknowledged herself captive, and sings : 
 
 " Delightful tunes of love, of true love," 
 
 and so on; but presently declares, with much of the 
 
 involved self-depreciation of the lady just described, 
 
 that 
 
 " Her love is counsaile that I should not love, 
 But upon virtues fixe a staled mind," 
 
 all of which new-fangled doctrine of Fidessa's very 
 rightly and justly astonishes her downright lover, and 
 he exclaims : 
 
 " But what ? this new-coyn'd love, love doth reprove. 
 If this be love of which you make such store, 
 Sweet, love me lesse, that you may love me more." 
 
136 Music and Poetry 
 
 The Death of Byrhtnoth 
 
 A Study in Anglo-Saxon Poetry 
 
 Surely it is time our popular culture were cited into 
 the presence of the Fathers. That we have forgotten 
 their works is in itself matter of mere impiety which 
 many practical persons would consider themselves en- 
 titled to dismiss as a purely sentimental crime ; but ig- 
 norance of their ways goes to the very root of growth. 
 
 I count it a circumstance so wonderful as to merit 
 some preliminary setting forth here, that with regard to 
 the first seven hundred years of our poetry we EngUsh- 
 speaking people appear never to have confirmed our- 
 selves unto ourselves. While we often please our vanity 
 with remarking the outcrop of Anglo-Saxon blood in our 
 modern physical achievements, there is certainly little in 
 our present art of words to show a literary lineage run- 
 ning back to the same ancestry. Of course it is always ad- 
 mitted that there was an English poetry as old to Chaucer 
 as Chaucer is to us ; but it is admitted with a certain in- 
 conclusive and amateur vagueness removing it out of the 
 rank of facts which involve grave and important duties. 
 We can neither deny the fact nor the strangeness of it, 
 that the English poetry written between the time of 
 Aldhelm and Csedmon in the seventh century and that of 
 Chaucer in the fourteenth century has never yet taken its 
 
The Death of Byrhtnoth 137 
 
 place by the hearths and in the hearts of the people whose 
 strongest prayers are couched in its idioms. It is not 
 found in the tatters of use, on the floors of our children's 
 playrooms ; there are no illuminated boy's editions of it ; 
 it is not on the booksellers' counters at Christmas ; it is 
 not studied in our common schools ; it is not printed by 
 our publishers ; it does not lie even in the dusty comers 
 of our bookcases ; nay, the pious English scholar must 
 actually send to Germany for Grein's BibUothek in order 
 to get a compact reproduction of the body of Old English 
 poetry. 
 
 Nor is this due to any artistic insensibility on our part. 
 Perhaps it will sharpen the outlines of our strange atti- 
 tude toward the works of our own tongue if we contrast 
 it with our reverence for similar works in other tongues, 
 — say the Greek and Latin. In citing some brief details of 
 such a contrast, let it be said by way of abundant caution 
 that nothing is further from the present intention than to 
 make a silly question as between the value of the an- 
 cient classic and the English classic. Terms of value do 
 not apply here : once for all, the prodigious thoughts of 
 Greek poetry are simply invaluable, they permeate all 
 our houses like indirect sunlight ; we could not read our 
 life without them. In point of fact, our genuine affection 
 for these beautiful foreign works is here adduced because, 
 in establishing our love for great poetry in general, it 
 necessarily also establishes some special cause for our 
 neglect of native works in particular. 
 
 For example : we are all ready to smile with a lofty 
 good humor when we find Puttenham in 1589 devoting 
 a grave chapter to prove " that there may be an Arte of 
 our English Poesie as well as there is of the Latine and 
 Greeke ; " we remember the crushing domination of the 
 
ijS Music and Poetry- 
 
 old culture in his time and before it, we wonder com- 
 placently at all that icy business of "elegant" Latin 
 verses and " polite " literature, and we feel quite com- 
 fortable in thinking how completely we have changed 
 these matters. 
 
 Have we ? One will go into few moderately appointed 
 houses in this country without finding a Homer in some 
 form or other ; but it is probably far within the truth to 
 say that there are not fifty copies of Beowulf in the 
 United States.* Or again, every boy, though far less 
 learned than that erudite young person of Macaulay's, can 
 give some account of the death of Hector; but how 
 many boys — or, not to mince matters, how many men 
 — in America could do more than stare if asked to 
 relate the death of Byrhtnoth? Yet Byrhtnoth was a 
 hero of our own England in the tenth century, whose 
 manful fall is recorded in English words that ring on the 
 soul like arrows on armor. Why do we not draw in this 
 poem — and its like — with our mother's milk? Why 
 have we no nursery songs of Beowulf and the Grendel? 
 Why does not the serious education of every Enghsh- 
 speaking boy commence, as a matter of course, with the 
 Anglo-Saxon grammar? 
 
 These are more serious questions than any one will 
 be prepared to believe who has not followed them out 
 to their logical results. 
 
 For the absence of this primal Anglicism from our 
 modern system goes — as was said — to the very root of 
 culture. The eternal and immeasurable significance of 
 that individuality in thought which flows into idiom in 
 speech becomes notably less recognized among us. We 
 
 1 Since this was written (in the winter of 1878-9), two editions 
 of the work have been published here. 
 
The Death of Byrhtnoth 139 
 
 do not bring with us out of our childhood the fibre of 
 idiomatic English which our fathers bequeathed to us. 
 A boy's Enghsh is diluted before it has become strong 
 enough for him to make up his mind clearly as to the 
 true taste of it. Our literature needs Anglo-Saxon iron ; 
 there is no ruddiness in its cheeks, and everywhere a 
 clear lack of the red corpuscles. Current English prose, 
 on both sides of the water, reveals an ideal of prose-writ- 
 ing most like the leaden sky of a November day that 
 overspreads the earth with dreariness, — no rift in its 
 tissue nor fleck in its tint. Upon any soul with the least 
 feeling for color the model " editorial" of the day leaves 
 a profound dejection. The sentences are all of a height, 
 like regulars on parade ; and the words are immaculately 
 prim, smug, and clean-shaven. Out of all this regularity 
 comes a certain prudery in our literature. It ought not 
 to be that our sensibilities are shocked with strong in- 
 dividualities of style like Carlyle's or even Ruskin's. 
 One even finds a certain curious reaction of this sensi- 
 bility upon these men, manful as they are ; they grow 
 nervous with the fine sense of a suspicion of charlatanry 
 in using a ruddy-cheeked style when the general world 
 writes sallow-skinned; and hence sometimes too much 
 color in their style, — a blush, as it were. We are guilty 
 of a gross wrong in our behavior toward these authors 
 and their like. A man should have his swing in his 
 writing. That is the main value of it : not to sweep me 
 off my legs with eloquent propagandism, but simply to 
 put me in position where I may place the frank and 
 honest-spoken view of another man alongside my own 
 and so make myself as large as two men, quoad rem. 
 
 But we lack a primal idiomatic bone and substance ; 
 we have not the stalwart Anglicism of style which can 
 
140 Music and Poetry 
 
 tolerate departures, breaks, and innovations ; we are as 
 uncomfortable over our robustious Carlyle as an invalid, 
 all nerves, with a great rollicking boy in the room, — we 
 do not know what he may do next. 
 
 How wonderful this seems, if we take time to think 
 what a strong, bright, picture-making tongue we had in 
 the beginning of the sixteenth century when the power- 
 ful old Anglo-Saxon had fairly conquered all the foreign 
 elements into its own idiom ! For it is about with the 
 beginning of that century that we may say we had a 
 fully developed English literary instrument. Chaucer 
 was not, and could not be, the well of English undefiled 
 which Spencer's somewhat forgetful antiquarianism would 
 have him. He was fed with two streams of language 
 which were still essentially distinct in many particulars. 
 It was a long while before the primal English conquered 
 the aUen elements into its own idioms, longer, indeed, 
 in Chaucer's world than in Langland's. 
 
 Almost every house will furnish the means of placing 
 in sharp contrast the vivacity and robust manfulness of 
 the English language early in the sixteenth century, and 
 the more flaccid tongue which had begun to exist even 
 as early as the eighteenth. Warton's History of English 
 Poetry, for example, collates a couple of stanzas from 
 The Nut-Brown Maid — which must belong to the end 
 of the fifteenth or the beginning of the sixteenth century 
 — with the corresponding stanzas of a paraphrase made 
 by Prior in 1 718. It may not be amiss to make sure by 
 inserting one of these examples here. In the original 
 ballad, the wild lover, testing the girl's affection, cries : 
 
 " Yet take good hede, for ever I drede 
 That ye could nat sustayne 
 The thornie wayes, the depe valeis, 
 
The Death of Byrhtnoth 141 
 
 The snowe, the frost, the rayne, 
 
 The colde, the hete j for, dry or wete, 
 
 We must lodge on the playne ; 
 
 And us abofe none other rofe 
 
 But a brake bush or twayne ; 
 
 Which sone sholde greve you, I believe, 
 
 And ye wolde gladly than 
 
 That I had to the grene wode go 
 
 Alone, a banyshed man." 
 
 I cannot see how language could well have put it 
 feather than that; but, two hundred years afterward, 
 this is Prior's idea of the way it should have been said : 
 
 " Those limbs, in lawn and softest silk array'd, 
 From sunbeams guarded and of winds afraid, 
 Can they bear angry Jove ? Can they resist 
 The parching dog-star and the bleak northeast ? 
 When, chill'd by adverse snows and beating rain. 
 We tread with weary steps the longsome plain ; 
 When with hard toil we seek our evening food. 
 Berries and acorns from the neighbouring wood ; 
 And find among the cliffs no other house 
 But the thin covert of some gather'd boughs ; 
 Wilt thou not then reluctant send thine eye 
 Around the dreary waste, and, weeping, try 
 (Though then, alas ! that trial be too late) 
 To find thy father's hospitable gate, 
 And seats where ease and plenty brooding sate ? 
 Those seats, whence long excluded thou must mourn ; 
 That gate, for ever barr'd to thy return ; 
 Wilt thou not then bewail ill-fated love, 
 And hate a banish'd man, condemn'd in woods to rove ? " 
 
 Or, if it be objected that this may be an exaggerated 
 single example which proves little, almost every book- 
 case contains Thomas Johnes's translation of Froissart, 
 in the notes to which occur here and there extracts of 
 parallel passages from Lord Berners's translation, made 
 in the time of Henry VIII. ; and the least comparison of 
 
142 Music and Poetry 
 
 Berners with Johnes shows how immeasurably more bright, 
 many-colored, and powerful is the speech of the former. 
 
 And this brightness, color, and power make for the 
 doctrine of this present writing, because they are simply 
 exuberant manifestations of pure Anglicism put forth in 
 the moment of its triumph. We are all prone to forget 
 the odds against which this triumph was achieved. For 
 four hundred years — that is, in round numbers, from 
 670 to 1070 — the Englisc language was desperately 
 striving to get into literature, against the sacred wishes 
 of Latin ; and now, when the Normans come, the tongue 
 of Aldhelm and Caedmon, of Alfred and .lElfric and 
 Cynewulf, must begin and fight again for another four 
 hundred years against French, — fight, too, in such 
 depths of disadvantage as may be gathered from many a 
 story of the relentless Norman efforts to exterminate the 
 native tongue. Witness, for example, Matthew Paris's 
 account of the deposition of the Bishop of Worcester in 
 1095 by the Normans because he " was a superannuated 
 English idiot who could not speak French ; " or Ralph 
 Higden's complaint, as John Trevisa translates it from 
 the Polychronicon : " Children in scole, ayenst the usage 
 and manir of all other nations, beeth compelled for to 
 leve hire owne langage and for to construe hire lessons 
 and hire thinges in French ; and so they haveth sethe 
 Normans came first into Engelond ; " moreover, " Gen- 
 tilmen children beeth taught to speke Frensche from 
 the tyme that they bith rokked in hire cradle and kum- 
 eth speke and play with a child's broche." 
 
 Eight hundred years the tough old tongue has been 
 grimly wrestling and writhing, life and death on the 
 issue, now under this enemy, now under that, when Lord 
 Berners and Sir Thomas More begin to speak. 
 
The Death of Byrhtnoth 143 
 
 It is therefore with all the sacred sanction of this 
 long conflict that a man can drive home upon our time 
 these following charges : first, that it is doing its best, in 
 most of its purely literary work, to convert the large, 
 manful, and simple idioms of Alfred and Cynewulf into 
 the small, finical, and knowing clevernesses of a smart 
 half-culture, which knows neither whence it came nor 
 whither it is going ; and secondly, that as a people we 
 are utterly ignorant of even the names of the products 
 of English genius during the first four hundred of the 
 eight hundred years just mentioned, insomuch that if a 
 fervent English-lover desire to open his heart to some 
 one about Beowulf, or The Battle of Maldon, or The 
 Wanderer, or Dear's Lament, or The Phcenix, or The 
 Sea-farer, or The Address of the Departed Soul to its 
 Body, or Elene, or the like, he must do it by letter, for 
 there are scarcely anywhere two in a town who have read, 
 or can read, these poems. 
 
 In short, our literary language ^ has suffered a dilution 
 much like that which music has undergone at the hands 
 of the weaker devotees since the free use of the semi- 
 tone began. Soon after the chromatic tone has attained 
 its place a wonderful flexibility shows itself in music, the 
 art expands in many directions, the province of harmony 
 becomes indefinitely large ; but this very freedom proves 
 the ruin of the weaker brethren : the facilities of modu- 
 lation aiforded by the minor chords and the diminished 
 sevenths tempt into unmeaning and cloying imperti- 
 nences of composition, and these have to be relieved, 
 again, by setting over-harsh and crabbed chords in the 
 midst of a too gracious flow of tone. 
 
 1 As distinguished from the modem scientific English, which 
 is certainly an admirable instrument in the hands of Tyndall, of 
 Huxley, and of many more. 
 
144 Music and Poetry 
 
 Now, as music has reached a point where it must 
 pause, and re-establish the dominancy of the whole tone, 
 fortifying it with whatever new tones may be found 
 possible in developing the scale according to primal — 
 or what we may call musically idiomatic — principles, so 
 must our tongue recur to the robust forms, and from 
 these to the underlying and determining genius, of its 
 Anglo-Saxon^ period. 
 
 In other words, — for what has so far been said has 
 been in defence and explication of the sentence which 
 stands at the beginning of this paper, — culture must be 
 cited into the presence of the Fathers. 
 
 In the humblest hope of contributing to that end, I 
 eagerly embrace the opportunity of calling the general 
 reader's attention to the rhythmical movement — and 
 afterward to the spiritual movement — of an Anglo-Saxon 
 poem dating from about a. d. 993, known as The Death 
 of Byrhtnoth, or otherwise as The Battle of Maldon, 
 which, in the judgment of my ear, sets the grace of 
 loyalty and the grimness of battle to noble music. I 
 think no man could hear this poem read aloud without 
 feeling his heart beat faster and his blood stir. 
 
 The rhythm of this poem — let it be observed as the 
 reader goes through the scheme — is strikingly varied 
 in time-distribution from bar to bar. The poem, in 
 fact, counts with perfect confidence upon the sense of 
 rhythm, which is well-nigh universal in our race, often 
 boldly opposing a single syllable in one bar to three or 
 four in the next. I should not call this " bold " except 
 for the timidity of English poetry during the last two 
 
 1 A term for which it is now pretty generally agreed to substi- 
 tute " Old English." I shall use the two interchangeably in this 
 paper. 
 
The' Death of Byrhtnoth 145 
 
 hundred years, when it has scarcely ever dared to ven- 
 ture out of the round of its strictly defined iambics, for- 
 getting how freely our folk songs and nursery rhymes 
 employ rhythms and rhythmic breaks, — as "Pease por- 
 ridge hot," for example, or almost any verse out of 
 Mother Goose, — which, though "complex" from the 
 standpoint of our customary rhythmic limitations, are 
 instantly seized and co-ordinated by children and child- 
 minded nurses.^ 
 
 [Apart from its literary merit, this poem has other 
 features of interest. It is an example, perhaps singular, 
 of an epic contemporary with the events it recites, and 
 probably written by one who had a share in the battle. 
 The poet's point of view never moves from the English 
 side; he does not know what is done or said among 
 the Danes ; he knows none of their names, not even 
 that of their leader, though he was the redoubted Anlaf, 
 or Olaf Tryggvason, king of Norway. We may there- 
 fore rely on its being a faithful picture of what was 
 done, said, and even thought during this last resolute 
 stand of England against the Wikings. 
 
 The incident itself is memorable. In a. d. 979, 
 iEthelred Lack-Counsel (generally called "the Un- 
 ready") was crowned at Kingston, and the "bloody 
 cloud in the likeness of fire, seen at midnight," which 
 followed that event, may well have seemed to the old 
 chronicler, in the light of later experience, a foretoken- 
 ing of the years to come, when the heavens, night after 
 night, were red with the glare of burning towns and 
 
 1 The historical paragraphs following (in brackets) have been 
 supplied by Dr. William Hand Browne, to fill a gap in the origi- 
 nal manuscript, where sixteen pages are lacking. 
 
 10 
 
146 Music and Poetry 
 
 homesteads, and the ground was crimson with the blood 
 of the slaughtered English. For the Danes had begun 
 their terrible invasions, and met with but little resist- 
 ance. In the next year, Leicester, Thanet, and South- 
 ampton were plundered, and the inhabitants "mostly 
 slain," says the chronicle ; in the next, Padstow in Corn- 
 wall was plundered, and Devonshire harried with fire 
 and sword ; in the next, London was burnt. We come 
 at last to the year 991, and we are told : — 
 
 " In this year came Anlaf with ninety-three ships to 
 Staines and harried all roundabout that ; and then fared 
 thence to Sandwich, and thence on to Ipswich, and 
 overran all that, and so to Maldon [Essex]. And 
 there against them came the ealdorman Byrhtnoth with 
 his army, and fought with them, and they slew the 
 ealdorman and held the battlefield. And in this year 
 for the first time men counselled that they should rather 
 pay tribute to the Danish men for the mickle terror 
 that they wrought at the sea-coasts. And the tribute 
 was at first a thousand pounds. The giver of the 
 counsel was Sigeric the archbishop." 
 
 It is plain from this that the fall of Byrhtnoth snapped 
 the sinews of English resistance ; and from this time 
 forth we read of nothing but feeble and futile muster- 
 ings of men, without plan or concert of action, and all 
 to no purpose : half-battles lost because the support 
 did not arrive in time ; fleets ordered to help the 
 land force, and coming after all was over ; " and ever," 
 says the chronicler, " when they should have been for- 
 warder, then were they later, ain ever the foes waxed 
 more and more." And the tribute grew heavier and 
 heavier, and there was less to pay it with, and leaders 
 like ^Ifric turned traitors in sheer despair, untij. thft 
 
The Death of Byrhtnoth 147 
 
 doomed king, crowning a life of imbecility by a deed 
 of bloody madness, slaughtered the peaceful colonists 
 of the Danelagh, and Swegen came in a storm of fire 
 and blood, hurling the wretched descendant of Cerdic 
 from the throne, and England bent her neck to the 
 Danish rule. After half a century, two phantoms of a 
 monk and a warrior, Edward and Harold, seemed to 
 wear the Saxon crown ; but the monarchy of Alfred re- 
 ceived its death-blow at Maldon, not because the East 
 Saxon militia was broken, but because Byrhtnoth fell. 
 
 And now who was Byrhtnoth ? The chronicler, over- 
 much given to recording investitures and deaths of 
 bishops and abbots, tells us but little; but from the 
 Book of Ely, an abbey founded by Byrhtnoth himself, 
 we get glimpses of him, probably from the hand of one 
 who had seen him face to face. He was Ealdorman — 
 that iSj lord or general — of the East Saxons, and one 
 of the greatest nobles in England. " He was," says the 
 monkish historian, " eloquent of speech, great of stature, 
 exceeding strong, most skilful in war, and of courage 
 that knew no fear. He spent his whole life in defend- 
 ing the liberty of his country, being altogether absorbed 
 in this one desire, and preferring to die rather than to 
 leave one of its injuries unavenged. And all the leaders 
 of the shires put their trust altogether in him." 
 
 After telling of several of his victories, the historian 
 comes to his last fight. His force was far inferior to 
 that of the invaders, but he hastened to meet them 
 without waiting for reinforcements, — a piece of rash- 
 ness like that recorded in the poem, where, from mere 
 excess of haughty courage, he disdains to defend the 
 ford of Panta, and lets the Wikings cross unmolested, a 
 fatal hardihood which cost him the battle and his life. 
 
148 Music and Poetry 
 
 On his march thither he stopped at Ramsey Abbey, and 
 asked for provisions for his men. The abbot said that 
 it was not possible for him to feed so great a number, 
 but, not to seem churlish, he would receive as his guests 
 the ealdorman himself and seven others. Byrhtnoth 
 rejected the mean offer with scorn : " I cannot fight 
 without them," he said, "and I will not eat without 
 them," and so marched on to Ely, where Abbot ^Ifsig 
 bounteously entertained him and his force. "But the 
 ealdorman, thinking that he had been burdensome to 
 the abbey, would not leave it unrewarded ; and on the 
 following morning bestowed upon it six rich manors, 
 and promised nine more, with thirty marks of gold and 
 twenty pounds of silver, on the condition that if he fell 
 in the battle his body should be brought and buried 
 there. To this gift he also added two crosses of gold 
 and two vestments richly adorned with gold and gems, 
 and a pair of curiously wrought gloves. And so, com- 
 mending himself to the prayers of the brethren, he 
 went forth to meet the enemy. 
 
 " When he met them, undeterred by the multitude of 
 foes and the fewness of his own men, he attacked them 
 at once, and for fourteen days fought with them daily. 
 But on the last day, but fewr of his men being left 
 alive, and perceiving that he was to die, he attacked 
 them with none the less courage, and had almost put 
 them to flight, when the Danes, taking heart from the 
 small numbers of the English, formed their force into a 
 wedge, and threw themselves upon them. Byrhtnoth 
 was slain, fighting valiantly, and the enemy cut off his 
 head and bare it with them to their own country." 
 
 Plainly a prince of men, and the true king of England 
 ^t that day, though he never wavered in his allegiance tcj 
 
The Death of Byrhtnoth I49 
 
 " ^thelred, my prince." And this last day of the " great 
 dim battle " in the east, more worthy the poet's song 
 than that merely fabulous " battle in the west " which the 
 late Laureate celebrated in such ringing verse, — this 
 last agony of the last vigorous struggle to free England 
 from the ferocious invaders, is the subject of the poem. 
 
