Part 12

Almost every verb of this class will give evidence of this fact:

´ ` ´ ´ ` ´ ´ ` ´ Gehen--go, sehen--see, hoeren--hear,

´ ` ´ ´ ` ´ ´ ` ´ sprechen--speak, kochen--cook, tanzen--dance,

´ ` ´ fallen--fall, etc.

Hence, in conformity with the above, these words in the English language should be properly marked thus:

`´ `´ `´ `´ `´ `´ Go, see, hear, speak, cook, dance, etc.

which gives the real intonation thereof.

This applies to all words commencing with a vowel, and explains what Mr. Lunn has designated as a "weakness of the English language":

`´ `´ `´ `´ `´ `´ `´ Art, arm, or, all, eagle, each, old, etc.

Without this half-suppressed fall of the voice, there would be no beauty, no charm, no soul in the English language; in fact, it could not exist. Words of two syllables, however, always have the fall of the voice on the first, its rise on the second, syllable, even where the preponderance of _time_ belongs to the first syllable, as in the words

` ´ ` ´ Danced, hazel, etc. ¯ ˘ ¯ ˘

The reader will find these statements sustained by almost every word he may examine into, which will show that the characteristic expression of English diction is that of the iambic measure, which passes from weakness to strength; while that of German diction, as already stated, is that of the trochaic measure, which passes from strength to weakness.

Having shown that German _sentiment_ is in accord with the idiomatic expression of the German language, I will now show that _English_ sentiment also conforms to _its_ idiomatic expression. I must beg the reader, however, not to be over-critical. I am not attempting to furnish comparative sketches of the national character of these peoples in a literary sense, but am entering into these matters for the sole purpose of sustaining the results of my physiological investigations. Nor should these attempts be applied to individual cases, there being exceptions to all rules, but to the national character _in general_. If a person in making investigations of this kind had to constantly fear that he might be treading on some one's sensitive toes, he could never make any headway at all. I am, in fact, perfectly willing to apologize beforehand for any such mishap possibly taking place, as I wish to be perfectly impartial and without bias. I have said this much partly for the reason also that in consequence of some remark, on one occasion, made in my former publication in favor of the English _vs._ the Germans, one critic honored me with the epithet "renegade."

The rising voice succeeding the falling is not a soft and gradual receding, but, on the contrary, it is more like an explosion, a trumpet-blast; the inspiration which had been "stored" being suddenly released. There is no such "storing" in connection with German diction; inspiration and expiration succeeding each other on the spot. With English diction this change may be compared to the break of day after the night; the fray after the repose; resurrection after death; a conflagration and a rebuilding at once on the spot, not only individually, but by an entire community (Boston and Chicago); an outburst after due deliberation; no sentimentality, but a firm resolve for the right; patient submission to a point, then a strike for liberty; the slow accumulation of a fortune and the spontaneous spending thereof; a hot political campaign and a victory or defeat; in either case acquiescence; no vain mourning after the fact; a butterfly of wealth, idleness, and fashion, then perhaps ruin; yet not despair, but a brave conformity to altered circumstances; an energy in the pursuit of business or of war which does not flag until utterly exhausted or success is achieved and a victory is won. All this is due to the reserve force in the character of English-speaking people, which comes to their rescue when circumstances demand it. A world positive and direct, full of energy, restlessness, and activity. A world of, and for, _this_ world; whose world to come, even, must have a positive and well-defined character and surroundings:

"Where the walls are made of jasper and the streets are paved with gold."

To what is all this due but to this _bond of language_ uniting these millions, and embracing every foreign element, in its children at least? The theme is inexhaustible, but I am limited as to time; yet additional remarks on the same subject will be forthcoming during the further pursuance of these studies.

For song, it appears to me, the words, besides being marked by notes, should also be marked as to rhythm, as this would assist singers in giving them the proper intonation; notes indicating metre, but not rhythm.

Metre and rhythm are produced by two distinctly different processes; metre, or time, being the outcome of a mode of breathing subject to the will, while rhythm is the outcome of an involuntary mode of breathing for a characteristic quality inherent in a nation's language as its idiomatic expression.

Ordinarily, both metre and rhythm are expressed by the same signs (˘¯); this is very misleading.

To express time, or metre, I use the signs for short and long (˘¯). To express rhythm, or the fall and rise of the voice, I use the signs for what is usually called the accent (´`). If we were to _meas__ure_ the exact time, however, consumed in the utterance of syllables, we would find that the falling voice, which is the product of inspiration and belongs to the thorax, requires more time than the rising voice, which is the product of expiration and belongs to the abdomen.

