ow
strangely they differ from prose. Mark the inversions: 'Up to a hill anon
his steps he reared,' 'But cottage, herd, or sheep-cote, none he saw.'
Mark next the diction--'his steps he reared.' In prose we should not rear
our steps up the Gog-magog hills, or even more Alpine fastnesses; nor,
arrived at the top, should we 'ken' the prospect round; we might 'con,'
but should more probably 'survey' it. Even 'anon' is a tricky word in
prose, though I deliberately palmed it off on you a few minutes ago. Mark
thirdly the varied repetition, 'if cottage were in view, sheep-cote or
herd--but cottage, herd, or sheep-cote, none he saw.' Lastly compare the
whole with such an account as you or I or Cluvienus would write in plain
prose:--

Thereupon he climbed a hill on the chance that the view from its
summit might disclose some sign of human habitation--a herd, a
sheep-cote, a cottage perhaps. But he could see nothing of the sort.

But you will ask, '_Why_ should verse and prose employ diction so
different? _Why_ should the one invert the order of words in a fashion
not permitted to the other?' and I shall endeavour to answer these
questions together with a third which, I dare say, you have sometimes
been minded to put when you have been told--and truthfully told--by your
manuals and histories, that when a nation of men starts making literature
it invariably starts on the difficult emprise of verse, and goes on to
prose as by an afterthought. Why should men start upon the more difficult
form and proceed to the easier? It is not their usual way. In learning to
skate, for instance, they do not cut figures before practising loose and
easy propulsion.

The answer is fairly simple. Literature (once more) is a record of
memorable speech; it preserves in words a record of such thoughts or of
such deeds as we deem worth preserving. Now if you will imagine yourself
a very primitive man, lacking paper or parchment; or a slightly less
primitive, but very poor, man to whom the price of parchment and ink is
prohibitive; you have two ways of going to work. You can carve your words
upon trees or stones (a laborious process) or you can commit them to
memory and carry them about in your head; which is cheaper and handier.
For an illustration, you find it useful, anticipating the tax-collector,
to know how many days there are in the current month. But further you
find it a nuisance and a ruinous waste of time to run off to the triba