Interpretative reading, techniques and selections, Rev. ed

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Interpretative Reading

Interpretative Readin;

TECHNIQUES AND SELECTIONS

BY

SARA LOWREY

Department of Speech
Furman University

AND

GERTRUDE E. JOHNSON

Department of Speech
University of Wisconsin

REVISED AS&i&T^ EDITION

New York
APPLETON-CENTURY-CROFTS, INC

Copyright, 1953, by
APFLETON-CENTURY-CROFTS, Inc.

All riglits reserved. This book, or parts
thereof, must not be reproduced in any
form without permission of the publisher.

555-10

Library of Congress Card Number: 53-6203

Copyright, 1942, by D. Appleton-Ccntury Company, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

FOREWORD

The acceleration of life in the "Atomic Age" has given im-
petus to a re-thinking of education in terms of human values.

\ Effective teaching of the humanities and social sciences to de-
velop men and women capable of using scientific invention for
the benefit of man rather than for his destruction seems impera-
tive. In his lecture titled "The Romance of Science and the
Truth of Fiction" William Lyon Phelps recognized the con-
tribution of scientific invention to the charm of modern life,
but he stressed our need for realization of the truths inherent
in great literature. Literature may be studied in different
ways but no method is superior to that of oral interpreta-
tion. Through this kind of study the student partakes of the
experiences of all humanity and becomes of necessity "a part
of all that he has met." Effective oral reading demands this
inner realization if the reader is to convey vital vicarious ex-
perience to his hearers. This textbook is the result of a sincere
search for ways of experiencing the reality of literature, ways
which seem as natural as the active recall of personal experi-
ence. These ways have been tested by ourselves, our students,
and many others in our field and in allied fields. They adhere
closely to principles of psychology and to fundamentals of all
art. If followed faithfully we believe these principles will help
one to develop habits of thinking and of behavior which will
improve understanding and enjoyment of literature; concen-
tration on the work in hand, thinking in terms of the mate-

f^ rial itself result in commanding the attention of the listener.
Emphasis is placed upon ways of thinking that are natural to

^~" the meaning and in harmony with the literary form.

Dsj There is need for a recognition of the nature and scope of

interpretative reading. The possibilities within the framework

VI FOREWORD

of interpretative reading are not adequately understood by
educators within or outside the speech field. Even teachers and
students of interpretative reading need to explore the possi-
bilities for personal development and for educational enter-
tainment in schools, clubs, churches, town meetings, theatre,
radio, and television.

PERSONAL VALUES

Many teachers of speech have recognized the intrinsic worth
of interpretative reading in its possibilities for self-realization
and growth. The development of poise and the unfolding of
personalities has been the magnificent obsession of teachers
of interpretative speech. The thoroughness of literary study es-
sential for adequate oral interpretation develops awareness of
that human essence which distinguishes man from brute. Liv-
ing with great thoughts and attempting to communicate them
to others invariably results in some absorption of this great-
ness.

Interpretative reading should make distinct contributions
to mental stability and emotional maturity. Since literature is
an interpretation of life it calls for an understanding of life
and contributes to living. Thus it sets up a constructive cycle
quite contrary to the vicious cycles which bring maladjust-
ment. As one learns more about literature he has better under-
standing of life which enables him to interpret literature more
effectively. In working for abandon to emotion and while us-
ing restraint in its expression one should achieve emotional
balance. Since an interpretative art requires an objective atti-
tude toward emotion it should render one more objective
toward his own emotions. Thus, through experiencing the
thoughts and feelings expressed in iiterature and through shar-
ing them with listeners, the student receives that which is
basic to mental balance and emotional maturity.

CORE OF SPEECH TRAINING

Under various titles (elocution, oratory, expression, and
declamation) historically interpretative reading was the core

FOREWORD Vll

of speech training. The fundamental nature of interpretative
reading was understood as the perfect Gestalt of the speech
field. Textbooks on the training of the speaking voice still give
recognition to this fundamental nature. The reading of litera-
ture expressive of various moods is the method used to culti-
vate flexibility of voice and the alert discriminating mind es-
sential for all expression.

PUBLIC SPEAKING

Interpretative reading and public speaking are clearly inter-
related, each one helping the other. Interpretative reading is
often used within a public address and direct speech is used
to introduce interpretative reading. The practice of direct
speaking helps the reader to remain simple and communicative
in presentation while many of the finer aspects of public
speaking such as the use of vivid imagery, sense of timing,
voice flexibility etc. can best be learned through interpretative
study. An interesting case in point has come to our attention.
In a preliminary oratorical contest, the chairman predicted
the winner of the contest. His prediction was correct and upon
presentation of the award the chairman said: "You have had
experience in poetry reading." The winner responded, "Yes, I
had a regular poetry reading program on the radio for more
than a year before I began the study of public speaking. How
did you know?" The chairman answered, "You had the ele-
ments one learns in interpretative reading and lacked the pat-
tern one is likely to develop when he confines his practice to
extempore speaking. You were skillful and subtle in imagery,
your tones, tempo, and rhythm were varied in accord with
meaning, and you had the art which conceals its artistry."

ACTING

It is an accepted premise that interpretative reading is not
acting. The fact that great acting includes interpretative read-
ing is too often overlooked. The weakness in the educational
theatre is the speaking of lines. Education has made rapid
strides in applying professional techniques of stage design,

Vlll FOREWORD

lighting, movement, grouping, but has neglected the study of
interpretation of meaning through the reading of lines. Is it
because the interpretative reading of lines is the most difficult
area to teach and to learn? This fact should prove a challenge
in education. This textbook gives a plan for mastering some
of the lessons suggested by Boleslavsky 1 as among the first to
be learned by an actor. His "Creature" worked for a year to
learn the art of concentration through mental imagery. She
must have been a real student to have mastered the first lesson
alone. Most students of theatre need the help of an interpre-
tative reading teacher to learn this and other speech tech-
niques so essential to good acting.

PROFESSIONAL READING

The close relation between acting and interpretative read-
ing is emphasized by the professional reading of actors. We
are indebted to Charles Laughton for spearheading, as it were,
the revival of the art of reading on the professional stage. To-
day Tyrone Power, Emlyn Williams, Edith Evans, Basil Rath-
bone, and others are contributing to the popularity of this
veteran speech art. The dramatic schools of England have kept
interpretative reading in its rightful place as an integral part
of the training of actors. Perhaps that is why some of the finest
recorded poetry reading available is done by actors. While such
reading is of great worth, it should serve as a challenge to
teachers of Interpretation. Can we afford to let the professional
aspect of our work be taken over so completely by actors?
Should not we too be doing as well as teaching our art? It
would be a sad commentary on our attitude if we had to ac-
cept this cryptic judgment of George Bernard Shaw: "those
who can, do; those who can't, teach."

The hearing of fine reading is as important to our speech
students as is the hearing of fine music to the music student.
Through such examples they are helped to set their own

1 Richard Boleslavsky, Acting, The First Six Lessons (New York,
Theatre Arts Inc.).

FOREWORD IX

standards of excellence. We should bring readers of proven
ability and skill to the campus. We, ourselves, should make a
point of presenting programs and arrange to have our students
read publicly. Opportunities are not lacking. Many schools
find delight in regular Reading Hours in which the students,
teachers, and others participate. Once it is known that there
are readers among us, countless invitations to read come from
varied sources such as men's and women's clubs, church groups,
business organizations, libraries, luncheon and dinner groups
and many others. Response to these invitations not only af-
fords our students the opportunity to experience public read-
ing in a true life situation but it gives them the satisfaction
of fulfilling a social obligation to their community.

Too little has been done by interpreters in the matter of
recording their readings. There is a demand for such record-
ings. When the album of recorded readings by Gertrude E.
Johnson of the University of Wisconsin was decided upon,
practically all records were sold before the album was ready
for distribution. A further supply failed to satisfy the demands
which came from all parts of the country. The long-playing
records of Lew Sarrett of the University of Florida have met
with success. For the Dartmouth recordings of the readings by
teachers of Interpretation, thanks go to Albert T. Martin.

THE ELEMENTARY SCHOOL

Educators are searching for ways of developing the creative
ability in children. We should recognize the contribution inter-
pretative reading may make in the elementary school and in
the training of elementary-school teachers. Suppose every ele-
mentary-school teacher could read so as to share the charm of
literature and interpret the essence of truth for the children
in her class room. If elementary school teachers could read ef-
fectively themselves and could direct children to read naturally
(concentrating on thought rather than on expression, speaking
in rhythms innate to the literature) they would succeed in
fostering the creative spark that makes children responsive to

X FOREWORD

beauty, eager for stories, and appreciative of the rhythm in
such books as Mother Goose and A Child's Garden of Verse.
Why are so many university students prejudiced against po-
etry? It is because somewhere they got a false concept of po-
etry. Students working with the principles outlined in this
textbook frequently say, "Why have we not been taught to
read like this before?" They are amazed at the possibilities for
enjoyment, larger living, and deeper understanding through
the study of literature.

Many public school teachers are recognizing the need for
oral reading in the public schools. They have no wish to re-
turn to the word-calling which once characterized the so-called
oral reading. They are eager for guidance. We can help them
to read and to teach children to read so that history and lit-
erature are zestful experiences and not the drudgery some of
them think. In a day when rapid silent reading is emphasized
(and there is good reason for it) there is also need for reading
in which one takes time to experience and convey meaning.

LANGUAGE STUDY

Interpretative reading may make a significant contribution
to language study at any level: expanding vocabulary, refining
sentence structure, improving pronunciation, enunciation and
fluency. Many writers have attributed their literary style to
reading Shakespeare and the Bible. If silent reading can con-
tribute so much to one's use of language, how much can the
intensification through oral interpretation contribute? We pre-
dict that when teachers of language arts and literature are
trained in interpretative reading a new renaissance of literary
culture will give hope to civilization.

SOCIAL RESPONSIBILITY

Are we socially responsible when we fail to recognize the
great values inherent in interpretative reading? Are we socially
responsible when we limit our goals to class room reading by
students who happen to enroll? Does social responsibility in-

FOREWORD XI

elude more effort on our part to follow the ways to effective
reading, to explore its scope and to spread its usefulness?

SPEECH CORRECTION

Social responsibility includes the education of exceptional
children. Teachers of speech correction should give careful
consideration to the place oral interpretative reading may take
in making their work more effective. Therapeutic value is
gained through experiencing literature imaginatively and
speaking it in natural, varied rhythms and tones. The cerebral
palsied, for example, need to cease to listen to how they say
words and concentrate on meaning. Experimentation has re-
vealed that they may, through mental imagery, so abandon
themselves to the idea that rhythms become natural and easy
and they may even experience the joy of normal fluent speech
while reading a poem. Such reading enables them, not only to
communicate, but to build confidence.

A speech correctionist recently said, "I build my work in
speech rehabilitation upon the Gestalt of interpretation. We
work on the whole thought and then concentrate on the spe-
cial difficulty that seems to hinder the particular student from
realizing full expression. We have found that students learn
more readily through enjoyment than through discouragement
so we first enjoy a story or a poem and then get down to the
drudgery of clearing out the difficulties that prevent that
pleasure from becoming a complete joy."

Stutterers are usually able to sing. The step from singing to
speaking a poem with concentration upon imagery is often
quite easy. The fact that language is already supplied is a
great relief to a stutterer. If he is able to build confidence in
his ability to read fluently he may find speaking not so dif-
ficult as formerly.

RADIO

The relation of interpretative reading to radio seems too
obvious to need mentioning. Much of radio is read even when

Xll FOREWORD

it sounds like extempore speech. Perhaps this is the great con-
tribution radio and the public address system have made to
interpretative speech. After hearing the Quartette in Don Juan
in Hell, Elsa Lanchester said to her husband, Charles Laugh-
ton, "You have learned the last thing an actor can learn — how
to speak to an audience as if they were just people in a
room." 1 Doubtless a fine public address system made its con-
tribution to this ability. The "fireside chats" of Franklin Del-
ano Roosevelt were read from a manuscript. One who holds
the interest of a radio listener must have the ability to com-
mand attention and interest, speaking to an audience as if
"they were just people in a room." A young woman well versed
in these techniques was asked to substitute on the radio for a
storyteller. The day before she was to take over the program
she went to hear the regular storyteller. She saw a maid mop-
ping the corridor. The young woman decided that the next
day she would so interest that maid in the story that she
would stop mopping. The storyteller succeeded. As the story
began the maid paused, as it proceeded she walked to the
studio door, peered in and stood, mop in hand, listening until
the story ended, then proceeded with her work.

THE TEXTBOOK

A textbook cannot take the place of a teacher. Its purpose is
to supplement, to reinforce, and perhaps to guide. It may con-
tribute to a teacher's background of knowledge on the sub-
ject. It should suggest new points of view, new avenues of
approach, new techniques of teaching. It must prove a valuable
aid in presenting subject-matter to the students. It should sup-
port and enlarge the teacher's point of view. It may serve as a
helpful check to the teacher in presenting the whole, or at
least a balanced picture, and thus prevent the overemphasis of
one phase to the neglect of other phases of equal importance.
This is not a book of exercises, though we have endeavored

1 Robert Wahls, "Don Juan Raises Theatrical Cain," Sunday
News (March 30, 1952), p. 2.

FOREWORD Xlll

to point the way to plans and practices. Selections for prac-
tice have, after some thought, been placed in the latter portion
of the book, thus avoiding the arbitrary feeling that certain
selections are desirable for only one element of the interpre-
ter's expression. It invites selection and decision by teacher
and student, as to which material shall be used for any given
idea or practice. It will be noticed that many "old favorites"
(for some of the older of us) have been included. It is our ex-
perience that the younger generation too often knows little of
the wider choices offered by authors not directly contempora-
neous. This latter material is at hand and can be found in
many places.

A NEW APPROACH?

At first glance this book may seem to offer a strange ap-
proach to the subject of interpretative reading. It is a de-
parture from the traditional approach and organization. That
very departure may be its chief value to the teacher. If the
teacher is familiar with other approaches he has no need of
another book treating the subject in the same way. His knowl-
edge of other methods will furnish a background for his under-
standing and evaluation of the ideas presented in this book.

The basic ideas presented in this book are not new. Original-
ity is not claimed for them. It is in the method of presentation
and in the specific application that originality may be discov-
ered. If the teacher is already familiar with these ideas in the
fields of psychology, sociology, education, literature, and the
philosophy of art, then he has a basis for testing them in
the field of interpretative reading. If he is already using these
ideas in interpretative reading, even then he may find some
suggestions which will supplement, and many which will sup-
port, his teaching. This book may then prove of more value
to him than if it presented a totally new approach.

Techniques and procedures here suggested have been thor-
oughly tested with gratifying results. If the suggestions are
new to you, try them with your students. Experimentation is

XIV FOREWORD

valued in other fields; experiment a bit in the field of creative
reading and see if it does not add freshness, vitality, and even
originality to your teaching. All alert teachers will supplement
from their own rich experience the suggestions in any book.
A textbook, however, like a key for a lock, cannot function
without being put to use. Put these practices to use and see if
they will unlock doors to the understanding and views of whole-
ness which interpretative reading represents.

CRITICISM

One of the most important aspects of effective teaching is
evaluation of student work. The word criticism needs defin-
ing since too often it connotes mere faultfinding. Criticism, as
used in our teaching, means an appraisal, an evaluation. A good
criticism may consist entirely of praise. A criticism of student
reading should usually include three steps. First, commenda-
tion of that which is good for the sake of encouragement, since
we all need encouragement if we are to grow in the realm of
artistic expression. George Matthew Adams says:

Encouragement is oxygen to the soul. Good work can never be
expected from a worker without encouragement. No one ever
climbed spiritual heights without it. Note how well you feel after
you have encouraged someone else. No other argument is necessary
to suggest that you never miss the opportunity to give encourage-
ment.1

It might be added, "Note how well you feel when someone
encourages you. Are you not stimulated to finer accomplish-
ment?"

To test the power of praise, criticism, or ignoring in the
learning process an experiment was conducted on three groups
of children. Although it was admitted by those conducting the
experiment that any one of the methods applied alone was
inadequate, the following results were given. The ignored
group made least progress, the criticized group made more,

1 George Matthew Adams, "Oxygen to the Soul," The Reader's
Digest (February, 1941), p. 6. By permission of the author.

FOREWORD XV

and the praised group made the most progress. Indiscriminate
praise, however, is likely to result in a superiority complex
instead of social adjustment. When the student knows he does
not deserve the praise unfortunate distortions and contempt
for the praise itself may result.

The second element in criticism should be constructive sug-
gestion. Constructive suggestion means pointing out faults and
making it clear how to correct them. Faultfinding is not con-
structive criticism. Anybody can find fault. Faultfinding is an
attribute of little minds. A teacher should point out a fault
only as a means of aiding the student to correct it. Such frank-
ness in a teacher is appreciated by the student who realizes
that he is not perfect and who quite possibly is taking the
course in order to learn a better way of doing something. If
his weaknesses are pointed out and the way made clear for him
to gain strength, he will appreciate the suggestions.

The third element in criticism is to suggest no more than
the student is able to take. Young teachers often err by offer-
ing too many suggestions, and as a result they give their
students a feeling of defeat; the student is made to feel that so
much has to be done the situation is hopeless. If the teacher
selects one thing at a time, makes clear the way to improve-
ment, progress, however slight, is sure.

THE WHOLE

The process of centering the attention of the student on
one problem at a time results in the solution of many other
problems at the same time. When the teacher strikes at the
center of a student's needs, the whole is apt to be reached. For
example, a teacher once asked the class what was the matter
with a student who had read poorly. One said, "He needs to
enunciate more clearly"; another said, "He needs to talk
louder"; another said, "He needs to support his voice." The
teacher said, "Have any of you touched the cause of his inade-
quate performance?" One student answered, "No, he needs to

XVI FOREWORD

realize the significance of what he is saying and to care whether
we get it or not." The class then discussed the meaning and
significance of the material which had been read. The student
was called upon to re-read so as to affect the listeners. Not
only did his voice become stronger and his enunciation clearer,
but he stood taller, his face became animated, his body as well
as his speech became vitalized.

Development in speech, like physical development, depends
upon the growth of the whole being. Even though emphasis
is placed upon one thing at a time, the teacher should keep
ever before himself and his students a vision of the whole.
Each part should be considered as a part of a whole and dealt
with according to its relation to the whole.

TALENT

One further thought seems important here. It is difficult to
detect talent in the field of oral interpretation. Talent is fre-
quently discovered after many have failed to discern it. Surely
oral interpretation will prove of value to all students, not
merely to those who are considered talented. A teacher's suc-
cess may be measured both by the progress of the class as a
whole and by the progress of each individual. A teacher who
neglects the poorest student has missed one of the greatest
satisfactions which can come to a teacher — that of seeing light
gradually reflected in dull eyes and hope dawn in a discouraged
soul.

On the other hand those especially endowed should become
a joy to their teacher. How amazing that some teachers should
be jealous of their excellent students, as if it were not a teach-
er's greatest accomplishment to have students excel him. As
William Lyon Phelps says in his autobiography:

The highest ambition of every good teacher is to be excelled by
his pupils. The one tiling he wants more than anything else is that
those whom he teaches will surpass him in every respect — in brains,
character, achievement. As every normal father is prouder of his

FOREWORD XV11

son's accomplishments than of his own independent work, so every
normal teacher looks with happiness and pride on the success of
those who were once his students.1

S. L.
G- E. J.

1 William Lyon Phelps, Autobiography with Letters (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1939), p. 656. By permission of the pub-
lishers and of the author.