 True, Byrhtnoth is not so musical a name as Arthur, 
 and Leofsunu and Wulfmser sound harsh compared with 
 Lancelot and Percivale ; but the fantastic chivalry of the 
 Round Table and their phantom-like king are not only 
 historically untrue, but merely impossible, — a bright- 
 hued web of the stuff that dreams are made of, — while 
 these gallant men of Essex and their heroic chief verita- 
 bly lived, and fought, and died where they stood, rather 
 than yield one foot of English ground or forsake their 
 fallen leader ; and they were men of our own race, and it 
 may be that their blood flows in our own veins. 
 
 But though they have not been thought worthy the 
 dainty music of Victorian verse, they have not lacked 
 a poet — probably a soldier-poet, for his lines fall like 
 sword-strokes on helmets. He has not written for crit- 
 ics, but for East Saxons, East Angles, Northumbrians, 
 who had looked to Byrhtnoth as their shield, and whose 
 kindred had formed that narrowing ring that circled 
 his corpse, "their mood growing more as their might 
 lessened." We have here no wail of lamentation over 
 the fallen leader ; the poet will not let us see his tears ; 
 yet the eye must have been dim that watched him cast 
 loose his "beloved hawk," knowing that she would 
 never again come to his call, and the hand must have 
 trembled that recorded the hero's dying prayer. 
 
 Nay, we hardly are shown the poet's personality at 
 all, intense as his feelings must have been : of the fatal 
 
150 Music and Poetry 
 
 error that lost the battle, he merely says, " the earl, for 
 his overmood, left too much land to the hostile people ; " 
 of the flight of Godric he simply remarks that " more 
 men fled with him than was right, if they had remem- 
 bered all the kindness he [Byrhtnoth] had shown them ; " 
 and when Oifa keeps his pledge to his chief to live or 
 die with him, he breaks into no paean over his fidelity, 
 but says simply, "he lay, thane-like, by his lord's 
 side." 
 
 Unflinching courage, personal devotion to the chief, 
 absolute contempt of death, are matters of course in this 
 warrior-poet's mind, and need no particular eulogy. Of 
 these qualities, two yet abide with the race ; but the 
 third, the passionate love of the thane for his prince, a 
 love passing the love of woman — so tenderly sung in 
 The Wanderer — this we are not likely to see again. 
 It is much to be doubted whether in that " passage of 
 society from status to contract," so dear to the political 
 economist, we have gained any equivalent for the loss. 
 Men are, as yet, still capable of" falling thane-like ; " but 
 not of saying, " never shall the thanes reproach me that 
 I would return to my home, now that my prince lieth 
 hewn down in fight." ^] 
 
 I have translated two hundred lines of the poem, — 
 which is a fragment of three hundred and twenty-five 
 lines in all, without the original beginning or end, — 
 with special reference to two matters. 
 
 (i) In the first hundred lines — being the first hun- 
 dred of the poem as it stands — I have had particu- 
 larly in view the send and drive of the rhythm; and 
 to keep these in the reader's mind I have made the trans- 
 
 1 End of Dr. William Hand Browne's manuscript. 
 
The Death of Byrhtnoth 151 
 
 lation, so far as the end of that hundred, mostly in dac- 
 tyls, which continually urge the voice forward to the 
 next word, with an occasional trochee for breath and 
 variety. 
 
 (2) But in my second hundred lines — being those 
 consecutively following the first, up to the hundred and 
 eighty-fifth line of the poem, when I pass to the last six- 
 teen, with an intercalary account in short of the matter 
 of the intervening hundred and twenty-five — I have 
 abandoned the metrical purpose, and changed the para- 
 mount object to that of showing the peculiar idioms of 
 Anglo-Saxon poetry : the order of words, the vigorous 
 use of noun and verb, the parallelisms and repetitions 
 (like those of Hebrew poetry, as in the lines near the 
 last, " ^Ifnod and Wulfmser lay slain ; by the side of 
 their prince they parted with life"), and the like. I 
 have thought that the modern reader might contemplate 
 with special profit the sparing use of those particles — 
 such as " the," "a" or " an," " his," " their," and others 
 — which have made the modem tongue so different from 
 the old, both in its rhythmical working and in its weight 
 or momentum. The old tongue is notably sterner, and 
 often stronger, by its ability to say " man," " horse," 
 " shield," and not " the man," " a horse," " his shield," 
 etc. ; and it is an interesting question, at least, whether 
 we might not with advantage educate our modem sense 
 to be less shocked by the omission of these particles 
 at need. Without here adducing many considerations 
 which would have to be weighed before any one could 
 make up his judgment on this point, I have simply called 
 attention to these particles, where modern usage required 
 me to supply them in the translation, by inclosing them 
 in parentheses. 
 
1^2 Music and Poetry 
 
 In both the metrical and the unmetrical portions of 
 the translation I have discarded the arrangement into 
 lines as interfering with the objects in view; the poem 
 showing clearly enough, by the plane of its thought, that 
 it ts a poem, though presented in whatever forms of 
 prose. 
 
 The fragment begins with the last two words of some 
 sentence, " brocen wurde " (was broken), and then pro- 
 ceeds as follows. 
 
 Bade then (that is, Byrhtnoth bade) each warrior 
 loose him his horse and drive it afar, and fare thus on to 
 the hand-fight, hopeful of heart. 
 
 Then straightway the stripling of Offa beheld that the 
 earl would abide no cowardly thing : so there from his 
 hand he let fly his falcon, beloved, away through the 
 wood and strode to the battle, and man might know 
 that never that youth would fail from the fight when 
 once he fell to his weapon. Thereat Eadric was minded 
 to stand by his ealdorman fast in the fight ; forth 'gan 
 bear his javelin foe-ward, manful in mood, whilever that 
 he in his hands might hold his buckler and broadsword ; 
 his vaunt he avouched with his deeds, that there he 
 should fight in front of his prince. 
 
 Then Byrhtnoth began to array him his warriors, rode 
 and directed, counselled the fighters how they should 
 stand and steadfastly hold to their places, showed them 
 how shields should be gripped full hard with the hand, 
 and bade them to fear not at all. When fairly his folk 
 were formed he alighted in midst of the liegemen that 
 loved him fondliest; there full well he wist that his faith- 
 fullest hearth-fighters were. 
 
 Then stood forth one from the vikings, strongly called, 
 uttered his words, shouted the sea-rogues' threat to the 
 
The Death of Byrhtnoth 153 
 
 earl where he stood on the adverse shore : " Me have 
 the scathful seamen sent, and bidden me say that now 
 must thou render rings * for thy ransom, and better for 
 you shall it be that ye buy off a battle with tribute than 
 trust the hard-dealing of war. No need that we harm 
 us, if only ye heed this message ; firm will we fashion a 
 peace with the gold. If thou that art richest wouldst 
 ransom thy people, pay, for a peace, what the seamen 
 shall deem to be due ; we will get us to ship with 
 the gold, and fare off over the flood, and hold you 
 acquit." 
 
 Bjrrhtnoth cried to him, brandished the buckler, shook 
 the slim ash, with words made utterance, wrathful and 
 resolute, gave him his answer : " Hearest thou, sea- 
 rover, that which my folk sayeth? Yes, we will render 
 you tribute ... in javelins — poisonous point, and old- 
 time blade — good weapons, yet forward you not in the 
 fight. Herald of pirates, be herald once more : bear to 
 thy people a bitterer message, — that here stands daunt- 
 less an earl with his warriors, will keep us this country, 
 land of my lord. Prince ^thelred, — folk and field : 
 the heathen shall perish in battle. Too base, methink- 
 eth, that ye with your gold should get you to ship all un- 
 foughten with, now that so far ye have come to be in our 
 land : never so soft shall ye slink with your treasure 
 away: us shall persuade both point and blade — grim 
 game of war — ere we pay you for peace." 
 
 Bade he then bear forward bucklers, and warriors go, 
 till they all stood ranged on the bank that was east. 
 Now there, for the water, might never a foeman come to 
 the other : there came flowing the flood after ebb-tide, 
 
 1 lUngs, that is, of gold, — a favorite form of treasure among 
 our Anglo-Saxon ancestors. 
 
154 Music and Poetry 
 
 mingled the streams : too long it seemed to them, ere 
 that together the spears would come.^ 
 
 [There stood they in their strength by Panta's stream, 
 the East-Saxon force and the ship-host : nor might either 
 of them harm the other, save when one fell by an arrow's 
 flight. 
 
 The tide outflowed; the pirates stood yare, many 
 vikings wistful for war.] 
 
 Bade them the Shelter-of-Men ^ a war-hardened war- 
 rior hold him the bridge, who Wulfstan was hight, bold 
 with his kinsmen, Ceola's son; he smote with his 
 spear the first man down that stepped over-bold on 
 the bridge. There stood by Wulfstan warriors dauntless, 
 Maccus and ^Ifere, proud-souled twain; they recked 
 not of flight at the ford, but stoutly strove with the foe 
 what while they could wield their weapons. When they * 
 encountered and eagerly saw how bitter the bridgewards 
 were, then the hostile guests betook them to cunning : 
 ordered to seize the ascents, and fare through the ford 
 and lead up the line. Now the earl in his over-bold 
 mood gave over-much* land to the foe. There, while 
 the warriors whist, fell Byrhthelm's bairn ' to calling over 
 the waters cold : — 
 
 " Now there is room for you, rush to us, warriors to 
 warfare ; God wot, only, which of us twain shall possess 
 this place of the slaughter." 
 
 1 A short gap in the manuscript is here supplied by Dr. 
 William Hand Browne. 
 
 " Byrhtnoth. 
 
 ' The pirates. 
 
 * Voluntarily drew back and allowed them to gain the hither 
 bank, in order to bring on the fight. 
 
 ' Byrhtnoth. 
 
The Death of Byrhtnoth 155 
 
 Waded the war-wolves west over Panta, recked not of 
 water, warrior vikings. There, o'er the wave they bore 
 up their bucklers, the seamen lifted their shields to the 
 land. In wait with his warriors, Byrhtnoth stood; he 
 bade form the war-hedge of bucklers, and hold that 
 ward firm to the foe. The fight was at hand, the glory 
 of battle ; the time was come for the falling of men that 
 were doomed. 
 
 There was a scream uphoven, ravens hovered, (and) 
 the eagle sharp for carnage ; on earth was clamor. 
 
 They let from (their) hands (the) file-hard spears, 
 (the) sharp-ground javelins, fly ; bows were busy, shield 
 caught spear-point, bitter was the battle-rush, warriors 
 fell, on either hand warriors lay. Wounded was Wulf- 
 maer, chose (his) bed of death, Byrhtnoth's kinsman, 
 his sister's son; he with bills was in pieces hewn. 
 (But) there to the vikings was quittance made ; heard I 
 that Edward slew one sheerly with his sword, withheld 
 not the swing (of it), that to him at feet fell (the) fated 
 warrior. For that his prince said thanks to him — to his 
 bower-thane — when he had time. So dutiful wrought 
 (the) strong-souled fighters at battle, keenly considered 
 who there might quickliest pierce with (his) weapon; 
 carnage fell on earth. Stood (they) steadfast. Byrht- 
 noth heartened them, bade that each warrior mind him 
 of battle that would fight out glory upon (the) Danes. 
 
 Waded then (forward) (a) warrior tough, upheaved 
 (his) weapon, shield at ward, and strode at the earl ; as 
 resolute went the earl to the carl : ^ each of them to the 
 other meant mischief. Sent then the sea-warrior (a) 
 Southern spear that the lord of warriors " was wounded ; 
 
 1 The churl, — common person, or yeoman. 
 
 2 Byrhtnoth. 
 
156 Music and Poetry 
 
 he wrought then with his shield that the shaft burst in 
 pieces and that spear broke that it sprang again. Angry- 
 souled was the warrior ; he with (his) spear stung the 
 proud viking that gave him his wound. Prudent was the 
 chieftain ; he let his spear wade through the viking's 
 neck ; (his) hand guided it that it reached to the life of 
 his dangerous foe. Then he suddenly shot another that 
 his corselet burst ; he was wounded in the breast through 
 the ring-mail; at his heart stood the fatal spear-point. 
 The earl was all the blither ; laughed the valorous man, 
 said thanks to the Creator for the day's-work that the 
 Lord gave him. 
 
 Then some (one) of the warriors let fly from his hand 
 a dart that it forthright passed through the noble thane ' 
 of ^thelred. Then stood him beside an unwaxen war- 
 rior,'' a boy in fight ; he full boldly plucked from the 
 prince the bloody javelin (Wulfstan's son, Wulfmser 
 the young) ; let the sharp (steel) fare back agam ; the 
 spear-point pierced that he lay on the earth who before 
 had grievously wounded the prince. Ran there a cun- 
 ning warrior to the earl; he wished to plunder the 
 prince of (his) treasures, armor and rings and adorn&d 
 sword. Then Byrhtnoth drew from sheath his broad and 
 brown-edged sword and smote on the (warrior's) corse- 
 let : (but) too soon one of the pirates prevented him ; 
 he maimed the arm of the earl ; fell to the ground the 
 yellow-hilted sword ; he might not hold the hard blade, 
 not wield (a) weapon. There nevertheless some words 
 spoke the hoary chieftain, heartened his warriors, bade 
 the good comrades go forward ; now no longer could he 
 stand firm on (his) feet ; he looked towards heaven : — 
 
 1 Byrhtnoth. 
 
 ^ That is, a youthful warrior. 
 
The Death of Byrhtnoth 157 
 
 " I thank Thee, Ruler of nations, for all the delights 
 that were mine in the world ; now do I own, mild Crea- 
 tor, most need that Thou give good to my ghost, whereby 
 my soul may depart unto Thee in Thy kingdom. Prince 
 of (the) angels, may fare forth in peace ; I am suppH- 
 ant to Thee that the hell- foes may humble it not." 
 
 Then the heathen men hewed him and both the chief- 
 tains that stood by him ] ^Ifnod and Wulfmasr lay slain ; 
 by the side of their prince they parted with life. 
 
 And hereupon — as the next hundred and twenty-five 
 lines go on to relate — there was like to be a most sor- 
 rowful panic on the English side. Several cowards fled : 
 notably one Godric, who leaped upon Byrhtnoth's own 
 horse, and so cast many into dead despair with the be- 
 lief that they saw — what no man had ever dreamed he 
 saw before — Byrthnoth in flight. But presently ^Ifwine 
 and Oflfa and other high-souled thanes heartened each 
 other and led up their people, yet to no avail j and so 
 thane after thane and man after man fell for the love of 
 Byrhtnoth and of manhood, and no more would flee. 
 Finally (at line 309, after which there are but sixteen 
 lines more of the Fragment) we find Byrhtwold, an old 
 warrior, sturdily bearing up his shield and waving his 
 ash and exhorting the few that remained, beautifully 
 crying : — 
 
 " Soul be the scornfuller, heart be the bolder, front be 
 the firmer, the fewer we grow ! Here, all hewn, lieth 
 our chieftain, a good man on the ground ; for ever let 
 (one) mourn who now from this war-play thinketh to 
 wend. I am old of hfe ; hence will I not ; for now by 
 the side of my lord, by the so-beloved man, I am minded 
 to lie ! " 
 
158 Music and Poetry 
 
 Then ^thelgar's son (Godric) the warriors all to 
 combat urged ; oft he (a) javelin let hurl — a bale-spear 
 — upon the vikings ; so he among the folk went fore- 
 most, hewed and felled, till that he sank in fight ; he was 
 not that Godric who fled from the battle. 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere 159 
 
 XI 
 
 Chaucer and Shakspere.' 
 
 The Inter-Relations of " A Midsummer Night's 
 Dream," "Hamlet," and "The Tempest." 
 
 " I DO not need " — cries Montaigne, protesting 
 against platitude — "I do not need to be told what 
 death and pleasure are ; " and the greatness of Shakspere 
 and Chaucer has come to be so far upon the same scale 
 with death and pleasure that probably every student of 
 those writers must have felt a certain inconvenience 
 when tempted to break forth in that new access of 
 wonder so sure to arise from each fresh contact with 
 their art, in remembering that all general remarks upon 
 them have probably long ago become platitudes. 
 
 Never so fairly as at this moment have men beheld 
 that miracle of art which reverses the whole economy 
 of things in favor of the artist and his lover. What 
 with the work of the Chaucer Society, of the Shakspere 
 Societies, and of multitudinous individual laborers from 
 Shirley and Rowe to Blake and Furness ; together with 
 
 1 These three " Chaucer and Shakspere " papers are from the 
 introduction to a text-book with the above title designed by Mr. 
 Lanier, for students of English Literature, but not quite completed, 
 in October, 1880. 
 
i6o Music and Poetry 
 
 a thousand siftings and ciystallizations such as can be 
 effected only by the agitations of long debate and the 
 quiet solutions of time, we know Chaucer and Shak- 
 spere so much better than their wives Philippa and Anne 
 knew them that we could certainly have given those 
 ladies some useful hints. In this intimacy we find our- 
 selves possessing, indeed, no less than a perfect com- 
 pensation against that grim bind of the laws of Nature 
 which so wears the tissue of all our spirits. That death 
 destroys, that time dims, that force decreases with the 
 square of the distance : these laws which seem to have 
 jurisdiction everywhere, and to determine every effort 
 of man and Nature, we rejoice to see not only bend, 
 but go backward cap in hand, before the divinity of our 
 dear masters. For the societies and fine labors just de- 
 tailed are living proofs that death has created these 
 poets better than life did, that time's corrosion has 
 merely etched their features in more relief upon man's 
 heart, and that their power, in defiance of all the mathe- 
 matics of radiation, has steadily increased with the in- 
 creasing radius of its sphere. 
 
 The figures of Chaucer and Shakspere, in thus escap- 
 ing the limitations of historic distance, have come nearer 
 to each other as well as nearer to us. Their forms 
 have grown so clear that we seem able to seat them 
 quite palpably side by side in our own room, where 
 a man may kiss both their hands in one and the same 
 reverence. 
 
 And, having them in this favorable session, we can 
 draw them on to discuss the same topic, and can take 
 what wisdom we have capacity for in studying their 
 poetic personalities thus sharply relieved upon each 
 other. For instance, a comparative study of The 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere i6i 
 
 Clerk's Tale (patient Griselda's story) with The Tem- 
 pest, both of which are motived upon Forgiveness, may 
 show us Chaucer very keenly projected upon Shakspere. 
 There are three singularly representative works of 
 Shakspere which, by their remarkable relations to each 
 other and to three corresponding works of Chaucer, — 
 besides their intrinsic qualities, — are capable of such 
 large and useful applications, in our present system of 
 educational training, to the furtherance of language, 
 of art, and of morals, that it has seemed a plain service 
 to set them forth compactly together, in original and 
 complete forms, and with such helps as a considerable 
 experience has shown necessary to make them available 
 to a large number of readers. These six works are : 
 A Midsummer Nights Dream herein studied in conjunc- 
 tion with Chaucer's Knight's Tale ; Hamlet with The 
 Pardoner's Tale; and The Tempest with The Clerk's 
 Tale. 
 
 A remarkable set of circumstances and connexions 
 combine about these three plays of Shakspere to make 
 them representative of three great Phases or Periods 
 through which the process of every healthy man's 
 growth naturally passes. If we consider in outline the 
 general cycle of this process, it will become easy to un- 
 derstand the extraordinary manner in which (i) the 
 Moral Views, (2) the Actual Dates, and (3) the Artistic 
 Structure of these three plays converge to illustrate it. 
 If this inquiry involves us for a moment in the common- 
 place, we need not be surprised ; for it is by virtue of 
 this very commonplaceness that the works named have 
 become lypic and of universal attraction. We shall, 
 however, quickly arrive at less open ground. 
 
1 62 Music and Poetry 
 
 Let one remind one's self — to begin — how youth, or 
 early manhood, with its debonair waving-off of the more 
 terrible questions of existence in favor of those imme- 
 diate joys which are rendered possible by the physical 
 luxuriance of this period, succeeds for a while in main- 
 taining toward real life an attitude of nonchalance and 
 irresponsibility. It is, as to the Real, an amateur 
 period. 
 
 Life says to the young man, as the artist often says to 
 some dilettante painter or musician whom the iron con- 
 science which makes art has not laid under its awful 
 obligations, very good, adding under breath, for an 
 amateur. Or, from another point of view, youth is a 
 period armed with certain qualities which act toward 
 all facts of Death, of Question, of the Disagreeable, 
 as the large green leaf to the round drops of water 
 which, though falling fairly upon it, do but roll along over 
 it in globules, without breaking, and without wetting 
 the leaf-tissue. To the young man standing at the door, 
 waiting for Angela, of a spring morning, when sun, 
 dew, grass, trees, winding woods, river-stretches, birds, 
 love, delight, call him out like a crowd of gay compan- 
 ions, it is little impressive to insist that the grass there 
 is really in desperate struggle, blade against blade, and 
 grass against tree, for life, and that the very bird now 
 alighting on the sward — picture of innocence ! is on a 
 mission of murder to the worm it is swallowing. His 
 ear may hear these words, but they roll off. What if it 
 is ? he says ; lifts Angela into the saddle, mounts by her 
 side, and these two, riding close together, presently 
 sweep round the curve of the road and are lost among 
 the trees. To him, Life has not revealed its whole 
 self yet; and what is more, cannot reveal it. Is it 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere 163 
 
 too much to say that Nature has, of purpose, physi- 
 cally incapacitated youth for the sight of her entire 
 Form? 
 
 Or if indeed the sensitive soul of a youth is impressed 
 with the dread revelations of the underlying reality of 
 things, it is so impressed with.a saving clause, — namely, 
 with a certain curious doubt which appears to brood 
 beneficially about our dreams. The most painful of 
 dreams affect us but little in comparison with slight 
 actual griefs. We lose our wives, we commit crimes, 
 we are assailed with nameless terrors, in the visions of 
 the night : but it would seem that the soul instinctively 
 takes things with a certain Pickwickian perhaps, at 
 these times. No one's heart was ever broken by a 
 dream. 
 
