The Pedigree of Pegasus

MY summers are usually spent in a little colony on the shores of our beautiful Puget Sound. In this colony each family has its cottage, while we dine in a common hall. The children play by the water, or underneath the great fir trees of a forest which Nature has been centuries in the making. Here is furnished a primitive environment, and the children grow up as they should, very real little savages, repeating the experiences of the race. One evening last summer while we were at dinner, a herd of innocent and perfectly welldisposed cows wandered on to the premises. The children caught sight of them, and with one war-whoop their tables were emptied, and, snatching up such weapons as were at hand, they hastened to encounter the enemy. The scene was indeed stirring. Children and cattle plunged this way and that, the plan of battle showing about as much intelligence on one side as on the other. But eventually the superior race got the best of it, and the cows fled over the hill, with the victors in pursuit. A half-hour later, as the shadows were gathering, there were heard the strains of martial music, and there danced into camp a lusty group of warriors, glowing with the excitement of victory; and as they danced they chanted the verses, —

Here was primitive verse in the making, testimony not to be slighted, and when the excitement allowed, I interposed the question, ‘Who made up the verses?’ For a moment they looked at one another with perplexity, and then came the unanimous answer, ‘Why, we all did it. We just all said it at once.’

This little episode summarizes much of the story of primitive verse. But I leave the illustration, to pursue the more orthodox course of the historian.

The clear, truth-compelling light of modern science has penetrated one after another of those remote chambers of the past which have hitherto been sacred to poetry and to myth. We have come to adjust our minds to the process and its findings in such fields as geology and biology, but now we find that we must acquiesce as gracefully even in the very province of the arts. The severe conclusion of the scientist is, to be sure, not always a balm to our self-esteem. I had this brought home to me the other day by my friend the biologist, who observed, apropos of the fact that I sleep outof-doors on a downstairs porch, that, it is the custom among certain species of South American apes for the male to sleep at the foot of the tree, while the female and the young repose in the branches above. But to be thus cited as an example of a reversion to type is no harder than to give up the youthlong fancy of the early bard, standing, with august beard and flowing robes, on the hill-top, the inspired lay pouring into his soul from the serene above. Yet engaging as is Carlyle’s picture of the god-man, Thor, it is, after all, but the poet’s dream. Thor must make way for Caliban, the demi-god for the dancing savage. For poetry had its humble beginning in nothing more refined than the rhythm that invariably accompanies the rude dances and the common work of the most primitive community. Before men knew any god or acknowledged a leader, they yet worked and played in rhythm.

Indeed, even before the tribal days, though of this no absolute testimony can be had, I fancy that men made play of work by the same means. We do this to-day, and why not much more the unrestrained children of the eldest time? Our American Negroes, who for the most part have only a thin veneer of civilization, turn instinctively to rhythm in performing any simple task. The boy at the stand who blacks my shoes plays me a merry tune with brush and rag, and an old Negro, whose duty it is to awaken the guests in a southern hotel, tempers the early morning call with the consoling ditty, —

But whatever may be the truth as to the solitary savage, the social savage is rhythmical in work or play. Rhythm controls the blows of the women as they pound the roots in the crude stone mortar, and the feet of the men as they fall into the dance which relieves the tedium of the camp. Rhythm is the well-nigh invariable condition to activity. Thus, when our Puget Sound Indians migrate in autumn or spring, the paddles all swing in time to the beating of a drum from a canoe which holds a central position in the fleet.

In these rhythmical movements poetry has its lowly origin, for rhythmical movement prompts rhythmical sound. At first this is simply an oral imitation of the reverberating feet or of the instrument of work. To this very day the peasant women of Poland pound the corn to the accompaniment of one interjection; and who has not heard the ‘he-eave’ of the sailors at the halyards? Many of the primitive Germanic interjections have survived in the counting-out rhymes of our children’s games, just as the games themselves are descended from the cult of the past. Of what early ritual was our familiar ‘fe, fie, fo, fum’ a part? Did the rude Teuton therewith charm the ground against the evil spirit of sterility or blight, or was it a thank-offering to a god for goodly favors?

How long the savage was content to confine his poetry to simple interjections we cannot tell, but in time the interjection gave way to the choral sentence. This was at first a mere observation of some fact of tribal experience. Thus, a woman who has spent much time in Africa, records that a certain tribe will dance for full four hours to the single verse, —

a verse that prompts one to turn punster. It is indeed a long look from such a poem, impersonal, objective, sung by an automatic, homogeneous ring of savages, to the modern lyric, purely subjective, intensely personal, in which a solitary soul feels out into the darkness for contact with a kindred spirit; but remote as are these extremes, they are yet related, and embrace the sequence of a great art.