CONTENTS

PAGE

Foreword v

To the Student 3

SECTION I
TECHNIQUES

CHAPTER

I. INTERPRETATIVE READING, A CREATIVE PROCESS . 13

II. A TECHNIQUE OF THINKING FOR INTERPRETATIVE

READING 26

III. BODILY ACTION IN INTERPRETATIVE READING . . 46

IV. DRAMATIC TIMING IN INTERPRETATIVE READING . 77
V. STRUCTURE IN INTERPRETATIVE READING . . .134

VI. ILLUSION IN INTERPRETATIVE READING . . .168

VII. VOICE IN INTERPRETATIVE READING . . . .179

VIII. INTERPRETATION OF MEANING 197

IX. BACKGROUNDS, INTRODUCTIONS, AND PROGRAMS . 234

X. CHORAL READING 254

XI. INTERPRETATIVE READING FOR THE RADIO . . 285

SECTION II
SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION 323

xix

XX CONTENTS

Appendices

A. Syllabus for a College Course in Interpretative Read-

ing 579

B. Suggested Material for Supplementary Reading and

Reference 585

Index ... 589

Interpretative Reading

Nothing is so absolutely secure as art; its
integrity is inviolate because by the laxv of its
nature it cannot be created save by those who
comprehend and reverence it.

Hamilton Wright Mabie

TO THE STUDENT

Not scholars, not even critics is the present need of
literature, but interpreters, virtuosos in emotion; men
with full orbed souls, capable of running the scale of
human feeling from the bass note of self-pity to the
high clear C of mystical rapture.1

M. M . Hedges

A man once asked a public speaker, "What will I get
out of your talk?" The speaker responded, "That depends
upon what you bring to get it in." The answer indicated
that the speaker believed in the value of a high intelligence
quotient. In that he was in accord with the attitude preva-
lent in the average college today, namely, that those with
special ability should excel in understanding and in accom-
plishment. In the arts one calls this special ability talent.
It is frequently said that if one has talent in a certain field
it will manifest itself; if not, he may as well seek another
field. Now this theory may be correct, but the problem is
how to measure talent in oral reading. A student who seems
to be talented often proves to be a "flash in the pan," while
others who are considered mere plodders succeed. You have
not forgotten, I am sure, that Edison was made to sit on a
dunce stool because he was considered so stupid.

Perhaps the speaker in the illustration above would have
given a wiser answer if he had said, "What you get from my
talk depends upon how determined you are to get it." Edi-

1 M. M. Hedges, "Creative Teaching," School and Society Journal,
January 27, 1918. By permission of The Science Press.

3

4 TO THE STUDENT

son said that genius was nine tenths hard work. Modern
psychologists state that memory depends largely upon one's
will to remember.

When Katherine Cornell was playing the role of Elizabeth
Barrett in The Barretts of Wimpole Street at Baylor Uni-
versity, Waco, Texas (the home of the largest Browning
collection in the world), Miss Cornell wore a topaz brooch
from the collection: the one given to Elizabeth by Robert
Browning on the first anniversary of their marriage. Dr.
Armstrong, who has devoted his life to assembling and pre-
serving the Browning treasures at Baylor, wished Miss Cor-
nell also to use from the collection the first edition of
Sordello. This was the poem from which Elizabeth Barrett
was supposed to be reading when Robert made the remark,
"At the time that was written only God and Robert Brown-
ing knew what it meant; now only God knows." Miss Cornell
was appreciative of the honor paid her by the Browning
scholar but responded, "Dr. Armstrong, I'm afraid to at-
tempt to play with a book different from the one I'm ac-
customed to. You see, when we were learning the play I
had my secretary type in the lines to be delivered as I held
the book. Although I've played the role over two hundred
times I've never memorized those lines." Miss Cornell had
not spoken those lines with the will to remember them. She
could not, therefore, depend upon her memory to repeat
them accurately.

If you, as a student of interpretative reading, approach
this subject with a will to learn you will be rewarded with
the satisfaction which comes from achievement. If you were
able to learn your a-b-c's, if you were able to pass the average
high school course, then you have sufficient talent for a

TO THE STUDENT 5

course in creative reading. Your progress will depend largely
upon your will to learn, the sincerity of your attack, and
your faithfulness in applying the underlying principles of
creative reading. Some students may have the ability to
go further than others as creative artists and as public per-
formers, but any student can succeed sufficiently to realize
the joy of interpreting literature for others and to appreci-
ate the value of such an ability in his education.

You will also find this work fundamental to all other
courses. The ability to read the meaning of the printed page
is fundamental in every educational pursuit. Your under-
standing and appreciation of history, mathematics, science,
and languages will be increased if you approach this subject
with a will to learn and with a will to master the prin-
ciples presented. The insight gained from interpreting life
through literature will illumine other hours than those de-
voted to the study of creative reading.

If you approach this study with the attitude of merely
"getting by," if you consider interpretative reading a "snap
course" and give to it last-minute preparation, or if, be-
cause the teacher encourages reading from the book, you
give no advance preparation but depend upon sight read-
ing or inspiration, this course will prove a drag. You will
become dissatisfied with the subject and uncomfortable
about your own performance. As Emerson says, "A man is
relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his work
and done his best, but that which he has done otherwise
shall give him no peace." Your success depends upon your
mental attitude and your energy in applying the principles
presented. It depends upon how determined you are to
get the benefits offered.

6 TO THE STUDENT

A public speaker once explained to a group of students
his conception of the difference between a genius and the
average person. We are sorry we do not know his name since
his idea is so fundamental to the art of interpretative read-
ing. He gave the key to accomplishment and to the sense
of well-being which comes with accomplishment. He said:
"There are just two ways in which a genius differs from the
average man. The genius gives his entire attention to the
thing of the moment; and he makes a quick transfer, with-
out wasted motion, from one task to another." Apply these
two principles to your college course of study: Try (1)
giving complete attention to the course before you and (2)
making a definite and immediate transfer from one course
to another. A former student admitted that while in the
class in interpretative reading he spent much of his time
thinking about the French class which met the next hour;
during the French class his mind kept wandering to his
English course and the fact that he had not prepared his
theme; during his study period when he was supposed to
be writing his theme, he thought of the girl he had a date
with for the next prom; and so on all day long his mind
roamed to something other than that which should have
held his attention at the moment.

Try for one day, or for one week, the technique of com-
plete concentration on the thing at hand and make quick
and immediate transfers "when the bell rings" for another
class or occupation. Your ability to concentrate will grow,
and your joy in each study will increase. Furthermore, this
technique will prove of value socially as well as scholasti-
cally. Complete concentration upon the activity of the mo-

TO THE STUDENT 7

ment is an excellent technique of living. It is conducive to
a stable and magnetic personality.

Another important element in accomplishment is faith —
faith in yourself, faith in others, and faith in the thing
which you are doing. Some students defeat themselves by
acquiring the mental attitude that others with more speech
training, more ability, or better clothes have an advantage
over them. These students complain that the class is not
equal in experience, ability, or training. Of course the stu-
dents in the class are not equal: they are all unequal because
their grandfathers were different; they are unequal because
their home environments were different. Each student in a
class is an individual. You cannot be exactly like, or equal
to, any other in the class; and who wants to be like or equal
to another person?

Consider further and see that there is equality of op-
portunity. You have just as many hours in the day as any
other student; it is the use you make of your time which
counts in accomplishment. You have equal access to the
library; it is the use you make of the library which is im-
portant to your development. You have equal opportunity
to learn from the teacher, from the other students, and
from the assignments; it is the use you make of these ad-
vantages which determines your progress.

Many students defeat themselves because they do not
believe that knowledge is power. Nowhere except in the
educational system do people think it is smart to pay for
a thing and then refuse to take it. In other phases of life
people pride themselves on getting more for their money.
Only in education do people pride themselves on "getting

8 TO THE STUDENT

by" without gaining the benefits. Knowledge is power. Skills
give advantage in life competitions. Habits of concentra-
tion and industry pay big dividends in the business of living.

Give these ideas a thorough test. Do not wait for inspira-
tion or until you "feel like it." When that time comes, go
to an appointed place and buckle down to work. Robert
Louis Stevenson said, "I go to my desk as a laborer goes to
his work, and I work at it." A laborer does not ask whether
he feels like it or not; he goes to work, and his interest
grows as he works. So it is with the creative writer; so it is
with the creative reader; so it is with the creative student.

As students you are urged to work at this course in oral
interpretation because of what it will do for you in life.
In his autobiography William Lyon Phelps discusses the
strange situation in the education which specializes in every-
thing except life. He states:

It is curious that many people believe in the importance of
what they call vocational and practical courses and regard the
study of great literature as merely ornamental, a pretty accomp-
lishment in seminaries for young ladies. As a matter of fact,
nothing is more essential in the proper furnishing of a man's
mind than a knowledge of the world's best literature. Literature
is the immortal part of history. Literature is the interpretation
of human life.1

A doctor once said, "If I were advising a pre-med student
I'd tell him to spend more time in the English and speech
departments. He will get his scientific training in medical
school. He needs an understanding of human beings and

1 Phelps, Op. cit., p. 308. By permission of the publishers.

TO THE STUDENT 9

how to deal with them such as he should gain from a study
of speech and literature. If he does not get this in his college
course he is likely never to get it and to be a poor doctor
because of it." Mr. Phelps supports this idea as follows:

I asked a successful engineer in Boston, a man who is at the
head of enterprises with scores of young engineers working un-
der him, this question: "What studies in college would you ad-
vise for one who intends to become a civil engineer?" He replied
without hesitation, "Anything so long as it has no connection
with engineering." He told me that those who came to him from
technical schools with no liberal education began at first to sur-
pass those who had studied literature and other general subjects.
But in a few years the truly "educational" young men went
ahead, because they had imagination, interesting minds, and a
knowledge of human nature.1

This book, Interpretative Reading, is offered to you as a
means by which you can learn more about life through the
study of literature. It suggests techniques through which
you may interpret the life depicted in literature and share
that interpretation with others. It suggests techniques by
which you may learn to think and to communicate thoughts
to others. These techniques are offered as a key to litera-
ture, to reading (silent and oral), to life itself. A student once
wrote on an examination paper at the conclusion of a course
in which these principles and methods were taught: "This
course teaches a student how to live; and I don't mean
exist. Here a student is taught character, life — a most im-
portant course stuck off in the corner of the curriculum.

1 Phelps, Loc. cit.

10 TO THE STUDENT

How many other subjects teach so much? This course should
be required of every student in this college. Trig, is re-
quired; chemistry is required. How much will the college
student need these when sorrow comes, when joy comes,
when life comes? We students need to know how to live."

SECTION I

TECHNIQUES

Chapter I

INTERPRETATIVE kEADING, A CREATIVE

PROCESS

There is creative reading as well as creative writing.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

There is a question in the minds of some teachers as to
whether ours is a creative or merely a recreative art. It is
our belief that interpretative reading is creative when the
reader follows the laws of the creative artist. The reader's
materials are the literature he chooses to interpret plus the
oral expression through which he reveals the author's mean-
ing. Professor F. M. Rarig states in an article in the Quar-
terly Journal of Speech:

Only in a limited sense is the oral reader a creative artist. The
writer has already done the work of observation, selection, and
organization. It remains for the reader to submit himself, with
all his powers of memory, imagination, and insight, to the au-
thor's organization as recorded in words.1

We shall do well to consider this point of view carefully.
Is it not, however, as true of the actor and the musician as
of the interpretative reader? The playwright has "already

1 F. M. Rarig, "Some Elementary Contributions of Aesthetics to In-
terpretative Speech," Quarterly Journal of Speech, Vol. 26, No. 4, p.
527-28. Reprinted by permission.

13

14 CREATIVE READING

done the work of observation, selection, and organization,"
and it remains for the actor "to submit himself, with all his
powers of memory, imagination, and insight" both to the
playwright's organization as recorded in words and often
to the interpretation of a director. Is the actor, then, not
to be considered a creative artist?

The musician, likewise, interprets the written symbols
which the composer has recorded in musical terms. Is the
musician who interprets what the composer has recorded
only in a limited sense then a creative artist? It is not our
purpose to present an argument as to the degree to which
an interpretative reader, an actor, or a musician is a crea-
tive artist but to present some of the creative elements in
the process of oral interpretation. Perhaps we may find unity
in the point of view that the interpretative reader is a crea-
tive artist to the degree to which he re-creates the author's
concepts in terms of living speech. Hiram Corson compares
the oral study of literature to the study of music:

How is the best response to the essential life of a poem to be
secured by the teacher from the student? I answer, by the fullest
interpretative vocal rendering of it. . . . Learning about po-
etry does not, of itself, avail any more, for poetical cultivation
than lecturing about music avails of itself, for musical cultiva-
tion.1

Since it is the function of all creative art to present truth
in forms which may be perceived by others, the interpreta-
tive reader may be said to read creatively when the content
of the printed page is so vividly re-created that it gives under-
standing to, and gains response from, an audience.

1 Hiram Corson, The Aims of Literary Study (New York: The Mac-
millan Company), pp. 99-102. By permission.

CREATIVE READING 15

INTERPRETATIVE READING, AN ART

It is the purpose of all art to convey an idea, a mood, a
concept. The value of a work of art is estimated largely by
its power to evoke a feeling or a response from others. This
response is in ratio to the clarity with which the interpreter
reveals his concept. This concept is sometimes referred to
as the spirit, or the essence, of the art. The spirit is the dis-
tinguishing feature of art: it is the quality which lifts crafts-
manship into the realm of art.

All art must have some medium through which this es-
sence is revealed. For sculpture there is marble, for music
there is tone, for literature there are words; and the marble,
the tones, the words are the materials with which the artists
express their concepts. The materials which the creative
reader uses are the literature which he selects to interpret,
and his voice and body, through which he conveys his con-
cept.

This concept which the interpretative reader expresses
is his own understanding of the author's meaning. His func-
tion, as has been pointed out, is that of re-creating, or giving
his interpretation of, the meaning of an author. The first
step, then, in creative reading is to find the meaning of
the author, and the second step is to reveal that meaning
through the spoken word. The reader's success will depend
partly upon his ability to understand, to re-create the con-
cept of an author, and partly upon his ability to reveal that
concept to an audience.

Interpretative reading as a fine art presupposes an artist.
An artist must not only have a concept and have material
through which this concept is to be revealed, but he must

16 CREATIVE READING

find a way of handling his material so that it may express
his concept. This way of handling his material is called
technique. Technique means simply the way or the method
an artist uses in handling his material. Technique is a means
to an end — not an end itself. The fundamental techniques
of all arts are the same. We submit in this textbook some of
the techniques of art and the means of applying them to the
art of interpretative reading.

Individuality in Art

An essential element of all art is individuality. There
must be the personal stamp of the individual artist. There
must be that subtle something by which his creation is
recognized as his own. There must be a unique quality
which suggests the artist's personality, that results from his
own individual thinking. No one can call himself an artist
if he simply copies others. This fact is as true of the crea-
tive reader as it is of the sculptor, the actor, the writer.

The recognition of the necessity for individuality in the
art of speech causes many readers, speakers, and even teach-
ers of speech to question the value of technique. The fear
of being imitative, artificial, affected causes many speakers
and readers to discard the ways (the techniques) of others
and to look for a way of their own.

Finding one's own way without the aid of instruction
from others who have achieved is likely to prove a hap-
hazard process, with a great deal of wasted time and energy.
There are, no doubt, some people of genius who find their
own way, unconscious of the means by which they achieve
success. Success without consciously following the experi-
ence of others is so unusual that it catches the imagination

ATTITUDES TOWARD TECHNIQUES 17

of the average person and causes him to overrate its signifi-
cance. Because the average person is so willing to be de-
ceived, the publicity department which has as its aim the
building of a "star" overnight will claim that this or that
actor leaped into fame by his own genius and brilliant per-
sonality when close examination of the facts will reveal a
totally different explanation.

It seems foolish for one to spend his time and energy and
run the risk of failure to find his own way when he can so
easily profit by the experience of others. A few lessons from
a good "pro" will enable one to learn techniques in golf
which improve his game more in a short time than many
times as much practice in finding his own way could im-
prove it. Sportsmen know well the value of techniques; so
in football, tennis, or boxing the aspirants heed eagerly the
ways which have been found successful and practice dili-
gently to make these techniques their own. Only after they
have mastered the ways of experts do they feel capable of
creating new ways of their own. They know that skill in-
volves mastery and that mastery calls for practice on a way
of doing a thing until that way becomes easy, habitual,
natural.

PREVALENT ATTITUDES TOWARD

TECHNIQUE IN INTERPRETATIVE

READING

There are two very definite attitudes concerning tech-
nique in the art of interpretative reading. One is that there
are definite techniques to be mastered with the meticulous
care with which a golfer learns his strokes, a musician mas-
ters five-finger exercises, or a dancer learns his steps. The

18 CREATIVE READING

adherents to this point of view claim that the techniques
of oral reading may be taught, just as the techniques of these
other arts are taught. They admit that the mastery of tech-
niques does not insure art, that as long as the reader's con-
centration is on his manner of reading he will be mechanical
and ineffective. They agree that oral reading is artistic only
when the spirit takes precedence over the form; yet they
believe that form is essential for artistry. This group usually
claim that the essence of art (that subtle something which
lifts craftsmanship into the realm of art) cannot be taught
but depends upon the inherent imagination, the talent,
the genius of the artist. They are likely to tell an aspirant
in any phase of art to master his form, promising him that
if he has any talent it will speak through the medium of his
carefully developed technique. In other words, they believe
in the two phases of art, skill and spirit. They believe that
the one can be taught and that the other cannot but that the
one which cannot be taught will be present to the degree
to which the individual possesses artistic ability.

The other attitude toward technique in the art of in-
terpretative reading is that form is born of spirit. The ad-
herents to this point of view believe in training students to
think and to feel and to allow the form (or technique) more
or less to take care of itself. They believe that emphasis upon
technique is likely to make one mechanical, or artificial.
They trust to thinking and feeling as means by which sincere
expression will be created. They too admit the two phases
of art, form and spirit, and they too believe that one can be
taught and the other cannot. They too believe that if one
of these essentials is taught the other will be present to the
degree to which the individual possesses artistic ability.

ATTITUDES TOWARD TECHNIQUES 19

One occasionally finds artistic readers from each of these
schools of thought. Genius frequently leaps over established
rules and finds its own form, unconsciously adhering to the
rules or creating in their places new forms. Those who are
opposed to teaching techniques of interpretative reading
can find examples of artists who are unconscious of the
means by which they have achieved their artistry. These
artists will no doubt say, "I just thought it" or "I just felt
it." These artists know of no techniques save thinking and
feeling the content of the printed page.

There are other artists, however, who will testify that
technique is a valuable means by which one may learn to
reveal the author's concept. They will tell you that the
mastery of technique insures the way and leaves the artist
free to concentrate on ideas and moods with confidence that
his way of revealing them will be adequate. To these artists
skill is a means and not an end, but to them the means is
important in gaining the end.

The Importance of the Whole

Is it not apparent that each of these points of view pos-
sesses some truth and that each leaves something to chance?
In the one, the thing of primary importance is left to chance;
and in the other, the means by which it is revealed is left to
haphazard methods. Is it not clear that these two points of
view may be harmonized and that the student may drill
upon a way of expressing an author's concept at the same
time that he is concentrating on the concept itself? Gestalt
psychology stresses the importance of the whole. That phi-
losophy of oral interpretation which stresses less than the
whole is inadequate. The whole of any art includes both

20 CREATIVE READING

form and spirit. The whole of the art of interpretative
reading involves the concept and the means by which that
concept is revealed to an audience. It is nature's way for
wholes to evolve as wholes. Little children are whole human
beings with the capacity to think, to feel, and to express
themselves. They develop in the use of language as they
think new thoughts and acquire the words through which
to express these thoughts. Skill in the use of the techniques
of interpretative reading and habits of concentrating on the
idea can both be acquired together. Artistry is a matter
of growth; it is not the acquisition of a few tricks, nor is its
revelation accidental or haphazard.