 And this dream-relation of youth toward the Real 
 brings us immediately to our point ; for it is precisely 
 such a relation which the Midsummer Nighfs Dream 
 expresses in the most ravishing terms of fancy. Death, 
 and the cross of love, and the downward suctions of 
 trade and politics, and the solemn stillness of current 
 criticisms in all ages, and the compromise of creed, and 
 the co-existence of God and misery, and the insufficiency 
 of provision whereby some must die that the rest may 
 live, and a thousand like matters : to these things the 
 youth's senses, made purposely unapprehensive in part, 
 are in a state which is described with scientific accuracy 
 when it is called the state of a dream ; and this is the 
 state revealed in the Midsummer Nigh f s Dream. Here 
 we have the cross of love — two mad for one, Obe- 
 ron quarrelling with his wife ; but no thought of heart- 
 break. Here Bottom and his fellow patches show us 
 Shakspere conscious of the fashionable degradations 
 
164 Music and Poetry 
 
 of his art ; but there is no mourning over it, as in the 
 later sonnet, " Tired of all these, for restful death I 
 cry," and several others. Here we have the stupid ass- 
 worship of contemporary criticism in all times — Titania, 
 or current applause, doting upon the absurd monster ; 
 but it is matter for smiles, only, not indignation. Cer- 
 tainly. Wrong is abroad, that is clear; but meantime one 
 is young : and this is a dream: such appears to be the 
 fair moral outcome of this play. 
 
 Now, if we examine this work further with reference 
 to the actual date at which Shakspere wrote it, and 
 with reference to the quality of the artistic technic he 
 displays in it, we shall find both these particulars bear- 
 ing out the idea of youthfulness in the most striking 
 manner. But reserving this examination a moment, for 
 the sake of the advantage gained in consecutively trac- 
 ing Shakspere's advance in moral scope through the 
 other two plays mentioned : let us now inquire how far 
 the attitude of the Midsummer Nighfs Dream t6ward 
 things has been changed by the time we reach Hamlet. 
 
 Hamlet, as compared with A Midsummer Nighfs 
 Dream is as much as to say, ten years later. Here the 
 ills and wrongs which youth admits in a theoretical 
 sense not at all interfering with one's gayety, have come 
 upon our poet in the shape of actual matters : as they do 
 come, one way or another, to every man soon after his 
 manhood. Immediately in his path young Shakspere 
 finds a grave ; it is so real that a voice appears to come 
 out of it, saying, either explain me or fill me. Here 
 also, sitting on either side the ugly hole, are the two fig- 
 ures of Sin and Punishment; and a multitude of less 
 definite shapes flit terribly about. No debonair waving 
 away of these now into the vague recesses of youthful 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere 165 
 
 unconcern. Once for all, death and crime and revenge 
 and insanity and corruption are, and I have personal 
 relations to them. For the first time he realizes the 
 Real. 
 
 Every man of forty, many a man of thirty, knows this 
 phase. If we call that of youth the Dream Period, we 
 may designate this as the Real Period. It comes after 
 one has seen the frightful shifts of his fellow-tradesmen, 
 or fellow-politicians, or, alas, fellow-artists; or after 
 one has deadened to some love, of wife, child, or 
 mother, found unworthy, and therefore loved by grace 
 and not by attractive necessity; or after one has by 
 turns begged, threatened, and wept in the face of death, 
 at the parting of one's best-loved, and found oneself 
 scorned with the scorn of death's imperturbable Noth- 
 ing ; or from one of a thousand other directions. Turn 
 which way one will, there is the Devil grinning. The 
 most familiar references show us the universality of 
 this phase ; it crops out from all Bibles, histories, biogra- 
 phies ; the eating of the fruit which brought the knowl- 
 edge of good and evil; the giving over of Job into 
 Satan's hands, the Temptation in the wilderness, the 
 sequestration of Moses, the hideous groans of Mohammed, 
 the cry for the actual truth at the Renascence, the rise 
 of Science : these all occur in each life, and represent 
 from various standpoints the condition of Shakspere's 
 mind which expressed itself in the play of Hamlet. 
 Again postponing for a moment the parallel questions of 
 actual date and artistic advance : let us pursue the mat- 
 ter of moral growth to the third play of our series, The 
 Tempest. 
 
 Here the world is resolved. Man — who in the Mid- 
 summer Night's Dream was the victim of Puck, or 
 
i66 Music and Poetry 
 
 tricksy Chance, and the slave of Nature ; ^ who, in Ham- 
 let has advanced only so far from this status that he is 
 inquiring into Nature, puzzling over death, analyzing 
 revenge, and struggling with fate; — is, in The Tem- 
 pest, ruler of Ariel (Puck's apotheosis), and lord of the 
 storm, (which here brings good instead of the evil of 
 Titania's freshets). In the Dream Period man is the 
 sport of fate ; in the Hamlet period man is still be- 
 neath fate, but the thing has gone beyond sport, for 
 man inquires and suffers and struggles; in the Tem- 
 pest Period man is master of the universe. And — what 
 is here essential — this masterhood of Nature is accom- 
 panied by a supreme moral goodness to fellow-man. 
 The Tempest is motived upon an enormous Forgive- 
 ness. The whole plot is, in three words, a storm and 
 z. fairy, used as servants by a man (Prospero), for a be- 
 neficent purpose which embraces in its scope even the 
 man's cruelest enemy. 
 
 Out of the Real, or Inquiring, or Scientific (these 
 terras become convertible from the point of view herein 
 urged) Period of Hamlet, our poet emerges into what 
 we may fairly call, by a nomenclature based on logical 
 extension of the thought started with, the Ideal Period 
 of The Tempest. 
 
 In comparing these plays, therefore, with reference to 
 the moral scope of the view of life which they present, 
 
 1 Compare Titania's speech in Act II. Scene 2, when, after the 
 marvellous picture of the freshets and topsy-turvy seasons, she 
 
 adds : 
 
 '* And this same progeny of evils comes 
 From our debate, from our dissension.*' 
 
 But all the details of this preliminary outline of the relations be- 
 tween the three plays will appear in the notes accompanying the 
 representations of them hereinafter made. 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere 167 
 
 we have arrived at a set of inter-relations which may be 
 accurately summed up in the following scheme : 
 
 DREAM PERIOD. 1 REAL PERIOD. 
 A MIDSUMMER HAMLET. 
 
 NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 IDEAL PERIOD. 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 If, now, advancing to the question of actual dates, we 
 shall find that all the plays which Shakspere wrote 
 between about 1590 and 1602 ^ were of a nature to show 
 clearly the view of life just developed as characteristic 
 of his first, or Dream, Period, while those written be- 
 tween about 1602 and 1608 arrange themselves, from the 
 same point of view, under the next, or Real, Period ; and 
 those written between about 1608 and 1613 (at which 
 latter date he probably stopped writing, three years be- 
 fore his death) under the third, or Ideal, Period : we 
 will thus uncover a process of spiritual growth so nor- 
 mal and healthy as to constitute a perfect explanation of 
 the astonishing universality with which Shakspere ap- 
 peals to all classes of men, of all nations, in all ages. 
 For we here discover a complete and simple answer to 
 that questioning doubt which all persons feel when told 
 that such and such plays of Shakspere's embody such 
 and such ideals, or are motived upon such and such cen- 
 
 1 Most readers of a work so general as this would find any 
 detailed discussion of dates exceedingly irksome, and it seems 
 proper, therefore, to support the chronology here advanced only 
 by giving such reference as will enable those desiring further re- 
 search to examine the evidence for themselves. Altogether the 
 best book for this purpose is the Chronological Order of Shaksper^ s 
 Plays, by the Rev. H. P. Stokes, Macmillan & Co., London, 1878, 
 in which the whole body of evidence is admirably collated, and 
 tables are arranged showing at a glance the conclusions of the 
 main workers in this field. The dates of the three plays specially 
 considered will be fully treated in the notes accompanying them. 
 
1 68 Music and Poetry 
 
 tral thoughts. These plays seem to every reader so 
 natural and spontaneous that instant revolt is excited by 
 every assertion of special meanings in them implying 
 deliberate and conscious premeditation on Shakspere's 
 part. Pooh ! one is inclined to say, do not tell me that 
 Shakspere meant to portray this and that "view" of 
 things — revenge in "Hamlet," forgiveness in " TJie 
 Tempest;" he did not "mean" to portray anything. 
 The fact was simply that the manager wanted a play 
 and Shakspere wanted money, and the latter, being called 
 on by the former, wrote whatever first came in mind; 
 hence "Hamlet" and" The Tempest" and all the rest. 
 
 Now this is mainly true, and yet, if taken in connec- 
 tion with the dates just advanced and the considerations 
 preceding them, it is a truth which results very differ- 
 ently from what the hasty thinker would suspect. For 
 the outcome of it is to produce a correspondence be- 
 tween every work of Shakspere's and the whole state 
 of his soul at the moment when that work was produced, 
 which would amount to a more complete unity of " view " 
 than any deliberate and conscious premeditation what- 
 ever could effect. It is design that has designed itself. 
 If we say that Hamlet represents the Real period of 
 Shakspere's growth, we do not affirm that Shakspere 
 sat down one day and said to himself: Come now, I 
 will write a play which shall picture a soul dealing with 
 dark questions ; but we affirm that Shakspere one day 
 sat down to write, — incited thereto by whatever per- 
 sonal motive, money or what not, — and that the day 
 happened to be one of a season when his own mind was 
 or had been dealing with dark questions ; now, when he 
 wrote, he wrote with all that was within him, and affected 
 nothing ; hence Hamlet. 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere 169 
 
 Thus the question of Shakspere chronology, which 
 many are at first inclined to class among the driest and 
 most useless of antiquarian discussions, becomes a mat- 
 ter of the freshest living interest, — a matter touching the 
 highest questions of religion and the spirit. 
 
 It must be, therefore, that every one who has not be- 
 fore studied this question will feel a certain delightful 
 shock of revelation in finding that a perfectly sober 
 chronology — a chronology lying fairly at the focus of all 
 the numerous rays of evidence uncovered by the loving 
 industry of Shakspere students — authorizes the con- 
 struction of a scheme like the following, which I have 
 arranged for the purpose of enabling the reader to sweep 
 at a glance along the whole spiral of Shakspere's orbit 
 so far as it was visible from our planet : — 
 
 DREAM PERIOD : ABOUT i590-i6oa. 
 All the light comedies, such as 
 
 Love's Labor Lost, As You Like It, etc. 
 All the historical flays, such as 
 
 Richard III., the Henry series, etc., except Henry VIII., a 
 
 Forgiveness play, coming in the Third Period. Ramea and 
 
 Juliet. 
 
 REPRESENTATIVE PLAY OP THIS PERIOD, 
 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 REAL PERIOD: ABOUT 1602-1608. 
 All the dark tragedies, such as 
 
 Macbeth, Othello, King Ltar, and the like. 
 
 REPRESENTATIVE PLAY OP THIS PERIOD, 
 HAMLET . 
 
 IDEAL PERIOD : ABOUT 1608-1613. 
 
 All the Forgiveness and Reconciliation Plays, such as 
 Winter's Tale, Henry VIII., and the like. 
 
 REPRESENTATIVE PLAY OP THIS PERIOD, 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
lyo Music and Poetry 
 
 The most cursory inspection of this scheme shows 
 how completely the plays thus belonging together ac- 
 cording to their dates also belong together accord- 
 ing to their moral conceptions of hfe. (a) First the 
 sportive comedies explicitly play with life, {b) Then 
 the historical plays, even in setting forth wrong and 
 treachery and grief, do not investigate the why of them. 
 We have the recognition of Pain in life, but no inquiry 
 into its nature and function in the economy of the world. 
 (c) And in Romeo and Juliet the darkness of death is 
 used merely as a foil to set off the brilliance of pure 
 young Passion, as jewellers lay a diamond upon black 
 velvet. 
 
 In short, all these plays («, b, c), buoyant with youth, 
 recognize the Inequalities of Things only to skip over 
 them, and all the more fun, for who likes the fiats? 
 Clearly, in the plays of this time the perplexity and black 
 contradiction of life have not arisen before Shakspere 
 as facts to which he (Shakspere) has personal rela- 
 tions demanding settlement and action. When these 
 facts appear, they appear as in a dream. 
 
 It seems therefore a broad and strictly scientific gen- 
 eralization by which all these works from 1590 to 1602 
 may be classed, to regard them as penetrated with the 
 spirit of youth or young manhood, and as accurately 
 represented by the Midsummer Nights Dream. 
 
 Thus the First Period, in date, and the Dream Period, 
 in conception, coincide. But, again, if without reference 
 to their plots or conceptions we find that in point of fact 
 Macbeth and Timon and Othello and the others are writ- 
 ten all together ; and, if upon examining them, we find 
 that they all concur in showing a spirit of scientific inqu iry 
 into wrong, superadded to those mere passionate invec- 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere 
 
 171 
 
 tives against it which occur in the histories ; we are justi- 
 fied in saying that the Second Period, as to date, and the 
 Real Period, as to conception, coincide. 
 
 And so, finally, The Tempest and Winter's Tale and 
 the others, motived upon Forgiveness and Reconcilia- 
 tion, and written after 1608, put us upon the coincidence 
 of the Third, and the Ideal, periods. 
 
 As the mind runs rapidly along the plots of the plays 
 which are here indicated in the briefest possible terms, 
 the proposition grows clear that if — as is highly prob- 
 able from the evidence which will be hereinafter pointed 
 • out in connection with various passages when the plays 
 are separately treated — the Midsummer Nighfs Dream 
 was written about 1593-4 or —5, Hamlet about 1602, 
 and The Tempest about 161 1, then these three plays — 
 so representative, as already shown, of a normal advance 
 in breadth of moral conception — really constitute a 
 historic as well as logical formula of Shakspere's growth. 
 This formula we can embody in an abstract of all the 
 preceding considerations, thus : 
 
 DREAM PERIOD: 
 1 590-1602. 
 
 Represented by 
 
 A MIDSUMMER 
 
 NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 REAL PERIOD: 
 
 1602-1608. 
 
 Represented by 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
 IDEAL PERIOD: 
 
 1608-1613. 
 
 Represented by 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 II 
 
 Having thus established that the moral advance so 
 clear in these three plays is actually the historic advance 
 of Shakspere's unfolding spirit, we may now go on to a 
 third series of considerations which not only support this 
 conclusion but enlarge it into a most striking view of 
 
172 Music and Poetry 
 
 the symmetry of the poet's growth throughout the whole 
 mass of his powers. We have seen his growth in moral 
 compass ; let us now see if a growth in artistic com- 
 pass proceeded — as of course it should in every sym- 
 metrical and healthy development — along with the 
 other. 
 
 This investigation is capable of being conducted with 
 a scientific accuracy which secures such valuable results 
 that probably the most cursory reader will not object to 
 some brief description of the simple apparatus of terms 
 and principles used for that purpose. To this end, let 
 us for a moment consider the formal art of the poet in 
 general from a standpoint somewhat higher than that 
 usually occupied. It is not difficult to find one com- 
 manding such a field of view that we can see the moral 
 and the artistic presenting themselves as really parts of 
 a continuous line, different enough at the extremes, but 
 as inseparable at the middle as is plant life from animal 
 life in certain lower forms of being. This remark is, 
 however, in anticipation. 
 
 Since concrete instances will here be at once more 
 clear and . more interesting than any abstract develop- 
 ment of principles, let us obtain familiarity with the ap- 
 paratus just referred to, by at once beginning to use it. 
 Selecting two representative passages from the extremes 
 of the whole period of Shakspere's work, that is, one 
 from the Midsummer Night's Dream (1595?), and 
 one from The Tempest (1612-13), I ask the reader 
 to utter them aloud and to observe the actual phenom- 
 ena which occur. For one of such representative pas- 
 sages, let us take the following from the Midsummer 
 Nighfs Dream, and consider it a moment before its 
 fellow-passage from The Tempest. 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere 173 
 
 "Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind; 
 And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind : 
 Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste ; 
 Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste : 
 And therefore is Love said to be a child. 
 Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd." 
 
 Upon reciting this passage aloud, perhaps the first and 
 most striking observation is that between the last word 
 of each line and the first word of the next line the voice 
 made a distinct pause much longer than the pause be- 
 tween any two consecutive words in the body of any one 
 line. The voice, in short, divided off the whole passage 
 into six smaller passages for the ear just as the punctua- 
 tion marks and the verse-method of printing divide it 
 off into six smaller passages — that is, six " lines " — for 
 the eye. 
 
 What is the effect of this sixfold division? Let it be 
 recalled that in listening to uttered speech, although the 
 primary constituents of that speech are what we may 
 call alphabetic sounds, or letter-sounds, yet the ear, at 
 the same time that it pays attention to these letter- 
 sounds individually, also pays attention to them in those 
 little groups or discrete masses called " syllables." For 
 example, in hearing the first word of this passage, the 
 ear consciously hears first the sound of L, then that of 0, 
 then that of v; but the whole discrete mass Love has 
 nevertheless struck the ear in such quick succession as 
 to be practically simultaneous, and the separate sounds 
 have much the same individual effect with that of each 
 separate tone in a chord of three tones struck on the 
 piano. The ear, therefore, in hearing the sounds of 
 speech, practically hears them in little chords, or groups, 
 each group being that discrete mass of tone called a 
 syllable. 
 
174 Music and Poetry 
 
 From this grouping, commonplace as it seems, pro- 
 ceed the most remarkable effects. If we analyze the 
 passage just read by letter-sounds, the most hopeless 
 confusion results : we can trace no law among the 
 series of sounds. But if we analyze it by syllables, and 
 agree (for reasons not proper to be detailed here, but 
 which any curious reader will find detailed in the au- 
 thor's Science of English Verse, pp. 59 and following) 
 to call such syllables " verse-sounds," we will find that 
 there are in the passage read exactly sixty of these verse- 
 sounds. The effect of the division into six smaller pas- 
 sages or lines by the pause at the end of each line — 
 which pause we may here conveniently agree to call the 
 " end-stop " — may now be clearly seen, when, upon 
 analyzing the first line by verse-sounds (here easily done 
 because each word happens to be one discrete syllable 
 and to constitute, therefore, one verse-sound), 
 
 I 234567S910 
 " Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind," 
 
 we discover that it consists of exactly ten such verse- 
 sounds, and, pursuing the analysis, that the second line 
 
 I 2345 6789 10 
 " And there-fore is wing'd Cu-pid paint-ed blind," 
 
 consists also of exactly ten such verse-sounds, and so 
 with each of the others. Thus the whole passage reveals 
 itself from this point of view as a large group of sixty 
 verse-sounds, divided into six smaller groups of ten 
 verse-sounds each. 
 
 Here the ear has the pleasure of perceiving that in a 
 great mass of tones — which taken by letter-sounds is 
 absolutely patternless, relationless, and lawless — there is 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere 175 
 
 nevertheless a definite pattern which runs through the 
 whole mass, a definite law which reduces the whole con- 
 fusion to a clear and simple order, a set of relations 
 which binds together all the individual constituents of 
 the mass. , 
 
 Before going on to develop the ear's further manage- 
 ment of these patterns, it is worth while remarking that 
 we have here come upon a principle which not only 
 seems to lie at the bottom of all human delight in, and 
 desire for, rhythmic poetry, but which equally inspires 
 every scientific generalization and every formation of 
 moral law. We have just seen that upon presenting to 
 the ear a long series of letter-sounds, the ear, while ap- 
 preciating them as letter-sounds, eagerly accepts the 
 first indication that this lawless series is capable of an 
 arrangement which is not lawless, eagerly perceives the 
 relations between the verse-sounds just detailed, and 
 traces with delight the pattern of tens and sixes into 
 which it finds the verse-sounds are woven. This strin- 
 gent search after pattern, relation, law, among confused 
 sounds, this intolerance of chaos (or un-relation), this 
 delight upon discovering a principle which arranges ap- 
 parently unrelated particulars into an interdependent sys- 
 tem, — would seem to be at bottom the same presiding 
 passion which fills the scientific searcher with discontent, 
 when he has accumulated a number of scientific facts, 
 until he finds some pattern, some principle of relation, 
 some law, which binds together those facts just as. the 
 patterns of tens and sixes, the relation of ten and six to 
 sixty, the law of grouping by groups of ten verse-sounds 
 into six subordinate groups, bound together the whole 
 mass of otherwise chaotic letter-sounds into the organic 
 and related whole of the verse-structure. 
 
176 Music and Poetry 
 
 And lastly this same passion appears to act upon 
 moral facts just as upon scientific facts, and to cause the 
 moralist to search eagerly along any accumulation of 
 moral details for some pattern, or relation, or law, which 
 shall dispose them all into order. 
 
 We shall presently find this observation of great prac- 
 tical use; but reserving it for a further stage of the 
 inquiry, let us now proceed with the study of the verse- 
 phenomena. 
 
 We found that it was the pause at the end of each line, 
 or "end-stop," which was the active agent in marking 
 off for the ear the six constituent groups into which our 
 sixty verse-sounds were divided. Thus it is easy to see 
 that the " end-stopped line," or line admitting a pause 
 of voice between it and the next line, is a controlling 
 factor in the construction of what we shall have frequent 
 occasion to call the Regular System (for there is, as will 
 presently be detailed, in all musical verse, an equally 
 important series of factors forming an Irregular System) 
 of verse. This function of the end-stopped line becomes 
 perfectly clear upon observing the precisely opposite 
 function of the line which is not end-stopped, the line 
 which, by the close connexion of its last word with the 
 first word of the next line forcibly runs the reader's 
 voice on to that first word, and which from this effect is 
 called the " run-on line." For example, if the following 
 passage from Alonzo's speech in Act II. Scene i. of The 
 Temfest be recited aloud, 
 
 " You cram these words into mine ears against 
 The stomach of my sense. Would I had never 
 Married my daughter there I " . . 
 
 the sense of the end-word in each of the first two lines 
 is found to be so closely connected with that of the fol- 
 
Chaticer and Shakspere 177 
 
 lowing word at the beginning of the next line that the 
 voice must run on from one to the other ; and thus the 
 ear of a hearer is not advised of the termination of each 
 line by the recurrent pause, or end-stop. Thus the run- 
 on line becomes, in its turn, a controlling factor in what 
 we will have frequent occasion to refer to as the Irregu- 
 lar System, — a system which every maker of verse must 
 construct, to move along with the Regular System and 
 prevent the latter from cloying the ear and from offend- 
 ing the sense of proportion by its stiffness. 
 