It was but natural that different choral sentences should some day be thrown together into a stanza, and the formation of such a stanza marks the next step. I once had the good fortune to catch such a poem in the making. During the interval between the St. Louis Exposition and the Lewis and Clark Exposition in Portland, Oregon, a Filipino tribe, the Igorrotes, who had been brought to America to exhibit the native life, spent a portion of the time in the city where I live, and were on exhibition, illustrating, among other activities, their dances. Now it chanced that an acquaintance of mine, who is an enthusiastic student of primitive music, was making a study of the music to which these Igorrotes danced, and trying to transcribe it. This he found extremely difficult to do. But one day he confided to me the startling information that, being satisfied that success awaited him if only he himself could join in the dancing and the singing, he had arranged with the interpreter for a private session, at which he could actually participate.

It was a spectacle not to be missed, and he finally consented to take me along as a valet extraordinary. The dance in question was of a most primitive type, in which the savages form almost a complete circle, and with hands resting on one another’s shoulders dance to the right, stamping strongly with the advanced foot and dragging the other, and chanting a monotonous refrain to the time of the resounding feet. To try to qualify in such an exercise was certainly a test of nerve, but, nothing daunted, the musician watched his chance and, leaping forth, clutched the shoulders of the last man in the dance and started on his novel voyage. It was a glorious tribute to the enthusiasm and selfabasement of science, and, it is safe to say, a spectacle quite without parallel even in the triumphant records of that great branch of human learning, to see this goodly man, clad in frock coat and Windsor tie, with flowing locks, carried along by these dancing savages, — whose sun-burned bodies were restrained only by the earliest post-Eden garb, — and frisked hither and yon like the tail of a capricious comet or of a cavorting kite.

But assuredly his reward awaited him, for presently the interpreter, who was watching the effect with interest, turned to me and said, ’They like him, for they have put him into the chant, and are now singing “Man with long hair, Igorrote’s friend.”’ And a moment later he remarked, ’Now they sing, “ Man with the long hair dance very well.” ’

At first the adventurer had attempted only the step, but, as his confidence increased, he essayed the chant as well. This brought out the commendation, 1 Man with the long hair sing very well.' And then the three verses were united into a little chorus, which was used throughout the rest of the dance: —

Not a very intellectual poem, to be sure, but nevertheless a long remove from the simple interjection, and able to hold its own with the chorus of many a chapel hymn that I have heard. Not even the interpreter could tell who suggested the verses, nor doubtless, could the men themselves have done so. The verses just sprang forth, like the chorus of our children.

The duration of this stage in the history of the art, who can tell? It would depend upon the capacity of a tribe for advancement, upon the readiness with which the sense of individuality would mature. Some time, with a growing consciousness that ‘I am I, and thou art thou,’ would dawn the eventful day when some intrepid man would break from the impersonal group, and improvise verses of his own, alternating with the tribal refrain.

This was the more advanced stage that our American Negroes had reached in their native Africa — if, indeed, they were not precipitated into it by the quickening contact with white civilization — and, along with the stage last discussed, is illustrated by the Negro worship and festal gatherings to this day, even in communities where the blacks have been in touch with Christianity for some generations.

I once spent an eventful evening, rich in folk-lore, in Uncle Jasper’s church in Richmond. Uncle Jasper, you must know, was the theologian who discomfited the higher critics and physicists by proving that ‘de sun do move—else how could Joshua hab commanded de sun and de moon to stan’ still.' Uncle Jasper himself was not present , the young man who piloted us to the church explaining that because of age he had given up all services but the monthly communion. The key to the meeting, which was the last for the year, was given by the lay brother who opened the service. After stumbling through a chapter of the Bible, he launched into a passionate appeal to his hearers, if unsaved, to repent. He pictured, in language which for graphic description I have never heard surpassed, the dark waters of Death, the terrors of the Judgment, the agony of the damned, and the delectable existence of the saved, closing with the persuasive announcement that, ‘De wicked culyed folks is bein’ summoned fast; tree membuhs of dis congugation was covuhd up yestuhday, and oders is even now on de coolin’ board.’ These preliminaries concluded, the meeting fell into the usual swing. Now some man arose and chanted verses of his own invention, alternating with the general chorus, the improvised hymn running for many stanzas, the Negroes swaying in time and joining hands with their neighbors to the right or to the left. A favorite chorus, which smacked of a source quite foreign to a prayermeeting, ran, —

And now some brother fell upon his knees, and launched into a cadenced prayer, which provoked, by way of accompaniment, an ever-growing volume of sighs and half-articulated sentences. Thus the service ran into the night, song and prayer alternating, the excitement becoming more intense as the hours wore on. It was an occasion not to be forgotten, weird and fascinating, illustrating a great epoch in the development of a universal art.

