(See Ehrenfeld's monograph, p. 57.) In general it may be said that it is dangerous to attempt to explain the special effects of tone-color in verse, except where it is obviously descriptive, the appreciation of such effects being a subtle and a more or less individual matter. On this subject Mr. Gurney makes some interesting observations, in the essays cited above. He believes that the pleasurable effect of the sound-qualities in verse can never be dissociated from the sense of the words; that the most melodious verse cannot be appreciated if in a foreign language, unless read with particular expressiveness; and that the pleasure derived from what we roughly call melodious or harmonious verses is always due to the mystical combination of the appropriate sound with the poetic content.

Dr. Johnson ridiculed the idea of tone-color, as appearing in Pope's teaching that the sound should be "an echo to the sense." See his _Life of Pope_, and especially the _Idler_ for June 9, 1759, in which he describes Minim the critic as reading "all our poets with particular attention to this delicacy of versification." Such a critic discovers wonders in these lines from _Hudibras_:

"Honor is like the glossy bubble, Which cost philosophers such trouble; Where, one part crack'd, the whole does fly, And wits are crack'd to find out why."

"In these verses, says Minim, we have two striking accommodations of the sound to the sense. It is impossible to utter the first two lines emphatically without an act like that which they describe; _bubble_ and _trouble_ causing a momentary inflation of the cheeks by the retention of the breath, which is afterwards forcibly emitted, as in the practice of _blowing bubbles_. But the greatest excellence is in the third line, which is _crack'd_ in the middle to express a crack, and then shivers into monosyllables."

In an article on "Some Technical Elements of Style in Literature"

(originally published in the _Contemporary Review_, April, 1885; reprinted in the Scribner edition of Stevenson's Works, vol. xxii. p.

243) Robert Louis Stevenson discussed some of the more subtle effects of vowel and consonant color, as appearing in both prose and verse. The combination and repet.i.tion of the consonants PVF he found to be particularly frequent. The pervading sound-elements in the two following pa.s.sages he a.n.a.lyzed by means of the key-letters in the margin:

"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan (KANDL) A stately pleasure-dome decree, (KDLSR) Where Alph the sacred river ran (KANDLSR) Through caverns measureless to man, (KANLSR) Down to a sunless sea." (NDLS)

(COLERIDGE.)

"But in the wind and tempest of her frown, W.P.V.F. (st) (ow) Distinction with a loud and powerful fan, W.P.F. (st) (ow) L.

Puffing at all, winnows the light away; W.P.F.L.

And what hath ma.s.s and matter by itself W.F.L.M.A.

Lies rich in virtue and unmingled." V.L.M.

(SHAKSPERE: _Troilus and Cressida._)

No attempt has been made to cla.s.sify the specimens that follow. Nor does comment seem necessary, in order to make clear the particular qualities of the sounds of the verse.

The heraudes lefte hir priking up and doun; Now ringen trompes loude and clarioun; There is namore to seyn, but west and est In goon the speres ful sadly in arest; In goth the sharpe spore in-to the syde.

Ther seen men who can juste, and who can ryde; Ther shiveren shaftes up-on sheeldes thikke; He feeleth thurgh the herte-spoon the prikke.

Up springen speres twenty foot on highte; Out goon the swerdes as the silver brighte.

The helmes they to-hewen and to-shrede; Out brest the blood, with sterne stremes rede.

With mighty maces the bones they to-breste.

He thurgh the thikkeste of the throng gan threste.

Ther s...o...b..en stedes stronge, and doun goth al.

(CHAUCER: _Knight's Tale_, ll. 1741-1755.)

And in his house heap pearls like pebble-stones, Receive them free, and sell them by the weight; Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, amethysts, Jacinths, hard topaz, gra.s.s-green emeralds, Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds, And seld-seen costly stones of so great price, As one of them indifferently rated, And of a carat of this quant.i.ty, May serve in peril of calamity.

(MARLOWE: _The Jew of Malta_, I. i.)