 Let us now pause for a moment at this point in our 
 study of the phenomena presented by the passage 
 from Midsummer Nighfs Dream, and before going on 
 to observe others, let us inquire how these two great 
 classes of lines — the end-stopped and the run-on — 
 were regarded by Shakspere at the two periods respec- 
 tively of the Midsummer Nighfs Dream and 77ie 
 Tempest. It is evident upon the slightest reflection 
 that the predominance of one or the other of these 
 kinds of lines in a verse-structure would strikingly charac- 
 terize its nature. If the end-stopped line should largely 
 prevail, the verse would be very rigidly marked off into 
 lines for the ear, and the structure would be simple and 
 clear at the expense of being stiff. If on the other 
 hand the run-on lines should prevail, the structure 
 would be varied and interesting at the expense of be- 
 coming less intelligible to the ear in pattern. 
 
 Now upon counting the number of end-stopped and 
 run-on lines respectively in Shakspere's earlier plays, 
 and comparing their proportion with the proportion of 
 end-stopped to run-on lines in his later plays, it is 
 found that in the earliest plays he used the end-stopped 
 line (Regular System) almost exclusively, but that he 
 
lyS Music and Poetry 
 
 began very soon to perceive the need of the run-on line 
 to vary the monotonous regularity of the other, and 
 thenceforward used it (thus bringing forward the rela- 
 tive importance of the Irregular System) with increas- 
 ing frequency until the latest plays. These proportions 
 have been formulated quite exactly in tables containing 
 the percentages of run-on and end-stopped lines, which 
 the reader will probably find most easily accessible in 
 Mr. Edward Dowden's delightful Shakspere Primer 
 (Macmillan & Co., London and New York). For ex- 
 ample, disregarding small fractions for the sake of 
 brevity : in the Two Gentlemen of Verona, an early 
 play, are but about one-tenth as many run-on as end- 
 stopped lines ; while in The Tempest, which we have 
 seen to be a late play, the run-on lines have in- 
 creased to about one-third as many as the end-stopped, 
 and the character of the verse is so changed as to 
 impress every ear : it has acquired a carriage greatly 
 larger and more sweeping. Between other plays lying 
 at the extremes of the periods given, the proportion 
 is still greater. Thus — in the Comedy of Errors, an 
 early play — the proportion of run-on lines is only about 
 one in eleven; while in Cymbeline — a play of The 
 Tempest period — the proportion has risen to about 
 one in two and a half: that is to say, there are about 
 four and a half times as many run-on lines in the late 
 play as in the early one. Still more striking is the 
 difference between the early (possibly the first) play. 
 Love's Labor's Lost, and the late play, the Winter's 
 Tale : for the proportion in the first is one run-on 
 to 18.14 end-stopped lines, while in the latter it is one 
 to 2.12 : that is to say. Winter'' s Tale contains a 
 proportion of about nine times as many run-on lines (or 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere 179 
 
 nine times as much of the Irregular System) as Lov^s 
 Labor's Lost. 
 
 The increase in the use of run-on lines thus so consis- 
 tently characterizing Shakspere's later plays holds per- 
 fectly good with reference to the two we are specially 
 studying. In the Midsummer Nighfs Dream we find 
 the proportion of run-on lines to that of end-stopped 
 to be greatly less — that is, the verse to be greatly 
 less free — than in The Tempest. 
 
 Observing only for the present that the advance in 
 Shakspere's artistic technic here indicated is always 
 an advance in the direction of the Irregular System, 
 that is, in the direction of Freedom, Largeness, and 
 Grace : let us now recur to the two passages under study. 
 
 If we examine that from Midsummer Nighfs Dream, 
 
 " Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind ; 
 And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind ; 
 Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste ; 
 Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste; 
 And therefore is Love said to be a child. 
 Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd," 
 
 we will find that three very striking particulars, all con- 
 nected with the end of each of these lines, call the ear's 
 attention thereto in such a way as to re-enforce the end- 
 stop in its effect, and to make the line division very 
 prominent to the ear. These three particulars are : (i) 
 the Rhyme, which concentrates the ear's attention upon 
 the last word in every line ; (2) the Strong Ending of 
 each line, or important word capable oi, emphasis in 
 which each line ends, giving a markedly different effect 
 from that of Weak-ending lines, or lines in which the last 
 word is a particle like and, if, the, but, and the like, as 
 
 " This is a most majestic vision and 
 Harmonious charmingly," 
 
i8o Music and Poetry 
 
 from The Tempest, where and at the end would be 
 more likely to deceive, than to advise, the ear as to the 
 true ending of the line ; and (3) the Single Ending, or 
 ending in one verse-sound, as opposed to those " Double 
 Ending," or " Feminine Ending " lines, which end in 
 two syllables (to be pronounced in the time of one), 
 like, for example, the second line in the passage first 
 given from The Tempest, 
 
 " The stomach of my sense. Would I had never" 
 
 the line being complete at the syllable " nev ; " or like 
 the following, also from The Tempest, where the double 
 ending, instead of being two syllables of one word 
 ("Feminine Ending") is two words, 
 
 " Why, as I told thee, 't ia a custom with him" 
 
 a line complete at the word " with " and preserving its 
 rhythmic structure only through the utterance of the 
 two verse-sounds " with him " in the same time as one,* 
 We may conveniently formulate these three additional 
 particulars and their artistic function, as follows : 
 
 REGULAR SYSTEM. IRREGULAR SYSTEM. 
 
 Rhymed Lines. Blank (Unrhymed) Lines. 
 
 Strong Ending Lines. Weak Ending " 
 
 Single Ending " Double ! E„jjng .. 
 
 Feminine ' 
 
 Now upon examining Shakspere's plays with reference 
 to these three particulars, and counting the actual respec- 
 tive number of rhymes, of strong endings, and of single 
 endings, with the corresponding numbers of blank-verse 
 
 1 A reader desirous of pursuing the subject will find these 
 phenomena reduced to terms of musical notation and fully ex- 
 plained in the present author's Science of English Verse, pp. 201 
 and following. 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere i8i 
 
 (or unrhymed) lines, of weak endings,^ and of double 
 endings : the same general advance is clear towards 
 freedom and variety; that is, we find all the effects 
 just classified under the head of the Irregular System 
 growing more and more numerous and prominent, and 
 tending more and more to vary the monotony and stiif- 
 ness of the earlier verse. With the clear conception 
 then that Rhymes, Strong Endings, and Single Endings 
 powerfully fix the ear's attention upon the end of each 
 line and thus powerfully establish the great Line-Rhyth- 
 mus, while all such departures from this normal type, 
 as Blank Endings, Weak Endings and Double Endings, 
 as powerfully vary the Rhythmic flow and tend to dts- 
 establish the same great Line-Rhythmus, we find that 
 in the late plays there is a strong and notable tendency 
 to the latter, and that the general proportion of blank 
 or unrhymed verse, of weak endings and of double end- 
 ings, is greatly larger in the plays of the Ideal Period 
 than in those of the Dream Period. It would be out 
 of place here to trace all these proportions with any 
 detail; and so, referring the reader desirous of going 
 farther to the table of percentages for all these particu- 
 lars which may be conveniently found in Stokes's Chron- 
 ology, already cited, let us consider only the two extremes 
 of the Periods, and only the two representative plays 
 we have been studying, (i) As to Rhymes: The 
 Midsummer Nighfs Dream presents us with 932 rhymed 
 lines in a total of 2,251, while The Tempest presents us 
 
 1 The sub-division into " weak " and " light " endings is not of 
 enough importance in the present connection to be worth detail- 
 ing, in view of the extreme of simplicity desirable in such a de- 
 monstration. Readers will find it set forth either in the Shakspere 
 Primer or The Science of English Verse, already cited. 
 
1 82 Music and Poetry 
 
 with only 98 (of which 96 are in songs). It must of 
 course be remembered that this rhyme test might 
 easily be strained out of its province. Special occasion 
 for rhymes might exist and control a general tendency. 
 Of the general tendency, however, to disuse rhymes in 
 Shakspere's growing art, there can be no doubt. (2) 
 As to Weak Endings : The Midsummer Nighfs Dream 
 shows us but one (and therefore is all strong ending, 
 all Regular System in this particular), while The Tem- 
 pest, in a smaller number of Unes, has 67. The Weak 
 ending — it may be here remarked — is really but one 
 kind of run-on lines ; for every such ending as 
 
 " This is a most majestic vision and 
 Harmonious charmingly,'' 
 or as 
 
 " It sounds no more ; — and sure, it waits upon 
 Some god o' th' island," 
 
 which occur so frequently in The Tempest, really runs 
 the voice on to the next line, and perhaps there would 
 be little need for distinguishing this particular species 
 of run-on Unes were it not for a peculiarity in Shak- 
 spere's use of it, which notably separates it from the 
 others. The peculiarity is the suddenness and lateness 
 of its appearance in any numbers. There is here no 
 gradual increase : Shakspere at first seems practically 
 to have considered weak endings inadmissible ; in the 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona there is not a single weak 
 ending, in the Midsummer Nighfs Dream there is but 
 one, in As You Like It but two, and so on; and it 
 is not until we get to Macbeth (1606?) that we sud- 
 denly find twenty-three weak endings. Having thus 
 fairly started to use them, Shakspere evidently began 
 straightway to rejoice in the long phrasing and sweep 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere 183 
 
 which they render possible in blank verse ; and so in 
 Antony and Cleopatra (1607, 1608?) we find ninety- 
 nine weak endings, and in JTie Tempest, which has 
 but a little over half the total of lines of Antony and 
 Cleopatra, we reach sixty-seven — proportionately equal 
 to nearly a hundred and thirty. 
 
 (3) As to Double Endings : the nature of the variety 
 with which they relieve the monotony of the single 
 ending may be seen at a glance on comparing the last 
 bar of a typic single-ending blank verse line, musically 
 noted, as 
 
 ~ A A A A A 
 
 i c r ir r 1^ r IP r IP r I 
 
 In maid - en med - i ta - tion, fan - cy free, 
 
 — where \ is the single ending, — with the last bar of 
 free 
 
 an abnormal double-ending line, similarly noted, as, 
 
 „ A A A A 
 
 i c r ic r IP r IP r illj' i 
 
 The stom-ach of my sense. Would I had nev-er, 
 
 where Lnfi — which any one acquainted with musical 
 nev-er 
 
 notation will immediately perceive to occupy exactly the 
 
 same time as [ in the line above — is the double 
 free m 
 
 ending, or feminine ending. Now the form I is the 
 
 normal form and is what the ear looks for, as part 
 
 of the Regular System ; while the form LjS is ab- 
 
 nev-er 
 
 normal, and, being a surprise to the ear, belongs there- 
 fore to the Irregular System. We naturally expect, then, 
 
 to find many more such forms as US) at the ends of 
 
 nev-er 
 
 u 
 
184 Music and Poetry 
 
 lines in The Tempest than in the Midsummer Nighfs 
 Dream. And we are not disappointed. The advance 
 here toward freedom is so great that, while in the 
 Midsummer Nighfs Dream there are but twenty-nine 
 double endings, there are in The Tempest (with a smaller 
 total of lines) four hundred and seventy-six double 
 endings. 
 
 For the sake of presenting the sharp contrast of Shak- 
 spere's extreme periods, no mention has been made, in 
 this rapid sketch of the metrical tests, of the Middle or 
 Real Period which we found represented by Hamlet. 
 But by all the given tests, the position of the play is 
 confirmed. In a total of 3,924 lines, Hamlet presents 
 141 rhymed lines (including the songs), 8 weak endings, 
 and 508 double endings. In comparing the latter num- 
 ber — the 508 double endings — of course the total 
 number of lines in each play is to be considered. 
 Hamlet has 3,924, The Tempest but 2,058, or slightly 
 over half as many ; yet the latter play, in its half as 
 many lines, has nearly as many double endings (476) 
 as Hamlets that is to say, the proportion of double end- 
 ings in The Tempest is nearly twice that in Hamlet. 
 
 Thus, tried by all the metrical tests proposed, 
 the relations asserted between Midsummer Night's 
 Dream, Hamlet, and The Tempest, are remarkably con- 
 firmed. The four tests here applied, namely, the End- 
 Stop, the Rhyme, the Strong Ending, and the Single 
 Ending (as respectively giving into the Run-on, the 
 Rhymeless or Blank, the Weak or Light Ending, and 
 the Double Ending in the later plays), are not all that 
 might have been used. Without even mentioning sev- 
 eral others, it may be useful — as possibly inducing some 
 young worker to make what seems (at least to me) a 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere 185 
 
 desirable contribution to Shaksperean scholarship — to 
 specify a test which has not yet been pursued. This I 
 may perhaps properly call the " Rhythmic Accent Test." 
 In another place (^Fhe Science of English Verse, p. 213) 
 I have remarked : 
 
 " Perhaps everyone has observed that, particularly in 
 Shakspere's later plays, he seems absolutely careless as 
 to what kind of word the rhythmic accent may fall on. 
 Sometimes it is on the article the, sometimes the prepo- 
 sition of, sometimes the conjunction and, sometimes the 
 unaccented syllable of a two-sound word, as quickens, 
 instead of quickens, and so on." 
 
 The remarkable effect of this freedom, in giving endless 
 play to the seemingly stiff type of blank verse, is mi- 
 nutely detailed in the author's work cited, and cannot 
 be entered into here; but the comparative frequency 
 with which these accentual variations occur, as between 
 early and late plays, has never been reduced to numbers. 
 Several reasons may be urged for the belief that this 
 might prove one of the most valuable of all metrical 
 tests. In fact, when we consider that this matter of the 
 rhythmic accent is one which affects every bar (that is, 
 every couplet of verse-sounds ; for every normal line of 
 blank verse not only presents ten verse-sounds, but pre- 
 sents these arranged into five bars, or couplets, by the 
 five rhythmic accents which are always present or ac- 
 counted for; see Science of English Verse, p. 215) of 
 each line, while the four tests just now applied affect 
 only the last bar of each line ; and when we consider 
 further that the real result of this freedom in using the 
 rhythmic accent is to vary the monotonous regularity 
 of the Regular System with the charm of those subtle 
 rhythms which we employ in familiar discourse, so that 
 
1 86 Music and Poetry 
 
 the habit of such freedom might grow with the greatest 
 uniformity upon a poet, and might thus present us with 
 a test of such uniform development as to be reliable for 
 nicer discriminations than any of the more irregular 
 tests can be pushed to : it would seem fair to expect 
 confirmations of great importance from a properly 
 constructed Table of Abnormal Rhythmic Accents in 
 Shakspere. 
 
 We have now pushed over three main lines of inquiry 
 — each, let it be remembered, involving several subordi- 
 nate lines — to what may surely be called a reasonable 
 certainty. We have applied a Moral Test, an Actual- 
 Date Test, and several Metrical Tests, to each of the 
 three plays, A Midsummer Nighfs Dream, Hamlet, and 
 The Tempest; and every indication aiforded by either 
 has gone to confirm their character as Representa- 
 tive Plays of the three great Periods in Shakspere's life. 
 This is a case, too, when indications confirm at a rate 
 which increases very rapidly ; for each additional proof 
 brings not its own weight alone, but its weight multiplied 
 into that of all the other proofs. 
 
 And we may now profitably close this part of our in- 
 vestigation by ascending to a point of view from which 
 what were apparently three lines of inquiry — the moral, 
 the historical, the metrical — really resolve themselves 
 into one, and place the whole matter before us in a holy 
 and reasonable light. 
 
 For — as has been hinted already at more than one 
 point, by way of anticipation — a great artist, in grow- 
 ing, grows as a whole, and not by parts nor into mon- 
 strosities ; as he grows (i) in his years (historically), he 
 grows (2) in his grasp of the facts of Life (morally), and 
 (3) in his grasp of the facts of Art (in Shakspere's 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere 187 
 
 case, " metrically," 1 though this is a poor term). One 
 of these advances may be said to imply the other, with a 
 great artist j it is, indeed, by virtue of this wholeness in 
 growth that the great artist is great. We may do a ser- 
 vice to great art by the sweeping doctrine that in what- 
 ever case the artist — whether poet, painter, sculptor, 
 musician — has not become a better artist and a better 
 man and a more aged being, all together, the failure to 
 do so is a note of weakness which simply takes away 
 from all his greatness. 
 
 For, closely examined, there is a point where what is 
 called the " mere technic " of the artist merges into 
 and becomes wholly indistinguishable from his morality. 
 Not only, at this point, has the knowledge of Pure Beauty 
 become so completely a sense, like the sense of sight or 
 smell, that he cannot do an ugly act (whether the ugli- 
 ness be moral or artistic, whether the act be a theft, an 
 envy, a jealousy, a hatred, or any of those smaller sins 
 for which men generally consider themselves completely 
 excused by the plea of weakness — or a bit of bad draw- 
 ing, a weakish chord, a meretricious rhythm or rhyme, a 
 mawkish curve) simply because it is ugly, — that is, be- 
 cause the sense of beauty recoils from it just as the 
 sense of smell recoils from an offensive odor or that of 
 hearing from a harsh noise ; not only, I say, has Beauty 
 thus become a sense, guiding the artist away from the 
 morally bad as well as the artistically bad, and perform- 
 ing precisely the functions of our physical sense; but 
 
 1 It ought to be added here that of course a wholly different 
 line of art-tests is also applicable to Shakspere. He was not 
 only verse-wright, but play-wright ; and his art in constructing a 
 play, in balancing figures, etc., if similarly examined, is found to 
 advance in precisely the same direction with the verse-art, that is, 
 towards Freedom, towards the Irregular System. 
 
1 88 Music and Poetry 
 
 the power of grasping the contradictory details of our 
 physical and spiritual life and of arranging these con- 
 tradictions into a tolerable proportion, — contradictions 
 which would drive the lesser world of ordinary men and 
 women to instant suicide if these were not protected 
 by partial blindness and by looking the other way, — 
 this power is at bottom the same with that which seizes 
 upon the similar details of verse-structure, which clearly 
 recognizes the contradiction of what is herein called the 
 Regular System as opposed to the Irregular System, and 
 which instead of absurdly fighting the fact of their oppo- 
 sition finds it to be the very basis of music, and employs 
 it to the purposes of formal poetry. To make a moral 
 music out of the antagonistic facts of life ; to make a 
 verse-music out of the antagonistic facts of letter-sounds : 
 this is so far one problem as that, when we have passed 
 those limits to which mere cleverness can reach in any- 
 thing, and beyond which lies the domain of genius and 
 of art, it may fairly be said that a man with an original 
 gift of poetic expression would surely grow in his faculties 
 for both as if both implied one faculty. 
 
 It seems at any rate clear — without risking any part 
 of the present case on a theory which may seem to 
 many fine-spun — that, with Shakspere, the larger the 
 music of his verse, the larger became the music of his 
 life, and vice versd,. 
 
 And, finally, these plays, possessing these peculiar 
 relations to Shakspere's entire growth, are carried to a 
 plane of unique interest by the relations they reveal to 
 each other. The details of these relations will be given 
 in the notes to the passages embodying them, as they 
 occur. But it may be worth while to point out, here, 
 at least three of these in a cartoon outline. Observe, 
 
Chaucer and Shaksperc 189 
 
 then, that in all our three plays we have certain views 
 of man in his relations (i) to Nature, (2) to his Fellow- 
 man, and (3) to Art. 
 
 (i) In A Midsummer Nighfs Dream Nature is a 
 capricious Puck, which is man's superior and plays with 
 him ; in Hamlet, it is a firm-purposed ghost, which is still 
 man's superior, but instead of playing with him drives 
 him on to terrible ends ; in The Tempest it is a servant, 
 Ariel, and man has become lord of it, for benevolent ends. 
 
 (2) In the Midsummer Nighfs Dream man's Fellow 
 man is the object of Capricious Love or Gentle Satire ; 
 in Hamlet he is the object of Revenge ; in The Tempest 
 he is the object of Forgiveness. 
 
 (3) All have a play-within-the-play, or anti-masque ; 
 that is, a work of art as one of the factors of the plot. 
 In the Midsummer Night's Dream this anti-masque is 
 Bottom's Burlesque ; in Hamlet it is Hamlet's Trap to 
 catch the king's conscience ; in The Tempest it is Pros- 
 pero's art, employed for the delight of two young lovers. 
 
 These inter-relations exist, of course by no intent, 
 but solely through the wholeness of Shakspere's Ufe. 
 Given a play to write, he wrote it from the deepest of 
 his then state of mind. Thus every play not only beats 
 like the bosom of a human being, but beats with the 
 rate of rhythm belonging to the stage of growth at which 
 it was written. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The Three Corresponding Works of Chaucer 
 
 If we now compare these three representative plays 
 of Shakspere with three works of Chaucer which are re- 
 spectively motived upon substantially the same themes, 
 
190 Music and Poetry 
 
 and thus project Shakspere upon a background of 
 Chaucer, or Chaucer upon a background of Shakspere, 
 the tracts and curves of difference between the two men 
 become very plain. These will be traced in detail by 
 the notes hereinafter appended to the special passages 
 of these works which bring out their relations; but 
 meantime advantage will be found in beginning with a 
 view in which the plots of these works are reduced to a 
 number of lines so small as to be apprehensible at one 
 glance. It is proposed to study the iirst of our plays — 
 A Midsummer Nighfs Dream — in conjunction with 
 Chaucer's Knighfs Tale; the second — Hamlet — in 
 conjunction with Chaucer's Pardoner's Tale ; and the 
 third — The Tempest — in conjunction with Chaucer's 
 Clerk's Tale. 
 
 The widest possible generalization of these six works 
 would perhaps be, using famiUar terms : 
 
 (i) The plots of the Midsummer Nighfs Dream and 
 its corresponding Knighfs Tale are both embodiments 
 of a conception which may be stated as. The Course of 
 True Love never did run Smooth ; 
 
 (2) The plots of Hamlet BiaA. The Pardoner's Tale are 
 both embodiments of a conception which may be stated 
 as. The Course of True Hate never did run Smooth ; 
 
 (3) The plots of The Tempest 3.rA The Clerk's Tale are 
 both embodiments of a conception in which the meaning 
 of the term " love " has undergone a prodigious rectifi- 
 cation and enlargement since the Dream Period, and 
 which may be stated as. In the Course of True Love all 
 Things run Smooth. 
 