In marking verse, however, the sign for long (¯) generally accompanies the short syllable of the rising, and the sign for short (˘) the, as a matter of fact, long syllable of the falling voice. It takes longer to fill a bottle than to pour out its contents; to prepare a dish than to eat it; to walk upstairs than to jump from a window. It takes longer to _prepare_ for an utterance than to utter it. It takes longer to inspire than to expire.

In view of the vast foreign element constituting a part of this nation, it would be a matter of interest to know at what period the foreigner ceases to exist as such and the "American" begins; or, in other words, to understand when the evolution takes place which transforms the foreigner into the American. From my point of view it is, above all, a question of language. The political aspect of the case is scarcely to be considered. An unnaturalized Englishman, consequently, after thoroughly "Americanizing" his language, becomes more of an American (no matter whether he himself thinks so or not) than an Irishman who, though naturalized, never ceases to use his native brogue.

These questions, of course, are many-sided. When I speak of nationality, however, I have the _best_ specimens of a nation as representatives thereof in view always. A man with a foreign accent does not have the same standing or influence in municipal, state, and national councils as one who speaks a pure English; there is always a _feeling_ against him, no matter how able or patriotic he may be, of some foreign influence as a substratum in his composition.

STRESS

I have already stated that the thorax is the seat of the falling, the abdomen that of the rising, voice. This can be tested by a simple experiment, the result of which will be as startling as it is phenomenal. _By simply pressing the stomach, or making the same rigid, you will find that the fact of your doing so will prevent you from uttering any sound belonging to the rising voice, or the stress laid upon a word._

Take, for instance, the following:

"Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light,"

and you will find that, upon pressing the stomach, or making the same rigid, you will not be able to utter the words "say," "see," "dawn's," and "light." This will become more obvious in uttering these words slowly than in doing so rapidly. You will have no difficulty, on the other hand, in uttering the rest of the words, viz.: "Oh," "can you," "by the," "early."

Upon releasing the stomach and bringing a pressure to bear upon the chest, on the other hand, you will have no difficulty in uttering the first words mentioned, those of the rising, while you will be unable to utter the last, those of the falling voice. This rule holds good for all peoples and all languages.

There is this difference, however, as between English and German speech, that, for the former, the falling voice (identical with that of the thorax) _precedes_ the rising (identical with that of the abdomen); while for the latter the reverse is the case;--Anglo-Saxons inspiring into the chest and then into the stomach; Germans into the stomach and then into the chest. Germans will have greater difficulty in making this experiment than Anglo-Saxons, as words of the falling voice, as a rule and in all languages, precede those of the rising. Germans, consequently, must _think_ of the word of the rising voice, which, as a matter of fact, succeeds the words of the falling, before they can utter the latter. This difficulty is enhanced by the fact that while the rising voice is generally confined to a single word, the falling voice generally embraces several.

Hence the frequency of the use of the anapest (˘˘¯) and the dactylus (¯˘˘), and the relative rarity of the use of the bacchius (˘¯¯) and the antibacchius (¯¯˘); short always representing the falling voice, which embraces more than one word, while long represents the rising voice, which usually embraces but one single word; the definition requiring more words than the thing to be defined. Hence, _for German diction, the "thought" of the word of the rising voice must precede the "utterance" of the words of the falling; while for English diction, the "thoughts" of the words of the falling voice must precede the "utterance" of the word of the rising._

A German may try and say the following:

"In einem _Thal_ bei armen _Hirten_, Erschien mit jedem jungen _Jahr_,"

in such a manner as _not to think_ of the words which are italicized before uttering those which immediately precede them, and he will find that he will be unable to pronounce the latter.

An Anglo-Saxon may try and say the following:

"And the star-spangled banner in triumph _doth wave_ O'er the land of the free and the home _of the brave_,"

and he will find that in saying "in triumph doth wave," he must think of the words "doth wave" before he will be able to utter the word "triumph." Again, in saying "the home of the brave" he must think of the words "of the brave" before he will be able to utter the word "home."

A German, consequently, must _think_ of the principal word before he can utter those which qualify it; an Anglo-Saxon must think of the latter before he can utter the former.

In place of using mechanical pressure, the same results can be obtained by making the respective parts rigid. Regarding this matter of _making parts rigid_, I want to make the following explanation, illustrating the physiological process going on in so doing.

