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would be in vain to attempt to give either an analysis or a critique of such a work as the Panidea. It may be sufficient for our purpose to call the attention of those of our readers, who take an interest in metaphysical inquiries, to this work, as a serious and, withal, not a presumptuous attempt to give, by a process of reasoning somewhat novel, a new solution of those great problems in philosophy, which have occupied the attention of the most gifted minds, but to which all the answers hitherto worked out seem only distant approximations towards the truth. Persons not familiar with metaphysical studies, would probably find great difficulty in comprehending so abstruse and spiritual a scheme of philosophy; though no one, who does understand it, will fail to perceive the extraordinary coherency as well as subtilty of the arguments to acknowledge both the clearness with which the conceptions are expressed, and the aptness with which the demonstrations are illustrated-and to be favorably impressed by the moral spirit of the author, however false he may regard the premises of his reasonings, or however strongly he may feel himself called upon to deprecate the practical tendency of his conclusions.

Like the systems constructed by these celebrated metaphysicians, it attempts to frame and establish such a conception of the universe as shall get rid of the dualism of the popular philosophy. While to the human mind, the external world is declared in the Panidea to be a reality, and such a reality as our senses represent it to be, still, relatively to the mind of God, it is pronounced to be no more than the imagery of His own thoughts. That this representation of the external universe is the true one, is attempted to be proved by an argument designed to show, that the so called primary qualities of matter no more have an existence independent of the reason than have the secondary; and that, therefore, even to the reason, as it is manifested in the human mind, matter is known only by the spiritual properties ascribed to it. But the human reason, it is declared, does not differ, in substance, from the divine reason in man is the omnipresent Logos, though limited in its action, by a quasi freedom of the will, giving rise to a quasi personal identity. This limitation is represented to be "little less than absolute," and of such a nature as to prevent the author's general view from degenerating into pantheism and necessitarianism. There is, indeed, no lack of modes of expression, which, if not interpreted in ac- The construction of this system of cordance with the spirit and meaning of metaphysics, was the work of a life-time. the whole theory, would as necessarily im- Some of the fundamental views contained ply a belief in the pantheistic doctrine, as in it, were committed to writing as early might even the expression of the Apostle as during the author's connection with Paul, if construed by itself, when he says Congress; though the consolidation of his that in God we live and move and have opinions into a logical theory took place, our being, or that of the Saviour himself undoubtedly, at a much later period. when he declares not only himself and his Probably his philosophy would have Father, but his disciples also to be one. been presented in a far more accessible It may, perhaps, not be impossible to form, had he lived to compose another prove that the Panidea is pantheism; but work, long meditated, and which was such proof would, at once, introduce rem- designed to show the application of his ediless confusion into the whole system of metaphysical doctrines to the interpretathe author, and would have been sufficient tion of history. But the execution of this to convince even himself that it was a fab-purpose was frustrated by a disease which, ric built upon the sands. though not occurring until the fifty-seventh year of his age, must be lamented as premature.

That which entitles the Panidea to the rank of a system of philosophy, is, mainly, the originality of its method. The peculiarity of this can be understood only by a study of the work itself; though it may here be briefly characterized as a method of demonstration, founded on experiment. In the narrow limits of a review, it

In bringing this paper to a conclusion, we cannot forbear repeating the hope, that the entire writings of Chief Justice Durfee will be given to the public. Even the publication of the " What-cheer" made the name of its author favorably known

to a large circle of readers in England; and his speculative writings, particularly, are well worthy not only to be read in his own country, but to occupy a permanent rank in the history of its literature. Hitherto the questions of metaphysical philosophy have been discussed in the secluded groves of the Platonic academy, or the still shade of the Stoic porch; in the myrtle-scented villa of Tusculum, or beneath the mingled palms and sycamores of Alexandria; by the cloistered scholars of Germany, and by the great English minds of an era less enlightened than the present. It remains to be seen what view is to be taken of those philosophical problems, which necessarily arise in all speculative minds, in this new world-in a land holding sacred the freedom of opinions in the soil of common sense and the practical understanding. These

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questions will be asked here-they will be answered here. And let not a shallow ridicule presume to deride that which it does not understand; nor a narrow utilitarianism anathematize that which it knows not how to appropriate. Let philosophy be tolerated in a country where all things beside are tolerated; for thus will it be best improved. And when it raises its majestic voice so loud that the accents of it may be caught even amid the bustle of the Rhode Island loom and spindle, let us attend to the lessons which may be taught, in these new circumstances, by the practical mind of America; and cheerfully admit to the freedom of our republic of letters, the philosopher who brings on his well prepared credentials the seal of that State, which was the first to lay its foundations on the rock of "soul liberty."