 A slightly sketched anatomy of the special forms as- 
 sumed in each of these works by these general conceptions 
 will now be helpful. 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere 191 
 
 77ie Knights Tale and The Midsummer Nighfs Dream. 
 
 (i) In the case of the Knights Tale and the Mid- 
 summer Nights Dream we have a connexion which is 
 not only logical, that is, due to a common underlying 
 basis of idea, but which is also historic, that is, due to 
 an actual use by Shakspere of characters, thoughts, and 
 situations which he found in Chaucer's Knights Tale. 
 I think there can be no doubt that the extent of this 
 connection has not hitherto been appreciated. It is 
 traced in the notes accompanying the works hereinafter 
 given ; but, meantime, I may here remark that the reason 
 for this failure to apprehend the true relations of these 
 works unquestionably lies in the circumstance that the 
 Midsummer Nights Dream is an eddy of ideas which, as 
 they whirl, seem confused enough ; but this eddy is pro- 
 duced by the meeting of two currents of thought which, 
 once seen, can be traced along quite unmistakable 
 courses. One, as presently shown, proceeds from 
 Chaucer's Knights Tale, which — as I think can be 
 clearly shown — Shakspere must have read very shortly 
 before he wrote his Dream. This current includes 
 Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, Philostrate (characters 
 all taken bodily from the Knights Tale), and the 
 fairies, — in fact, all except the action which proceeds 
 from Bottom and his fellow-clowns, culminating in the 
 play-within-the-play, or anti-masque, of Pyramus and 
 Thisbe. That current comes — I think — from the 
 Greene-Harvey-Nash quarrel, and can be distinctly 
 traced, — along a number of catch-words and clew-ideas 
 which becomes so large as to make belief the direction 
 of much the least resistance, — to Greene's Menaphon, 
 Harvey's Four Letters, Nash's Pierce's Supererogation, 
 
ip2 Music and Poetry 
 
 and Greene's Groatsworth of Wit, a body of literature 
 Which must have possessed extraordinary interest for 
 young Shakspere just at the time he must have been 
 about to write his Midsummer Nighfs Dream, and with 
 which he was unquestionably saturated. This whole 
 matter of Bottom and that ilk, and of Pyramus and 
 Thisbe, seems in fact to be a gentle satire upon 
 Greene and his crew in payment of Greene's fling 
 of The tiget's heart wrapped in a player's hide at 
 Shakspere. But this cannot be further treated at pres- 
 ent, — and remembering this peculiar historic connexion 
 between the Midsummer Nighfs Dream and Chaucer's 
 Knighfs Tale which is superadded to the merely logical 
 connection binding Hamlet with the Pardoner's Tale or 
 The Tempest with The Clerk's Tale, let us outline the 
 largest processes of this couplet. 
 
 In the Knighfs Tale : (a) in contact with Theseus 
 and Hippolyta come (b) two young men (Palamon and 
 Arcite), who {c) love one young woman (Emilia) ; 
 (d) they quarrel and (f) fight about her (/) in a wood 
 (§■) to which all the characters are brought; (A) by 
 Theseus' gracious arrangement (z) a pageant or tourney 
 is made wherein Palamon and Arcite, each with a hun- 
 dred companions, wage battle for the lady ; (k) mean- 
 time the supernatural Powers become involved, — Mars, 
 Venus, Diana, and Saturn; by whose machinations 
 (/) Arcite conquers, but (m) in prancing to his bride is 
 killed by his horse, through a god's jealous working, and 
 («) finally, after years of tribulation, Palamon, though 
 beaten, takes all, and wins Emilia to wife. Caprice and 
 criss-cross : this runs through all the Knighfs Tale of 
 Chaucer. 
 
 In A Midsummer Nighfs Dream, this same caprice 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere 193 
 
 and criss-cross are simply carried to the fantastic point ; 
 and note that along all the points (which are lettered for 
 this purpose) from (a) to (A) the circumstances are 
 identical, letter for letter, with those just given in the 
 summary of the Knights Tale. (a) In contact with 
 Theseus and Hippolyta, come {b') two young men (De- 
 metrius and Lysander), who (f) love the one young 
 woman (Hermia) ; (d') they quarrel, and (e) at another 
 stage of the play attempt to fight, not about this, but 
 another, her (/) in a wood {g) to which all the char- 
 acters are brought ; {K) by Theseus' gracious permission 
 (i) a play setting forth how that the course of Pyramus' 
 and Thisbe's true love ran not smooth, is brought before 
 him by a company of Athenian clowns ; (^) meantime, 
 the supernatural Powers, or Powers of Nature (Oberon, 
 Titania, Puck, instead of Mars and Venus and Diana and 
 Saturn) have been at work, whereby Demetrius and 
 Lysander have been wrought to forget Hermia and as 
 madly love Helena, while Queen Titania by the same 
 practice dotes upon a monster, being a man with 
 an ass's head; (/) but the same Caprice which did 
 these things undoes them, and {m) every Jack is re- 
 stored to his proper Jill, until («) we have Theseus and 
 Hippolyta, Lysander and Hermia, Demetrius and Helena, 
 in bliss. Bottom and his fellows snoring with visions of 
 sixpence a day, while the reconciled Oberon and Titania 
 with their elf train hover about the three bridal couches 
 and distribute blessing until daybreak. 
 
 The Pardoner's Tale and Hamlet. 
 
 (2) Between the following plots no historic connex- 
 ion exists, and there is therefore no occasion to specify 
 the steps minutely, as in the last instance. 
 
 13 
 
194 Music and Poetry 
 
 In The Pardoner's Tale: three riotous fellows of 
 Flanders, seated at drink in a tavern, hear the clink of 
 a bell go by, and know that a corpse is passing ; inflamed 
 with anger against Death, of whom they hear also great 
 complaint, they resolve to slay him ; rushing forth, they 
 compel an old man to tell them Death's whereabouts, 
 who informs them that Death has but now been lying 
 under a certain oak in yonder grove ; hastening to that 
 tree, they find under it seven bushels of new gold florins ; 
 fearing accusation of theft, they resolve to wait by the 
 treasure until night, in order to haul it home unseen; 
 and, being hungry and thirsty, send their youngest com- 
 rade to town for meat and wine ; he, buying the same in 
 town, buys also certain poison and drops it in the bottle, 
 that his comrades may be slain and he take the whole 
 treasure; in his absence, however, the two comrades 
 plot to slay him on his return, and they to take that 
 treasure : all of which plots are indeed carried out, but 
 in contrary order ; for, on his arrival with the victual the 
 two instantly slay him ; and, being worn with that work, 
 drink hard of the poisoned bottle ; whereby presently all 
 three lie dead under the oak, and the old man is justified 
 of his saying that they would find Death at that place. 
 
 In Hamlet : Claudius in secret murders his brother, 
 the King of Denmark, then seats him upon his 
 brother's throne and marries his brother's wife ; whereof 
 young Hamlet, son to the murdered king, is informed 
 by his father's ghost, and, setting about to perform 
 the ghost's command of revenge, feigns to become, 
 or becomes, insane ; to make sure of the ghost's truth, 
 he causes a play to be played before the king, wherein 
 the scene of the secret murder is cunningly re- 
 enacted; the king's terror confirms the ghost's word; 
 
Chaucer and Shakspere 195 
 
 Hamlet murders Polonius by mistake for the king; 
 Ophelia, Polonius' daughter and Hamlet's dear Love, is 
 crazed and drowned; Laertes, Polonius' son, seeks 
 revenge ; meantime, the king ships Hamlet to England, 
 with command to that king to slay him ; but Hamlet in 
 secret changes the commission, and sends on his keepers, 
 Rosencrantz and Guildenstem, bearing their own death- 
 warrant, while Hamlet returns ; by plot betwixt the king 
 and Laertes, Hamlet fences with Laertes, this latter hav- 
 ing arranged a buttonless and poisoned foil beforehand ; 
 therewith he wounds Hamlet, but Hamlet in the struggle 
 exchanges foils, and with the same poisoned weapon 
 wounds Laertes; meantime the Queen, carousing to 
 Hamlet's play, drinks unawares from a flagon the King 
 had poisoned for Hamlet to drink from; which being 
 discovered, Hamlet stabs the King with the poisoned 
 foil ; and presently Laertes, the King, the Queen, and 
 Hamlet lie dead together. 
 
 The Clerk's Tale and The Tempest. 
 
 (3) In Chaucer's The Clerk's Tale .• the young 
 Marquis Walter, being entreated by his loving people 
 to marry, chooses out of all his land the beggar-maid 
 Griselda, who tends her aged father alone in a hovel ; 
 she reigns with her husband thence in marvellous grace 
 and faithfulness, winning all the world to her for wisdom 
 and gentleness ; but a madness of assaying her love to 
 the utmost seizes her husband, and he pours upon her 
 injuries frightful to name, sending for her one little child 
 by a grim soldier, and carrying it forth to pretended 
 death under accusation that the people will not have an 
 heir of a low-born mother ; which she forgives, even in 
 
196 Music and Poetry- 
 
 lingering over the child, saying that her lord must be 
 wise ; and after yet more dreadful wounds, all forgiven 
 heartily, the Marquis, still unsatisfied, puts her away from 
 him, and commands her back to her old father, Janicola, 
 who receives her in sorrow ; but presently the Marquis 
 bids that she return and get ready his house for his new 
 bride ; which she does, — sweeps and bakes with her 
 own hands, and receives and tends the supposed new 
 bride in all gentleness ; whereupon the conquered Mar- 
 quis reveals all, places in her arms the pretended bride, 
 who is her own daughter, taken from her many years 
 before, and restores her sons also ; and a great feast 
 crowns the now-perfect worship of Marquis Walter and 
 the always-perfect forgiveness of his Griselda. 
 
 In The Tempest Antonio, having artfully usurped the 
 dukedom of his full-trusting brother Prospero, causes the 
 latter, with his infant daughter Miranda, to be set upon 
 the ocean in an open boat for the winds to dispose of; 
 Prospero reaches a desert island, and by long study be- 
 comes lord of life and nature ; years afterward his brother 
 Antonio, together with Alonso, King of Naples, and Fer- 
 dinand, son thereof, with many others, sails by that 
 region from Tunis ; Prospero, with help of his fairy ser- 
 vant, Ariel, calls up a tempest, wrecks the ship, brings 
 all parties ashore in groups arranged for his purposes, 
 guides Ferdinand to Miranda, who straightway love each 
 other, involves the others in adventure and deadly con- 
 spiracy about the island, and finally brings all to his 
 cave, where he forgives his unnatural brother, reassumes 
 his dukedom, brings several criminals to repentance and 
 better life, and arranges to set sail, over smooth seas, with 
 a new-hearted following, to Italy. 
 
Paul H. Hayne's Poetry 197 
 
 XII 
 Paul H. Hayne's Poetry 
 
 At a time when the war of secession had left the 
 South in a condition which appeared to render an ex- 
 clusively literary life a hopeless impossibility, Mr. Hayne 
 immured himself in the woods of Georgia, and gave 
 himself wholly to his pen. Perhaps this was the most 
 convincing method he could have adopted of testifying 
 by acts to his poetic nascitur, for it was striking an au- 
 dacious challenge-blow on the very shield of Fate, and 
 probably none but a poet would have dared it. Doubt- 
 , less, the struggle which succeeded was passionate, fierce, 
 often bitter, sometimes despairing; one finds traces of 
 all this along the music of these verses. It is pleasant 
 now to open Legends and Lyrics with the knowledge 
 that the darkest of his conflict is over, and that in the 
 growing light of appreciation his by-past shadow will 
 show only like a dark calyx through which the poet's 
 rose of fame is bursting. 
 
 We wish to ease our mind in the beginning of the only 
 material quarrel we have to pick with Mr. Hayne ; and, 
 for the double purpose of setting forth our casus belli, 
 and of showing the reader what manner of work Mr. 
 Hayne can do in the most difficult of poetic forms, we 
 quote the sonnet addressed 
 
198 Music and Poetry 
 
 TO WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 In some fair realm unbound of time or space, 
 
 Where souls of all dead May-times, with their play 
 
 Of blissful winds, soft showers and bird-notes gay, 
 
 Make mystic music in the flower-bright place. 
 
 Yea, there, O poets ! radiant face to face, 
 
 Keen heart to heart, beneath the enchanted day 
 
 Ye met, each hearkening to the other's lay 
 
 With rapt, sweet eyes, and thoughts of Old-World grace. 
 
 " Son,'' saith the elder bard, " when thou wert born. 
 
 So yearned toward thine my spirit's fervency. 
 
 Flamelike its warmth on thy deep soul was shed ; 
 
 Hence the ripe blood of England's lustier morn 
 
 Of song burns through thee ; hence alone on thee 
 
 Fall the rich bays which bloomed round Chaucer's head 1 " 
 
 This sonnet was written on reading the " L'Envoy " in 
 the third volume of Morris's Earthly Paradise. Now — 
 though Mr. Hayne is by no means the only person who 
 has likened William Morris to Geoffrey Chaucer — the 
 enthusiastic belief that the spirit of the older poet has 
 come to shine again in the later one, has never been 
 more tenderly and reverently embodied than in this 
 lovely sonnet ; but, protesting that we owe some keen 
 delights to Mr. Morris, we totally dissent from the opin- 
 ion that there is at bottom any such resemblance betwixt 
 him and Chaucer as to entitle him to any sonship or 
 heirship of the latter. Moreover, we believe that this 
 theory involves far more than a mere critical estimate of 
 the likeness or unlikeness of two poets; nay, we are 
 sure that Mr. Hayne and all modem poets would do 
 well to drink much of Chaucer and little of Morris. For 
 — to indicate briefly some points of contrast — how does 
 the spire of hope spring and upbound into the infinite in 
 Chaucer ; while, on the other hand, how blank, world- 
 
Paul H. Hayne's Poetry 199 
 
 bound, and wearying is the stone fagade of hopelessness 
 which rears itself uncompromisingly behind the gayest 
 pictures of William Morris ! Chaucer is eager, expect- 
 ant. To-day is so beautiful, perhaps to-morrow will be 
 more beautiful : life is young, who knows ? — he seems 
 to cry, with splendid immeasurable confidence in the re- 
 served powers of nature and of man. But Morris does 
 not hope : there is, there will be, nothing new under the 
 sun. To-morrow? that may not come ; if it does, it will 
 be merely to-day revamped ; therefore let us amuse our- 
 selves with the daintiest that art and culture can give : 
 this is his essential utterance. 
 
 Again, how openly joyful is Chaucer; how secretly 
 melancholy is Morris ! Both, it is true, are full of sun- 
 shine; but Chaucer's is spring sunshine, Morris's is 
 autumn. Chaucer's falls upon bold mountain sides 
 where are rocks, lithe grasses, and trees with big lusty 
 boughs and juicy leaves ; where the wild motions of na- 
 ture, from spring-winds to leaping fawns, are artlessly 
 free and unspeakably bUssful ; and yet where all other 
 forms, whether of monstrous, terrible, or wicked, are truly 
 revealed. Morris's, on the other hand, is a late, pleas- 
 ant, golden-tinted light (with just the faintest hint of a 
 coming chill of twilight in it), falling upon an exquisitely 
 wrought marble which lies half-buried in the sand, and 
 which, Greek as it is, dainty as it is, marvellous as it is, 
 is nevertheless a fragment of a ruin. Chaucer rejoices 
 as only those can who know the bound of good red 
 blood through unobstructed veins, and the thrilling 
 tingle of nerve and sinew at amity ; and who can trans- 
 port this healthy animalism into their unburdened minds, 
 and spiritualize it so that the mere drawing of breath is 
 at once a keen delight and an inwardly-felt practical act 
 
200 Music and Poetry 
 
 of praise to the God of a strong and beautiful world. 
 Morris too has his sensuous element, but it is utterly 
 unlike Chaucer's ; it is dilettante, it is amateur sensual- 
 ism; it is not strong, though sometimes excessive, and 
 it is nervously afraid of that satiety which is at once its 
 chief temptation and its most awful doom. 
 
 Again, Chaucer lives, Morris dreams. Chaucer, for all 
 the old-world tales he tells, yet tells them with the 
 mouths and manners of his living time, and so gives us a 
 picture of it like life itself. Morris stands between his 
 people and his readers, interpreting his characters, who 
 all advance to the same spot on the stage, communicate 
 per him in the same language, the same dialect, the same 
 tone, then glide away with the same dreamy mechanism. 
 The Canterbury Tales is simply a drama with somewhat 
 more of stage direction than is common; but the 
 Earthly Paradise is a reverie, which would hate nothing 
 so much as to be broken by any collision with that rude 
 actual life which Chaucer portrays. 
 
 And finally — for the limits of this paper forbid more 
 than the merest indication of a few of the many points 
 of contrast between these two — note the faith that 
 shines in Chaucer and the doubt that darkens in Morris. 
 Has there been any man since St. John so lovable as 
 " the Persoune " ? or any sermon since that on the 
 Mount so keenly analytical, so pathetic, so deep, so piti- 
 ful, so charitable, so brotherly, so pure, so manly, so 
 faithful, so hopeful, so sprightly, so terrible, so childlike, 
 so winning, so utterly loving, as The Persoune' s Talel 
 But where (it is enough to ask the question in such a 
 connection) in all that William Morris has written may 
 one find, not indeed anything like the Persoune and his 
 tale, for that would be too much to ask — there is no 
 
Paul H. Hayne's Poetry 201 
 
 man since Shakspere who has been at all capable of 
 that, — but anything even indicating the conception of 
 the possibility of such a being as the Persoune ? To this 
 height, to this depth, neither William Morris nor any 
 other man has reached since Dan Chaucer wrote. Let 
 us Shakspere-worshippers not forget that Chaucer Uved 
 two centuries earlier than Shakspere, and had to deal 
 with a crude poetic language which Shakspere found a 
 magnificent song-instrument, all in tune and ready to his 
 hand. Let us not forget that Shakspere is first poet afltf 
 Chaucer second poet, and that these two repose alone, 
 apart, far, far above any spot where later climbers have 
 sunk to rest. And this adjuration is here made with a 
 particular and unequivocal solemnity, because of the 
 conviction that we expressed in the outset of this subject, 
 that the estimate of these two poets which would have 
 them like enough to be father and son, involves deeper 
 matter than mere criticism. For if it be true that 
 William Morris is Chaucer in modern guise ; if it be true 
 that by virtue of this nineteenth-century dress, Chaucer, 
 the glowing, actual man and lover and poet and priest 
 and man's brother, is changed into Morris, the aimless 
 sunset-dreamer of old beautiful dreams; if Chaucer's 
 hope is in five hundred years darkened to Morris's thin- 
 veiled despair, Chaucer's joy to Morris's melancholy, 
 Chaucer's faith to Morris's blank, 'Chaucer's religion to 
 Morris's love- vagueness ; if, we say, it be possible that 
 five centuries have wrought Chaucer, that is life, into 
 Morris, that is a dream-of-the-past : then, in God's 
 name, with all reverence, what will five more centuries 
 do to us? A true Hindu life-weariness (to use one of 
 Novalis' marvellous phrases) is really the atmosphere 
 which produces the exquisite haze of Morris's pictures. 
 
202 Music and Poetry 
 
 Can any poet — and we respectfully beg Mr. Hayne to 
 think upon this view of the matter, being emboldened to 
 do so by our regard for his devotion to letters and for 
 his achievements in that behalf — can any poet, we say, 
 shoot his soul's arrow to its best height, when at once 
 bow and string and muscle and nerve are slackened in 
 this vaporous and relaxing air, that comes up out of the 
 old dreams of fates that were false and of passions that 
 were not pure? 
 
 In convincing testimony that this question must be 
 answered in the negative, any careful reader of Legends 
 afid Lyrics will observe that it is precisely when Mr. 
 Hayne escapes out of this influence that he is at his best. 
 Compare for example Mr. Hayne's treatment of the 
 Wife of Brittany with the unnamed sonnet on page 55, 
 which we shall presently quote. The Wife of Brittany 
 is a legend founded upon the plot of the Frankeleine' s 
 •jale of Chaucer. Now in Chaucer's time this was a 
 practical poem; many men had not really settled in 
 their minds whether it was right to break even a crimi- 
 nal oath, made in folly. But the plot is only conceiva- 
 ble as a thing of the past, it belongs to the curiosities of 
 history ; and although Mr. Hayne has told the story with 
 a thousand tender imaginings, with many charming 
 graces of versification, with rare strokes of pathos, and 
 with a final flow of lucid and silvery melody, yet the 
 poem as a whole never reaches the artistic height at- 
 tained by the sonnet to the mocking-bird. In the Wife 
 of Brittany and in all similar artistic ventures Mr. Hayne 
 will write under the disadvantage of feeling at the bottom 
 of his heart that the passion of the poem is amateur pas- 
 sion, the terror of it amateur terror, and the whole busi- 
 ness little more than a dainty titillation of the unreal. But 
 
Paul H. Hayne's Poetry 203 
 
 in the sonnet how diiferent ! Here the yellow- jessamine, 
 the bird, the vine-clumps, the odor, the bird-song, all 
 are real; they doubtless exist in their actual, lovely 
 entities around Mr. Hayne's home in the forest, and they 
 have taken hold upon him so fairly that he has turned 
 them into a poem meriting his own description of the 
 mocking bird's song : 
 
 " A star of music in a fiery cloud." 
 
 Having thus spoken in the genuine hope of suggesting 
 to Mr. Hayne's mind a train of thought which might be 
 serviceable to his genius, we proceed to remark that in 
 Legends and Lyrics we find no polemical discussion, no 
 "science," no "progress," no "Comtism," no rugged- 
 termed philosophies, no devotionalism, no religiosity of 
 any sort. Mindful only of grand phenomena which no 
 one doubts — of fear, hope, love, patriotism, heaven, wife, 
 child, mother, clouds, sunlight, flowers, water — these 
 poems tinkle along like Coleridge's 
 
 " hidden brook 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 
 Singeth a gentle tune.'' 
 