While a part is rendered inactive, placed _hors de combat_, so to say, by the application of mechanical pressure, the same result can also be obtained by making such part rigid. To accomplish this, it is but necessary to positively _think_ of such part, to associate your mind with it, which is equal to an act of expiration when it relates to the abdomen, and inspiration when it relates to the thorax. By positively _thinking_ of the abdomen, which is equal to an expiration therefrom, you will be unable to utter the stress or _rise_ of the voice, which is the product of an expiration from the stomach; by positively thinking of the thorax, which is equal to an inspiration into the same, you will be unable to utter the _fall_ of the voice, which is the product of an inspiration into the chest. The reason is obvious: _We cannot utter sound in the same direction in which we breathe; sound and respiration always following opposite directions._

For the purpose of making satisfactory experiments in this respect, as, in fact, in every other respect in connection with these investigations, it is necessary that inspiration or expiration, as the case may be, should be _continuous_, that is, that either the one or the other should be persisted in until a result is obtained; namely, until an apparent increase or decrease in the size of the part of the body under consideration, or an inflation or depletion of the same, will be perceptible. Though it may be difficult at first, a person will soon learn to distinguish between an increase or a swelling of a part, which means inspiration into the same, and a decrease or a shrinking or diminution thereof, which means expiration from the same.

PHYSIOLOGY OF THE VOICE IN RELATION TO WORDS

In the further pursuance of the questions heretofore under consideration, I shall now enter upon a theme of a still more subtle nature. The question of metre, rhythm, accent, etc., is one which is involved in much mystery; nor can I find that many persons entertain precisely the same ideas as being expressed by these terms.

_Accepting as a fundamental principle the fact that our various spiritual conditions are based upon our ability to extract the necessary inspiration therefor from the air, which bears the same relation to our spiritual existence that the earth does to that of our body (in furnishing it with such elements as it requires for its maintenance), I contend that we breathe for speech in as many different modes as there are parts or elements in its composition._ This proposition does not necessarily conflict with the fact that we also draw elements from the air, as analytical chemistry has proven, which serve for the construction of matter; such elements, however, instead of being strictly material, as they have every appearance of being, are, in reality, the spiritual complements of the matter they help to form; matter and spirit going hand in hand in our entire composition.

In reading poetry, or giving expression to the same in song (I repeat), we do so in a fourfold manner:

First: as to metre or time (the "measure" of time).

Second: as to the rhythm or the music pervading the voice, produced by its rise and fall, also called cadence, or the idiomatic expression of a language.

Third: as to accent.

Fourth: as to emphasis.

The _metre_ is produced by an artistic mode of breathing (in addition to our ordinary and permanent mode), marked by regular repetitions of a given order of inspirations and expirations which can be "measured" as to the time consumed in their enunciation, and are therefore, not incorrectly, called "feet."

The metre is a product or outcome of the _will_, a force which presides over material-spiritual issues. It changes with our inclinations and moods, and is expressive thereof. We can pass from one metre to another at will, as the occasion may require. It is the _material_ part of speech, as we can measure it and account for it as to time in space, supposing time to be incorporated. The metre expressive of joy, for instance, being quick, that of sorrow slow; the former, if incorporated, would take up less space than the latter, in the same proportion as it consumes less time in being uttered.

The _rhythm_ is that characteristic quality which distinguishes one language from another, the basis upon which it is built and around which all its elementary words cluster; its fundamental principle, its idiomatic expression, the music pervading its every syllable; the inflection, the rise and fall, the cadence of the voice; the spirit of a language, which is permanent and unchangeable.

The rhythm is an outcome of the _mind_; an influence which presides over _spiritual-material_ issues. As _harmony is the first law of nature_, so is that harmony which pervades our native tongue the law upon which our individual and national characteristic expressions and actions are based. We exercise it intuitively. It is innate in, and unalterably connected with, our native tongue. It cannot be eliminated therefrom, or put into it by a foreigner, except when acquired in childhood, or by the study of such principles as I have attempted to lay down in this book. It is inborn in every language as its spirit, and is as enduring as that language itself. It is not subject to change by the dictates of the will.

The _accent_ represents that element which distinguishes between the character and meaning of words, and has no reference to parts thereof or their relation to other words; the same word being pronounced in as many different ways and with as many different _accents_ as it denotes different senses or meanings; while _different words, embodying the same idea, are uttered with precisely the same accent_.

The accent or intonation is an outcome of the _soul_; an influence which dominates over our spiritual nature and over _spiritual issues_. "The rose by any other name would smell as sweet." It is equally true that any other name given to the rose would be pronounced by the same indefinable intonation as its present name, with that same embodiment of the mystery of the soul signifying the flower called "a rose." The _word_ "rose," which is the same, or nearly the same, in so many different languages, though possessing the same _spiritual_ elements in them all, varies as to measure and rhythm in every one of them.

If the influence of the soul, embodying an idea in a word, through the intonation we give it, were not the same for _all_ languages, it would not be possible to translate poetry, and retain, to some extent at least, that which is commonly called "the rhythm" of the original; nor would it be possible to sing a song in another language, and retain, even approximately, the spiritual elements of the original. We would not be impressed with it, would not be _thrilled_ by it.