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THE ART OF MEASURING VERSES.*

To compose good verses, may be placed among the elegant accomplishments of a thoroughly educated person. If it gives but little pleasure to others, it at least gratifies ourselves, nor can we find any idleness or mischief in a proper indulgence of so happy a taste as that of the versifier. Some historians aver, that in the first ages of the world, all writings were in metre, not even excepting laws and chronicles, and that the forms of prose were an invention of later date. A habit that is natural and harmless, is certainly not ridiculous, if one uses it with discretion; not to say that it may take the place of grosser, and more exceptionable, amusements. We have no scruple, therefore, in occupying a moderate space with a few remarks on the art of making verses in our language, more especially as it is a topic seldom touched by periodical writers, and treated by the learned in such a dry and profound way, the generality of readers are never the wiser for all that has been written on the subject.

As there are no established authorities in this art, and, indeed, no acknowledged principles-every rhymster being permitted to invent his own method, and write by instinct or imitation-the critic feels quite at liberty to say just what he pleases, and offer his private observations as though these were really of some moment.

The qualities of spoken words are twofold: they are both marks of ideas,-and in that usage quite arbitrary in their sound, and expressions of feeling and sensation, being in the latter function no more arbitrary or irregular than the qualities of musical sounds. The same word may be spoken in many different ways, expressing many varieties of feelings, and conditions of thought: as of pain, fear, delight, surprise, amazement

and all these kinds of expressions may be given in rapid succession to the same word, by as many inflections of the voice; but the same word, represented by written marks, stands only for an idea, or a thing, and has no effect upon the passions or

the senses.

Of no less consequence is the arrangement of words, the order of their succession, by which a series of emotions are made to succeed each other, and a harmony of passions created in the imagination, like a piece of music. The art of versification consists, therefore, in arranging words in such order, that when read by a full and flexible voice, they shall excite a musical movement in the sense of hearing, that shall agree in quality and effect with the melody-if we may so speak-of the train of passions and objects awakened in the mind by the order of the words themselves, as they are mere marks of ideas. As the ascending and descending scale in music, and the movements on different keys, awaken different musical emotions, as of sad, gay, uncertain, musing, boisterous, heroic; so in verse, certain movements of the sounds of words, excite corresponding emotions; and in a perfect poem, the sense and the sound act together irresistibly.

Comic poets make use of a dancing, or even a trotting and stumbling, metre, full of odd combinations of sounds; while the heroic line rolls smoothly on, or makes grand pauses, like intervals in the echoes of artillery. In the blank verse of the drama, the thought sustains itself upon a lofty and slow moving line, but full of irregular turns and stops, to agree naturally with the rough gestures of passion. The lyrist, again, pours out passages of unbroken melody, like passionate airs. In this art, as in all of those which belong to imagination, the common and merely

* A System of English Versification, containing Rules for the structure of different kinds of Verse ; illustratrated by numerous Examples from the best Poets. By ERASTUS EVERETT, A M. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 200 Broadway. Philadelphia: G. S. Appleton, 148 Chestnut street. 1848.

natural is avoided, and the beauty, power, and sweetness of discourse, given apart and by itself.

The composition of good verse demands, therefore, at least these two qualifications in the composer: first, the imaginative power, to give an harmonious order to images and passions, in their description; and lastly, an ear for the measure, fullness, and cadences of words. At present we propose only to consider this latter qualification, and to inquire by what means a naturally good ear may be led to a finer appreciation of the musical properties of speech.

Of every species of beauty, and more especially of the beauty of sounds, continuousness is the first element; a succession of pulses of sound becomes agreeable, only when the breaks, or intervals, cease to be heard; we say then of a note, in sound, that it is musical, when the pulses cannot be distinguished by the ear. The same is true of artificially colored surfaces; they are agreeable to the eye when we see them at such a distance as not to discern the numerous particles or specks of color which compose them. The same is true also of the human voice, in the expression of tender and agreeable emotions: the words require to be spoken with a certain smoothness and even monotony, as far as possible removed from the abrupt and curt style of business, or the rude and harsh tones of hatred or contempt. In a prosaic enunciation, as in counting, or naming a variety of disconnected objects, a sensible pause is made after each word, and the voice slides up and down upon each word, as if to separate and characterize each by itself. And this separation and distinctness of parts is, perhaps, the strongest characteristic of pure prose, and is constantly aimed at by the best writers of prose. Verse on the contrary demands a kind of fusion, or running together of the words, so that a line of verse may be spoken in one effort of the voice, as a bar of music is played by one movement of the hand. The line,

"Full many a tale their music tells," slips over the lip with a pouring softness, without break or pause. So in

or in this from Ovid:

"Tempora Lucifero, cadit Eurus; et humida surgunt;"

or this of Dante:

"Per me si va nella citta dolente, Per me si va nella perduta gente,"

or Shakspeare's

"Full fathom five thy father lies,"

in the melodious lines of Milton's Lycidas or the flute-like strains of Burns, or of Theocritus, the words are melted and toned together, and the voice glides easily through the line.