Nor do we have to look beyond our own race for echoes of such a past. A few years ago a desperate criminal named Tracy escaped from the Oregon penitentiary, and, providing himself with firearms, worked his way up into Washington, applying at ranches for food and killing those who offered him any violence. For several weeks he eluded the police and lived in the forest. He was, however, invariably courteous to women, and there was in him a touch of the gallant that appealed to the romantic imagination of the popular mind. Excitement was intense, and politics and world-affairs paled into insignificance; a presidential candidate never received more flattering attention from the press. One evening I had occasion to be in the rougher part of the city, and noticed a crowd of excited men gathering around a saloon. Evidently something unusual was taking place. I elbowed my way through the crowd to the door: there, on the bar, stood a drunken fiddler, improvising the story of Tracy’s exploits. I took down a portion of the song, of which a typical stanza runs thus: —

Between the stanzas the men caught up the air, and there quickly evolved a little chorus: —

Thus among these rude men was reproduced, as it were, a chapter of the past: the improvising poet, singing of an event of common interest, and sustained by a choral group, who shouted a refrain which had sprung forth in obedience to a common impulse.

The next step in the development of poetry was a social group, to which every member contributed by song. It is illustrated in that beautiful story of Cædmon, as told in the tender language of the Venerable Bede. In its refined form it produced the minnesinger and the troubadour, those remarkable masters of ready verse. American college students do unwitting homage to it to-day, when a group of men amuse themselves of an evening by singing Limericks in turn, the chorus joining in the refrain: —

Next came the period of the professional singer, when the most expert man was set aside to amuse the rest. This was the epoch of the minstrel. Fortunate he whose gift of song insured him a universal welcome, in the castle a seat at the board beside the lord, and lands and jewels; in the village the no less sincere hospitality of the common folk. No picture of mediæval life would be complete without the minstrel, whose songs of the heroes and deeds of old turned to sunshine the dreary hours. But this is a tale that requires no retelling.

What wight who hung upon the accents of the bard, as with glowing eye and stirring lay he led captive the hearts of heroes, could have conceived the time when minstrelsy should be no more? But the minstrel has gone, gone as went my lady’s favor, and the bright trappings of her knight — all done to death by printers’ ink. For books put an end to minstrelsy as inevitably as they sounded the knell of feudalism. When you can read the tale yourself, why listen to another’s telling! For a while, to be sure, the minstrel took advantage of the gayety of the Christmas season to insinuate himself once more into the great hall, a sorry reflection of his former self; but the day came when the baron’s gate was shut upon him forever and he degenerated into the mere wayside fiddler, bargaining his songs for ill-brewed ale.

Last stage of all is the professional poet, who composes in the secrecy of his study for an audience that reads, and who unlocks the secrets of his own heart for such as may understand. How far he seems removed in his isolation from the ring of dancing tribesmen, how far from the village folk singing songs upon the green, how far even from the minstrel with his epic lay! Communism has given way to individualism, the external to the internal, the objective to the subjective, the unanalytical to the analytical. Browning could never have written A Woman’s Last Word or Cristina, if the savage had not once danced his dance and chanted his rude chorus.

Poetry of this ultimate character is assuredly the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge, and occasions the most exquisite spiritual sympathies and inspirations. It but becomes more precious as society becomes more completely individualized, and the sense of solitude more poignant. But, on the other hand, I am glad that we are still able to complement it with poetry of a more primitive character; to find, for example, in the sturdy ballads that time has so kindly preserved, a literature that reflects the hardy vigor of naïve society, the homely episodes, now humorous and now pathetic, that were shaped and fashioned by the elementary passion of simple, communal life. Such poetry invigorates one and universalizes one’s sympathy, as does a sojourn with peasant folk, where a whole community seem to share a common life, and where ideas, and even emotions, seem in a measure to be impersonal and persuasive.

I used to visit, when a lad, a bleak island which lies some twenty miles off the New Brunswick coast. Protected by frowning sea-walls, four hundred feet in height, that allow only an occasional harbor, and fog-engulfed a great part of the time, this little island knew few visitors. But when one actually landed upon it, the honest Scotch folk who dwelt there received him as a kinsman. I was once overtaken by dusk when crossing the island, and put up for the night at a farmhouse. While the younger women were preparing supper, I chatted with ‘ Grandma’ McKinley, then in her eightieth year, who sat in a bed-quilt easy-chair by the fire. Wishing to sustain my end of the conversation, I presumed to suggest that life must have been a bit lonely and tame in the long winter months. The old lady turned her sharp eyes upon me, detecting that my tone was a trifle patronizing, and rejoined, ‘ Now, young’un, you need n’t pity us. There is a plenty of old folk on the island, and winter is the time when they keep droppin’ off, and we just fill a picnic basket and go and spend the week, and eat and sing, and it breaks up the long spell somethin’ wonderful.’ Well, after all, smile as you may, that’s squeezing the nectar out of life. What must she have done at twenty! — footed it fullfeateously, I trow.

Precious to the modern spirit is the poetry that modern days have wrought; but it is not a little thing that song has become so scant a part of our lives, that we no longer do — or may — sing at our tasks. To be sure, we have our professional musicians, trained to surpassing excellence, but life at large is a bare, ruined choir. When, and how, shall we get back our song? Must we say good-bye to it forever, the sunshine of an unrecoverable childhood?