The First Essential in Interpretative Reading

Leland Powers, who advocated a very definite technique
of impersonation, also stressed what he called "mental
cause." l When asked his opinion of the importance of
imagination in reading, he replied that it was the first es-
sential. Stanislavski in his autobiography, My Life In Art,
urges the danger of mechanical drills and stresses the im-
portance of keeping words and thoughts close together in
developing a technique of acting.2 Thought and speech are
necessary each for the other. We cannot conceive of develop-
ing a language except as a result of thinking, nor can we con-
ceive of complex thinking except through the medium of
language.3 Facility in the use of language and facility in

1 Leland Powers, Talks on Expression (Boston: Thomas Groom and
Company, 1924), p. 8.

2 Constantin Stanislavski, My Life In Art (Boston: Little, Brown &
Co., 1938), p. 84.

3 Edward Sapir, Language (New York: Harcourt, Brace 2c Co., 1921),
p. 14.

ATTITUDES TOWARD TECHNIQUES 21

thinking depend each upon the other. As thought is an es-
sential in the use of language, imagination is the sine qua
non of creative reading.

Originality

One may learn much from the ways of others in in-
terpretative reading, just as in other arts, without losing his
individuality. Originality consists in the new slant given to
an old truth. If the reader depends upon his own creative
thinking to understand and to interpret an author's idea, his
reading will be individual. If he will digest the techniques
of others and then, as Kipling says, "draw the thing as he
sees it" his reading will be sincere, unaffected, and indivi-
dual. After one has mastered the ways of capable leaders,
he is then able to create new ways. One must live under the
law before he attempts to be above the law. Only by accept-
ing the rich heritage left by others can one develop under-
standing and insight for the creation of new and better ways.

The Natural Versus the Habitual

"But," says the student, "I feel awkward and unnatural
when I attempt to do a thing someone else's way." That
is true. There are two fundamental principles involved in
this answer. One always feels awkward and unnatural the
first time he attempts to do something a new way. Only by
continued practice does he reach the place where the new
way becomes the old way, the easy way, the seemingly
natural way. Do you suppose the student of violin felt
natural the first time he held the bow? Do you think he
would have become a greater musician if, in the beginning,

22 CREATIVE READING

he had held the bow his own way instead of the way of
Heifetz, Kreisler or Mischa Elman? Do not confuse the
natural way with the habitual way. The natural way is the
way which follows the laws of nature, the way which when
mastered will prove easy and effective. One may be in the
habit of doino things in an awkward manner which is in
opposition to the laws of nature but which seems to him
natural because it is habitual.

Self-Discipline Essential

The other fundamental principle involved in the answer
to the student who wishes in the beginning to disregard the
techniques of others, can best be expressed through another
law of Gestalt psychology, an organism resists the outside
forces which disturb it. It is natural for us to resist other
people's ways of doing things. The stronger your character
the more tempted you will be to make such an excuse. Art
calls for self-mastery. If you would be strong, efficient, ef-
fective in any line of work you must learn early the lesson
that he who would rule others must first rule himself.

It falls within the purpose of this book to set forth some
of the techniques others have found helpful in mastering
the art of interpretative reading. The term creative reading
is frequently used because that reading which is really ef-
fective possesses the essentials of a creative art. The creative
reader interprets the author: that is, the reader gives his
own understanding of the author's words and creates the
form of expression which will give that understanding to
others. In creative reading the student must rely upon his
own thinking, his own understanding, his own individual

ATTITUDES TOWARD TECHNIQUES 23

way of speaking the thoughts and the words of the author.
The student's own way will be evolved as he follows the
ways of others until he is sufficiently master of himself and
his art to create his own way.

THE SCOPE OF INTERPRETATIVE READING

All of the techniques of interpretative reading cannot
be set down in a single textbook. The student should not
limit his own way by depending solely upon one author,
one teacher, or one method as his guide. He should be con-
stantly on the alert for new ways, new ideas, new attitudes
which will give him understanding, fresh attacks, clearer
insight into the art of interpretation. These ways may be
obtained from various sources such as life, literature, the
stage; books on the technique of oral reading, speech, or
acting; discussions of the techniques of all other arts ad in-
finitum.

Literature is an interpretation of life. Creative reading is
an interpretation of literature. So the creative reader is
really an interpreter of life through the medium of litera-
ture. If he is to interpret literature adequately he must un-
derstand the life which that literature interprets as well as
the ways by which it may be revealed through the spoken
word.

Knowledge and skill are the two essentials which the in-
terpretative reader must acquire. Knowledge is the basis
upon which skill is developed. Skill is developed through
practice. The old adage "practice makes perfect" is inade-
quate; careless practice, thoughtless practice, practice of
faulty methods will lead the student away from perfection.

24 CREATIVE READING

Only practice under intelligent guidance will lead the stu-
dent toward perfection. If the reader is to become skillful
in influencing the thinking of audiences, if he is to become
a creative artist, he must rely upon his own intelligence as
a guide in his practice — his own intelligence, enriched by
the experience of others, fed by the knowledge and under-
standing of the ways others have found successful.

Let the student of interpretative reading be a student in
the highest sense of the word; let him study for understand-
ing and let him practice for perfection upon the basis of
that understanding. Perhaps the student of interpretative
reading will feel toward perfection as the little girl did who
read in the Bible, "Be ye perfect." She asked her father why
such a command was given when Jesus surely knew a human
being could not be perfect. The wise father answered, "Yes,
my child, but we must not be satisfied with less than perfec-
tion. That is an ideal toward which we must aim." Butcher
points out:

The fundamental thought in Aristotle's philosophy is Be-
coming, not Being . . . Becoming to him meant a process of
development, an unfolding of what is already in the germ, an
upward ascent ending in Being, which is the highest object of
Knowledge.1

The very fact that the ideal cannot be completely attained
is a challenge to the creative reader. As Browning says,
"Man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven
for?" The interpretative reader will continually reach up-
ward and outward toward the goal of understanding litera-

1 Samuel Henry Butcher, Aristotle's Theory of Poetry and Fine Art
(London 8c New York: Macmillan Company, 1898), p. 159. By per-
mission of the publishers.

ATTITUDES TOWARD TECHNIQUES 25

ture and perfecting his skill in conveying that understand-
ing. He will keep ever before him the vision of the ideal
as he studies for understanding and guides his practice by

that understanding.

Chapter II

TECHNIQUE OF THINKING FOR INTER-
PRETATIVE READING

The most important step toward getting mental
power is the acquisition of a right method in work.

George IV. Eliot

The dictionary suggests the idea of thought in reading
by the definitions of the word itself: "to go over understand-
ing^ with or without utterance; to discern by observation
of signs." The signs for reading are the words, the letters,
or as Woolbert puts it, "the marks on the page." * The
reader discerns the meaning of these signs; he thinks the
meaning of the words; so reading is a process of thinking.

The definition above suggests two kinds of reading, silent
and oral. Silent reading may be defined as the process of
perceiving the thought of the printed page. One reads to
find the meaning of the written word. A child when re-
buked for reading her mother's letter said, "The world isn't
a secret, is it?" To that child readinq- was a means of find-
inq out more about the world in which she lived. She un-
derstood the significance of the word reading better than
many students who say, "I've read over my lesson three times
and still do not have any idea what it is about." Now, has

1 Woolbert and Smith, The Fundamentals of Speech (New York k
London: Harper and brothers, 1927), p. 380. Reprinted by permis-
sion of Harper and Brothers.

2G

SENSATION AND IMAGINATION 27

the student in this case read at all? He will readily admit
that while his eye followed the lines of the page his mind was
on something else. What a foolish waste of time! If instead
of reading over the lesson three times he had read it once,
he would have known something about it, for reading is a
process of understanding, of discerning, or of perceiving
the meaning. It is a process of thinking.

Since silent reading is a process of thinking that which is
suggested by the written word, oral reading may be defined
as a process of thinking aloud. The purpose of silent read-
ing is to get ideas; the purpose of oral reading is to share
ideas. In silent reading there is the process of perceiving
thought; in oral reading there is the dual process of perceiv-
ing the thought and of revealing the thought through the
spoken word.

Andrew T. Weaver points out that "all reading begins
with oral reading." 1 This is true in the history of mankind
as well as of each individual. Language was first spoken;
writing was developed to record the spoken word. Children
learn to read by recognizing the printed symbols and speak-
ing the words they represent. The modern method of teach-
ing children to read recognizes two fundamental techniques
of reading which train the child to think the meaning in-
stead of mere words. These techniques are (1) to read by
phrases (the units of thought) and (2) to look off the page
while speaking the words. Thus thought reading has taken
precedence over word calling even in the primary grade.
Instead of reading, "I — see — a — cat," pointing out each

1 Andrew Thomas Weaver, Speech Forms and Principles (New
York, London, & Toronto: Longmans, Green and Co., Inc., 1942), p.
130. By permission of the publishers.

28 TECHNIQUE OF THINKING

word as he speaks it, the modern child looks at the page,
then looks off and says, "I see a cat."

DENOTATIVE AND CONNOTATIVE
MEANING

Words have two types of meaning, both of which are
essential for adequate thinking. There is the logical mean-
ing which one finds recorded in a dictionary definition.
This type of meaning is known as denotative meaning. The
dictionary defines the word denotation as "a sign, an in-
dication, a designation." The word denote is defined "to
mark out plainly, to indicate, to signify." When one comes
across an unfamiliar word in his readings he should find
the meaning, but his understanding and thinking of the
word is, at first, limited to the denotative meaning.

The other type of meaning is known as connotative, which
is associative and emotional in character. The dictionary
defines connotative as "implying something additional."
Experience in the use of a word gives one something addi-
tional, something in one's memory which is connected with
the word, something suggested or implied by the word. The
connotation of a word is quite as important and more mean-
ingful to the individual than the denotation. The word
home for example suggests emotional associations which
give something personal, something meaningful, some-
thing additional.

As we have already seen, speaking and thinking are closely
allied. Each is both a cause and a result of the other. When
in oral reading the speaker thinks the idea as he speaks it,
he is very likely to convey the meaning. In much of what

SENSATION AND IMAGINATION 29

is called oral reading the speaker repeats words with little
concentration on their meaning. Too many oral readers
do as Hamlet said: they read "Words, words, words," in-
stead of thoughts, ideas, concepts. It is significant that when
the reader concentrates upon the idea, the concentration
of the audience is held there also. When the reader calls
the words, with his thought elsewhere, it is difficult for the
audience to get the meaning, hence the minds of the hearers
wander.

People generally read more poorly than they speak. The
average person's speech may be direct, sincere, unaffected,
spontaneous, earnest, interesting, and convincing because
he thinks of speech as a means of communicating ideas.
When a person's thoughts are clear to himself and when
he desires to impart them to others, his speech is almost sure
to have elements of effectiveness. Oral reading, however,
is often artificial, monotonous, stumbling, uninteresting,
and unconvincing because the concentration of the reader
is not upon ideas and his desire to communicate them. The
reader's concentration may be upon the performance, mem-
ory, or upon his own inadequacy. He may have confidence
in his ability to communicate through speech, and yet lack
that confidence in reading. His thinking and his speaking
may be closely allied when he is "just talking," yet his think-
ing when reading may be far from the ideas he is supposed to
be communicating.

It is the ideal of the interpretative reader to keep thought
and speech as closely allied in reading as they are in effective
speaking. In cultivating the habit of giving the type of read-
ing which is a process of thinking, the student usually needs
more instruction than the mere "think it." He needs a

30 TECHNIQUE OF THINKING

means by which he may know that he is thinking; he needs
a technique of thinking.

A TECHNIQUE OF THINKING

Though the instruction, "Think the author's thought,"
may have proved sufficient advice for a few readers who
were not self-conscious when reading aloud, and in whose
experience the habit of thoughtless or mechanical reading
had not been acquired, too often the reading of words with
little or no realization of their significance has become
habitual. The interpretative reader must find a way of
thinking which will enable him to be sure he thinks the
author's meaning, not merely his words. The creative reader
must have a technique of thinking as a basis for his habit
of thinking.

',->•

Sensation and Imagination

Someone has said that common sense is merely thinking
with one's senses. That which one sees, hears, smells, touches,
or tastes forms the basis for one's concepts. Sensation comes
from that which is present to the senses. Imagination is the
means by which one perceives that which is not present to
the senses. Creative thinking is sometimes defined as the
recombination in thought of that which has been perceived
through the senses.1 The creative reader perceives the
meaning which the author describes by recombining sensa-
tions in his experience through the process of imagination.
Concerning the significance of experience in reading Ker-
foot says,

1 Knight Dunlap, Elements of Psychology (St. Louis: C. V. Mosby
Company, 1936), p. 290.

SENSATION AND IMAGINATION 31

If there is one fact that we have grown thoroughly to under-
stand and accept, it is the fact that we have nothing to read with
except our own experience, — the seeing and hearing, the smell-
ing and tasting and touching that we have done; the fearing and
hating, and hoping and loving that has appeared in us; the
intellectual and spiritual reactions that have resulted, and the
assumptions, understandings, prejudices, hypocrisies, fervors,
foolishnesses, finenesses, and faiths that have thereby been pre-
cipitated in us like crystals in a chemist's tube.1

The technique of thinking that we suggest for inter-
pretative reading is that the student shall imagine he is
experiencing with his senses the sights, sounds, odors, fla-
vors, movements suggested by the author's words at the very
moment he is speaking the words. This way of thinking
when practiced sufficiently will become a habit of thinking.
This habit of thinking will keep words and their signifi-
cance so close together that the student will soon find him-
self in possession of that subtle something which commands
the interest and attention of his audience. Abbe Dimnet
says, "The most of our mental operations are inseparable
from images or are produced by images."

Louise Dudley in her provocative book, The Study of
Literature, says, "If an artist cannot hold his images long
enough to externalize them, we do not know that he had
them." 2 She is referring to the writer, but her words are
equally applicable to the interpretative reader. Many a
reader fails to communicate meaning because the images
are not held long enough for him to externalize them, thus

1 J. B. Kerfoot, How to Read (Boston & New York: Houghton
Mifflin Company, 1916). By permission of the publishers.

2 Louise Dudley, The Study of Literature (New York: Houghton
Mifflin Company, 1928), p. 60. By permission of the publishers.

32 TECHNIQUE OF THINKING

projecting them to the audience. Concerning this matter
Miss Dudley says further,

The clearness and fidelity of an author's images . . . are mir-
rored in his work. If the author does not have a clear or faithful
image himself, he cannot leave a clear or faithful image in the
mind of the reader. And since an author is remembered by the
images he creates in the minds of others, the clearness and fidel-
ity of his own images are vital to his life as an author.1

The interpretative reader is, likewise, remembered by
the images he creates in the minds of others. When the
reader creates in the imagination the mental images de-
scribed by the author, the reader may then know that he is
thinking the essence of the author's thought, and that he
has a chance of projecting that essence to the audience.
When he reads the author's words, creating in the ima^ina-
tion the sensations suggested by the words, he may be said
to be projecting ideas and not to be reading merely words.
He will then have a technique of thinking which will result
in stimulating the thinking of the hearers.

STUDIES IN IMAGERY

Sight Images

o o

The sense of sight is usually considered the strongest
sense. To develop the habit of thinking with the senses it
is perhaps best to begin with the sense of sight. As a first
step in externalizing the mental image, practice reading
poems and passages of prose which depend largely upon
sight images. As you read create in the imagination the sight
images suggested by the words. Lift your eyes from the book

1 Dudley, Loc. cit.

SENSE IMAGES 33

and picture on the back wall of the room the mental pictures
which the words convey. Do not allow yourself to speak a
phrase until you have created the mental picture suggested
by that phrase. Do not rush; take all the time you need to
£et the thought from the words and to create the mental
pictures with your eyes off the book. Concentrate on the
mental picture as you read. "I Wandered Lonely As a
Cloud," by William Wordsworth.

Place the book before you on a table or desk. Sit in a
comfortable position with the arms resting on the desk and
with one or both hands holding the book at an easy angle
for reading. Read at a glance the words of the author's first
idea, then look off the book and imagine you see a cloud
floating slowly in the sky. Concentrate on the mental pic-
ture of the cloud as you read:

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills.

Glance down at the book, read the next idea silently, then
look up and when you have created the mental picture read:

When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils.

Continue the process of getting the idea at a glance and
then looking off immediately to see the mental picture as
you speak the words which describe it.

Be sure you exert the self-command needed to shut every-
thing else out of your mind except the mental picture sug-
gested by the author's lines. Do not say a single word with
the eyes on the book. Hold the mental picture until you
have completed the words which describe it, then look

34 TECHNIQUE OF THINKING

down at the page for the next idea. Do not worry if the
periods of silence seem long. Take plenty of time to get
the thought and to see the mental picture before and during
the process of speaking.

Re-read the poem in this manner many times. As you
become familiar with the lines do not allow yourself to be-
come careless with your technique of thinking. Practice
until you can read the entire poem with facility in this
manner. In practicing for a single classroom recitation vou
should become sufficiently master of yourself and of the
author's thought to center your attention completely upon
one idea at a time, shutting everything else out of your
mind but the one mental picture and the words which con-
vey it. When you can concentrate with sufficient mastery
to receive each idea from the printed page at a glance and
then look off and with sight imagery repeat the words ac-
curately and easily, and when you can go from one mental
picture to another without a break in coherent thinking,
you are then ready to try this experiment before the class.
Students report that it is easier to concentrate in practice
than before a class. A severe test in creative oral reading;
is met when you can concentrate as completely before an
audience as you can when alone.

I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD
William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

SENSE IMAGES 35

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company.

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought;

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

Read the following passages with the same type of con-
centration on sight images.

OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT

Percy Bysslie Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;

36 TECHNIQUE OF THINKING

And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

From THE DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII

Edward Bulwer-Lytton

Suddenly the eyes of the crowd in the amphitheatre beheld,
with ineffable dismay, a vast vapor shooting from its summit in
the form of a gigantic pine-tree; the trunk, blackness, — the
branches, fire — a fire that shifted and wavered in its hues with
every moment, now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying
red, that again blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare!

From THE FIRST SNOW-FALL

James Russell Lowell

The snow had begun in the gloaming,

And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway

With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,

And the sudden flurries of snow-birds
Like brown leaves whirling by.

AUDITORY IMAGES 37

From PSALM XIX

The heavens declare the glory of God;

And the firmament sheweth his handiwork.

Day unto day uttereth speech,

And night unto night sheweth knowledge.

Auditory Im ages

The following passages illustrating auditory images can
be as vividly sensed as any visual image. See if you can hear
in the imagination the auditory images as you saw the
visual images. Take plenty of time for each sound to be-
come vividly manifest before you read the lines that describe
it, then continue the attitude of listening as you continue
to read.

From A CHILD'S LAUGHTER

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Sweeter far than all things heard,
Hand of harper, tone of bird,
Sound of woods at sundawn stirred,
Welling water's winsome word,
Wind in warm, wan weather —

Soft and strong and loud and light —
Very sound of very light
Heard from morning's rosiest height —
When the soul of all delight
Fills a child's clear laughter.

If the golden-crested wren
Were a nightingale — why, then
Something seen and heard of men
Might be half as sweet as when
Laughs a child of seven.

38 TECHNIQUE OF THINKING

From TO PERDITA, SINGING

James Russell Lowell

Thy voice is like a fountain,

Leaping up in clear moonshine;
Silver, silver, ever mounting,
Ever singing,
Without thinking,
To that brimful heart of thine.
Every sad and happy feeling,
Thou hast had in bygone years,
Through thy lips comes stealing, stealing,

Clear and low;
All thy smiles and all thy tears
In thy voice awaken,
And sweetness wove of joy and woe,
From thy teaching it hath taken:
Feeling and music move together,
Like a swan and shadow ever
Floating on a sky-blue river
In a day of cloudless weather.

From JOURNEY FOR MARGARET i

W. L. White

At first I think the noise may be only a dream. Then all at
once I know it isn't. To the north and coming nearer, quite a
way off still, but distinct, the desynchronized motors of a Hein-
kel, droning like a couple of bumble bees; I hear Margaret stir
in bed!