Be kind and courteous to this gentleman; Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes; Feed him with apric.o.c.ks and dewberries, With purple grapes, green figs and mulberries; The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees, And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs, And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes, To have my love to bed and to arise; And pluck the wings from painted b.u.t.terflies, To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes: Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.

(SHAKSPERE: _Midsummer Night's Dream_, III. i. 167-177.)

Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.

From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night, The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fix'd sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other's watch: Fire answers fire; and through their paly flames Each battle sees the other's umber'd face: Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents The armourers, accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation.

The country c.o.c.ks do crow, the clocks do toll, And the third hour of drowsy morning name.

(SHAKSPERE: _Henry V._, Chorus to Act IV.)

Forthwith the sounds and seas, each creek and bay, With fry innumerable swarm, and shoals Of fish that, with their fins and shining scales, Glide under the green wave in sculls that oft Bank the mid-sea. Part, single or with mate, Graze the sea-weed, their pasture, and through groves Of coral stray, or, sporting with quick glance, Show to the sun their wav'd coats dropt with gold, Or, in their pearly sh.e.l.ls at ease, attend Moist nutriment, or under rocks their food In jointed armor watch; on smooth the seal And bended dolphins play: part, huge of bulk, Wallowing unwieldy, enormous in their gait, Tempest the ocean. There leviathan, Hugest of living creatures, on the deep Stretch'd like a promontory, sleeps or swims, And seems a moving land, and at his gills Draws in, and at his trunk spouts out, a sea.

(MILTON: _Paradise Lost_, VII. 399-416.)

Then in the key-hole turns The intricate wards, and every bolt and bar Of ma.s.sy iron or solid rock with ease Unfastens. On a sudden open fly, With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, The infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook Of Erebus.

(_Ib._, II. 876-883.)

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the b.l.o.o.d.y Piemontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

(MILTON: _Sonnet on the Late Ma.s.sacre in Piedmont._)

And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said.

(MILTON: _Lycidas_, ll. 123-129.)

The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of helpless lovers, Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains and height of pa.s.sion, For the fair, disdainful dame.

(DRYDEN: _Song for St. Cecilia's Day_, 1687.)

Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; But when loud surges lash the sounding sh.o.r.e, The hoa.r.s.e, rough verse should like the torrent roar: When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labors, and the words move slow; Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.

(POPE: _Essay on Criticism_, ll. 366-373.)

Was nought around but images of rest: Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between; And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest, From poppies breath'd: and beds of pleasant green, Where never yet was creeping creature seen.

Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets played, And hurled everywhere their waters' sheen; That, as they bickered through the sunny shade, Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.

(THOMSON: _Castle of Indolence_, canto i. st. 3.)

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-cl.u.s.ter'd trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who breeding flowers will never breed the same.

(KEATS: _Ode to Psyche._)

Strike for the King and die! and if thou diest, The King is King, and ever wills the highest.

Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.

(TENNYSON: _The Coming of Arthur._)

He could not see the kindly human face, Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, The league-long roller thundering on the reef, The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, As down the sh.o.r.e he ranged, or all day long Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail: No sail from day to day, but every day The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts Among the palms and ferns and precipices; The blaze upon the waters to the east; The blaze upon his island overhead; The blaze upon the waters to the west; Then the great stars that globed themselves in heaven, The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again The scarlet shafts of sunrise--but no sail.

(TENNYSON: _Enoch Arden_, ll. 577-595.)

But follow; let the torrent dance thee down To find him in the valley; let the wild Lean-headed eagles yelp alone, and leave The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, That like a broken purpose waste in air: So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth Arise to thee; the children call, and I Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying through the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmurings of innumerable bees.

(TENNYSON: _The Princess_, VII.)

Heap ca.s.sia, sandal-buds and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-b.a.l.l.s, Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes From out her hair: such balsam falls Down sea-side mountain pedestals, From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, Spent with the vast and howling main, To treasure half their island-gain.

(BROWNING: _Paracelsus_, IV.)