The
prose writer, in fact, since he is allowed to be so much less
harmonious, is condemned to a perpetually fresh variety of movement on a
larger scale, and must never disappoint the ear by the trot of an
accepted metre. And this obligation is the third orange with which he
has to juggle, the third quality which the prose writer must work into
his pattern of words. It may be thought perhaps that this is a quality
of ease rather than a fresh difficulty; but such is the inherently
rhythmical strain of the English language, that the bad writer--and must
I take for example that admired friend of my boyhood, Captain Reid?--the
inexperienced writer, as Dickens in his earlier attempts to be
impressive, and the jaded writer, as any one may see for himself, all
tend to fall at once into the production of bad blank verse. And here it
may be pertinently asked, Why bad? And I suppose it might be enough to
answer that no man ever made good verse by accident, and that no verse
can ever sound otherwise than trivial when uttered with the delivery of
prose. But we can go beyond such answers. The weak side of verse is the
regularity of the beat, which in itself is decidedly less impressive
than the movement of the nobler prose; and it is just into this weak
side, and this alone, that our careless writer falls. A peculiar density
and mass, consequent on the nearness of the pauses, is one of the chief
good qualities of verse; but this our accidental versifier, still
following after the swift gait and large gestures of prose, does not so
much as aspire to imitate. Lastly, since he remains unconscious that he
is making verse at all, it can never occur to him to extract those
effects of counterpoint and opposition which I have referred to as the
final grace and justification of verse, and, I may add, of blank verse
in particular.

4. _Contents of the Phrase._--Here is a great deal of talk about
rhythm--and naturally; for in our canorous language rhythm is always at
the door. But it must not be forgotten that in some languages this
element is almost, if not quite, extinct, and that in our own it is
probably decaying. The even speech of many educated Americans sounds the
note of danger. I should see it go with something as bitter as despair,
but I should not be desperate. As in verse no element, not even rhythm,
is necessary; so, in prose also, other sorts of beauty will arise and
take the place and play the part of those that we outlive. The b