1 W. L. White, Journey for Margaret (New York: Harcourt, Brace
and Company, 1941), p. 73. By permission of the publishers.

AUDITORY IMAGES 39

Nearer now, but not loud. Coming down to us from twenty
thousand. A noise you would never notice at night in America.
Only in London, your ears can pick out that muffled hum
through walls. Margaret moans in her sleep. Will it pass over
us? It sounds that way, unless it alters course. If they meant to
drop something on us, they would unload about half a minute
before they got directly overhead. But then it would take
roughly half a minute to drop from twenty thousand. If it is
going to land close, the explosion will come when the sound
of the motors is directly above. Margaret moans again. She sits
up.

From A TEXAN IN ENGLAND *

/. Frank Dobie

It is as dark as the inside of a cow here in the city of Cam-
bridge. The fog comes up from the fens, they say — the fens
that the Romans were building a road across two thousand
years ago. But the dark never gets heavy enough to keep people
inside. I step out on the street and, except in the puddle of
light made by my own flashlight, I can distinguish nothing.

But it is not lights or absence of lights in the darkness that
strikes one! It is the sounds from human feet and human voices.
Especially feet. Boots, boots, boots, marching all together. I
linger to let five or six voices and pairs of feet, pass me. They are
out in the middle of the narrow street, keeping step and keep-
ing time. The voices and the firm but lightsome foot-plantings
are of young women. They are singing a song with sadness in
it — the only kind of love songs that ever were or ever will be
beautiful. From the step, step, step, and from half a glimpse of
a swinging arm as the voices pass me, I know that they belong

1 J. Frank Dobie, A Texan in England (Boston: Little, Brown and
Company, 1945), p. 75. By permission of the publishers.

40 TECHNIQUE OF THINKING

to military women. There are other foot sounds without voices.
Many of them. Some timid and groping, most of them direct.
There are voices now and then that seem to be without feet.
The Americans sometimes have louder voices, not always. Pass-
ing the mouth of a side street, I hear down it in the direction of
the Red Lion, not far from the Blue Bear, "Where the Deer
and the Antelope Play."

Olfactory Images

Kipling says, "Smells are surer than sounds or sights to
make your heartstrings crack." A soldier returning from
I wo Jima during World War II said he might forget the
sights and sounds of war, but he would never forget the
stench of the beaches. His spirit quailed at that horrible
odor. It took all the moral courage he could muster to 2:0
through it, and the memory seemed almost as vivid as the
experience.

From THE ROMANCE OF A BUSY BROKER1

O. Henry

And through the window came a wandering — perhaps a lost
— odor — a delicate, sweet odor of lilac that fixed the broker
for a moment immovable. For this odor belonged to Miss
Leslie; it was her own, and hers only.

The odor brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him.
The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she
was in the next room — twenty steps away.

1 From The Four Million, by O. Henry, copyright, 1905, 1933, by
Doublcclay, Doran and Company, Inc. By permission of the publishers.

OLFACTORY IMAGES 41

From THE MOON AND SIXPENCE 1

W. Somerset Maugham

When Dr. Coutras arrived at the plantation he was seized
with a feeling of uneasiness. As he opened the door he smelt
the sickly, sweet smell which makes the neighborhood of the
leper nauseous. He stepped in. The stench that assailed him
turned him horribly sick. He put his handkerchief to his nose
and forced himself to go in.

From MACBETH

Shakespeare

Here's the smell of the blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia
will not sweeten this little hand.

Gustatory Images

From A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG

Charles Lamb

There is no flavor comparable, I will contend, to that of the
crisp, tawny, well-watched, not over-roasted, crackling, as it is
well called — the very teeth are invited to their share of the pleas-
ure at this banquet in overcoming the coy, brittle resistance —
with the adhesive oleaginous — O call it not fat — but an indefin-
able sweetness growing up to it — the tender blossoming of fat —
fat cropped in the bud — taken in the shoot — in the first inno-
cence— the cream and quintessence of the child-pig's yet pure

1 W. Somerset Maugham, The Moon and Sixpence (Grosset and
Dunlap, by arrangement with George H. Doran Company, 1919),
pp. 296-299. By permission of the publishers.

42 TECHNIQUE OF THINKING

food — the lean, not lean, but a kind of animal inanna — or,
rather, fat and lean (if it must be so) so blended and running
into each other, that both together make but one ambrosian
result, or common substance.

From A PECULIAR TREASURE 1

Edna Ferber

The pantry was as fragrant as a garden with spices and fruit
scents and the melting delectable perfume of brown freshly
baked dough, sugar-coated. There was one giant platter de-
voted wholly to round plump cakes with puffy edges, in the
center of each a sunken pool that was pure plum, bearing on
its bosom a snowy sifting of powrdered sugar. There were others
whose centers were apricot, molten gold in the sunlight. There
were speckled expanses of cheese kuchen, the golden-brown
surface showing rich cracks through which one caught glimpses
of the lemon-yellow cheese beneath. There were cakes with
jelly; cinnamon kuchen, and cunning cakes with almond slices
nestling side by side. And there was freshly baked bread; twisted
loaf with poppy seed freckling its braid, its sides glistening with
the butter that had been swabbed on just before it had been
thrust into the oven.

Fanny Brandeis gazed, hypnotized. As she gazed, Bella se-
lected a plum tart and bit into it — bit generously, so that her
white little teeth met in the very middle of the oozing, red-
brown juice and one heard a little squish as they closed on the
luscious fruit.

Tactile Images

Images of touch are also significant for the interpretative

1 Edna Ferber, A Peculiar Treasure (New York: Doublcday, Doran
and Company, Inc., 1939), p. 81. By permission of the author.

TACTILE IMAGES 43

reader's technique of thinking. How vivid is your sense
image of the touch of velvet to your face, of sand under your
foot, or a rough wall to your finger tips? Literature gives
abundant material for the development of sensitivity to
tactile images.

From HOW GREEN WAS MY VALLEY *

Richard Llewellyn

There is strange, and yet not strange, is the kiss. It is strange
because it mixes silliness with tragedy, and, yet not strange be-
cause there is good reason for it. There is shaking by the hand.
That should be enough. Yet a shaking of hands is not enough to
give a vent to all kinds of feeling. The hand is too hard and too
used to doing all things, with too little feeling and too far from
the organs of taste and smell, and far from the brain, and the
length of an arm from the heart. To rub a nose like the blacks,
that we think is so silly, is better, but there is nothing good to
taste about the nose, only a piece of old bone pushing out of the
face, and a nuisance in winter, but a friend before meals and in
a garden, indeed. With the eyes we can do nothing, for if we
come too near, they go crossed and everything comes twice to
the sight without good from one or other.

There is nothing to be done with the ear, so back we come to
the mouth, and we kiss with the mouth because it is part of the
head and of the organs of taste and smell. It is temple of the
voice, keeper of breath and its giving out, treasurer of tastes and
succulences, and home of the noble tongue. And its portals are
firm, yet soft, with a warmth, of a ripeness, unlike the rest of the
face, rosy, and in women with a crinkling red tenderness, to the

1 From How Green Was My Valley by Richard Llewellyn, copy-
right, 1940, by The Macmillan Company, New York. By permission
of the publishers.

44 TECHNIQUE OF THINKING

taste not in compare with the wild strawberry, yet if the taste
of kisses went, and strawberries came the year round, half of
joy would be gone from the world. There is no wonder to me
that we kiss, for when mouth comes to mouth, in all its silliness,
breath joins breath, and taste joins taste, warmth is enwarmed,
and tongues commune in a soundless language, and those things
are said that cannot find a shape, have a name, or know a life
in the pitiful faults of speech.

From JANE EYRE
Charlotte Bronte
A figure came out into the twilight and stood on the step; a
man without a hat: he stretched forth his hand as if to feel
whether it rained. ... He descended the one step and ad-
vanced slowly and gropingly towards the grass-plot. He stretched
forth his right hand; he seemed to wish by touch to gain an idea
of what lay around him: he met but vacancy still; for the trees
were some yards off where he stood. He relinquished the en-
deavor, folded his arms, and stood quiet and mute in the rain,
now falling fast on his uncovered head.

From THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM

Edgar Allan Foe

My outstretched hands at length encountered some solid ob-
struction. It was a wall, seemingly of stone masonry— very
smooth, slimy, and cold. . . .

Forth from the well hurried the rats in fresh troops, and
leaped in hundreds upon my person. The measured movement
of the pendulum disturbed them not at all. Avoiding its strokes,
they pressed, they swarmed upon me in ever accumulating
heaps. They writhed upon my throat; their cold lips sought my
own; I was half stifled by their thronging pressure. With more
than human resolution 1 lay still.

TACTILE IMAGES 45

Mental Imagery, like other techniques in this textbook,
is not a habit one masters and then discards. It will prove
helpful as the first step in thinking the author's meaning,
and as a means of reviving spontaneity no matter how often
one may speak the words. The psychologist, David Seabury,
says:

Mental imagery may seem fantastic and unreal, as queer as
some of the difficulties to which it is applied; but it works.
Image-making, used regularly and conscientiously, is a success-
ful method of creating new habits after the old habits have
been understood and there is a wish to discard them. It is, of
course, a form of autosuggestion, but it goes deeper because it
follows the psychological principle that the will obeys a picture,
not words, that the person making the mental image must ex-
perience the new activity, not merely verbalize about it. It is
based upon our idea that thoughts and ideas born in con-
sciousness are later lodged permanently in the unconscious
depths from which they will influence the mental state and the
activities of the individual.1

1 David Seabury, What Makes Us So Queer (New York: McGraw-
Hill Book Company, Inc., 1934), pp. 326-27. By permission of the pub-
lishers.

Chapter III

BODILY ACTION IN INTERPRETATIVE

READING

The idea underlying, as in all art, must be the basis
also in the art of movement.1

Romola Nijinsky

The interpretative reader is first seen and then heard.
The posture, bearing and general bodily attitude convey
impressions which aid or detract from the communication.
Sometimes one can overcome a false first impression, but a
good start is important to the listener. A good beginning is
also important to the reader. The interpretative reader's
bearing has an influence on his own thinking. It may aid or
hinder concentration. It may give confidence and a sense of
freedom or it may rob one of confidence and give a feeling
of restriction.

A student who had built a fear of audiences had not read
in public since the time she left the platform crying when
as a child her teacher insisted upon a public recitation even
though the child thought her piece was not sufficiently
memorized. Her college teacher recognized that she needed
successful experience before an audience to overcome this
fear. The teacher said, "Go before the audience with the
physical bearing of confidence. Stand poised for a moment

1 Romolo Nijinsky, Nijinsky (New York: Simon and Schuster, Inc.,
1(J34), p. 149. By permission of the publishers.

40

RELATION TO AUDIENCE 47

looking into the eyes of your audience. Think of sharing
your story with friends as you read." The student followed
the instructions and experienced the exhilaration one feels
when fear has been conquered.

Physical directness is recognized as important in public
speaking. It is also important in interpretative reading.
There is something about looking directly into the eyes of
others that gives confidence. It also gives the listener con-
fidence in the reader. Sometimes students of interpretative
reading become too indirect as a result of work on offstage
imagery. We should realize that there are times when a
reader should look directly into the eyes of the audience
and times when he should look just above them. It is not
easy to say when a reader should be direct and when in-
direct. It depends in part upon the material. Poetry is said
to be written to be overheard. Poetry is often too deeply
personal to be shared with directness. The audience will
concentrate with more freedom if the reader looks away, yet
the reader must not lose a sense of communication, a sense
of sharing images, attitudes, moods with the audience.

We like the term mediate to describe the reader's relation
to the audience. The public speaker may be direct; he talks
to the audience. The actor and impersonator are indirect;
they perform for the audience. The interpretative reader
may at times seem direct, at other times indirect but should
always seem to be sharing experiences with the audience;
he is a mediator between the material and the audience; he
should keep a mediate relationship with the audience. The
ideal is for the reader's technique always to be so subtle that
the audience is not aware of what he is doing. Slight differ-
ences in bodily participation mean a great deal in interpre-

48 BODILY ACTION

tative reading. If the interpreter looks too high above the
audience they may be disturbed by it. This error is easy to
make if one is on a high platform or is too literal in locating
the imagined scene.

Interpretative reading is a suggestive art. It reaches high
levels when movements are subtle and suggestive rather

uu

than broad and literal. The interpreter's purpose is to do
something with the audience, to cause them to imagine, to
see, to feel. It is his purpose to innoculate, as it were, the
imagination of the audience. Amateur and often profes-
sional interpreters sometimes try to do too much for the
audience, literally demonstrating every idea. The audience
is then distracted from the meaning; of the literature to the
behaviour of the reader. Bodily action in interpretative
reading is most effective when the audience is least aware of
it as such. S. S. Curry emphasized this idea when he said
that the higher the art the more manifestative and the less
representative the action. Charles Wesley Emerson said that
a quiver of a muscle might convey more than violent ges-
ticulation. Sarett and Foster give as a principle of effective
speaking, "Impressions of the speaker are derived largely
from sig;ns of which the audience are unaware." *

The idea that the interpreter should do nothing which
takes from the imaginative vision of the audience has caused
some people to conclude that gestures should be eliminated
altogether from interpretative reading. This attitude toward
gestures may result in a rigidity which calls as much atten-
tion to itself as too much movement. In-action may seem as
unnatural as exaggerated actions.

1 Lew Sarett, W. T. Foster, Basic Principles of Speech (Boston:
Houghton Mifflin Company, 1936), p. 22. By permission of the pub-
lishers.

MOTOR IMAGERY 49

Posture

A sense of uplift in the torso is the key to good posture.
It gives strength at the center of the body where tones are
supported and allows freedom of movement elsewhere. In
a town hall lecture John Mason Brown suggested that the
talent of an actress may be measured by the distance from
the hip bone to the first rib. This cryptic remark reveals a
subtle understanding of the importance of good posture.
John Robert Powers says the hips should be tucked up un-
der the torso for a pelvic tilt which takes the strain off of the
back and gives a straight vertical line to the figure. As a test
of good posture one may stand with the back to the wall
touching heels, hips, shoulders, and head and attempting to
touch the wall with the small of the back. The weight should
be on the balls of the feet and the knees slightly bent. The
attempt to touch the wall with the back helps to flatten the
stomach. A good rule for posture is to stand tall and sit tall.

Motor Imagery

Sense imagery proves a wonderful help in solving the *
problems of bodily action. Sense imagery is not limited to
the traditional five senses. Modern psychologists place no
boundary on the number and types of images. One senses
physical activity through the muscles. The same muscles are
used in an emotional struggle as in a physical fight. When
one recalls physical actions his muscles tend to move in a
manner similar to that which characterized the original
action. The more vivid one's image of action, the more re-
sponse he may experience in the muscles. For example, the
clearer one's image of himself running, dancing, swimming

50 BODILY ACTION

the more movement he senses in his legs, arms, and torso.
This participation of the muscles is called motor imagery.
Motor memory is said to be the strongest memory. One does
not forget how to swim, dance, or knit.

It is through the body that we experience reality. No
technique of interpretative reading is more natural than
motor imagery, which is virtually thinking with the mus-
cles. It is the way a child thinks. Observe a child as he tells
of an experience, how his muscles participate in the recall
of actions. Even the most reserved adult, when asked about
certain vivid experiences such as a car wreck will respond
freely with broad overt actions as he describes it. Perhaps
this is what Demosthenes meant when he said, "Oratory is
action, action, action." The language of literature is the
language of action. Richard Boleslavski says, "A verb is
action in itself." Kerfoot emphasizes that even silent read-
ing is an active process and says, "Alertness, then, is the first
requisite for a reader . . . and a mental readiness to act." x

Just as in silent reading the page disappears as the reader
creates in his imagination the scenes suggested by the words
so, in interpretative reading the reader should disappear as
the audience creates in the imagination the scenes suggested
by the spoken words. If the reader is gradually to disappear
from the consciousness of the audience he must do nothing
which takes from the mental vision of the audience. For
this reason a mere suq-orestion of an action is more effective
than literal and complete action. The image of an action
serves a better purpose than a complete copy of the action.
The reader's purpose is to suggest an action to the imagina-

1 J. B. Kerfoot, How To Read (Boston, Houghton Mifflin Company,
1916), p. 73. By permission of the publishers.

MOTOR IMAGERY 51

tion of the audience. In other words, in interpretative read-
ing covert action is of more value than overt action. The
image of action results not only in subtle communicative
actions but in meaningful tones, inflections and rhythms
which suggest actions to the listener. That is why people
experienced in radio sometimes recommend free bodily ac-
tions for the radio speaker. The radio listener cannot see
actions but they can hear them.

Roland Hayes emphasized the value of bodily action in
singing and goes on to say:

In transactions with untamed life, my father made an offer-
ing of his whole nature. When he called a deer, he was a buck
himself. It is perfectly clear to me now that he opened the way
for me to become a musician by showing me how to offer my
body, in imitation of him, to receive the music which he taught
me to discover in the natural world. I learned from my father
how the body follows the imagination. If singing is to be a
really imaginative art it must give off, on each occasion, the ef-
fect of a fresh creation in which mind and body act together.
The body must respond freely and newly to the mind's momen-
tary act of recreation.

I early learned from my father to let my imagination do
fluently what many singers have learned to do only through the
repetitive use of destructive vocal exercises. I am fifty-five years
old now, and yet, because my father taught me that the body
follows the mind without stress and strain, I am conscious of no
wear and tear on my vocal equipment.1

1 MacKinley Helm, Angel Mo' and Her Son, Roland Hayes (Boston,
Little, Brown and Company, 1942), pp. 11, 12. By permission of
the publishers. Reprinted in The Atlantic Monthly (Aug., 1942),
p. 3.

52 BODILY ACTION

While we recommend subtle suggestive actions as pre-
ferred to literal, representative actions, the latter will prove
helpful in developing a technique of action which will
bring literature to life in the reader's imagination. This
technique will also aid in projecting vital experiences to
listeners. There is no quality more important for the reader
to develop than vitality. One of the comments audiences
enjoy making is, "He was so alive." One of the worst things
people can say of a reader is, "He was dull and lifeless."

Read the following selections with extreme abandon. Per-
form the action suggested by the verbs. Observe the changes
of action suggested in almost every phrase. Enter into the
experience with total abandon, the whole body, mind and
voice coordinated in an exaggeration of the activity sug-
gested by the words. Then, reread — restraining the impulse
to act, keeping the linage of the action only. Sense the ac-
tions in the same muscles which participated in the literal
representation. In this second reading, motor imagery is
used as a technique of thinking. It should be just as vital
and even more compelling to an audience than the literal
representation.

From SAUL
Robert Browning;

Oh, our manhood's prime vigour! no spirit feels waste,
Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced.
Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock,
The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver

shock
Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear,
And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair,

MOTOR IMAGERY 53

And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust

divine,
And the locust -flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draft of

wine,
And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell
That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well.
How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ
All the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!

From A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

What was he doing, the great god Pan

Down in the reeds by the river?

Spreading ruin and scattering ban,

Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,

And breaking the golden lilies afloat

With the dragon-fly on the river?

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river,
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan,
While turbidly flowed the river;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.

54 BODILY ACTION

THE PICKWICKIANS ON ICE

From The Pickwick Papers

Charles Dickens

Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and, the
fat boy and Mr. Weller having shovelled and swept away the
snow which had fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer
adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was
perfectly marvelous, and described circles with his left leg, and
cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once
stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonish-
ing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr.
Tupman, and the ladies; which reached a pitch of positive en-
thusiasm when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the
aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which
they called a reel.

All this time Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with
cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and put-
ting his skates on with the points behind, and getting the straps
into a very complicated and entangled state, with the assistance
of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a Hin-
doo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the
unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr.
Winkle was raised to his feet.

"Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging tone, "Off with
you, and show 'em how to do it."

"Stop, Sam, stop!" said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and
clutching hold of Sam's arms with the grasp of a drowning man.
"How slippery it is, Sam!"

"Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," said Mr. Weller.
"Hold up, sir."

This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a dem-
onstration Mr. Winkle made, at the instant, of a frantic desire

EMOTION 55

to throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on
the ice.

"These — these — are very awkward skates, ain't they, Sam?"
inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering.

"I'm afeered there's an orkard gen'lm'n in 'em, sir," replied
Sam.

Emotion

Experiences in reading include both thought and feeling.
Training in feeling is one of the most valuable products of
the study of literature. Man's highest and lowest acts are
motivated by feeling. Students frequently approach feeling
with as much trepidation as they do action. The fear of
overdoing stifles natural response to and sincere communi-
cation of the author's meaning. Feeling and bodily action
are inextricably fused. The word emotion literally means
from motion. The muscles of the entire body participate in
strong feeling. When one experiences grief his muscles re-
lax. So great may be the laxity of the muscles that his speech
is unintelligible; sometimes one is prostrate with grief.
Anger tenses; so does fear. One becomes stiff with anger,
frozen with fear; the muscular tension may be so great one
trembles from head to foot. Joy is a wholesome emotion; it
makes the muscles firm, giving poise. The James-Lange
theory of emotion clarifies these phenomena. Bodily action
is so obviously a part of emotional experience it appears to
be as much a cause as result of feeling. When one inhibits
the muscular activity, the feeling tends to subside. One may
build feeling by increasing bodily activity. We hear of nurs-
ing a grief, working up anger, or feeding hysterics. These
common sayings are evidence of general understanding of

56 BODILY ACTION

the principle that psychic experiences are fused with physi-
cal activity. Feeling and muscular action are inseparable.

Max Eastman in his book, The Enjoyment of Poetry says
something which at first glance appears odd, "Poetry is an
attitude of body, both anteceding and transcending speech
or idea. It is a way of experiencing reality." A paraphrase of
his statement may clarify his meaning. Poetry, the essence
of which is feeling, is first sensed in the body. The words,
even the specific idea, come later. A poet experiences the
reality of a poem through the body. Many people think that
a poet starts with words or meter, others think he has an idea
which he clothes in words and rhythm. Max Eastman says
the essence of poetry is something within the body which
takes precedence over and transcends speech or idea, but
through which the poet experiences reality.

Mark Holstein in writing of A. E. Housman says:

Poetry it seems to him is more physical than intellectual. He
can no more define poetry, he says, than a terrier can define a
rat, but both recognize the object by the symptoms which it
provokes. Experience has taught him, when he is shaving of a
morning, to keep watch over his thoughts, 'Because, if a line of
poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor
ceases to act.' This particular symptom is accompanied by a
shiver down the spine; there is another which consists in a con-
striction of the throat and a precipitation of water to the eyes;
and there is a third which I can only describe by borrowing a
phrase from one of Keat's last letters, where he says speaking
of Fanny Brawne, 'everything that reminds me of her goes
through me like a spear.' The seat of this sensation is in the pit
of the stomach.1

1 Mark Holstein, "A Shropshire Lad," The Atlantic Monthly (Jan-
uary 1943), Vol. 171, No. 1, p. 87. By permission of the publishers.

ORGANIC IMAGERY 57

The reader will experience reality more easily if he be-
gins where the poet begins, with an attitude of body. When
we sense moods in the body, the idea, words, and rhythm
will seem to grow out of the mood naturally and the audi-
ence, unaware of the technique, perceives the reality and is
affected by it.

ORGANIC IMAGERY

The sensations which A. E. Housman experienced in
poetry, and which Keats experienced when he thought of
Fannie Brawne, are classified as organic. They seem to find
their origin in or near the viscera. One experiences organic
sensations of temperature, equilibrium, lightness, heavi-
ness, fullness, or emptiness. They are sensed kinesthetically.

The poem "Sea Fever," by John Masefield, is rich in
images of sight, hearing, and motor actions. The essence of
the poem is an organic nostalgia for the sea, a yearning that
tugs at the whole being, but which seems centered deep in
the viscera. In speaking of organic imagery, Professor Simon
states:

When we speak of imagery we usually think of five senses:
sight, hearing, taste, touch, smell. And these provide a rich
repertoire for the reader; the unending variety of hue and
chroma, of pitch and timbre, of sweet, sour and bitter, of rough
and smooth, of flowers and spices. By allowing time for imagery
to pile up around a given selection, by seeking out those images
and adding them to the original reaction, the student will add
to his appreciation.

Although the images of these five senses, sometimes called the
"distance senses," are a vital part of the aesthetic experience,
he who limits his appreciation to them alone is poor indeed.

58 BODILY ACTION

There are other sense images, some of which seem even more
powerful in appreciation; images of what have been called the
"intimate senses" are a vital part of the aesthetic experience.
These senses are those of pain, temperature, equilibrium, or-
ganic modifications, and kinaesthesis. Aestheticians have been
prone to neglect these intimate senses, frequently referring to
them as the "lower senses," as though there were something base
or inelegant about them. But it is not improbable that these
intimate senses are the source of much more of our aesthetic
appreciation than we realize. We stress the visual and ascribe to
it much that really comes to us through the intimate senses. But
no one who has looked at a Gothic arch and felt within his own
body the lift of it, the upward surge of matter toward the infi-
nite, can be a stranger to the kinaesthetic. Lew Sarett's poem,
"Deep Wet Moss," for example, is rich in visual images, but
even more vivid in temperature, organic, and kinaesthetic im-
ages. Even the title to this poem may be read with visual imagery
alone, but a stronger reaction comes with attention to these
intimate sense images. In the same way any poem that grips us,
that seems to have a depth that we cannot analyze, may yield
new vividness through attention to the organic and the kinaes-
thetic. The good reader is the one who feels the dancing, the
running, and the galloping; the tense quietude, the agony of
immobile suspense; or the slow, resistless movement of ponder-
ous things. Depth and vividness of appreciation lie in this re-
sponse, through intimate sense imagery, to the things that are
about us.1

1 Clarence T. Simon, "Appreciation in Reading," Studies in the
Art of Interpretation, edited by Gertrude E. Johnson (New York,
Appleton Century-Crofts, Inc., 1940), p. 26.

ORGANIC IMAGERY 59

Organic Sense Images

From THE LOTUS EATERS

Alfred Tennyson

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,

And utterly consumed with sharp distress,

While all things else have rest from weariness?

All things have rest: why should we toil alone,

We only toil, who are the first of things,

And make perpetual moan,

Still from one sorrow to another thrown:

Nor ever fold our wings,

And cease from wanderings,

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm:

Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,

'There is no joy but calm!'

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

From THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN

Edward Bulwer-Lytton

I strove to speak — my voice utterly failed me; I could only
think to myself: "Is this fear? it is not fear!" I strove to rise —
in vain; I felt as if weighed down by an irresistible force. In-
deed, my impression was that of an immense and overwhelming
power opposed to my volition — that sense of utter inadequacy
to cope with a force beyond man's, which one may feel physi-
cally in a storm at sea, in a conflagration, or when confronting
some terrible wild beast, or rather, perhaps, the shark of the
ocean, I felt morally. Oppressed to my will was another will, as
far superior to its strength as storm, fire, and shark are superior
in material force to the force of man.

60 BODILY ACTION

And now, as this impression grew on me — now came, at last,
horror — horror to a degree that no words can convey. Still I
retained pride, if not courage; and in my own mind I said: "This
is horror, but it is not fear; unless I fear I can not be harmed;
my reason rejects this thing; it is an illusion — I do not fear."
With a violent effort I succeeded at last in stretching out my
hand toward the weapon on the table: as I did so, on the arm
and shoulder I received a strange shock, and my arm fell to my
side powerless. And now, to add to my horror, the light began
slowly to wane from the candles — they were not, at it were,
extinguished, but their flame seemed very gradually withdrawn;
it was the same with the fire — the light was extracted with the
fuel; in a few minutes the room was in utter darkness. The
dread that came over me, to be thus in the dark, with that dark
Thing, whose power was so intensely felt, brought a reaction of
nerve. In fact, terror had reached that climax, that either my
senses must have deserted me, or I must have burst through the
spell. I did burst through it. I found voice, though the voice
was a shriek.

From SONG OF MYSELF1

Walt Whitman'

The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies,

It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them,

It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the indolent

waves,
I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,
Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes

of death,
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call Being.

1 From Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman, copyright, 1924, by
Double-day, Doran and Company, Inc. By permission of the publishers.

CONSCIOUSNESS OF TECHNIQUE 61

From ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE

John Keats

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient day by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home.
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! Adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep.

Consciousness of Technique

When students begin to apply sense imagery as a tech-
nique of thinking in interpretative reading, they sometimes
are more conscious of the technique than the sense image.
In place of simple, direct thinking, or clear, vivid imagina-
tion there is an effort to see, to hear, to experience motor
sensations. This consciousness of technique actually inter-
feres with imagination. As is so frequently the case with a
novice in any art, concentration is upon form instead of
content, upon how instead of what. One student reported,
"When I picture scenes on the back wall of the room mem-

62 BODILY ACTION

bers of my audience sometimes turn to see what I am look-
ing- at." This student's error was due not so much to the
technique of sense imagery as to a consciousness of form.
Perhaps a habit of creating sense images when reading was
all she needed. She, however, corrected her fault by an un-
derstanding of the meaning of empathy in interpretative
reading.

Empathy

The word empathy is quite familiar to the modern
teacher of speech. The principle of empathy is discussed in
textbooks in speech and psychology. It is denned as the
"feeling in" or "inner mimicry." The manifestation of em-
pathy is often bold and free. It is usually illustrated by the
active participation of a crowd at a football game. Such an
example presents a clear and vivid picture to the average
American, whose joy in football is due largely to a feeling
of physical participation in the game. This participation is
empathy.

Empathy in an audience presents convincing evidence of
a speaker's effectiveness. Authors of speech textbooks are
right to emphasize its importance in effective speaking. If
members of an audience lean forward eagerly as a speaker
describes a situation, if people sway from side to side as a
reader interprets a lyric, or if they sit on the edges of their
seats during a play, empathic response gives evidence of the
effectiveness of the communication. The audience is not
conscious of empathy; concentration is upon the experience
and not on what the actor, speaker, or reader is doing. Em-
pathy in the audience gives evidence of the speaker's success
in communicating reality.

EMPATHY 63

Empathy is not limited to the experience of the audience.
It is equally applicable to the experience of the speaker,
reader, or actor. This "inner mimicry" is characteristic of
motor and organic imagery. Surely you have while reading
or speaking experienced this "inner mimicry" in response
to an imaginative experience? There is a scene in A. J. Cro-
nin's The Green Years where a young man's foot is trapped
between the iron rails of a closing railroad switch. As the
train hurtles toward him, he pulls and strains in an effort
to free his foot and escape. Suppose one is reading this story.
Will he not sense activity in his muscles as he reads this de-
scription? He may, then, be said to empathize with the
images he is experiencing. In like manner the interpreter
may sense an expansion, a stretching outward in imitation
of the sea, or a prairie; may sense uplift in body as he imag-
ines the Washington Monument or the Empire State Build-
ing. Persons in a darkened theater often actually imitate
the actors; others, less overt in their expression, sense the
activity, though the outward manifestation is less obvious.
They experience exultation or weariness as a result of em-
pathic response. This projection of oneself into an imagi-
native experience is fundamental to artistic understanding
and appreciation. As Elizabeth Barrett Browning said

.... When
We gloriously forget ourselves and plunge
Soul forward, headlong, into a book's profound
. . . Tis then we get the right good from a book.

When actions resulx from empathy the whole body re-
sponds naturally. There is motor coordination. This type
of motivation eliminates the tendency of the speaker to

64 BODILY ACTION

"put on" a gesture or to express with a part of the body only.
Arm and hand gestures resulting from empathy may be con-
sidered an overflow of organic activity. The chief difference
between actions resulting from empathy and gestures made
through conscious effort to express is in the muscle tone of
the whole body. From the point of view of the audience,
however, it may be the difference between affectation and
naturalness.

The amount of activity in interpretative reading must be
at the discretion of the reader. If as he reads the cause of
action seems to take precedence over the actions the gestures
are likely to seem natural both to himself and to the audi-
ence. Such actions give emphasis to the meaning and do not
detract from it. No one can tell a reader how much action
he may use. He must be guided by the whole: the material,
the occasion, his purpose and desire in communication. One
should never go beyond the bounds of good taste, but even
taste is related to the total situation. One's manner at a foot-
ball game differs from his behavior at church. It seems well
at all times to use restraint, but enthusiasm and abandon
are also important. Usually the most effective bodily actions
are those which result from total body tonicity. The most
effective way to achieve natural and total body tonicity in
reading is by empathic response to the imaginative experi-
ence. When the interpreter pictures the situation off stage,
in the realm of the audience, and so concentrates on the
reality that he empathizes with the imaginative experience,
his bodily actions enhance the idea, and the attention of the
audience is held on the experience rather than on the read-
er's actions.

PROJECTION 65

PROJECTING THOUGHT TO AN AUDIENCE

It is said that imitation is the sincerest flattery; when
audiences so forget themselves that they empathize with the
interpreter there is evidence of sincere appreciation and
understanding. To accomplish this it is desirable for the
reader to identify himself with the experience and respond
with restrained movements. As long as the reader's effort to
sense motor and organic imagery is apparent his art suffers.
The interpreter experiences empathy only when he so iden-
tifies himself with the author's meaning that technique is
subordinated.

As soon as we are conscious of our own sensations, we are no
longer contemplating the beauty of the object, for the words
"our own sensations" in themselves denote that we are no longer
enjoying the object, but that our aesthetic attitude has broken
down under the distraction of the bodily processes. Indeed, as
soon as our attention is upon such processes, there can be no
identification of such movements with the lines, no fusion of the
sensations with the object, and so even empathy itself is impos-
sible.1

Some readers claim that the voice should be given prece-
dence over the body as a medium for communication in
interpretative reading. This point of view has merit, yet it
overlooks the fact that the voice functions through the body
and that motor and organic imagery are basic in any ade-

1 Herbert Sidney Langfeld, The Aesthetic Attitude (New York:
Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc., 1920), p. 116. By permission of
the publishers.

66 BODILY ACTION

quate technique of voice. An apparently still body is not
necessarily an inactive body. One may restrain actions yet
communicate an idea of movement to an audience just as
a sculptor suggests movement in a statue such as that of the
disc thrower (The Discobolus). There are times when even
immobility of body is compelling. Nijinsky found a tech-
nique of immobility of value even in the art of dancing.

He used immobility consciously for the first time in the history
of dancing, for he knew that immobility could accentuate ac-
tion often better than action itself, just as an interval of silence
can be more effective than sound.1

In interpreting extreme emotion the reader may find it
of value not only to maintain a degree of immobility but to
withdraw feeling from the voice and let clear articulation
be the chief medium of communication. In Robinson Jef-
fer's Medea the Nurse's story of the death of Creon and
his daughter is packed with cruelty and horror. In reading
this speech it appears that any attempt to project feeling
through tones or body movement is excessive. Clear, crisp,
rapid speech may convey a picture vivid enough for any
audience. Greek drama is known for its fine balance. Mur-
ders are performed offstage giving aesthetic distance to a
scene which could easily portray more agony than an audi-
ence would willingly witness. Burgess Meredith suggests a
use of a "still" body in acting when, in speaking of his role
in Winter set, he said, "I have to keep Burgess Meredith still
so that Mio can emerge."

1 Romolo Nijinsky, Nijinsky (New York: Simon and Schuster, Inc.,
1934), p. 146. By permission of the publishers.

CONTROL 67

We desire to have a controlled but thoroughly responsive
body. Control of random activity, erratic movements, ha-
bitual bodily reactions is basic to a sound technique of
bodily action. Students do not find it easy to control nervous
movements, mannerisms, habitual bodily responses, but he
who would control others must first be self-controlled. Self-
command is the first step in learning to command the atten-
tion and interest of an audience. Any movement other than
that which grows out of concentration on meaning will
prove distracting both to the reader and to the listener.
Random movement is evidence of inadequate concentra-
tion.

Read Tennyson's poem, "Break, Break, Break," concen-
trating upon the attitude of a man seeking to express his
feelings after the death of his dearest friend. Concentrate
on imagery: sight, auditory, tactile, motor, organic.

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK

Alfred Tennyson

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!

O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

68 BODILY ACTION

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

Sense of Location

There are times when the creative reader will find it help-
ful to use a technique of location more specific than a mere
matter of direct or indirect mental attitudes. This technique
of location seems to be based upon a sense of location. One
often remembers things by their location. Frequently in re-
calling data students say, "I remember the exact page; I can
even recall the exact location on the page." A secretary may
say, "Let me think — I was standing by the desk, I walked
over to the door, you handed me the data — I remember
now"; thus through the location, she recalls the instructions
which otherwise had escaped her memory.

Directors of plays recognize this principle and place dra-
matic scenes in different locations on the stao-e so that the
audience will not confuse them in memory. In a production
of Macbeth given in the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre in
Stratford-on-Avon all scenes dealing with tragedy and con-
flict were depicted on one side of the stage, and all scenes
dealing with the home atmosphere were placed on the other
side. A stairway led to an upper landing off which the mur-
der of Duncan was supposed to have been committed. This
stairway started in the center of the stage and led off on the
side of the stage the director had designated for the scenes
of tragic conflict. Another stairway hugged the opposite
side of the stage; this stairway led to the apartment of Lord
and I,ady Macbeth.

OFF STAGE 69

The sleepwalking scene in this production began, not
with the entrance of the doctor and the nurse as is found in
the text of the play, but with the entrance of Lady Macbeth,
walking in her sleep down the stairway from her apartment
and up the stairway which led in the direction connected
with the murder, as if drawn irresistibly to the very location
of the crime. When she returned to the stage to speak the
famous lines beginning, "Out, out damned spot — " she
came from the very location to which she had gone earlier
in the play when she took the dripping daggers from Mac-
beth and declared she would smear the faces of the grooms
with blood that it might appear their crime. The consist-
ency with which the director followed the law of association
by the sense of location added much to the clarity and force
of the production.

Off Stage

The interpretative reader may not be as specific in his use
of the principle of location as is the actor or dramatic direc-
tor, but the reader will find a technique of location a valua-
ble aid in vivifying mental pictures for the audience. It is
well here to recall some of the essential differences between
reading and acting. The actor performs for the audience.
He moves about on the stage representing the character and
going through the actions of the character. The actor in-
tends that the audience shall watch him with their physical
eyes. The interpretative reader, however, usually stands in
one place, making only those movements which suggest the
idea to the imagination of the audience. The reader and
audience visualize scenes together off stage.

The reader's scenes are in the realm of the imagination.

70 BODILY ACTION

The creative reader and his audience see with their mental
eyes, the eyes of imagination. The reader directs the atten-
tion of the audience, not to himself or what happens on the
stage, but to the sights, sounds, or ideas which they (the
audience and reader) create together in the imagination.
You will find a fuller discussion of this matter in Studies in
the Art of Interpretation, from which we quote:

To me, then, there are two realms in which the interpreter
may evolve his imaginary scene; the realm of the stage, a literal
and objective realm whereon whatever we do will be looked at,
whether into or not; and the realm of the "audience," a sug-
gestive realm, wherein we establish scene, character, and all per-
taining to the impression, as seen in our mind's eye, and in
which we lead hearers to see with their mind's eyes, always di-
recting them suggestively, never literally, taking care indeed,
that no literal actions, gestures, or movements shall interfere
with the imaginative process of the audience. They do not look
on, they look in. . . .

In interpretation, we never act completely, never perform
characters to be looked at, never locomote or cover space "on
stage." Our scene is always established in the realm of the audi-
ence, as if we saw the characters moving there, and as we see,
we report like a highly sensitive photoplate all that we see plus
our reactions. If our material is direct discourse, we address
audiences with direct eye contacts; if it is subjective, we are not
under this necessity. We are really talking aloud as to ourselves.
In all cases in interpretative presentation, the ideal is to have
the audience see with their own vision, create scene and charac-
ters for themselves. The interpreter must not intrude himself
at any moment, as actor, and so break the unity of place and
mood.