 This last word indeed hints at what is one of the dis- 
 tinctive characteristics of all Mr. Hayne's poetry. It 
 is essentially, thoroughly, and charmingly tuneful. In a 
 time when popular poetry is either smug and pretty, or 
 philosophically obscure and rhythmically rugged, this 
 quality becomes almost unique. There is indeed nearly 
 the same difference between poetry and culture-poetry 
 that exists between music and counterpoint-music. Cul- 
 ture-poetry, like counterpoint-music, is scarcely ever 
 satisfactory to the ear ; it is not captivating with that inde- 
 
ao4 Music and Poetry 
 
 scribable music which can come out of the rudest heart, 
 but which cannot come out of the most cultivated head. 
 This feature alone would suffice to Separate the book 
 before us from the great mass of utterances which 
 polished people who are not poets are daily pouring 
 upon the air. 
 
 We should like to illustrate Mr. Hayne's faculty by 
 quoting entire his Fire-Pictures, a poem which in 
 point of variety and delicacy of fancy is quite the best of 
 this collection, and in point of pure music should be 
 placed beside Edgar Poe's Bells. Of course, to one 
 who has warmed his winters by nothing more glorious 
 than coal ; to one who has never sate in dreamful mood 
 and watched the progress of a great hickory fire from 
 the fitful fuliginous beginning thereof, through the white 
 brilliance of its prime and the red glory of its decline, 
 unto the ashen-gray death of the same, this poem is un- 
 intelligible ; but to one who has, its fancies and its music 
 will come home with a thousand hearty influences. We 
 regret that it is too long to quote here. It is a poem 
 to be read aloud ; a true recitaiivo. The energy of its 
 movemeihts, the melody of its metres, the changes of its 
 rhythm, the variety of its fancies, the artistic advance to 
 its climax, particularly the management of its close, where 
 at one and the same time, by the devices of onomatopeia 
 and of rhythmical imitation, are doubly interpreted the 
 sob of a man and the flicker of a flame so perfectly that 
 sob, flicker, word, rhythm, each appears to represent the 
 other, and to be used convertibly with the other in such 
 will-o'-wisp transfigurations as quite vanish in mere de- 
 scription, — all these elements require for full enjoyment 
 that the actual music of the poem should fall upon the 
 ear. 
 
Paul H. Hayne's Poetry 205 
 
 Some of the changes of rhythm above referred to 
 merit especial mention, and start some considerations 
 which we regret the Hmits of this paper will not allow us 
 to pursue. Suffice it here to remark that whenever an 
 English-speaking person grows unusually solemn or 
 intense he instinctively resorts to the iambic rhythm for 
 expression. Note, for instance, how in number II. at 
 the close the change from the trochees to the two iambi 
 " aspire ! aspire ! " at once represents the intensity of 
 the situation and the broken fitfulness of the struggling 
 flame j or, again, in that fine scene of number IV., where 
 the iambi " dark-red like blood " give the reader a 
 sudden wrench from the trochaic flow as if they plucked 
 him by the sleeve to compel him to stop a second on the 
 thought ; or, again, most notable of all, in number VI., 
 where from the words " a stir, a murmur deep " to the 
 close of the picture the iambi present the agony and the 
 glory of the martyr. With these three exceptions the 
 entire poem is in trochees, and is an admirable example 
 of the music which can be made with those elements. 
 Return to number IX. of this poem, from 
 
 " Like a rivulet rippling deep. 
 Through the meadow-lands of sleep," 
 
 to its close is, in point of pure trochaic music, of rare 
 excellence. We desire, however, to call Mr. Hayne's 
 attention to a fault of tone which occurs in this picture, 
 and in another of the poems of this book. Where the 
 
 lines run : 
 
 " Though the lotos swings its stem 
 With a lulling stir of leaves, 
 Though the lady-lily laves 
 Coy feet in the crystal waves. 
 And a silvery undertune 
 From some mystic wind-song ^ww," 
 
2o6 Music and Poetry 
 
 " leaves " of course is intended to rhyme with " grieves," 
 four lines down, and " laves " with " waves ;" but 
 "laves "is the next rhyme-tone to "leaves," and this 
 proximity renders it obnoxious to two objections. One 
 is, that it leaves the reader for a moment in doubt 
 whether " laves " is really intended to rhyme with " leaves " 
 — a doubt which interferes with the reader's enjoyment 
 as long as it lasts. The other and stronger objection is, 
 that the immediate juxtaposition of the slightly-varying 
 rhyme-tones " leaves " and " laves " gives the ear the 
 same displeasure which the eye suffers from two shades of 
 the same color in a lady's dress, — both tones seem faded. 
 The faults of .Fire Pictures are faults which we de- 
 tect in all Mr. Hayne's poetry ; and as they are remedi- 
 able, we call his attention to them with all the more 
 vigor. They are of two classes. First, we observe a 
 frequently-recurring lapsus of thought, in which Mr. 
 Hayne falls into trite similes, worn collocations of words, 
 and commonplace sentiments. To have these hack- 
 neyed couples of words and ideas continually popping 
 in upon us out of Mr. Hayne's beautiful things is to suf- 
 fer the chagrin and the anguish of that hapless man 
 who in the hot summer rushes afar from toil and trouble 
 across the ocean into a distant land, and there in the 
 heavenly weather, while idly wandering down some wild 
 and lovely glen, given up to all tender meditations, sud- 
 denly, on pushing aside a great frond of fern, comes 
 bump upon the smug familiar faces of Smith, Jones, and 
 Brown, whom he had left amid the hot grind of the 
 street, and whose presence immediately transports him 
 back to the sweaty moil of stocks, bacon, and dry-goods. 
 Such expressions are : " changing like a wizard-thought," 
 or, " like a charmed thought," or " like a Protean 
 
Paul H. Hayne's Poetry 207 
 
 thought," and others in Fire Pictures. More notable 
 still in this respect is the poem Renewed. The first 
 four Unes of this poem are so entirely commonplace that 
 they are quite sufficient to throw any reader off the scent 
 and cause him to abandon the piece ; yet the very next 
 four are exceedingly beautiful, with all the clear and 
 limpid music of Mr. Hayne's style, and with a bright 
 change in the rhythm which is full of happy effects. 
 Witness : 
 
 RENEWED 
 
 Welcome, rippling sunshine ! 
 
 Welcome, joyous air 1 
 
 Like a demon-shadow 
 
 Flies the gaunt Despair I 
 Heaven through heights of happy calm 
 
 Its heart of hearts uncloses. 
 To win earth's answering love, in balm. 
 
 Her blushing thanks, in roses t 
 
 The second fault to which we wish to call Mr. Hayne's 
 attention is diffuseness, principally originating in a lav- 
 ishness and looseness of adjectives. Whatever may be 
 said of Edgar Poe's theory of the impossibility of a long 
 poem, or that all long poems are merely series of short 
 poems connected by something that is not poetry, it may 
 at least with safety be asserted that in a time when trade 
 has lengthened life by shortening leisure, the ideal of the 
 lyric poem is a brief, sweet, intense, electric flashing of 
 the lyric idea in upon the hurrying intelligence of men, 
 so that the vivid truth may attack even an unwilling 
 retina, and perpetuate itself thereupon even after the 
 hasty eyelid has closed to shut out the sight. Now, 
 either a free or an inexact use of adjectives is a depart- 
 ure from this ideal, not only because it impairs the 
 strength of the artictilate idea, but because it so far cum- 
 
2o8 Music and Poetry 
 
 bers the whole poem as, if the fault extends throughout, 
 to render it too long to be readable by many of those 
 whom all true poets desire to reach. Notable instances 
 of Mr. Hayne's dereliction in this regard may be found 
 in his frequent and often inexact employment of the 
 words " cordial," "weird," and " fairy" in these poems. 
 One can easily trace the manner in which this vice escapes 
 the poet's attention. Busied with some central idea, 
 and hurried by the passion of creating, he will not hesi- 
 tate for a descriptive in some minor phrase, but dashes 
 down the first term that occurs, if it will but answer tol- 
 erably, so that presently, from habit, a certain favored 
 few adjectives come to understand, as it were, that this 
 duty is expected of them, and get trained to stand by and 
 help whenever the poet's mind is fatigued or hurried. 
 
 Perhaps the nearest approaches to the ideal of lyric 
 poetry in this book are the invocation to the wife with 
 which it commences — as it were, grace before meat — 
 and the poem called A Summer Mood, based on a line 
 from Thomas Heyward : " Now, by my faith, a grue- 
 some mood for summer." From the latter we quote a 
 line out of the third verse and the last three verses : — 
 
 " The sunshine mocks the tears it may not dry, 
 
 " The field-birds seem to twit us as they pass, 
 With their small blisses, piped so dear and loud : 
 The cricket triumphs o'er us in the grass ; 
 And the lark glancing beam-like up the cloud, 
 
 " Sings us to scorn with his keen rhapsodies : 
 Small things and great unconscious tauntings bring 
 To edge our cares, whilst we, the proud and wise, 
 Envy the insect's joy, the birdling's wing I 
 
 " And thus for evermore, till time shall cease, 
 Man's soul and Nature's — each a separate sphere — 
 
Paul H. Hayne's Poetry 209 
 
 Revolves, the one in discord, one in peace, 
 
 — And who shall make the solemn mystery clear ? " 
 
 The Stanza of this poem in which " the field-birds twit 
 us as they pass, with their small blisses," is a genuine 
 snatch caught from out the sedges of a Southern field, 
 where we doubt not Mr. Hayne has often strolled or lain, 
 companioned only by the small crooked-flighted sparrow, 
 whose whistle, so keen that it amounts to a hiss, seems 
 to have suggested the very sibillations of the s's so fre- 
 quently occurring. 
 
 In In Utroque Fidelis is beautifully blended a tone 
 of tranquil description with that of a passionate love- 
 song. A lover about to be off to the wars has stolen at 
 midnight to snatch a farewell glance at the home of his 
 beloved. The following four verses show something of 
 the art of the poem : — 
 
 " I waft a sigh from this fond soul to thine, 
 A little sigh, yet honey-laden, dear, 
 With fairy freightage of such hopes divine 
 As fain would flutter gently at thine ear. 
 
 And entering find their way 
 Down to the heart so veiled from me by day. 
 
 " In dreams, in dreams, perchance thou are not coy j 
 And one keen hope more bold than all the rest 
 May touch thy spirit with a tremulous joy. 
 And stir an answering softness in thy breast. 
 
 O sleep, O blest eclipse I 
 What murmured word is faltering at her lips ? 
 
 " Still, breathless still ! No voice in earth or air : 
 I only know my delicate darling lies, 
 A twilight lustre glimmering in her hair, 
 And dews of peace within her languid eyes : 
 
 Yea, only know that I 
 Am called from love and dreams perhaps to die, 
 14 
 
2IO Music and Poetry 
 
 " Die when the heavens are thick with scarlet rain. 
 And every time-throb 's fated : even there 
 Her face would shine through mists of mortal pain, 
 And sweeten death like some incarnate prayer. 
 
 Hark ! 'T is the trumpet's swell I 
 O love, O dreams, farewell, farewell, farewell I " 
 
 In the particular of tranquil description, however, some 
 good work occurs in the ode to Skep. Witness the 
 following extracts, which form the beginning and the 
 end of the poem : — 
 
 " Beyond the sunset and the amber sea, 
 To the lone depths of ether, cold and bare. 
 Thy influence, soul of all tranquillity. 
 Hallows the earth and awes the reverent air. 
 
 Then woo me here amid these flowery charms ; 
 
 Breathe on my eyelids, press thine odorous lips 
 
 Close to mine own, enfold me in thine arms. 
 
 And cloud my spirit with thy sweet eclipse ; 
 
 And while from waning depth to depth I fall, 
 
 Down-lapsing to the utmost depths of all. 
 
 Till wan forgetfulness, obscurely stealing, 
 
 Creeps like an incantation on the soul, — 
 
 And o'er the slow ebb of my conscious life 
 
 Dies the thin flush of the last conscious feeling, — 
 
 And, like abortive thunder, the dull roll 
 
 Of sullen passions ebbs far, far away, — 
 
 O Angel I loose the chords which cling to strife. 
 
 Sever the gossamer bondage of my breath, 
 
 And let me pass, gently as winds in May, 
 
 From the dim realm which owns thy shadowy sway. 
 
 To thy diviner sleep, O sacred Death 1 " 
 
 We would like to praise Glaucus for the fine spirit-of- 
 green-leaves, which makes the poem so dainty and shady 
 and cool. We would like, too, to discuss with Mr, 
 Hayne whether the climacteric point in the tale of the 
 Wife of Brittany, — which is the raomeat when the 
 
Paul H. Hayne's Poetry 211 
 
 Wife meets Aurelian for the purpose of performing her 
 dreadful promise — does not need a more dramatic 
 accentuation to relieve it from the danger of anti-climax 
 to which this wonderfully smooth narrative is liable at 
 that point. We could wish further to commend the 
 admirably harmonized tone of Prexaspes, where the 
 words seem at once hot, wan, cruel, and wicked ; and 
 the elegant rendering of A'ethra, which is quite the most 
 artistically told tale in the book ; and the reverent piety 
 which shines in the final offering to the poet's mother ; 
 and many other things. But this paper has already 
 reached its liinit. We may be permitted in closing it to 
 observe that already since the publication of Legends and 
 Lyrics, other poems of Mr. Hayne's have appeared, as 
 for example the two Forest Hctures in the Atlantic 
 Monthly, which exhibit a growing strength and more 
 vigorous realism in his poetic faculty ; and we venture 
 to express the hope that his pen may yet embody the 
 pretty fancy of his poem called 
 
 THE NEST 
 
 At the poet's life-core lying, 
 
 Is a sheltered and sacred nest. 
 Where, as yet unfledged for flying. 
 
 His callow fancies rest — 
 
 Fancies and thoughts and feelings 
 
 Which the mother Psyche breeds. 
 And passions whose dim revealings 
 
 But torture their hungry needs. 
 
 Yet there cometh a summer splendor 
 When the golden brood wax strong. 
 
 And, with voices grand or tender. 
 They rise to the heaven of song. 
 
212 Music and Poetry 
 
 XIII 
 John Barbour's Bruce 
 
 About the time when our own Geoffrey Chaucer was 
 working at his Canterbury Tales, and John Wyclif and 
 his disciples were translating the Bible into common 
 English, and William Langley was revising his Piers 
 Plowman ; when Sir John Froissart over in France was 
 writing his Chronicles ; when, in Italy, Dante had been 
 dead some fifty years, and Petrarch had just stopped 
 singing, John Barbour, in Scotland, was writing that 
 dear and simple Romance which treats — as the old 
 manuscript says at the head, — "of the deeds, wars, 
 and virtues of lord Robert the Brwyss,' most illustrious 
 King of Scotland, and of the conquest of the kingdom 
 of Scotland by the same, and of the lord James the 
 Douglas." It was then but a few years since the two 
 heroes of whom Barbour sang had acted, and fought, 
 and loved virtue : about as if Mr. Longfellow should 
 make a poem on the adventures of some soldier in our 
 own War of 1 812. Barbour was probably near thirteen 
 years old when Robert Bruce died, in 1329; and the 
 main events of his poem are those wonderful struggles 
 of Bruce during the earlier years of the same century 
 against King Edward I., and after that monarch's death 
 
 1 Bruce. 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 213 
 
 against King Edward II., until the defeat of the latter 
 at Bannockbum in 13 14 left the hardy Robert secure 
 on the Scottish throne. 
 
 Of John Barbour's life we know little besides the facts 
 that he was Archdeacon of Aberdeen, and that he wrote 
 a metrical account of the Scotch rulers beginning with 
 Brutus called The Brute, and a poem on The Lives 
 of The Northern Saints, — besides this poem of The 
 Bruce. 
 
 But when we read this last work we do not feel that 
 we lack any further knowledge to make us acquainted 
 with John Barbour. About a hundred and fifty years 
 before Barbour a very fervent English poet named 
 Orrmin called his poem The Ormulum, or little Orrmin, 
 as if it were a sort of miniature copy of himself; and so 
 we might call Barbour's Romance the Barbulum. It 
 shows him to us over again. We see clearly how simple, 
 how lofty, how clean are all his thoughts ; how fervent 
 are his love and admiration of all manful deeds; how 
 keen and intelligent are his ideas of the remarkable 
 degree in which Robert Bruce added perseverance, 
 prudence, ready wit in emergencies, wisdom in hand- 
 ling his resources, to his personal bravery and physical 
 strength; how true is his passion for freedom; and 
 how fine and large is his ideal of manhood as given in 
 his account of James the Douglas. 
 
 Here for instance is a tale from the earlier portion 
 of the poem, in which we see not only the valorous 
 deeds and rude hardships of Bruce, but the perfect 
 fellow-feeling of Barbour; and it is easy to believe 
 that the poet would not have fought far from the hero's 
 side if he had been in that trying march when Bruce, 
 single-handed, covered the retreat of his little band 
 
214 Music and Poetry 
 
 from the incessant charges of the Lord of Lome and 
 his troopers. The poem has told how upon the death 
 of King Alexander III., 
 
 The land six years, and more perfaith. 
 The land vi yer, and mayr perfay, 
 
 Lay desolate after his day ; 
 Lay desolat eftyr hys day ; 
 
 how the baronage quarrelled as to who should have the 
 kingdom, and finally left the decision to King Edward 
 of England, who at first made a foul proposal to Robert 
 Bruce — grandfather of our Robert — 
 
 And to Robert the Bruce said he. 
 And to Robert the brwyss said he, 
 
 '■ If thou wilt hold in chief of me 
 
 " Gyff thow will held in chayff off me 
 
 For evermore, and thine offspring. 
 For euirmar, and thine ofspryng, 
 
 I shall do so (that) thou shall be king ; " 
 I sal do swa thow sail be king ; " 
 
 and how Bruce answered — 
 
 " 5V»-," said he, "so God me save, 
 " Schyr," said he, " sa god me save, 
 
 The kingdom yearn I not to have 
 The kynryk yharn I nocht to have 
 
 But if [unless) it fall, of right, to me ; 
 Bot gyff It fall off rycht to me : 
 
 And if God will that it so be. 
 And gyff god will that It sa be, 
 
 I shall as freely in all things 
 I sail als frely in all thing 
 
 Hold it as it behmies a king. 
 Hold It as It afferis to king, 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 215 
 
 Or as mine elders before me 
 Or as myn eldris forouch me 
 
 Held it in freest royalty. 
 Held It in f reyast reawte." 
 
 Hereupon King Edward, in wrath, decided for Baliol, 
 who had agreed to be King Edward's man ; but these 
 two soon fell out, Baliol was degraded, and Scotland lay 
 at King Edward's mercy, 
 
 " All defawtit & wndone," 
 
 in a condition of slavery and ruin which Barbour paints 
 with vigorous strokes. Sir William Douglas, father of 
 Sir James who presently does such heroic deeds, is slain, 
 and the Douglas land given to English Clifford; King 
 Edward has the country 
 
 « Stuffyt all with Inglis men," 
 
 who seize the property, even the wives and daughters, 
 of the Scots, and rob and slay without hindrance. 
 Then 
 
 TTiis lord the Bruce I spoke of, ere, * 
 
 Thys lord the brwyss I spak of ayr, 
 
 Saw all the kingdom so decay. 
 Saw all the kynryk swa forfayr. 
 
 And so trouBlid the folk saw he 
 And swa trowblyt the folk saw he 
 
 That he thereof had great pity. 
 That he tharoff had gret pitte. 
 
 But what pity that ever he had. 
 But quhat pite that euir he had, 
 
 No countenance thereof he made, 
 Na contenance thar-off he maid ; 
 
 1 Here Barbour forgets that the Bruce he spoke of ere was the grand- 
 father of the famous Bruce. It is the latter he now goes on to speak of. 
 
21 6 Music and Poetry 
 
 Till on a time Sir John Cummyn, 
 Till on A tyra Schyr Ihone Cumyn, 
 
 As they came riding from Stirling, 
 As thai come ridand fra strewillyn, 
 
 Said to him, " Sir, will ye not see 
 Said till him, " schyr, will ye nocht se 
 
 How that governed is this countree ? " 
 How that gouernyt is this countre ? " 
 
 But as soon as Bruce, touched with pity, signs an 
 " Indenture " agreeing to take his right place on the 
 throne and receives the oaths of the barons, treacherous 
 John Cummyn reveals all to the king at London. Bruce 
 being soon afterward in that city is confronted by the 
 king with the fatal Indenture, and only saves himself 
 by asking, with the readiest wit, that he may be allowed to 
 compare the seal with his own at his lodging. Here he 
 stays not for seals, but leaps upon his horse, flies to 
 Scotland, and showing John Cummyn the fatal Indenture 
 slays him with a knife even as he stands at the church- 
 altar. 
 
 The ball now opens. Bruce is openly crowned king 
 of Scotland at Scone, and presently King Edward, in a 
 rage over the death of John Cummyn, sends an army 
 into Scotland, which Bruce meets at Methven. Here, 
 greatly outnumbered. King Robert is defeated and must 
 fly to the hills. Presently, when the most part of his 
 " mengye " — that is, his meinie, a very common term 
 in Barbour's time for any troop or band of men following 
 a leader — was nearly gone, and the men were without 
 shoes, they go to Aberdeen, where their wives are. But 
 here is no rest : they must soon flee ; and now, with the 
 ladies, 
 
 That for leal love and loyalty 
 That for leyle luff and leawte, 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 217 
 
 Would partners of their pains be, 
 Wald partenerys off thar paynys be. 
 
 Jlis men in haste he caused be dight (armed). 
 His men in hy he gert be dycht. 
 
 And busked him {got ready) from the town 
 to ride, 
 
 And buskyt of the toune 
 
 to ryd, 
 
 The ladies rode right by his side. 
 The ladyls raid rycht by his syd. 
 
 Then to the hill they rode their way. 
 Then to the hill thai raid thar way. 
 
 Where great default of meat had they. 
 Quhar gret defaut off mete had thai. 
 
 But worthy James of Douglas 
 Bot worthy lames off dowglas 
 
 Aye travailing and busy was 
 Ay trawailland and besy was, 
 
 For to purchase (procure) the ladies meat; 
 For to purches the ladyis mete ; 
 
 And it on many wise (ways) would get. 
 And It on mony wiss wald get. 
 
 For (one) while he venison them brought. 
 For quhile he venesoun thaim brocht : 
 
 And with his hands (another) while he wrought 
 And with his handys quhile he wrocht 
 
 Gins (snares or traps) to take pike and salmons, 
 Gynnys, to tak geddis & salmonys, 
 
 Trouts, eels, and also minnows. 
 Trowtis, elys, and als menovnys. 
 
