The Art of Writing | Page 4

it comes that
it is much easier for men of equal facility to write fairly pleasing verse
than reasonably interesting prose; for in prose the pattern itself has to
be invented, and the difficulties first created before they can be solved.

Hence, again, there follows the peculiar greatness of the true versifier:
such as Shakespeare, Milton, and Victor Hugo, whom I place beside
them as versifier merely, not as poet. These not only knit and knot the
logical texture of the style with all the dexterity and strength of prose;
they not only fill up the pattern of the verse with infinite variety and
sober wit; but they give us, besides, a rare and special pleasure, by the
art, comparable to that of counterpoint, with which they follow at the
same time, and now contrast, and now combine, the double pattern of
the texture and the verse. Here the sounding line concludes; a little
further on, the well-knit sentence; and yet a little further, and both will
reach their solution on the same ringing syllable. The best that can be
offered by the best writer of prose is to show us the development of the
idea and the stylistic pattern proceed hand in hand, sometimes by an
obvious and triumphant effort, sometimes with a great air of ease and
nature. The writer of verse, by virtue of conquering another difficulty,
delights us with a new series of triumphs. He follows three purposes
where his rival followed only two; and the change is of precisely the
same nature as that from melody to harmony. Or if you prefer to return
to the juggler, behold him now, to the vastly increased enthusiasm of
the spectators, juggling with three oranges instead of two. Thus it is:
added difficulty, added beauty; and the pattern, with every fresh
element, becoming more interesting in itself.
Yet it must not be thought that verse is simply an addition; something
is lost as well as something gained; and there remains plainly traceable,
in comparing the best prose with the best verse, a certain broad
distinction of method in the web. Tight as the versifier may draw the
knot of logic, yet for the ear he still leaves the tissue of the sentence
floating somewhat loose. In prose, the sentence turns upon a pivot,
nicely balanced, and fits into itself with an obtrusive neatness like a
puzzle. The ear remarks and is singly gratified by this return and
balance; while in verse it is all diverted to the measure. To find
comparable passages is hard; for either the versifier is hugely the
superior of the rival, or, if he be not, and still persist in his more
delicate enterprise, he fails to be as widely his inferior. But let us select
them from the pages of the same writer, one who was ambidexter; let
us take, for instance, Rumour's Prologue to the Second Part of Henry

IV., a fine flourish of eloquence in Shakespeare's second manner, and
set it side by side with Falstaff's praise of sherris, act iv. scene iii.; or let
us compare the beautiful prose spoken throughout by Rosalind and
Orlando; compare, for example, the first speech of all, Orlando's speech
to Adam, with what passage it shall please you to select--the Seven
Ages from the same play, or even such a stave of nobility as Othello's
farewell to war; and still you will be able to perceive, if you have an ear
for that class of music, a certain superior degree of organisation in the
prose; a compacter fitting of the parts; a balance in the swing and the
return as of a throbbing pendulum. We must not, in things temporal,
take from those who have little, the little that they have; the merits of
prose are inferior, but they are not the same; it is a little kingdom, but
an independent.
3. Rhythm of the Phrase.--Some way back, I used a word which still
awaits an application. Each phrase, I said, was to be comely; but what
is a comely phrase? In all ideal and material points, literature, being a
representative art, must look for analogies to painting and the like; but
in what is technical and executive, being a temporal art, it must seek for
them in music. Each phrase of each sentence, like an air or a recitative
in music, should be so artfully compounded out of long and short, out
of accented and unaccented, as to gratify the sensual ear. And of this
the ear is the sole judge. It is impossible to lay down laws. Even in our
accentual and rhythmic language no analysis can find the secret of the
beauty of a verse; how much less, then, of those phrases, such as prose
is built of, which obey no law but