OFF STAGE 71

One last word concerning these two "realms" as they may be
connected with the narrative form. To me the story offers the
student, the interpreter, his finest opportunities. The story form
suffers continually from the type of treatment I have referred to.
The interpreter breaks unity of place and scene constantly. He
addresses the audience more or less directly, and more or less
indifferently in the narrative and descriptive portions, then,
bringing a character to sudden and complete impersonation,
with scene "on-stage," he turns to right and left addressing char-
acters where they would be if the story were in the dramatic
form of monologue or play. This jumping from a suggestive to a
literal realm occurs dozens of times in the course of even a
fifteen-minute reading (whether read from memory or from
lines) and breaks all "unities" either of place, scene, or mood in
the narration. The interpreter in narration should never be-
come actor, nor bring his "scene" back to the acting realm, close
to him "onstage." 1

INTERPRETATION OF CHARACTERS

Interpreters are sometimes confused over techniques of
bodily action in reading dialogue. How far should an inter-
preter go in representing characters in a story, a play or a
monologue? There can be no arbitrary rule, but confusion
results when one attempts to mix the arts of acting and in-
terpretative reading. A monologue or a play may be acted;
they may also be read. If acted, they are performed on stage;
if read, the scene should be kept in the realm of the audi-
ence, or "off stage/' When the characters are pictured "off

1 Gertrude E. Johnson, "Impersonation, a Necessary Technique,"
in Studies in the Art of Interpretation (New York: Appleton-Century-
Crofts, Inc., 1940), pp. 128-29.

72 BODILY ACTION

stage" the reader may experience empathy, motor or or-
ganic imagery, but he does not act. In reading a story the
characters should be pictured off stage as one pictures de-
scriptions and narration. If the reader shifts from the atti-
tude of picturing off stage to the attitude of acting on stage,
the audience senses an inconsistency and feels that the
reader is unnatural. Here, as elsewhere, we suggest that
covert activity may communicate more than overt; mani-
festative movements are usually preferable to represen-
tative; suggestive actions carry more meaning than lit-
eral.

Motor and organic imagery are significant ways of sensing
characters. Empathy is a means of bringing the character to
life in the imagination of the reader, causing subtle move-
ments which aid the listener. The voice may appear to be
the chief vehicle for projecting the character; yet the body
must be in accord if a unified whole is achieved. Unless a
reader senses the muscle tone of a character, he will hardly
be able to suggest the voice of the character. Body and voice
are inseparable.

Character Angles

Character angles are a convention in interpretative read-
ing. If the reader looks slightly to the right when inter-
preting the lines of one character and slightly to the left for
another, he helps the audience to keep the characters differ-
entiated. The interpreter must be careful to keep these
angles in the realm of the suggestive, and not to turn from
side to side in a representative manner. The interpreter
should not be bound by angles assuming that all the lines

CHARACTER ANGLES 73

of a certain character must be read looking to the right and
the lines of another character always directed to the left. Sev-
eral characters should not be lined up arbitrarily with the
eyes of the reader looking to the right for one, center for an-
other, off-center for a third, and so on. Such a literal tech-
nique makes the means become an end and robs the inter-
preter of flexibility and suggestiveness. There are other
techniques of character delineation more important than
angles. General bearing, tone, pitch range, tempo, and
rhythm are more significant than the vision lines the inter-
preter employs. A slight turning from side to side may help
the reader to delineate characters, but a too literal use of
the technique of angles will destroy illusion. We suggest
that the sight line angles are affected by the width and
depth of the room, or hall, in which the reading takes place,
size of audience and by the reader's own, individual dis-
cretion.

Read the following selections with vivid imagery, sensing
the characters and the actions, keeping the scenes off stage
but suggesting dialogue by use of character angles.

HOW TOM SAWYER WHITEWASHED THE FENCE1

Mark Twain

Ben. "Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?"

Tom wheeled suddenly and said:
Tom. "Why, it's you, Ben! I wasn't noticing."

1 Mark Twain, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (New York: Har-
per and Brothers). By permission of the publishers.

74 BODILY ACTION

Ben. "Say — I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish
you could? But of course you'd druther ivork — wouldn't
you? Course you would!"

Tom contemplated the boy a bit and said:

Tom. "What do you call work?"

Ben. "Why, ain't that work?"

Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered care-
lessly:

Tom. "Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know, is, it
suits Tom Sawyer."

Ben. "Oh, come, now, you don't mean to let on that you like
it?"

The brush continued to move.

Tom. "Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does
a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?"

That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nib-
bling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily back and
forth — stepped back to note the effect — added a touch
here and there — criticized the effect again — Ben watch-
ing every move and getting more and more interested,
more and more absorbed. Presently he said:

Ben. "Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little."

Tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered
his mind.

Tom. "No — no — I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see,
Aunt Polly's awful particular about this fence — right
here on the street, you know — but if it was the back fence,
I wouldn't mind and she wouldn't. Yes, she's awful par-
ticular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful;
I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two
thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done."

Ben. "No — is that so? Oh, come, now — lemme just try. Only
just a little — I'd let you, if yoa was me, Tom."

CHARACTER ANGLES 75

Tom. "Ben, I'd like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly — well,
Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him; Sid wanted
to do it, and she wouldn't let Sid. Now, don't you see how
I'm fixed? If you was to tackle this fence and anything
was to happen to it — "

Ben. "Oh, shucks, I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say
— I'll give you the core of my apple."

Tom. "Well, here — No, Ben, now don't. I'm afeard — "

Ben. I'll give you all of it!"

Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face,
but alacrity in his heart.

UP-HILL

Christina Georgina Rossetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?

You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those zvho have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

They will not keep you standing at the door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.

76 BODILY ACTION

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yes, beds for all who come.

Bodily action may be considered a way of thinking the
reality of that which is read. As Langfeld says of empathy,
"it is virtually thinking with the body." If one observes a
silent reader closely he is likely to see slight muscle move-
ments in the face, hands, arms and sometimes broad move-
ments in the torso. "Mind affects body and body affects
mind" is an axiom of interpretative reading. This inter-
relation of thought and body may be observed in statues,
such as The Thinker by Rodin. The problem in interpreta-
tive reading is not to find ways of expressing ideas but to
think ideas so completely that bodily action will be an in-
tegral part of the thinking. There is a single mental process.
Bodily action is so much a part of interpretative reading
we may say, paraphrasing the quote from Nijinsky which
appears under the title of this chapter:

TJie sense of movement underlying the idea must he the basis
of the reading which communicates vital experiences to an au-
dience.

Chapter IV

DRAMATIC TIMING IN INTERPRETATIVE

READING

Be not like a stream that brawls
Loud with shallow waterfalls,
But in quiet self-control
Link together soul and soul.

Longfellow

Life and literature are full of situations, the effectiveness
of which depends upon dramatic timing. The dastardly
tactics of the Japanese in timing the attack on Pearl Harbor
at the moment Kurusu was supposed to be negotiating peace
in Washington shocked a world already somewhat accus-
tomed to the surprise attacks of Nazi blitzkriegs. It was a
villainous trick but excellent timing. It was excellent timing
when Washington crossed the Delaware at Valley Forge on
Christmas Eve and caught the British steeped in their cups.
It was excellent timing when Duncan's arrival was an-
nounced to Lady Macbeth just as she completed the reading
of her husband's letter concerning the witches' prophecy
that he would "be kinor hereafter."

Dramatic timing in the interpretative reader's technique
depends upon (1) pause: the silence between words, phrases,
or sentences; (2) tempo: the length of time in speaking
words, phrases, or other portions; (3) rhythm: the recurrent
pattern of sound and silence dependent upon skillful con-

77

78 DRAMATIC TIMING

trol of both time and stress. Dramatic timing is frequently
said to depend upon the reader's sense of timing. Children
who simply follow the imaginative concept often surpass the
skilled actor in dramatic timing. The student will profit
from a close study of the nature of these techniques of tim-
ing even though imagination here as elsewhere is the deter-
mining factor.

1 . THE PAUSE

The creative reader needs time to grasp the thought of
the author. Students who have faithfully followed the tech-
nique of thinking given so far will no doubt realize that the
pause has been emphasized over and over through such sug-
gestions as "take time to see, take time to sense, take time to
think." You have already, no doubt, held many effective
pauses unconscious of the length of the period of silence.
Your concentration has been upon the idea, not upon the
form of expression, hence not upon the pause. It has been
so evident that time is required to create a mental picture
that pauses have resulted from the need of time to grasp
the idea from the printed page and to create the concept
in the imagination before speaking the words which convey
it to the audience. It has been evident that the interpreta-
tive reader needs pauses for his technique of thinking.

Audiences need time to grasp the significance of ideas and
to create concepts. Pauses are as essential for the audience as
for the reader. The audience, like the reader, is unconscious
of the time length of pauses when their concentration is on
the idea, for audiences need pauses in which to react to
ideas. When the reader fails to give pauses of sufficient
duration for adequate response, listeners are likely to con

PAUSE 79

template certain ideas during periods of speech. In such
cases the listener misses much of what the reader wishes to
convey.

During the periods of speech the audience is intent upon
catching the speaker's words, but during the pause the au-
dience has the opportunity to grasp the thought and to
realize its significance. During the periods of speech the
reader concentrates upon the idea and upon communicat-
ing it to the audience, but during the pause the reader may
get the next thought by glancing at the page and then react
to the thought while looking off the page and forming the
mental picture. This digesting of the idea during the pause
causes the reader to give oral expression which conveys the
meaning and gives the audience time to react to the idea
given.

Dramatic timing calls for judgment on the part of the
reader as to the length of time desirable for a pause.
Some thoughts can be quickly grasped, and their effective-
ness depends upon a quick pick-up and passing on to the
next thought. Other ideas call for contemplation. It is evi-
dent that the more profound the thought the longer and
more frequent should be the reader's pauses; the more
trivial the thought the easier it -is for the reader and au-
dience to grasp it, hence the shorter the pauses. To test
this principle let the student read through the quotation
which follows without pausing between ideas:

PHILIPPIANS 4:8

Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest,
whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatso-
ever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report, if

80 DRAMATIC TIMING

there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these
things.

Now let the student reread the same passage pausing long
enough between phrases to think the significance of each
idea before speaking the words which convey it. As a test
of the effectiveness of long pauses let the periods of silence
be twice as long as the periods of speech. Here, as in earlier
assignments, the student should discipline himself to get
the words at a glance and then look off, thinking of the
significance of the idea before and during the periods of
speech. As S. H. Clark says, "Get the thought, hold the
thought, give the thought." x

The student may observe a constructive cycle in that the
mood is both a cause and a result of the pause. One soon
learns to sense the length of time needed for the projection
of a particular mood or idea. A good technique to follow
in training oneself to hold pauses is to hold the thought of
a phrase sufficiently long to think through the words of the
entire phrase before speaking it. The speaking of the words
may then be a re-thinking for communication to the audi-
ence.

Pick-up Within the Phrase

When given the advice to hold pauses as long as the
periods of speech, some students reply that it bores them
to hear one speak so slowly. Such an answer reveals a lack
of complete understanding of the technique. One does not
of necessity speak slowly; pick-up within the phrase is an

1 S. H. Clark, How to Teach Reading in Public Schools (Chicago:
Scott, Foresman and Co., 1908), p. 118. By permission of the pub-
lishers.

PICK-UP WITHIN THE PHRASE 81

important factor in revealing meaning. It is well for the
student to practice rapid speech within the phrase, giving
the entire phrase at one impulse, speaking distinctly but
merging the words within the phrase as one does the syllables
within the words. The phrase is the unit of thought; one
thinks in groups of words, in flashes. Ideas are more easily
grasped when the phrases are spoken quickly.

As has already been indicated, pause is an essential tech-
nique in carrying meaning. Pauses occur between ideas
as a means of conveying the thought, the reaction of both
reader and audience being more acute during the pause
than during speech — the length of the pause depending
upon the relative significance of the ideas. When pauses
are used effectively, both reader and audience are uncon-
scious of the length of time of the pauses, as their attention
is focused upon the author's meaning and not upon the
period of silence.

Often the meaning is completely lost when the reader
neglects the technique of pause. This is particularly true
of brief poems. Read the following, testing the value of
pauses in carrying the meaning.

RELIEVING GUARD

Bret Harte

Came the relief. "What, sentry, ho!

How passed the night through thy long waking?"

"Cold, cheerless, dark, — as may befit

The hour before the dawn is breaking."

"No sight? no sound?" "No; nothing save
The plover from the marshes calling,

82 DRAMATIC TIMING

And in yon western sky, about
An hour ago, a star was falling."

"A star, there's nothing strange in that."
"No, nothing; but, above the thicket,
Somehow it seemed to me that God
Somewhere had just relieved a picket."

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS

Thomas Moore

The harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise

Now feel that pulse no more!

No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone that breaks at night

Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,

To show that still she lives.

TO SEA, TO SEA!

Thomas Lovcll Beddoes

To sea, to sea! The calm is o'er;

The wanton water leaps in sport,
And rattles down the pebbly shore;

The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort,

PAUSE 83

An unseen Mermaid's pearly song
Comes bubbling up, the weeds among.

Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar:

To sea, to sea! the calm is o'er.

To sea, to sea! our wide-winged bark

Shall billowy cleave its sunny way,
And with its shadow, fleet and dark,

Break the caved Triton's azure day,
Like mighty eagle soaring light
O'er antelopes on Alpine height.

The anchor heaves, the ship swings free,

The sails swell full. To sea, to sea!

Dramatic Pause

The pause used for the reinforcement of ideas is an arrest-
ing and dramatic technique. An abrupt pause after an idea
strengthens the effect of the words. A long pause before
a significant idea creates suspense. It might almost be said
that the longer the pause, the greater the suspense and
hence the more dramatic the effect. In some situations the
pause may even be so long that the audience becomes tense
with expectation. They have the desire to speak the words
themselves in order to relieve the tension. The reader's
sense of timing should guide him in determining how long
to hold a pause in order adequately to support an idea and
when is the psychological moment to relieve tension by
speech.

The pauses in the following scene from Othello are
marked off by bars, the number of bars suggesting the com-
parative length of the pauses. Read it, timing your pauses
by the bars. If in places you sense the time differently to

84 DRAMATIC TIMING

that suggested by the markings read it both ways. Perhaps
your way is better for you, or perhaps you will find an in-
crease in effectiveness by following our markings until you
begin to think it that way.

From OTHELLO l

William Shakespeare

Othello. Had it pleased heaven

To try me with affliction, j had he rain'd
All kinds of sores, | and shames, on my bare head, I
Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips, |
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes, |
I should have found in some part of my soul
A drop of patience; | | but, alas! | to make me
The fixed figure I for the time of scorn
To point his slow and moving finger at; I
Yet could I bear that too; | | well, | I very well. I
But there, where I have garnered up my heart, |
Where either I must live or bear no life, |
The fountain from the which my current runs
Or else dries up; | to be discarded thence! |
Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads

To knot and gender in! I Turn thy complexion there, |
Patience, | I thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin; |
Ay, there, | | look grim as hell! |

Pause for Comedy

The interpretative reader will find pause a helpful tech-
nique in projecting comedy. A pause just before the word
or phrase which carries humor points up the meaning. This
technicpie of pausing just before the word, phrase, or line
is sometimes called "planting" the line. Such a pause cre-

1 Act IV, Scene ii.

PAUSE 85

ates the suspense needed to make the audience alert to the
idea. A pause is also frequently needed just after the word
or phrase that carries meaning, in order that the audience
may have time to react to the humor. The amateur is in-
clined to keep the humor away from the audience by going
on with new ideas before the audience has had time fully to
grasp preceding ideas. The creative reader holds pauses suf-
ficiently long for the audience to catch the humor and to
respond with a chuckle, a laugh, or more enthusiastic evi-
dence of enjoyment.

Will Rogers knew the effect of the technique of pause in
comedy. He used pauses before important ideas in order to
plant them in the minds of the audience; he paused after-
wards to give time for audience reaction. After a witty re-
mark he would frequently just look at his audience with
an amused grin, then he would begin to chew his gum or
to walk about the stage as if chagrined at his own temerity
in making such an audacious remark. He gave his audience
plenty of time to catch the humor of his remarks and to
react to the humor. He would frequently stop in the midst
of a sentence, drop his head, look out shyly at the audience,
twist his entire body as if ashamed to go on with his sentence.
The audience sometimes started laughing in anticipation
during a pause in the midst of a sentence, but, since he was
a master of timing, they always laughed more heartily at
the completion of the idea.

Comedy calls for subtlety. Finesse is needed in applying
comedy technique. The reader must seem not to be trying at
all. The pause must appear to be unpremeditated, as if oc-
casioned only by the reader's own appreciation of the
humor. Thinking in comedy must take precedence over

86 DRAMATIC TIMING

technique, or the audience will be aware of the reader's
method instead of his humor. Obvious effort blocks the flow
of comedy and checks audience response. The illusion of the
first time, the freshness of spontaneous reaction, must char-
acterize the reader's performance if he is to gain a hearty
response from the audience. The complete cycle of holding
pauses in recognition of the value of the technique and of
concentrating on the mood which causes the pause is essen-
tial in projecting humor.

Intellectual Humor

Humor is often an intellectual quality calling for quick-
ness of perception and subtlety of projection. It takes a
keen mind to perceive the subtleties of humor. Both reader
and audience must be alert — on their mental toes, so to
speak — to catch the delicacy of comedy. For broad comedy,
however, general rapidity with few pauses proves an effec-
tive technique. No technique is of greater importance in
bringing about mental alertness than the technique of well-
timed pauses, whether used sparingly or frequently.

Do not deceive yourself by thinking that comedy is not
worth the effort, because it is easier to be serious, especially
before an audience, than it is to be funny. Students fre-
quently mislead themselves with the excuse that they like
"deeper literature." Because it takes less artistry to make
the audience weep than it does to bring a spontaneous laugh,
many readers do not attempt to master the technique of
comedy. Such readers fail to realize that they are really in
error when they claim that appreciation of the serious in
literature shows more depth than appreciation of humor.
They beguile themselves into believing that humor is

PAUSE 87

trivial and inconsequential and that there is no need for
the mastery of comedy technique.

Technique of Comedy Gives General Finesse

The creative reader will find that although the technique
of comedy is difficult to master, when achieved it adds finesse
to all of his reading. Because the projection of humor calls
for relaxation, absolute ease (an essential of art), the mastery
of the technique of humor will give the student general
skill in interpretative reading. The skill developed in learn-
ing to time pauses for the projection of humor, and in so
doing to maintain relaxation, ease, and spontaneous re-
sponse to the mood of the moment, will serve the reader in
projecting all moods.

To project comedy, the interpretative reader should often
appear serious. The reader seldom laughs at the humor he
projects. It is the audience which should laugh, not the
reader, for he may even appear not to see the point, this
pretense on his part only adding to the mirth of the audi-
ence. The reader must never give the appearance of trying
to be funny; he must even seem unconcerned as to whether
his remarks bring laughter or not. If he plants his lines and
holds sufficiently long pauses the audience is likely to re-
spond without any further effort on his part. The best
humor appears to be accidental, spontaneous, impromptu!

Read the following, testing the effectiveness of well-timed
pauses for carrying the humor.

88 DRAMATIC TIMING

A MODEST WIT

Anonymous

A supercilious nabob of the east, haughty, being great, purse-
proud, being rich, a governor, or general, at the least, I have
forgotten which, had in his family a humble youth, who went
from England in his patron's suite, an unassuming boy, and in
truth a lad of decent parts and good repute. This youth had
sense and spirit; but yet, with all his sense, excessive diffidence
obscured his merit.