 And the king oft comforted was 
 And the king oft confort wes 
 
21 8 Music and Poetry 
 
 Through his wit and his business (iusy-ness). 
 Throw his wyt, and his besynes. 
 
 On this manner them governed they 
 On this maner thaim gouemyt thai, 
 
 Till they came to the head of Tay. 
 Till thai come to the hed off tay. 
 
 How John of Lorne disconfite King Robert.i 
 
 The lord of Lorne dwellid thereby 
 The lord off lorne wonnyt thar-by, 
 
 That was capital enemy 
 That wes capitale ennymy 
 
 To the king, for his uncle's sake, 
 To the king, for his Emys sak, 
 
 John Cummyn ; and thought for to take 
 Ihon comyn ; and thocht for to tak 
 
 Vengeance, upon cruel manner. 
 Wengeance, apon cruell maner. 
 
 When he the king wist (knew) was so near 
 Quhen he the king wyst wes sa ner, 
 
 He assembled his men in hy (haste) ; 
 He assemblyt his men in hy ; 
 
 And had into his company 
 And had in-till his cumpany 
 
 The barons of Argyle also; 
 The barownys off Argyle alsua ; 
 
 TTtey were a thousand well (full) or more ; 
 Thai war A thowsand weill or ma : 
 
 And came for to surprise the king. 
 And come for to suppriss the king, 
 
 1 This rubric occurs in the Edinburgh manuscript. 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 219 
 
 That will mas ware of their coming. 
 That Weill wes war of thar cummyng. 
 
 The king's folk full well them bore. 
 The kiiigis folk full weill thaim bar, 
 
 And slew, and felled, and wounded sore. 
 And slew, and fellyt, and woundyt sar. 
 
 But the folk of the tother partji 
 Bot the folk off the tothir party 
 
 Fought with axes sofelonlp, 
 Fawcht with axys sa [felounly], 
 
 Por they on foot were every ane {one), 
 For thai on fute war euir-Ilkane, 
 
 That theyfele (many) of their horse has slain. 
 That thai feile off thar horss has slayne ; 
 
 And to some gave they wounds wide. 
 And till sum gaiff thai woundis wid. 
 
 Jam.es of Douglas was hurt that tide (time) \ 
 lames off dowglas wes hurt that tyd ; 
 
 And also Sir Gilbert de la Hay. 
 And als Schyr gilbert de la hay. 
 
 7^1? king his men saw in affray (affright). 
 The [king his] men saw in affray, 
 
 And his war-cry began he (to) cry 
 And his ensenye ^ can he cry; 
 
 And among them- right hardily 
 And amang thaim rycht hardyly 
 
 He rode that he them drove back, all. 
 He rad, that he thaim ruschyt all; 
 
 And many of them there made he fall. 
 And fele of thaim thar gert he fall. 
 
 1 From the French enseigne, a sign, or token. 
 
220 Music and Poetry 
 
 But when he saw they were sofele l (many), 
 Bot quhen he saw thai war sa feill, 
 
 And saw them such great dints (strokes') deal. 
 And saw thaim swa gret dyntis deill, 
 
 He dread(ed) to lose his folk ; for-tki [for this, therefore) 
 He dred to tyne his folk, forthi 
 
 His men to him he 'gan rally, 
 His men till him he gan rely. 
 
 And said : " Lor dings, folly it were 
 And said : " Lordyngis, foly It War 
 
 To us for to assemble mair {more), 
 Tyll ws for till assembill mar, 
 
 For theyfele (many) of our horse has slain ; 
 For thai fele oflf our horss has slayn ; 
 
 And if we fight with them again 
 And gyff [we] fecht with thaim agayn. 
 
 We shall lose of our small meinie (following 
 We sail tyne off our small mengye, 
 
 And our-self shall in peril be. 
 And our-selff sail in perill be." ^ 
 
 Then they withdrew them wholly. 
 Then thai withdrew thaim halely : 
 
 But that was not full cowardly, 
 Bot that wes nocht full cowartly, 
 
 For together into a band held they 
 For samyn in-till A sop held thai ; 
 
 And the king him abandoned (devoted himself) aye 
 And the king him abandonyt ay 
 
 ' Young readers who are studying German will recognize this as from 
 the same stock with the German word viel, many. 
 
 2 The contrast between this wonderful prudence of Bruce — he never 
 lost his head — and the tremendous personal valor and strength of the 
 deeds next done by him is finely brought out by Barbour, 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 221 
 
 To defend behind (guard the rear of) his meinie. 
 To defend behind his mengye. 
 
 And through his worship (worth-ship) so wrought he 
 And throw his worschip sa wrouch[t] he 
 
 That he rescued all the flee-ers (fleeing men) 
 That he reskewyt all the flearis, 
 
 And stopped sogate (in such agate, or manner) the chasers 
 And styntyt swagat the chassaris, 
 
 That none durst out of battle (out of ranks) chase. 
 That nana durst owt off batall chass, 
 
 For always at their hand he was. 
 For alwayis at thar hand he was. 
 
 Two brothers were into that land 
 Twa brethir war [into] that land 
 
 That were the hardiest of hand 
 That war the hardiest off hand 
 
 That were into all that counirie ; 
 That war in-till all that cuntre ; 
 
 And they had sworn, if they might see 
 And thai had sworn, iff thai micht se 
 
 The Bruce where they might him o'erta' (take), 
 The bruyss, quhar thai mycht him our-ta, 
 
 That they should die, or then him. slay. 
 That thai suld dey, or then him sla. 
 
 Of their compact a third had they 
 Off thar cowyne the thrid had thai 
 
 That was right stout, ill and felon?- 
 That wes rycht stout, III, and feloune. 
 
 When they the king of good renown ^ 
 Quhen thai the king of gud renoune 
 
 1 Many words which rhymed in Barbour's time have so changed their 
 sounds in our day as to seem bad rhymes to his modern reader. Barbour 
 pronounced these words fel-()o» and xtn-ion. This remark applies to 
 
222 Music and Poetry 
 
 Saw so behind his meinie ride. 
 Saw sua behind his mengne rid, 
 
 And saw him turn so many tide [times'). 
 And saw him torne sa mony tid, 
 
 They abode {waited) till that he was 
 Thai abaid till that he was 
 
 Entered in a narrow place 
 Entryt in ane narow place, 
 
 Betwixt a loch-side and a brae (bank), 
 Betuix a louchside and a bra ; 
 
 That was so strait (narrow), lunderta' (-take]. 
 That wes sa strait, Ik wnderta ; 
 
 That he might not well turn his steed. 
 That he mycht nocht weill turn his sted. 
 
 Then with a will to him they yede (went) ; 
 Then with A will till him thai yede ; 
 
 And one him by the bridle hent (seized), 
 And ane him by the bridill hynt : 
 
 But he reached to him such a dint (stroke) 
 Bot he raucht till him sic A dynt, 
 
 That arm and shoulder flew him fra (from). 
 That arme and schuldyr flaw him fra. 
 
 With that another 'gan him ta' (take) 
 With that ane othir gan him ta 
 
 ' By the leg, and his hand 'gan shoot 
 Be the lege, and his hand gan schute 
 
 Betwixt the stirrup and his foot; 
 Betuix the sterap and his f ute : 
 
 And when the king felt there his hand. 
 And quhen the king felt thar his hand, 
 
 many rhymes which are apparently bad, but which are not explained in 
 detail because I have desired to encumber the young reader's attention 
 with as few notes as possible. 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 223 
 
 In his stirrups stiffly 'gan he stand. 
 In his sterapys stythly gan he stand, 
 
 And struck with spurs the steed in hy [haste). 
 And strak with spuris the stede in hy; 
 
 And he lanced [leapt) forth deliverly [cleverly). 
 And he lansyt furth delyuerly, 
 
 So that the tother failed [of) feet [lost his footing), 
 Swa that the tothir failyeit fete ; 
 
 And ne'ertheless his hand was yet 
 And nocht-for-thl his hand wes yeit 
 
 Under the stirrup, malgri his [will, spite of him). 
 Wndyr the sterap, magre his. 
 
 The third, with full great haste, with this. 
 The thrid, with full gret hy, with this 
 
 Right to the brae-side he yede [went), 
 Rycht till the bra syd he yeid, 
 
 And leapt behind him on his steed. 
 And stert be-hynd hym on his sted. 
 
 The king was then in full great press ; 
 The king wes then in full gret press; 
 
 However, he thought, as he that was 
 The quhethir he thocht, as he that wes 
 
 In all his deeds well-advised 
 
 In all his dedys awise (pronounced a-wi-say) 
 
 To do an outrageous bounti [very great deed). 
 To do ane owtrageouss bounte. 
 
 And then him that behind him was. 
 And syne hyme that behynd hym wass. 
 
 All maugre his will, him 'gan he raise 
 All magre his will, him gan he rass 
 
 From behind him, though he had sworn ; i 
 Fra be-hynd hym, thocht he had sworn, 
 
 1 That is, with such force that though the Mclndrosser had sworn to 
 prevent it, he could not. 
 
224 Music and Poetry 
 
 He laid him even him beforn (before). 
 He laid hym ewyn him beforn. 
 
 Then with the sword such stroke him gave. 
 Syne with the suerd sic dynt hym gave. 
 
 That he the head to the harness clave. 
 That he the heid till the harnys clave. 
 
 He rushid down, of blood all red. 
 He rouschit doun, ofi blud all rede. 
 
 As he that moment felt of death. 
 As he that stound feld off dede. 
 
 And then the king, in full great hy (haste), 
 And then the king, in full gret hy, 
 
 Struck at the tother vigorously, 
 Strak at the tothir wigorusly. 
 
 That he after his stirrup drew. 
 That he eftir his sterap drew, 
 
 TTiat at the first stroke he him slew. 
 That at the fyrst strak he him slew. 
 
 On this wise him delivered he 
 On this wiss him delyuerit he 
 
 Of all those felon foes three. 
 Off all thai felloun fayis thre. 
 
 When they of Lome has seen the king 
 Quhen thai of Lome has sene the king 
 
 Set in himself so great helping. 
 Set in hym-sel£E sa gret helping. 
 
 And defend him (self) so manlily, 
 And [defend] him sa manlely ; 
 
 Was none among them so hardy 
 Wes nane amang thaim sa hardy 
 
 TTiat durst assail him more in fight ; 
 That durst assailye him mar in fycht : 
 
 So dread (ed) they for his mickle might. 
 Sa dred thai for his mekill mycht. 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 225 
 
 There was a Baron Macnaugktan 
 Thar wes a baroune maknauchtan, 
 
 That in his heart great keep (note) has ta'en 
 That in his hart gret kep has tane 
 
 Unto the king's chivalry, 
 [Vnto] the kingis chewalry, 
 
 And prizid him in heart greatly. 
 And prisyt hym in hert gretly. 
 
 Then 'gan the lord of Lome say: 
 Then gane the lord off lorn say : 
 
 '' It seems it likes thee, perfay, 
 " It semys It likis the perfay, 
 
 That he slays yon-gate {in yon manner) our meinie," 
 That he slayis yongat our mengye.' 
 
 " Sir," said he, " so our Lord me see I 
 " Schyr," said he, " sa our lord me se I 
 
 — To save your presence, — it is not so. 
 To sauff your presence. It is nocht swa. 
 
 But whether he befriend or foe, 
 
 Bot quhethir sa [he] be freynd or fa, 
 
 That wins prize of chivalry. 
 That wynnys pryss off chewalry, 
 
 Men should speak thereof loyally. 
 Men suld spek tharoff lelyly. 
 
 And surely in all my time 
 And sekyrly in all my tyme, 
 
 I heard never in song nor rhyme 
 Ik hard neuir in sang na ryme. 
 
 Tell of a man that so smartly 
 Tell off A man that swa smertly 
 
 Achievid so great chivalry." 
 Eschewyt swa gret chewalry." 
 IS 
 
226 Music and Poetry 
 
 Such speaking of the king they made ; 
 Sic speking off the king thai maid : 
 
 And he after his meinie rode (rode). 
 And he eftyr his mengye raid; 
 
 And into safety them led, 
 And in-till saufte thaim led, 
 
 Where he his foes nothing dread (ed). 
 Quhar he his fayis na thing dred. 
 
 And they of Lome again are gane (gone). 
 And thM off lorne agayn ar gayn, 
 
 Moaning the scath (harm) that they have ta'en. 
 Menand the scaith that thai haifE tayn. 
 
 II 
 
 Of King Robert's Pains among the Mountains, and how 
 THE Ladies and the Horses were sent away.i 
 
 The king that night his watches set. 
 The king that nycht his wachis set, 
 - And garred ordain that they might eat. 
 And gert ordayne that thai mycht at ; 
 
 And bade them comfort to them take 
 
 And bad [thaim comfort] to thaim tak, 
 
 And at their mights (as best they might) merry make. 
 
 And at thar mychtis mery mak. 
 
 " For discomfort" — then said he — 
 " For disconford," as then said he, 
 "Is the worst thing that may be. 
 " Is the werst thing that may be. 
 
 For through mickle disconfortlng. 
 For throw mekill disconforting 
 Men ofttimes falls in despairing. 
 Men fallis off in-to disparjmg. 
 
 1 These headings are fuller than those in the manuscript. 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 227 
 
 Andfra (soon as) a man despairid be. 
 And fra A man disparyt be, 
 
 Then utterly vanquished is he. 
 Then wtraly wencusyt Is he. 
 
 Andfra the heart be discomfit(ed). 
 And fra the hart be discumfyt, 
 Jhe body is not worth a mite. 
 The body is nocht worth A myt. 
 
 " Therefore " — he said — " above all thing, 
 " Tharfor," he said, " atour all thing, 
 Keep you fra despairing : 
 Kepys yow fra dispaiyng ; 
 
 And think, though we now harms feel. 
 And thynk, thouch we now harmys fele. 
 That God may yet relieve us weel (well). 
 That god may yeit releve ws weill. 
 
 Men reads of many men that were 
 
 Men redys off mony men that war 
 
 Far harder stead (bestead, pushed) than we yet are ; 
 
 Fer hardar stad then we yhet ar ; 
 
 And since (afterwards) our Lord such grace them lent 
 And syne our lord sic grace thaim lent, 
 
 That they came well to their intent. 
 That thai come weill till thar entent. 
 
 Thus gate them comforted the king; 
 Thusgat thaim confort[yt] the king ; 
 And, to comfort them, 'gan in-bring 
 And, to confort thaim, gan Inbryng 
 
 Old stories of men that were 
 
 Auld storys off men that wer 
 
 Set into hard assays (trials) ser (several), 
 
 Set in-tyll hard assayis ser, 
 
 And that Fortune contraried fast. 
 And that fortoun contraryit fast. 
 
228 Music and Poetry 
 
 And came to purpose at the last. 
 And come to purposs at the last. 
 
 Se preachid them on this mannir 
 He prechyt thaim on this maner ; 
 Andfeignidto make better cheer 
 And fenyeit to mak bettir cher, 
 
 Than he had matter to, by far 
 
 Then he had matir to, be f er : 
 
 For his cause went from ill to waur (worse). 
 
 For his causs yeid fra ill to wer. 
 
 They were aye in so hard travail. 
 Thai war ay in sa hard trawaill, 
 Till the ladies began to fail. 
 Till the ladyis began to fayle, 
 
 That might the travail dree (endure) no mair {more) ; 
 That mycht the trawaill drey na mar ; 
 
 So did other also that were there. 
 Sa did othir als that war thar. 
 
 The Earl John was one oftho (those) 
 The Erie Ihone wes ane off tha, 
 
 — Of Athol — that when he saw so 
 
 — 0£E athole, that quhen he saw sua 
 
 The king be discomfit(ed) twice 
 
 The king be discumfyt twyss. 
 
 And sofele (many) folk against him rise. 
 
 And sa feile folk agayne him ryss ; 
 
 And live in such travail and doubt, 
 And lyff in sic trawaill and dout, 
 His heart began to fail all-out. 
 His hart begane to faile all-out. 
 
 The king saw that he so wasfailid. 
 The king saw that he sa wes failyt, 
 And that he eke was for-travailid (worn-out). 
 And that he Ik wes for-trawaillyt. 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 429 
 
 He said: "Sir Earl, we shall soon see, 
 He said : " Schyr Erie, we sail sone Se, 
 And ordain how it best may be. 
 & ordayne how It best may be. 
 
 Wherever you be, our Lord you send 
 Quhar-euir ye be, our lord yow send 
 Grace, from your foes you to defend! " 
 Grace, fra your fais yow to defend 1 " 
 
 Then amon^ them they thought it best 
 Then amang thaim thai thocht It best, 
 And ordained for the likeliest 
 And ordanyt for the liklyest, 
 
 TTiat the queen, and the Earl also, 
 That the queyne, and the erle alsua. 
 And the ladies, in hy should go 
 And the ladyis, in hy suld ga, 
 
 With Neil the Bruce l to Kildromy. 
 With Nele the bruce, till kildromy. 
 For them thought they might securely 
 For thaim thocht thai mycht sekyrly 
 
 Dwell there, while they were victualled well ; 
 Duell thar, quhill thai war wictaillit weile : 
 For so stalwart was the castli 
 For swa stalwart wes the castell, 
 
 That it with strength were hard to get 
 That It with strenth war hard to get, 
 
 While that therein were men and meat. 
 Quhill that thar-in war men and mete. 
 
 As they ordained, they did in hy : 
 As thai ordanyt, thai did in hy : 
 The qu^en and all her company 
 The queyne, and all hyr cumpany, 
 
 1 Nigel Bruce. 
 
230 Music and Poetry 
 
 Leapt on their horses and forth they farced). 
 Lap on thar horss, and furth thai far. 
 Men might have seen, who had been there. 
 Men mycht haiff sene, quha had been thar, 
 
 At leave-taking the ladies gret (weep) 
 At leve-takyng the ladyis gret, 
 And make their face with tears wet : 
 And male thar face with teris wet : 
 
 And knights for their loves' sake 
 And knychtis for thar luffis sak, 
 Both sigh, and weep, and mourning make. 
 Baith sich, and wep, and murnyng mak. 
 
 They kissed their loves, at their parting. 
 Thai kissyt thar luffis, at thar partyng. 
 The king hethought him. of a thing : 
 The king bethocht him off A thing ; 
 
 That he from then on foot would go. 
 That he fra-thine on fute wald ga, 
 And take, on foot, both weal and woe. 
 And tak, on fute, bath weill and wa. 
 
 And would no horsemen with him have. 
 And wald na horss-men with him haiff. 
 Therefore his horses all he gave 
 Tharfor his horss all haile he gaiff 
 
 To the ladies that need had. 
 
 To the ladyis, that mystir had. 
 
 The queen forth on her ways rod (rode). 
 
 The queyn furth on hyr wayis rade ; 
 
 And safely came to the castli 
 And sawffly come to the castell, 
 Where her folk were received well 
 Quhar hyr folk war ressawyt weill ; 
 
 And easid well with meat and drink. 
 
 And esyt weill with meyt and drynk. 
 
 But might none ease let (prevent) her to think 
 
 Bot raycht nane eyss let hyr to think 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 231 
 
 On the king that so sore was stad {fiestead) 
 On the king, that sa sar wes stad. 
 That but two hundred with him had. 
 Thot bot ij. C. with him had. 
 
 How THE King and his Men passed over Loch Lomond 
 IN A Little Boat. 
 
 The Jang saw how his folk was stad (bestead). 
 The king saw how his folk wes stad, 
 And what annoys that they had. 
 And quhat anoyis that thai had ; 
 
 He thought he to Cantire would go 
 He thocht he to kyntyr wald ga, 
 And so long sojourning there make 
 And swa lang soiowrnyng thar ma, 
 
 Till winter weather were away. 
 
 Till wyntir weddir war away ; 
 
 And then he thought without more delay 
 
 And then he thocht, but mar delay. 
 
 Into the mainland to arrive 
 
 In-to the manland till arywe. 
 
 And to the end his weirds (fates) drive}- 
 
 And till the end hys werdis dryw[e]. 
 
 And for {because) Cantire lies in the sea, 
 And for kyntyr lyis in the Se, 
 
 Sir Neil Campbell before sent he 
 Schyr Nele Cambel befor send he. 
 
 For to get him navy {boats) and meat. 
 For to get him nawyn and meite : 
 And certain time to him he set 
 And certane tyme till him he sete, 
 
 1 That is, after wintering in Cantire, he thought he would come back 
 to the mainland and pursue his destiny —<?«« his weird. 
 
232 Music and Poetry 
 
 When he should meet him at the sea. 
 Quhen he suld meite him at the se. 
 Sir Neil Cam-pbell with his meinii 
 Schyr Nele cambell, with his mengye, 
 
 Went his way without m.ore letting (hindering) 
 Went his way, but mar letting 
 And left his brother with the king. 
 And left his brothir with the king. 
 
 The king, after that he was gane (gone), 
 The king, eftir that he wes gane. 
 To Loch Lomond the way has ta'en. 
 To lowchlomond the way has tane, 
 
 And came there on the third day. 
 And come thar on the thrid day. 
 But thereabout no boat found they, 
 Bot thar-about na bait fand thai, 
 
 That might thy^ o'er the water bear. 
 That mycht thaim our the watir ber . 
 Then were they woe on great mannir. 
 Than war thai wa on gret maner ; 
 
 For it was far about to go (to go around,) 
 For It wes fer about to ga ; 
 And they were in (to) doubt also 
 And thai war in-to dout alsua, 
 
 To meet their foes that spread were wide. 
 To meyt thar fayis that spred war wyd. 
 Therefore, along the loch's side 
 Tharf or, endlang the louchhis syd, 
 
 So busily they sought, and fast, 
 Sa besyly thai socht, and fast, 
 Till Jatnes of Douglas at the last 
 Tyll lamys of dowglas, at the last, 
 
 Found a little sunken boat 
 
 Fand A littill sonkyn bate, 
 
 And to the land it drew foot-hot (quickly). 
 
 And to the land It drew, f ut hate. 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 233 
 
 But it so little was, that it 
 
 Bot It sa littill wes, that It 
 
 Might o'er the water but three-some'^ Jlit. 
 
 Mycht our the wattir bot thresum flyt. 
 