_The intonation of a word, expressive of the soul in the embodiment of an idea, is a bond which unites all humanity_; not alone the human souls of any special day and generation, but of all days and all generations. But for the fact that the Greek soul is in us to-day, that the native intonation of _their_ words is native with us and with _all_ mankind, their _dead_ tongue would be _absolutely_ dead for us. We could find no meaning in it, no beauty, no spirit, no soul. Think of the melody pervading the soul of Homer and emanating from _his_ lyre still living and finding an echo in _our_ souls! Think of the harmony pervading the soul of Schiller or Tennyson continuing to live, and pervading the souls of the latest generations! Nor could Luther's famous translation of the Bible or its beautiful English version ever have been produced, and after production have made the same impression on the mind, or been read with the same expression of the voice, as the words of this same Bible made upon the minds, and were expressed by the voice, of its original composers, but for the fact _that words of the same meaning_, _in every language_ (aside from metre and rhythm), _are pronounced precisely the same_. It is this universal comprehension of their beauty which gives immortality to the strains of great singers, whether they appear in their original form or are translated (that is, if well translated) into foreign languages, or are set to music and sung either in the one or the other.

If the performances of creating original compositions and their translations were of a mere mechanical order, or were explainable from a mechanical standpoint, no such soul effects could ever be produced. The word, as such, is a _mechanical_ contrivance; but its intonation is of the soul, being an emanation of the idea it represents. If our ears were so schooled that by _their "intonation" we could comprehend the meaning of words_, we could understand every language upon simply hearing it spoken.

The people of all nations, through their eyesight, form the same conception of an object; the same being impressed upon all minds in the same manner. When a picture thus impressed upon the mind (brain) is reproduced by, or is translated into, vocal utterance, it continues to remain the same with all people. This does not refer to impressions made by material objects alone, but extends to immaterial subjects as well. Hence, knowing the meaning of a word in one language, we can at once conjure up the idea it represents in all languages.

The sight, however, not only impresses our minds through the eye with a given picture, but, as there is a correlation existing between all our faculties, it also impresses the voice with a given inflection, expressive of such impression upon the mind, and of no other impression; any given sight or mental conception of any kind always producing an inflection of the voice corresponding therewith. The vocal expression of an idea might thus be called an _audible_ "photographic" reproduction of the impression made by the original object upon the eyesight, and, respectively, upon the brain, or it might be called a phonographic reproduction thereof, supposing that the picture of an object could be impressed upon the wax and could thus become audible. How such a reproduction may be made from an _immaterial_ subject would be more difficult to comprehend. Of the fact, however, that an impression from abstract subjects _is_ made, and that an audible expression of such impression is produced through the voice, and that this is the case with all people alike, I expect to furnish positive proof in a future publication. The fact of our not being accustomed to distinguish in this manner between various expressions through inflections of the voice is no proof that they do not exist.

The soul impresses every word with a seal of its own, characteristic of the idea it embodies, there being as many accents or inflections of the voice as there are _separate ideas_, or, rather, _groups of ideas_. I beg leave to copy the following from the _Saturday Evening Post_ of April 8, 1899:

"Mr. Kipling recently told an interviewer: 'We write, it is true, in letters of the alphabet; but, psychologically regarded, every printed page is a picture book; every word, concrete or abstract, is a picture. The picture itself may never come to the reader's consciousness, but deep down below, in the unconscious realms, the picture works and influences us.'"

The accent is not subject to the will any more than the rhythm. The will can do _this_, however: it can give greater weight, force, and expression, and a wider scope, to the correlated forces of metre, rhythm, and accent, through the

_Emphasis_ which it infuses into them. Through the emphasis, inlet upon inlet is opened, an additional stream of fresh air is infused into them, flooding the spiritual system. Valve upon valve is then opened to let it out. Hence, emphasis is not an "element" of speech proper, but an amplification, an addition to existing elements, rather, impregnating them with the life of the heart, the feelings, the emotions.

In distinguishing in this manner, as I have in the above, between the will, the mind, and the soul, I consider them parts of a great spiritual system intimately connected with corresponding parts of our physical system, but lay no claim as to the correctness of the _terms_ I have used. On the contrary, I feel that they are inadequate, and, at most, a makeshift for more fitting expressions. There is a dearth of expressional terms, and I am doing the best I can with such as are at my disposal.

In the same sense, also, I distinguish between material-spiritual, spiritual-material, and spiritual issues; and consider them the outcome, respectively, of the will, the mind, and the soul.