One day at table, flushed with pride and wine, his honor,
proudly free, severely merry, conceived it would be vastly fine
to crack a joke upon his secretary. "Young man," he said, "by
what art, craft, or trade did your father gain a livelihood?"
"He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, "and in his time was
reckoned good." "A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek instead
of teaching you to sew! Pray, why did your father not make a
saddler of you?"

Each parasite then, as in duty bound, the joke applauded,
and the laugh went round. At length Modestus, bowing low,
said (craving pardon if too free he made), "Sir, by your leave, I
fain would know your father's trade." "My father's trade! By
heaven, that's too bad! My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are
you mad? My father, sir, did never stoop so low, he was a
gentleman, I'd have you know." "Excuse the liberty I take,"
Modestus said, with archness on his brow. "Pray, why did not
your father make a gentleman of you?"

A Comic Sense

Many people think special talent is needed for the inter-
pretation of comedy. They speak of "born comedians." Some
people do seem to be endowed with a special gift for making

PAUSE 89

others laugh. They are the life of the party, the wags, the
wits who without apparent effort keep the center of atten-
tion and interest whatever the situation. They seem to be
endowed with a comic sense which makes it easy for them to
provoke laughter. One thus gifted should cherish and culti-
vate this talent and should learn to be discreet in its use, for
as Hamlet says:

Let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set
down for them; for there be of them that will themselves laugh
to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too,
though in the mean time some necessary question of the play
be then to be considered. That's villainous, and shows a most
pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it.

Some people seem to possess a naturally keener apprecia-
tion of humor than others. This appreciation does not neces-
sarily accompany the gift for making others laugh. But ap-
preciation of humor enables one successfully to develop the
technique by which he may share humor in interpretative
reading, which is, itself, a process oj sharing ideas. If one can
perceive and appreciate humor he can share it with others.
The reader of humor does not need to be the cause of the
humor. His need is to perceive the humor and to acquire
the technique by which he may project it to the audience in
order that the audience may perceive the humor also. Tim-
ing is the means by which both reader and audience may
perceive humor. Well-timed pauses, then, are important
in the technique of projecting humor.

In the famous speech from Cyrano de Bergerac concern-
ing his nose, the humor is dependent in a large measure
upon well-timed pauses.

90 DRAMATIC TIMING

From CYRANO DE BERGERAC 1

Edmond Rostand

Cyrano: Ah, no young sir!

You are too simple. Why, you might have said —
Oh, a great many things! Mon dieu, why waste
Your opportunity? For example, thus: —
Aggressive: I, sir, if that nose were mine,
I'd have it amputated — on the spot!
Friendly: How do you drink with such a nose?
You ought to have a cup made specially.
Descriptive: 'Tis a rock — a crag — a cape —
A cape? say rather, a peninsula!
Inquisitive: What is that receptacle —
A razor-case or a portfolio?
Kindly: Ah, do you love the little birds
So much that when they come and sing to you,
You give them this to perch on? Insolent:
Sir, when vou smoke, the neighbors must suppose
Your chimney is on fire. Cautious: Take care —
A weight like that might make you topheavy.
Thoughtful: Somebody fetch my parasol —
Those delicate colors fade so in the sun!

It is said that Sir James M. Barrie refused for some years
to have his plays printed because "the reading public would
not put in the pauses" which, in his estimation, were the
most important elements in his plays. It is not easy to sug-
gest pauses on paper, timing depending so much tipon the
reader's spontaneous response at the moment. Besides, there
is nothing arbitrary concerning the exact place for the most

1 Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac, prepared by Brian Hooker
(New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1923), p. 40. By permission of
the publishers.

TEMPO 91

effective pause. We find, however, an occasional dash in
printed versions of Barrie's plays which may be taken as a
suggestion for a pause.

2 . TEMPO

Tempo is the rate of speed with which one speaks. As has
been suggested, quick pick-up within the phrase is an aid
in conveying meaning. The phrase is the unit of thought,
hence there is need for continued flow within the phrase. A
drawl, or a pause between words in a thought-group, causes
the listeners either to lose interest or to become impatient
for the reader to finish the phrase in order that they may
perceive the idea. When the reader thinks the complete
idea during a pause he is likely to speak the entire phrase
quickly and fluently. Stark Young, realizing this need, has
suggested that many, perhaps half the difficulties in the
New York theatre would be avoided if actors trained for
speed in enunciation, and if producers insisted upon it.

Some people are naturally fast in tempo and others slow.
One keyed to a fast tempo is inclined to read rapidly; one
who by temperament is slow tends to read slowly. The stu-
dent who does everything rapidly will need to exert self-
control to take sufficient time for pauses. The student keyed
to a slow tempo will need to practice quick speech within
the phrase.

One's mood influences one's tempo. When one is in a
good humor, he is likely to have quick coordination and
hence a relatively fast tempo. Anger tenses; it may cause
fast speech or may block speech, causing long pauses but
quick pick-up within the phrase. Grief relaxes and slows
down one's tempo. Joy, the wholesome emotion, is con-

92 DRAMATIC TIMING

ducive to balance. The interpretative reader needs to un-
derstand the nature of emotions in order that he may truly
create them for his audience.

The interpretative reader is subject not to his own tenden-
cies but to the literature he interprets. Certain types of lit-
erature call for a slow tempo, others for a fast one. Tragedy,
serious drama, philosophical ideas are projected by a rela-
tively slow tempo. Comedy, farce, trivial ideas are given in
a fast tempo. As one approaches a climax in tragedy, that is,
as the conflict tightens, one finds the tempo quickening. A
slow drawl may prove an amusing contrast in the midst of
the relatively quick tempo of farce. The creative reader
should give consideration first to the general tempo which
will project his author's idea, then to the portions which
call for variety.

Audience interest is sustained through changes in tempo.
Sharp contrast quickens interest; sameness is monotonous
and decreases interest. Any tempo becomes monotonous if
kept up too long. No technique is more important in pre-
venting monotony and dullness or in preserving audience
interest than the technique of tempo. Dr. Andrew T.
Weaver gives clarity and force to this idea as follows:

In music, we have the terms: largo, adagio, andante, mod-
erato, allegro, presto, etc. We should cultivate the same pleas-
ing variety in the utterance of language, so that out of this
variety we can select appropriately for every type of situation
and material with which we may be dealing. In this matter of
tempo, the besetting weakness of speakers is a uniform delib-
erateness which makes everything seem just as important as
everything else. The characteristic drawl of certain people de-
prives them of any possibility of using vocal movement to stir

TEMPO 93

up specific and differentiated responses in their auditors. Con-
trasted with these are the people who commit the offense of
always being brisk, staccato, and lively, and who by their mo-
notony of liveliness succeed in doing for themselves very much
what the drawlers do for themselves, viz., obscuring all dis-
tinctions in meaning. Then there is the mistake of introducing
variety for variety's sake, without reference to the values of the
material to which the variety is applied. This is not much
better than the monotony of the tramp, tramp, tramp move-
ment of Kipling's wearied British soldier who is "sloggin' over
Africa." Let us be on the lookout for opportunities to use with
telling effect the slowest possible tempo, the most rapid possi-
ble tempo, and all the degrees of rate in between these two. x

Read the passages which follow noting first the general
tempo of each, then after the general tempo is established
giving attention to changes in tempo as the moods change:

AFTON WATER

Robert Burns

Flow gently, sweet Alton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

1 Andrew Thomas Weaver, Speech Forms and Principles (New
York: Longmans, Green and Co., 1942), p. 233. By permission of the
publishers.

94 DRAMATIC TIMING

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,
Farmarked with the courses of clear winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow,
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,

And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;

How wanton thy water her snowy feet lave,

As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

THE FOUNTAIN

James Russell Lowell

Into the sunshine,
Full of the light,

Leaping and flashing
From morn till night!

Into the moonlight,
Whiter than snow,

Waving so flower-like
When the winds blow!

Into the starlight
Rushing in spray,

Happy at midnight,
Happy by day;

TEMPO 95

Ever in motion,

Blithesome and cheery,
Still climbing heavenward

Never aweary; —

Glad of all weathers;

Still seeming best,
Upward or downward,

Motion thy rest; —

Full of a nature

Nothing can tame,
Changed every moment

Ever the same; —

Ceaseless aspiring,

Ceaseless content,
Darkness or sunshine

Thy element; —

Glorious fountain!

Let my heart be
Fresh, changeful, constant,

Upward, like thee!

From L'ALLEGRO

John Milton

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee

Jest and youthful Jollity,

Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,

Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles,

Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,

And love to live in dimple sleek;

Sport that wrinkled Care derides,

And Laughter holding both his sides.

96 DRAMATIC TIMING

Come, and trip it as ye go,

On the light fantastic toe;

And in thy right hand lead with thee

The mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;

DAY
From Pippa Passes

Robert Browning

Day!

Faster and more fast,

O'er night's brim, day boils at last:

Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim

Where spurting and suppressed it lay,

For not a froth-flake touched the rim

Of yonder gap in the solid gray

Of the eastern cloud, an hour away;

But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,

Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed,

Rose, reddened, and its seething breast

Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER

Thomas Hood

I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember
The roses red and white,

RHYTHM 97

The violets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday, —
The tree is living yet!

6 . RHYTHM

Rhythm is a fundamental principle of the universe. It
is so much a part of man's everyday life that he is usually
unconscious of its vital influence. Day follows night accord-
ing to a definite though constantly shifting rhythmic pat-
tern. The moon and the stars have their courses, each mov-
ing in accordance with its own rhythmic law. The winds
blow, and man may mark the rhythmic beat against the
window pane. We follow rhythmic laws in our daily habits
of sleeping and waking, of working and resting, of eating
and fasting. As Richard Boleslavsky says, "To exist is to
have rhythm." The more complete our adjustment to the
rhythms of life, the more harmonious, simple, and pleasant
are our lives. Soldiers march to the rhythm of a band, women
sing at their house work, many of us turn on the radio for
a rhythmic accompaniment to everyday activities. Each in-
dividual has his habitual rhythm which, if adjusted to the
specific situation, brings harmony and pleasure to the sim-
plest experiences.

Rhythm and Speech

Rhythm is a fundamental element in speech. Fluency
in speech depends to a great extent upon rhythm. The
stutterer's rhythm is interfered with, or blocked; he sings

98 DRAMATIC TIMING

with ease, but he cannot speak fluently. Let him set up
a definite rhythm with a movement of hand or foot and
it may carry over into his speech, breaking the lock and
giving him fluency at least for the time being.

Ministers often speak in regular rhythmic patterns. Their
audiences are swayed by the feeling, for as speech becomes
more and more emotional, it is inclined to become more
and more rhythmical. So great is the power of this rhythm
that people respond with an emotional fervor which logic
is powerless to explain or to check. Witness the effect of
rhythm in the ceremonies of Indians and Negroes or in the
religious services of almost any church or sect.

The orator swept by feeling in his peroration uncon-
sciously follows rhythmic patterns approximating those of
conventional verse. Even Abraham Lincoln in his second
inaugural address expressed feeling in a rhythmic pattern
which can be scanned and in which there is also rhyme.

Fondly do we hope,

Fervently do we pray,
That this mighty scourge of war

May speedily pass away.1

Rhythm in Literature

There is rhythm in literature, both prose and poetry.
The rhythms of prose are irregular, broken, constantly
changing in pattern to fit the change in ideas. The rhythms
of most poetry are somewhat regular, adhering to laws of
meter and of emotion. Emotion is both a cause and a result
of rhythm. The more feeling expressed in a passage, the

1 Wayland Maxfield Parrish, Reading Aloud (New York: Thomas
Nelson and Sons, 1932), p. 296. By permission.

RHYTHM 99

more regular is the rhythmic pattern up to a certain point.
Logical thinking tends to result in broken rhythms, be-
cause of the author's desire to point up or to stress specific
ideas.

Rhythm is fundamental to a child's understanding and
appreciation of literature. Children respond to rhythms
before they can be interested in abstract ideas. The rock-
ing, humming, soothing rhythms of the nursery are followed
by the simple, regular, obvious rhythms of Mother Goose.
So elemental is the appeal of rhythm in literature that it is
the first appeal of literature to the child. Children gain
much pleasure from chanting rhymes in the nursery and in
the school room. They enjoy stories interspersed with repeti-
tions in rhythmic patterns. They respond so much more
quickly and enthusiastically to rhythm than to ideas that
they instinctively chant, or read in a sing-song manner.
Teachers often give children their first prejudice against
poetry by discouraging sing-song reading. The teacher who
stops rhythmical reading by requiring a child to read poetry
"like prose" robs poetry of an essential element and robs
the child of his pleasurable response to a fundamental ele-
ment in appreciation.

It is interesting to find this same idea expressed by a poet.
Amy Lowell states:

People have often taken issue with the proposition that
poetry should not be read as if it were prose. People who have
not grasped the meaning, that is. "But," they say, "surely you
don't like to have poetry read in a sing-song manner." As-
suredly, I do not; and yet I say, unhesitatingly, that if one must
choose between these two bad traditions, I prefer to have the
rhythm overaccented than to have it lost sight of altogether.

100 DRAMATIC TIMING

As a matter of fact, neither extreme is necessary. The good
tradition, as is the way with good traditions, seeks the happy
mean.1

Sing-song reading can be used as a first step in interpreta-
tive reading and as a first step in the appreciation of
literature. The error in sing-song reading is not in rhythm
but in the mechanical application of rhythm. The funda-
mental rhythm sensed by a child may form the basis for
fluent, creative reading. As a substitute for thoughtless,
monotonous, sameness in rhythm invite the child to dis-
cover changes in ideas and mood which may be expressed
through subtle changes in rhythm. His discovery of variety
will prove an intriguing method of increasing his apprecia-
tion of literature without the loss of his fundamental in-
terest in rhythm.

Rhythm is as significant and as interesting to the adult
as to the child. Rhythmic patterns are an aid in perceiving
as well as in projecting the author's idea. As Dr. Cunning-
ham says:

Rhythm in art — the regular or nearly regular measure by
which any element in the composition is made to recur a suffi-
cient number of times to become part of the pulse or heartbeat
— can be said to be what gives the work its "character and per-
sonality." Those changes and recurrences progressively stimu-
late the response which is the final aim of the artist. When the
rhythm is dull and monotonous, character is lacking in the art
and its personality is dwarfed. It is just another picture to be
glanced at, or tune to be hummed, or structure to occupy space,
or specimen of commonplace verse. When the rhythm is subtle

1 From "Poetry as a Spoken Art" in Poetry and Poets, copyright
by Houghton Mifflin Company. By permission of the publishers.

RHYTHM 101

a distinctive personality is genuinely realized. It is the quality
of the rhythm which reveals and projects the inmost character
of the art. Those people whose own natures are deep and rich
will prefer art whose rhythm corresponds to their nature. Those
people who are shallow will like best art whose rhythmic range
is narrow.1

In prose the rhythmic pattern is suggested partly by the
idea and partly by the arrangement of words. In poetry the
meter forms a basis for the rhythms and the idea gives a
basis for variety. In rhythm, as in tempo, variety is essential
for sustained audience interest and for adequate interpreta-
tion of meaning. The interpretative reader must learn how
to find the fundamental rhythm of a piece of literature and
also how to give variety of expression to subtle changes
in mood, idea, or rhythmic pattern. In the technique of
rhythm, as with all other techniques, the idea should take
precedence over the form. Rhythm in literature is not an
end but an important means of projecting the author's
purpose.

Read a few stanzas of the following poem in a metrical,
sing-song manner. Re-read the same stanzas as if they were
written in prose, stressing the idea and veering as far from
the poetic form as you can. Now see if you can read the
poem with the basic rhythm of the verse form but with
subtle changes in tempo, tone, and rhythm suggestive of
the changes in idea and mood. See if you can read in such
a manner that the rhythm becomes a means of projecting
your appreciation of the poem.

1 Cornelius Carman Cunningham, Literature as a Fine Art (New
York: Thomas Nelson and Sons, 1941), p. 35. By permission of the
publishers.

102 DRAMATIC TIMING

From THE BROOK

Alfred Tennyson

I come from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.

I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,

I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret

By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed, and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go

But I go on forever.

Objective Methods of Finding the Rhythm

The student may realize the importance of rhythm and
yet be perplexed as to how to find it and how to deal with
it in interpretative reading. Here as elsewhere the student
needs technique. For the development of technique in
rhythm we suggest five objective ways by which the student

RHYTHM 103

may sense the rhythm in reading. They are (1) scansion, (2)
sensing the cadence, (3) finding the objective source of the
rhythm, (4) sensing the rhythm of the action, and (5) sens-
ing the rhythm of the character. At least three of these ways
may be used in the reading of prose. Consider these tech-
niques carefully and learn when to apply each and when to
use a combination of them for the most complete interpreta-
tive reading.

1. Scansion

The student of interpretative reading may find scansion
a helpful means of recognizing metric patterns and thus
sensing the fundamental rhythm of a poem.

Through scansion the student develops an awareness of
poetic form. He becomes sensitive to the stressed and un-
stressed syllables in verse. He develops a recognition of the
poet's form which should not be neglected in oral reading,
since the poet chooses his form for a purpose. An adequate
interpretation of the author's purpose, then, must take the
verse pattern into consideration. The student of interpreta-
tive reading who is not acquainted with verse forms and
who is not trained to recognize their importance in the
author's purpose is likely to be inadequate in projecting
the author's idea completely.

2. Sensing the Cadence of Poetry

The interpretative reader may find a more satisfactory
method than scansion for sensing the rhythm of a poem,
since scansion is usually done in a jerky, disconnected
manner. The cadence of poetry may be sensed through a
flowing, connected method of speech and gesture which

104 DRAMATIC TIMING

Elsie Fogerty calls feeling the pulse of a poem.1 Try sensing
the cadence of a line of poetry with a connected flow of
speech and a curved, continuous gesture, accenting the
stressed syllables but blending them with the unstressed
so as to give a feeling of continuity and grace not found in
the abrupt, jerky method of scansion. You may find this
method of sensing the cadence of a poem a helpful exercise
in developing the habit of response to the fundamental
rhythm of a poem. In studying a poem for interpretative
reading, you may find it helpful first to become familiar
with the poetic form by sensing the cadence in this manner.
You should not lose the sense of the fundamental cadence
of a poem no matter how often you read it or to what pur-
pose. Find the fundamental rhythm of the following poems
first by scansion, then by sensing the cadence. Decide by
your own experience which method gives more apprecia-
tion and effective reading.

THOSE EVENING BELLS

Thomas Moore

Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells!

1 Elsie Fogerty, classroom lecture, Central School of Speech, Lon-
don, 1938.

RHYTHM 105

And so 'twill be when I am gone, —
That tuneful peal will still ring on;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS

Robert Burns

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birthplace of valour, the country of worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the highlands wherever I go.

THE WIND

Robert L. Stevenson

I saw you toss the kites on high

And blow the birds about the sky;

And all around I heard you pass,

Like ladies' skirts across the grass —
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a songl

106 DRAMATIC TIMING

I saw the different things you did,

But always you yourself you hid.

I felt you push, I heard you call,

I could not see yourself at all —
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

O you that are so strong and cold,

O blower, are you young or old?

Are you a beast of field and tree,

Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

3. Finding the Objective Source of Rhythm

The interpretative reader may frequently find an objec-
tive source of rhythm that will give him an effective means
of sensing the rhythm, for authors sometimes consciously,
and often unconsciously, follow the rhythm suggested by
the idea. The author may use the rhythm of that which
he describes, or that from which he gets his basic idea, such
as the patter of rain, the ticking of a clock, or the hoof
beats of a galloping horse. When the reader senses the
basic pattern of rhythm he projects an atmosphere which
almost invariably brings audience response.

Try sensing the rhythm of "The Old Clock on the Stairs"
by beating off the familiar rhythm of a large clock. Picture
a grandfather clock and with a gesture follow the move-
ment of the pendulum as you say, "Tick — tock, tick — tock,
tick — tock." Continue the gesture as you repeat, "Forever
— never, never — forever, tick — tock, tick — tock." Repeat
this exercise until you have thoroughly sensed the rhythm,
then read the first stanza to the rhythm you have established.