These mellow lines not only characterize the best poems, but they are also the best adapted for the voice in singing; and the first line of the stanza agrees also with the first line of the musical notes. In the most perfect airs, the words and notes agree and move together. But as the lyric, or song, is the type of all poetry,—as the air which fits it, is of all music,--it is necessary to find a very perfect agreement between the two; as, for example, in the time, or duration, of each verse, agreeing with the time of the musical notes. The division of the musical air of a song into four parts of equal length, shows that the ear demands not only continuity of sound, but that it shall be divided into portions of equal length, as into verse, staves, and stanzas. Poetry following the same law, is divided into feet and lines of equal length, succeeding each other with perfect regularity, or alternating with shorter equal lines, for the pleasure of variety.

Thus, in reading the lines,

"Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, While the landscape round it measures," &c.,

it is necessary to a perfect reading, to fill out each line with the voice to a full and equal quantity of sound, with as great care as if chanting or singing them, and this may be done best by keeping up a regular beat with the foot.

Quantity, therefore, or the division into measures of time, is a second element of verse; each line must be stuffed out with

"The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;" sounds, to a certain fullness and plump

ness, that will sustain the voice, and force | cal ear. By this kind of division a new it to dwell upon the sounds.

"From you have I been absent in the spring When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, Had put a spirit of youth in everything,

And heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him."

It is impossible to read these lines without feeling their fullness: they are an extreme and rare example of that quality.

When the most perfect mellowness and continuity is joined with the greatest fullness, as in the first line of the Iliad,

"Mèenin äidee Theea, Peeleèïadeō Akileeos, Oulomenee,"

in which the most excellent musical quality of verse is perceived, it affects the ear with a sense of conjoined power and sweetness. But as the air in music is not only divided into four parts, like the stanza which it accompanies, but also into bars, or lesser equal portions of time-three, four, or more equal bars going to fill out the lines, marked by accents, and separated by pauses of imperceptible length in singing-so, the line of significant sounds, in a verse, is also marked by accents, or pulses, and divided into portions called feet. These are necesand natural, for the very simple reason sary that continuity by itself is tedious; and the greatest pleasure arises from the union of continuity with variety. In the line,

"Full many a tàle theír mùsic tèlls,"

there are at least four accents or stresses of the voice, with faint pauses after them, just enough to separate the continuous stream of sound into these four parts, to be read thus

Fullman-yataleth--eirmus--ictells,

by which new combinations of sound are produced, of a singularly musical charac

ter.

It is evident from the inspection of the above line, that the division of the feet by the accents is quite independent of the division of words by the sense. The sounds are melted into continuity, and re-divided again in a manner agreeable to the musi

feeling is given to the words, which almost overwhelms their meaning as prose, and the agreeable blending and running together of the words, doubtless gives rise to a similar blending and melody of images and emotions in the imagination, producing a kind of music of the mind. Lines of a good quality are always filled out with a due complement of sound: such verses as are not well filled out are characterized as "lean and flashy," without body or strength. In criticising a poem, therefore, it is good to divide the lines by the ear, and observe whether the musical divisions, or feet, have the proper fullness.

And here again the law of variety, perfecting continuity, reappears, for if the feet and dull. It is necessary-either, that one, of a line are all equally full, it will be heavy two, or three of the feet, should be shorter fixed quantity of sound, as in the line than the others, and this, too, by a certain

"Auream quisquis mediocritatem,"

which, when musically divided, reads thus,

Aure-àmquisq-ùismědi-òcrit-atem,

the first and fourth musical or metrical divisions having a less quantity of sound than the second, third and fifth :-Or, that these divisions having all an equal quantity of sound, some of them should be broken up into lesser portions; just as a bar of two minims, in the air, is broken into a minim and two crotchets ; or a crotchet, in a bar of two crotchets, is broken into a crotchet and two quavers.

"Hic subitam nigro glomerari pulvere nubem," to be read thus,

Hicsubit-àmnigr-òglomer-àrip-ùlveren

ùbem,

in which the six divisions, or musical metres, are of equal length, or require an equal stress and duration of the voice in speaking or chanting, but are differently divided; some into two heavy, or long syllables, and some into three, one heavy and two light; the two light requiring no more force of voice or time in uttering, than the one long.

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