 They sent thereof word to the Jang 
 Thai send thar-off word to the king, 
 That was joyful of that finding, 
 That wes loyfuU off that fynding ; 
 
 And first into the boat is gane ; 
 And fyrst in-to the bate is gane, 
 With him Douglas ; the third was ane 
 With him dowglas ; the thrid wes ane 
 
 That rowed them o'er deliverly (cleverly) 
 That rowyt thaim our deliuerly, 
 And set them on the land all dry ; 
 And set thaim on the land all dry : 
 
 And rowed so oft-times to and fro. 
 And rowyt sa oft-syss to & fra, 
 Fetching aye o'er two and two, 
 Fechand ay our twa & twa, 
 
 That in a night and in a day 
 That in A nycht and in A day, 
 Come out der the loch are they. 
 Cummyn owt our the louch ar thai. 
 
 For some of them could swim full well 
 For sum off thaim couth swome full weill, 
 And on his back bear afardil {pach). 
 And on his bak ber a fardele. 
 
 So with swimming and with rowing 
 Swa with swymmyng, and with rowyng 
 They brought them o'er, and all their thing. 
 Thai brocht thaim our, and all thar thing. 
 
 The king, the whiles, merrily 
 The king, the quhilis, meryly 
 Read to them that were him by 
 Red to thaim that war him by, 
 
 1 With three in it. 
 
234 Music and Poetry 
 
 Romance of worthy Ferambrace 
 Romanys off worthi ferambrace 
 That worthily o'ercome (n) was 
 That worthily oer-cummyn was 
 
 The good king upon this mannir 
 The gud king, apon this maner, 
 Comforted them that were him near, 
 Coin£ort[yt] thaim that war him ner ; 
 
 And made them games and solace 
 And maid thaim gamyn [and] solace 
 Till that his folk all fassid was. 
 Till that his folk all passyt was. 
 
 How THE Earl of Lennox, who had retired to these 
 Hills thinking that the King was dead, joyfully 
 
 RAN TO meet him WHEN HE HEARD HIS HORN BLOW. 
 
 They had full great default oftneat. 
 Thai had full gret defaut off mete. 
 And therefore, venison to get. 
 
 And tharfor venesoun to get 
 
 In two parties are they gane. 
 In twa partyss ar thai gayne. 
 The king himself was in to ane. 
 The king him-selff was in-till ane ; 
 
 And Sir James of Douglas 
 And Schyr lames off Dowglas 
 Into the t other party was. 
 In-to the tothir party was. 
 
 Then to the height they held their way, 
 Then to the hycht thai held thar way, 
 And hunted longwhile of the day. 
 And huntyt lang quhill off the day ; 
 
 And sought shaws {woods) and traps set ; 
 And soucht schawys and Setis set; 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 235 
 
 But they got little for to eat. 
 Bot thai gat litUl for till ete. 
 
 TTien happened at that time per case {by chance) 
 Then hapnyt at that tyme percass, 
 That the Earl of the Lennox was 
 That the Erie of the Leuenax was 
 
 Among the hills near thereby; 
 Amang the hillis, ner tharby ; 
 And when he heard so blow and cry^ 
 And quhen he hard sa blaw & cry, 
 
 He had wonder what it might be ; 
 
 He had wondir quhat It mycht be ; 
 
 And on such manner speerM [tracked, spyed) he 
 
 And on sic maner spyryt he, 
 
 T%at he knew that it was the kin^: 
 
 That [he] knew that It wes the king : 
 
 And then, without {en) more dwelling {hesitating), 
 
 And then, for-owtyn mar duelling. 
 
 With all them of his company 
 With all thaim off his cumpany. 
 He went right to the king in hy, 
 He went rycht till the king in hy, 
 
 So blythe and so joyful that he 
 Sa blyth and sa loyfull, that he 
 Might on no manner blither be. 
 Mycht on na maner blyther be. 
 
 For he the king weened (thought) had been dead; 
 For he the king wend had bene ded ; 
 
 And he was also will of red ^ 
 And he wes alsua will off red, 
 
 That he durst rest into no place ; 
 That he durst rest in-to na place ; 
 
 1 That is, the horn-blowing and crying of the king's people, in hunting. 
 
 2 « Will of red " is an idiomatic phrase meaning wild of rede or counsel, 
 that is, at a loss what to do. 
 
236 Music and Poetry 
 
 Nor, since the king discomfited) was 
 Na, sen the king discumfyt was 
 
 At Methven, he heard never thing. 
 At meffan, he herd neuir thing 
 That ever was certain, of the king. 
 That euir was certane off the king. 
 
 Therefore, in (to) full great dainty (fond delight,) 
 Tharfor, in-to full gret daynte, 
 The king full humbly greeted he ; 
 The king full humyly haylist he ; 
 
 And he him welcomed right blithely. 
 And he him welcummyt rycht blythly, 
 And kissid him full tenderly. 
 And [kyssyt] him full tendirly. 
 
 And all the lords that were there 
 And all the lordis, that war thar, 
 Right joyful of their meeting were, 
 Rycht loyful off thar meting war, 
 
 And kissid him in great dainty. 
 And kissyt him in gret daynte. 
 // was great pity for to see 
 It wes gret pite for till Se 
 
 How they for joy and pity gret (wept) 
 How thai for loy and pite gret, 
 When that they with their fellows met 
 Quhen that thai with thar falow[is] met. 
 
 That they weened had been dead ; for thi (for this) 
 That thai wend had bene dede ; forthi 
 They welcomed him more heartfully. 
 Thai welcummyt him mar hartfuUy. 
 
 And he for pity gret (wept) again, 
 And he for pite gret agayne, 
 
 Ihat never of meeting was so fain. 
 That neuir off metyng wes sa fayne. 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 237 
 
 Though I say that they gret, soothly 
 Thocht I say that thai gret, sothly, 
 It was no greting properly. 
 It wes na greting propyrly : 
 
 But I wot well, without lying, 
 Bot 1 I wate weill, but ^ lesyiig, 
 Whatever tnen say of such greting, 
 Quhat euir men say off sic greting, 
 
 That micklejoy, or yet pity. 
 That mekill loy, or yeit pete, 
 May gar (cause) men so a-movid be 
 May ger men sua amowyt be, 
 
 That water from the heart will rise, 
 That watir fra the hart will ryss, 
 And wet the eyne (eyes) on such a wise. 
 And weyt the eyne on sic a wyss. 
 
 The Earl had meat, and that plentiji. 
 The Erie had mete, and that plente, 
 And with glad heart it them gave he. 
 And with glaid hart It thaim gaiff he ; 
 
 And they ate it with full good will. 
 
 And thai eyt It with full gud will. 
 
 That sought none other sauce theretill (there to) 
 
 That soucht [nane othir] salss thar-till 
 
 But appetite, that oft men takes ; 
 Bot appetyt, that oft men takys ; 
 For well scoured were their stomhchs. 
 For w^eill scowryt war thar stomakys. 
 
 ■And they full piteously 'gan tell 
 And thai full pitwysly gan tell 
 
 ^ With Barbour, " bot" is the modern but, and " but" is the modern 
 fiiithout. 
 
238 Music and Poetry 
 
 Adventures that them befell, 
 Auenturis that thaim befell, 
 
 And great annoys and poverty. 
 And gret anoyis, and powerte. 
 The king thereat had great pity , 
 The king thar-at had gret pite : 
 
 And told them piteously again 
 And tauld thaim petwisly agayne 
 The annoy, the travail, and the pain 
 The noy, the trawaill, and the payne, 
 
 That he had tholed {suffered) since he them saw. 
 That he had tholyt, sen he thaim saw. 
 
 Was none among them, high nor low, 
 Wes nane amang thaim, hey na law, 
 
 That he not had pity and pleasance 
 That he ne had pite and plesaunce, 
 When that he heard make remembrance 
 Quhen that he herd mak remembrance 
 
 Of the perils that passid were: 
 Off the perellys that passyt war. 
 For, when men aught at ease are, 
 [For] quhen men oucht at liking ar, 
 
 To tell of pains passed by 
 To tell off paynys passyt by 
 Pleases to hearing wonderly. 
 Plesys to heryng [wonderly]. 
 
 And to rehearse their old dis-ease (pain) 
 And to reherss thar auld disese 
 Does them ofttimes comfort and ease, 
 Dois thaim oft-syss confort and ese ; 
 
 So (provided) that thereto follow no blame, 
 With-thi thar-to folow na blame, 
 
 Dishonor, wickedness, nor shame. 
 Dishonour, wikytnes, na schame. 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 239 
 
 How King Robert was chased with a Sleuth-hound in 
 Galloway; and how he fought alone against Two 
 Hundred, at a Ford. 
 
 And when the Gallawese^ wist soothly 
 And quhen the gallowais vist suthly 
 That he was with a few meinie, 
 That he wes with a few menyhe, 
 They made a secret assembty 
 Thai maid a preue assemble 
 
 Of well two hundred men and ma {more). 
 Off Weill twa hundreth men & ma. 
 A sleuth-hound with them ^gan they ta ' ( take) 
 Ane sluth-hwnd vith thaim can thai ta; 
 
 They shaped them [intended), in an evening 
 Thai schupe thame, in ane evynnyng, 
 
 Suddenly to surprise the king, 
 Suddandly to suppriss the king, 
 
 And to him held they straight their way. 
 And till him held thai straucht thar way, 
 But he, that had his watches aye 
 Bot he, that had his vachis ay 
 
 On each side, of their coming 
 
 On ilk syde, of thar cummyng, 
 
 Long ere they came — had wittering (knowledge); 
 
 Lang or thai com, had vittering ; 
 
 And went him down to a morass. 
 And vent hym doune till a marrass, 
 On a water that running was; 
 On a vattir that rynand was ; 
 
 1 The men of Galloway. Bruce, after many adventures by sea and land 
 — omitted in thesebrief extracts— has come over into his own earldom of 
 Carrick, and wanders about there, having but sixty men as his meinie. 
 
■240 Music and Poetry 
 
 Andin a bog he found a place 
 
 And ill a bog he fand a place 
 
 Full straight (very narrow), that well two bowdraughtwas 
 
 Veill strate, that well twa bowdraucht was, 
 
 From {where) they the water fassid had. 
 Fra thai the vattir passit had : 
 
 He said "here may ye make abode {stop) 
 He said, " heir may yhe mak abade ; 
 
 And rest you all a while and lie. 
 And rest yow all a quhile and ly. 
 / will go watch you privily 
 I will ga vach yow preuely, 
 
 If T hear aught of their coming ; 
 Giff I heir oucht of thar cummyng; 
 And if I may hear anything 
 And gif I may heir ony thyng, 
 
 I shall gar warn you, so that we 
 I sail ger varn yow, sua that we 
 Shall aye at our advantage be" 
 Sail ay at our avantage be." 
 
 Sir Gilbert de la Hay left he 
 And schir gilbert de [la] hay left he 
 There, for to rest with his meinie. 
 Thar for to rest with his menyhe. 
 
 To the water he came in hy. 
 To the vattir he com in hy, 
 And listened full intently 
 And lisnyt full ententily 
 
 If he aught heard of their coming : 
 Gif he oucht herd of thare cummyng ; 
 But yet then might he hear no thing. 
 Bot yeit than mycht he heir na thing. 
 
 Endlong {along) the water then went he 
 Endlang the vattir than yeid he 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 241 
 
 On either side great quantity {distance); 
 On athir syde great quantite ; 
 
 He saw the braes [hanks') high standing. 
 He saw the brayis hye standand, 
 
 The water all through mire running. 
 The vattir holl throu slike rynand, 
 
 And found no ford that men might pass 
 And fand na furd that men mycht pas 
 But where himself o'er passid was. 
 Bot quhar hymself [our] passit was. 
 
 And so straight (narrow) was the up-coming^ 
 And sua strate wes the vp-cummyng, 
 
 That two men might not together thring (throng). 
 That twa men mycht nocht sammyn thryng, 
 
 His two men bade he then in hy 
 His twa men bad he than in hy 
 Go to their feres (mates) to rest and lie. 
 Ga to thair f eris to rest and ly ; 
 
 " Sir " — said they — " who shall with you be ? " 
 Schir," said they, " quha sail vith yow be ? " 
 
 " God" — he said — " withouten ma (more). 
 "God," he said, "forouten ma; 
 Pass on, for I will it be sa." 
 Pas on, for I will it be swa." 
 
 They did as he them bidden had. 
 
 Thai did as he thame biddin had, 
 And he there all alone abade (abode). 
 And he thar all allane abaid. 
 
 When he a while had bided there, 
 
 Quhen he a quhile had biddin thare, 
 
 And harbored (waited lurking), he heard as it were 
 
 And herbryit, he herd as it war 
 
 1 The ascent up the bank from the ford. 
 16 
 
242 Music and Poetry 
 
 A hound's questing {hunting) upon far (afar) 
 A hundis quhistlyng apon fer, 
 
 That aye came to him near{er) and near(er). 
 That ay com till him ner & ner. 
 
 He stood still for to hearken mair (more) 
 He stude still for till herkyn mair, 
 And aye the longer while he was there 
 And ay the langer quhill he wes thair. 
 
 He heard it near(er) and near(er) comand (coming); 
 He herd it ner and ner cumand ; 
 
 But he there still thought he would stand 
 Bot he thair still thoucht he vald stand, 
 
 Till that he heard more tokening ; 
 Till that he herd mair taknyng ; 
 For, for a hounds questing 
 For, for a hundis quhestlyng, 
 
 He would not waken his meinie. 
 He wald nocht walkyn his menyhe. 
 Therefore he would abide and see 
 Tharfor he walde abyde and se 
 
 What folk they were, and whether they 
 Quhat folk thai war, & quhethir thai 
 Held forward him the right way 
 Held toward him the rycht vay, 
 
 Or passid another way far by. 
 Or pas[syt] ane othir way fer by. 
 The moon was shining right clearly. 
 The mojm wes schynand rycht cleirly, 
 
 And so long stood he harkenhnd (harkening) 
 And sua lang stude he herkynand. 
 Till that he saw come at his hand 
 Till that he saw cum at his hand 
 
 The whole rout in full great hy. 
 The haill rowt, in full gret hy ; 
 Then he bethought him. hastily 
 Than he vmbethocht him hastely. 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 243 
 
 If he went to fetch his meime 
 Gi£ he yeid to feche his menyhe, 
 That ere he might repairid be {come back) 
 That, or he mycht reparit be. 
 
 They should be past the ford, each ane. 
 Thai suld be passit the furde ilkane. 
 And then behooved he chose him ane l 
 And than behufit, he chesit him ane 
 
 Of these two, either to flee or die. 
 Of thir twa, outhir to fle or de. 
 But his heart, that was stout and high, 
 Bot his hert, that wes stout and he, 
 
 Counsellid him alone to hide 
 Consalit hym allane to byde, 
 And keep them at the ford! s side 
 And kep thame at the furdis syde, 
 
 And defend well the up-coming. 
 And defend weill the vp-cummyng, 
 Since he was provided with arming (armor) 
 Sen he was varnysit of Armyng 
 
 That he their arrows need not dread. 
 That he thair Arravis [thurt] nocht dreid. 
 For if he were of great manhead (manhood) 
 For gif he war of gret manheid, 
 
 He might stonish them every ane 
 
 He mycht stonay thame [euir] ilkane 
 
 Since they could come but ane and ane (one at a time). 
 
 Sen thai mycht cum bot ane and ane. 
 
 Therewith he to the ford 'gango 
 Thar-vith he to the f urd can ga ; 
 
 And they upon the father party. 
 And thai, apon the tothir party 
 
 1 And then it was necessary (beliooved) that he should choose one of 
 these two, either to flee or die. 
 
244 Music and Poetry 
 
 That saw him stand there one-somely (alone). 
 That saw him stand thair anerly, 
 
 Thronging into the water rade (rode) ; 
 Thryngand in[-till] the vattir raid ; 
 For of him little doubt they had (sure they had him) 
 For of him litill dout thai had, 
 
 And rode to him in full great hy. 
 And raid till him in full gret hy. 
 He smote the first so rigorously 
 He smat the first sa rygorusly 
 
 With his spear, that right sharply share (sheared, cut), 
 Vith his spere, that rycht scharply schare, 
 Till he down to the earth him bare. 
 Till he doun to the erd hym bare. 
 
 The lave (rest) came then in a randoun (at random). 
 The laif com than in a randoune, 
 
 But his horse that was borne down 
 Bot his hors, that wes bom doune, 
 
 Cumbered them the up-gang (ascent) to ta' (take). 
 Cummerit thaim the vpgang to ta. 
 
 And when the king saw it was sa (so) 
 And quhen the kyng saw it wes sua, 
 
 He stickid the horse, and he 'gan fling 
 He stekit the hors, and he can flyng, 
 And then fell at the up-coming. 
 And syne fell at the vpcummyng. 
 
 The lave (rest), with that, came with a shout. 
 The laif with that com [with] a schowt. 
 
 And he, that stalwart was and stout. 
 And he that stalward wes and stout. 
 
 Met them right stoutly at the brae 
 Met thame rycht stoutly at the bra, 
 And so good payment 'gan them ma (make) 
 And sa gud pa3rment can thaim ma, 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 245 
 
 That five-some in the ford he slew. 
 
 That fiff sum in the furd he slew. 
 
 The lave then some-deal (somewhat) them withdrew. 
 
 The laif than sumdeill thaim vith-drew, 
 
 That dread{ed) his strokes wonder sore, 
 
 That dred his strakis voundir sare ; 
 
 Por he in no thing them forbare (spared them not). 
 
 For he in na thing thame forbare. 
 
 Then one said " certes (certainly) we are to blame : 
 Than ane said " certis, we ar to blame ; 
 
 What shall we say when we come hame (home), 
 Quhat sail we say quhen we cum hame. 
 
 When one man fights against us all? 
 Quhen a man fechtis agains vs all ? 
 Who wist ever men so foully fall 
 Quha vist euir men sa fouly fall 
 
 As us, if thai we thus-gate leave ! " 
 As vs, gif that we thusgat leif ! " 
 With that all whole a shout they gave 
 With that all haill a schout thai [geve], 
 
 And cried " On him ! He may not last." 
 And cryit " on hym 1 he may nocht [last]." 
 With that they pressid him so fast 
 Vith that thai presit hym so fast, 
 
 That had he not the better been 
 That had he nocht the bettir beyn, 
 He had been dead withouten veyn (doubt). 
 He had beyn ded forouten vejm. 
 
 But he so great defence 'gan make 
 
 Bot he sa gret defens can mak. 
 
 That where he hit with even strake (stroke) 
 
 That, quhar he hit, with evin strak, 
 
 There might no thing against it stand. 
 Thar mycht no thing agane it stand. 
 In little space (while) he left lyhnd (lying) 
 In litill space he left lyand 
 
246 Music and Poetry 
 
 Sofele {many) that the up-come was then, 
 Sa feill that the vpcom wes -then 
 
 Stopped up with slain horses and men, 
 Dittit with slayn hors and men ; 
 
 So that his foes, for that stopping, 
 Swa that his fayis, for that stopping, 
 Might (could) not come to the up-coming. 
 Micht nocht cum to the vp-cummyng. 
 
 Ah, dear God ! who had been by 
 A 1 deir god ! quha had beyn by, 
 And seen how he so hardily 
 And se3m how he sa hardely 
 
 Addressid him against them all, 
 Adressit him agane thame all, 
 I wot well that they should him call 
 I wat Weill that thai suld him call 
 
 TTie best that lived into his day ; 
 The best that lifSt in-till his day ; 
 And if that I the sooth (truth) shall say. 
 And gif that I the suth sail say, 
 
 I heard never in no time gone 
 I herd neuir in na tyme gane 
 One stint (stop) so many, him alone. 
 Ane stynt sa mony hym allane. 
 
 Till he such martyrdom there made 
 Till he sic martirdome thair maid, 
 That he the ford all stoppid had. 
 That he the furde all stoppit had, 
 
 TTiat none of them might to him ride. 
 That nane of thame mycht till him ryde. 
 Then thought them folly for to bide. 
 Than thoucht thame foly for to byde, 
 
 And wholly the flight 'gan ta' (take) 
 And halely the flicht can ta, 
 And went hameward where they camefra. 
 And went hamvard quhar thai com fra. 
 
John Barbour's Bruce 247 
 
 For the king's men with that cry 
 For the kingis men with that cry 
 Wakened, and full affrightedly 
 Valknyt, and full affraitly 
 
 Came for to seek their lord the king. 
 Com for to seik thair lord the king. 
 T'he Galloway men heard their coming 
 The galloway men herd thair cummyng, 
 
 And fled, that durst not bide no m-air. 
 And fled, that durst nocht byde na nair. 
 The king's men, that dreading were 
 The kingis men, that dredand wair 
 
 For their lord, full speedily 
 For thai lord, full spedaly 
 Came to the ford and soon in hy 
 Com to the furde and soyn in hy 
 
 They found the king sitting alane. 
 Thai fand the kyng sytand alane, 
 That off his bassnet (helmet) then had ta'en 
 That of his basnet than had tane 
 
 To take the air, for he was hot. 
 
 To tak the air, for he wes hate. 
 
 Then speered {asked) they at him of his state. 
 
 Than sperit thai at him of his stat ; 
 
 And he told them all whole the case : 
 And he told thaim all haill the cass. 
 How-gate that he assailid was, 
 Howgat that he assalyeit was, 
 
 And how that God him helpid sa 
 And how that god hym helpit sua. 
 That he escapid whole themfra. 
 That he eschapit haill thame fra. 
 
 Then lookid they howfele (many) were dead. 
 Than lukit thai how feill war ded, 
 
 And they found lying in that stead (place) 
 And thai fand liand in that sted 
 
248 Music and Poetry 
 
 Fourteen that slain were ivith his hand. 
 Fourteyn that slayn war vith his hand. 
 Then praised they God fast, all-willdhnd}- 
 Than lovit thai god fast, all-veldand, 
 
 That they their lord found whole and fair {sound). 
 That thai thar lord fand haill and feir ; 
 And said: " them behooved in no mannir 
 And said : " thai[m] byrd on na maner 
 
 Dread their foes, since their chieftain 
 Dreid thair fais, sen thair chiftane 
 Was of such heart and of such main (strength) 
 We^of sic hert and of sic mane, 
 
 That he for them had undertaken 
 That he for thame had vndirtane 
 With sofelefolk to fight, him ane." 
 With sa feill folk to fecht him ane." 
 
 HAlI-wielding, that is, almighty.