RHYTHM 107

Do not worry if your reading seems mechanical. Practice
this form until the rhythm takes possession of you. Then re-
read the poem varying the tempo, tone, and rhythm until
you can express the changes in meaning. Practice until you
are able to create each concept completely, giving to it the
variety needed, yet keeping the fundamental rhythm of a
clock. One of your problems as a creative reader is to deter-
mine how much emphasis to give to the rhythm and when
to give precedence to other phases of the idea.

From THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw.
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all, —
"Forever — never !
Never — forever! "

Halfway up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass, —
"Forever — never!
Never — forever! "

The fundamental rhythm of "Sweet and Low" by Tenny-
son is found in the rocking of a boat or of a cradle. Either
idea is in keeping with the poem as the father is pictured
out in his boat on the bay, and the poem itself is a lullaby

108 DRAMATIC TIMING

in which one imagines the mother rocking the cradle as she
sings. No matter how familiar this poem is to students, they
read it with keen pleasure when sensing the fundamental
rhythm. A class will enjoy reading it in unison swaying
the bodies to the rhythm of a rocking cradle or boat. Rhythm
and emotion are each so much a part of the other that one
may think of them as essentially the same. They are both
total bodily responses complete only when sensed through
the entire body. Though his movement should be con-
trolled and never obvious, the student should form the
habit of sensing rhythm in the major muscles of torso and

legs.

SWEET AND LOW

Alfred Tennyson

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea!
Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me:
While my little one, while my pretty one,

Sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon;
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one,

Sleep.

RHYTHM 109

In the following poem the fundamental rhythm is that of
a galloping horse. The student may quickly gain a rhythmic
background for the reading of this poem by beating off with
his fingers on the desk, or with coconut shells, or with plung-
ers (as they do in radio plays). Let the class read the poem
in unison while one or more students give the sound of
the rhythm. The class will immediately sense a driving
force which compels them in their reading as the messengers
felt compelled to ride to Aix to deliver the good news. In
the first few readings let the class feel swept by the rhythm
without thought of any other technique than that of sens-
ing the rhythm. After sensing the rhythm let each individual
student read the poem, guiding the rhythm, tempo, and
pauses by the thoughts, bringing in subtle changes. The
student will find this poem an interesting study in tempo as
well as in rhythm.

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS
FROM GHENT TO AIX

Robert Browning

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;

"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gatebolts undrew;

"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,

And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

110 DRAMATIC TIMING

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near

Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;

At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;

At Duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime.

So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her.
We'll remember at Aix" — for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongrcs, no cloud in the sky;

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,

'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,

And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!" — and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;

RHYTHM 111

And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is — friends flocking round

As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

4. The Rhythm of Action

The interpretative reader must give attention to the
rhythm of details as well as to the fundamental rhythm of
the whole.

Rhythm will prove as helpful a means of projecting the
meaning of individual phrases as it has proved in giving
the atmosphere of the whole. A phrase or sentence may
follow the rhythm of the action described or suggested by
the words. For example, read, "The boy slid to third base."
Picture a boy in a base-ball game sliding to a base. Make
a gesture suggestive of the boy's action. As you sensed the
rhythm of the action did you prolong the word slid? Did
the rhythm of your speech correspond to the rhythm of the
action? Does this not seem to you a simple and natural way
of finding the rhythm which projects the idea?

112 DRAMATIC TIMING

Read the following lines from Robert Frost's poem,
"Birches," x sensing. the action with total motor response
and reading the lines with the same rhythm as the action.

He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully . . .
Then flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

Re-read these lines with overt action until you have so
thoroughly sensed the rhythm you can read them without
manifest action (still sensing movement in the muscles),
maintaining the rhythm of the action in your speech.

Read the following passages, sensing the rhythm of the
actions suggested by the words.

From THE WHIRLIGIG OF LIFE 2

O. Henry

A speckled hen swaggered down the main street of the "settle-
ment" cackling foolishly.

From CYRANO DE BERGERAC 3

Edmond Rostand

Your name is like a golden bell
Hung in my heart, and when I think of you,
I tremble, and the bell swings and rings —
Roxane! . . . Roxane! . . . along my veins, Roxane!

1 From The Collected Poems of Robert Frost (New York: Henry
Holt and Company). By permission of the publishers.

2 From Whirligigs, by O. Henry, copyright 1907, 1935, by Double-
day, Doran and Company, Inc. By permission of the publishers.

3 Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac, tr. Brian Hooker (New York:
Henry Holt and Company), p. 143. By permission of the publishers.

RHYTHM 113

THE EAGLE

Alfred Tennyson

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

INSTRUCTIONS TO THE PLAYERS

From Hamlet

William Shakespeare

Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus. . . .

JAQUES' SEVEN AGES OF MAN

From As You Like It x

William Shakespeare

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits, and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping, like snail,
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then the soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like a pard,

1 Act II, Scene vii.

114 DRAMATIC TIMING

Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

5. Character Rhythms

As has been stated before, each person has his own habit-
ual rhythm which is affected by his moods and activities.
The creative reader must learn to subordinate his own
rhythm to that which will adequately interpret the author's
idea. This is one of the problems which confronts a reader
in interpreting characters. When the reader has sensed the
fundamental rhythm of a character, he has gone far in in-
terpreting him. Sensing the rhythm of a character may prove
as helpful to a reader as to an actor or an impersonator.
While the reader does not attempt to act the character, he
does wish to share with the audience a vivid concept of the
character. In the process of sharing reactions with the au-
dience, the reader may suggest, even imitate to a degree, the
actions of the character. The reader who senses the rhythm
of the characters he interprets takes advantage of a subtle

RHYTHM 115

means of suggestion. A character, or a character's attitude,
may at times be suggested through speech rhythm alone
without further technique.

As a means of sensing the rhythm of a character, the reader
may walk like the character, sit, stand, and gesture with the
character's mannerisms as he speaks the lines. After the
reader has thoroughly sensed the character's rhythm
through literal actions, let him eliminate excess activity yet
preserve the rhythm as he speaks. This technique will be
found helpful in interpreting both direct and indirect ad-
dress, both conversation and narration.

Read the selections below, experimenting with charac-
ter rhythms as a means of carrying the author's purpose.

CHILD AND BOATMAN

From Songs of the Voices of Birds

Jean Ingelow

Child. Martin, I wonder who makes all the songs.

Martin. You do, sir?

Child. Yes, I wonder how they come.

Martin. Well, boy, I wonder what you'll wonder next!

Child. But somebody must make them?

Martin. Sure enough.

Child. Does your wife know?

Martin. She never said she did.

Child. You told me that she knew so many things.

Martin. I said she was a London woman, sir,

And a fine scholar, but I never said

She knew about the songs.
Child. I wish she did.
Martin. And I wish no such thing; she knows enough,

She knows too much already. Look you now,

This vessel's off the stocks, a tidy craft.

116 DRAMATIC TIMING

Child. A schooner, Martin?

Martin. No, boy; no, a brig;

Only she's schooner-rigged — a lovely craft.

Child. Is she for me? O thank you, Martin, dear.
What shall I call her?

Martin. Well, sir, what you please.

Child. Then write on her "The Eagle."

Martin. Bless the child!

Eagle! Why, you know naught of eagles, you.
When we lay off the coast, up Canada way,
And chanced to be ashore when twilight fell,
That was the place for eagles; bald they were,
With eyes as yellow as gold.

Child. O Martin, dear,

Tell me about them.

Martin. Tell! there's naught to tell,

Only they snored o'nights and frighted us.

Child. Snored?

Martin. Ay, I tell you, snored; they slept upright

In the great oaks by scores; as true as time,

If I'd had aught upon my mind just then,

I wouldn't have walked that wood for unknown gold;

It was most awful. When the moon was full,

I've seen them fish at night, in the middle watch,

When she got low. I've seen them plunge like stones

And come up fighting with a fish as long,

Ay, longer than my arm; and they would sail —

When they had struck its life out — they would sail

Over the deck, and show their fell, fierce eyes,

And croon for pleasure, hug the prey, and speed

Grand as a frigate on the wind.

Child. My ship,

She must be called "The Eagle" after these.
And, Martin, ask your wife about the songs
When you go in at dinner-time.

Martin. Not I.

RHYTHM 117

KINGS BOW THEIR HEADS l

Robert Liddell Lowe

Death's hands, fastidious and thin,

Immaculate as bone,

Do more than scrupulously ravel skin

From skeleton.

These hands, diminishing the pulse,

Do more than snap the sense

Or dry the dream within the pallid skull's

Circumference.

Such gifts of dignity they bring —

The inelastic dead,

Though strengthless now, command the proudest king

To bow his head.

AN OLD MAN TALKING IN HIS SLEEP 2

Robert Liddell Lowe

All day his old tongue spoke
Of what was good or fair.
Vigor an ashy coal
And pride a smutty flare,
The heart was no more puzzled
Nor mind clotted with care.

But when the clock struck midnight
Two sounds frightened the air:
His tongue cried out a wisdom
By day it would not dare:
Dignity had no bridle
For weariless despair.

1 From The Nation. By permission of the author and of the pub-
lishers.

2 From Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. By permission of the author
and of the publishers.

118 DRAMATIC TIMING

THE SET OF TURQUOISE

Thomas Bailey Aldrich

Scene I

CHARACTERS: Count of Lara, a poor nobleman; Bea-
trice, his wife; Miriam, a maid ivho personates a page.

SCENE: Count of Lara's villa. A balcony overlooking the
garden.

Lara. The third moon of our marriage, Beatrice!

It hangs in the still twilight, large and full,
Like a ripe orange.

Beatrice. 'Tis like some strange, rich jewel of the east,

And that reminds me — speaking of jewels — love,
There is a set of turquoise at Milan's,
Ear-drops and bracelets and a necklace — ah!
If they were mine.

Lara. And so they should be, dear,

Were I Aladdin, and had slaves o' the lamp
To fetch me ingots. Why, then, Beatrice,
All Persia's turquoise-quarries should be yours,
Although your hand is heavy now with gems
That tear my lips when I would kiss its whiteness.

Beatrice. You love me not, or love me over-much,

Which makes you jealous of the gems I wear!

Lara. Not I.

I love you.

Beatrice. Why, that is as easy said

As any three short words; takes no more breath
To say, "I hate you." What, sir, have I lived
Three times four weeks your wedded loyal wife,
And do not know your follies? I will wager
(If I could trap his countship into this!)
The rarest kisses I know how to give

RHYTHM 119

Against the turquoise, that within a month
You'll grow so jealous — and without a cause,
That you will ache to kill me!

Lara. Will you so?

And I — let us clasp hands and kiss on it.

Beatrice. Clasp hands, Sir Trustful; but not kiss — nay, nay!
I will not pay my forfeit till I lose.

Lara. And I'll not lose the forfeit.

Beatrice. We shall see.

[Exit Beatrice.]

Lara. She has as many fancies as the wind.

She's no common clay,
But fire and dew and marble.
Jealous? I am not jealous. And yet,
I would I had not wagered; it implies
Doubt. And if I doubted? Pshaw! I'll walk awhile
And let the cool air fan me. It was not wise.
What if, to pique me, she should overstep
The pale of modesty, and give bold eyes
(I could not bear that, nay, not even that!)
To Marc or Claudian?

O cursed jewels! Would that they were hung
About the glistening neck of some mermaid
A thousand fathoms underneath the sea!

[A Page crosses the garden.]

That page again! 'Tis twice within the week

The supple-waisted, pretty-ankled knave

Has crossed my garden at this self-same hour,

As if he owned the villa. Why, the fop!

He might have doffed his bonnet as he passed.

I'll teach him better if he comes again.

What does he at the villa? O! perchance

He comes in the evening when his master's out,

To lisp soft romance in the ready ear

Of Beatrice's dressing-maid;

I'll ask the Countess — no, I'll not do that;

120 DRAMATIC TIMING

She'd laugh at me; and vow by the Madonna
This varlet were some noble in disguise,
Seeking her favor. Then I'd let the light
Of heaven through his doublet — I would — yes,
That is, I would, were I a jealous man:
But then I'm not.

When he comes out again
I'll stop him, question him, and know the truth.
I cannot sit in the garden of a night
But he glides by me in his jaunty dress,
Like a fantastic phantom! never looks
To the right nor left, but passes gayly on.

Soft, he comes!

[The Page enters by a gate in the xnlla garden and walks past
the Count.]

Ho! pretty page, who owns you?

Page. No one now.

Once Signor Juan, but I am his no more.

Lara. What, then, you stole from him?

Page. O! no, sir, no.

He had so many intrigues on his hands,
There was no sleep for me nor night nor day.
Such carrying of love-favors and pink notes!
He's gone abroad now, to break other hearts
And so I left him.

Lara [aside]. A frank knave.

Page. To-night

I've done his latest bidding — 'twas to take
A message to a countess
In yonder villa.

Lara [aside]. In yonder villa?

Page. Ay, sir. You can see

The portico among the mulberries,
Just to the left, there.

Lara. Ay, I see, I see.

A pretty villa. And the lady's name?

RHYTHM 121

Page. O! that's a secret which I cannot tell.

Lara. No? but you shall, though, or I'll strangle you!

Page. You are choking me!

O! loose your grasp, sir!
Lara. Then the name! the name!

Page. Countess of Lara.

Lara. Not her dressing-maid?

Page. No, no, I said the mistress, not the maid.

Lara. And then you lied.

Tell me you lie, and I will make you rich,

I'll stuff your cap with ducats twice a year.
Page. Well, then — I lie.

Lara. Ay, now you lie, indeed!

Here is gold. You brought a billet to the Countess —
well?
Page. Take away your hand

And, by St. Mary, I will tell you all.

There, now, I breathe. You will not harm me, sir?

Stand six yards off, or I will not a word.

It seems the Countess promised Signor Juan

A set of turquoise —
Lara. Turquoise? Ha! that's well.

Page. Just so — wherewith my master was to pay

Some gaming debts; but yester-night the cards

Tumbled a golden mountain at his feet;

And ere he sailed, this morning, Signor Juan

Gave me a perfumed, amber-tinted note,

For Countess Lara, which, with some adieus,

Craved her remembrance morning, noon, and night;

Her prayers while gone, her smiles when he returned';

And bade her keep the jewels. That is all.
Lara. All? Is that all? 'T has only cracked my heart!

Out of my sight, thou demon of bad news!
[Exit Lara.]
Page. I did not think 't would work on him like that.

How pale he grew! Alack! I fear some ill

122 DRAMATIC TIMING

Will come of this. I'll to the Countess now,
And warn her of his madness.
[Exit Page.]

Scene II

SCENE: Beatrice's chamber. Beatrice sits in the attitude of
listening.

Beatrice. Hist! that's his step. Miriam, place the lights

Farther away; keep you behind the screen. Then be

still.
Move not for worlds until I touch the bell,
Then do the thing I told you. Hush! his step
Sounds in the corridor, and I'm asleep!

[Lara enters. He approaches within a few yards of Beatrice,
pauses, and looks at her.]

Lara. Asleep! — and guilt can slumber!

Were I an artist, and did wish to paint
A devil to perfection, I'd paint
A woman in the glamour of her youth,
All garmented with loveliness and mystery!
How fair she is! Her beauty glides between
Me and my purpose, like a pleading angel.
She'll waken soon, and that — that must not bel
I could not. kill her if she looked at me.

Beatrice [springing up]. So, Lara, you are come — your dagger
in your hand?
O love, you frighten me!
And you are trembling. Tell me what this means.

Lara. Countess of Lara, you are false to me!

Beatrice. Now, by the saints —

Lara. Now, by the saints, you are!

Beatrice. Upon my honor —

Lara. On your honor? fie!

Beatrice. Hear me, love!

Lara. Lie to that marble there! I am sick

To the heart with lying. Beatrice,

STUDIES IN DIALECT 123

I came to kill you.
Beatrice. Kiss me, Count, you mean!

Ho! come not near me with such threatening looks,

Stand back there, if you love me, or have loved!
[As Lara advances, Beatrice retreats to the table and rings a
small hand-bell. Miriam, in the dress of a page, enters from
behind the screen and steps between them.]
Lara [starting back]. The Page? now, curse him! What? no!
Miriam?

If this be Juan's page, why, where is Miriam?

If this be Miriam, where's — by all the saints,

I have been tricked!
Miriam [laughing]. By two saints, with your leave!

Lara. The happiest fool in Italy, for my age!

And all the damning tales you fed me with,

You Sprite of Twilight!
Miriam [bowing]. Were arrant lies as ever woman told;

And though not mine, I claim the price for them —

This cap stuffed full of ducats twice a year!
Lara. A trap! a trap that only caught a fool!

So thin a plot, I might have seen through it.

I've lost my reason!
Miriam. And your ducats!

Beatrice. And

A certain set of turquoise at Milan's!

Arranged

Influence of Climate, Nationality, and Race

Character rhythms are influenced by climate, nationality,
and race. Peoples in warm climates are inclined through re-
laxation to prolong the vowel sounds and neglect the con-
sonants. This tendency gives to their speech a musical soft-
ness which is usually considered pleasing. One hears of the
beauty of southern voices, the rhythms of which are slow

124 DRAMATIC TIMING

and legato. Northern peoples are inclined to speak with
clear, distinct consonant sounds and clipped vowels. There
is often admirable clarity and force, and the tendency is
toward quick, staccato rhythms.

Nationality also influences speech rhythms. Concerning
this Charlotte Crocker says in her splendid analysis of dia-
lect:

Rhythm is one of the most fascinating elements of dialect.
Take for example the staccato speech of the Scot; anyone inter-
ested in exploring all the factors of dialect will readily be struck
by the bare, bleak speech of the Scot and the fact that his home-
land is rugged and challenging — like his speech. Again one can
readily fancy a relationship between the leisurely humor of the
real Irishman and his speech that is so rich in an easy, flowing,
genial pace. There is, in short, an undeniable relationship be-
tween the time and pulsation factors of dialect and the tempera-
ment of the given nationality.1

It is not within the purpose of this book to give detailed
analysis of speech dialects. There are a few authentic pub-
lications which give a study of national speech character-
istics and folk dialect.2

The student of interpretative reading should give some
attention to characteristics of dialect speech. It is evident
that there are rhythmic tendencies in the speech of the
British, Irish, Scotch, Australian, and American; there are
characteristic rhythms in the dialects of the Swedish, Italian,
French, Spanish, et cetera. In America, we have the moun-

1 Charlotte Crocker, Taking the Stage (New York: Pitman Pub-
lishing Corporation, 1939), p. 212. By permission of the publishers.

2 See Appendix A, p. 591.

STUDIES IN DIALECT 125

tain dialect which has preserved many of the characteristics
of Anglo-Saxon speech. The standard speech of the United
States is usually classified into three groups, namely, Eastern,
Southern, and General American. In order to sense the
rhythms of any speech group the reader really needs to hear
them enough for his ear to become familiar with the rhyth-
mic patterns. When the student is unable to do this he may
find radio and the movie helpful in making familiar the
rhythms of dialect. He may also familiarize himself with
dialects by listening to gramophone records of folk speech.

Negro dialect presents intriguing problems to the crea-
tive reader. The rhythm of Negro dialect is racial; it is not
easily described nor is it easily sensed except by those who
have been closely associated with the Negro. Relaxation
and abandon are essential in responding to this rhythm.
One distinguishing characteristic of Negro poetry and music
is syncopated time in which the accent seems to fall upon
the off beat. Perhaps the student can sense this rhythm by
tapping off the rhythm with his fingers, reading the stressed
words or syllables with the hand lifted; that is, speaking the
stressed words between the rhythmic beats instead of on
the beats. It may take some practice and experimentation
for the reader to sense syncopation in oral reading; one is
more likely to be familiar with it in music than in speech.
The enjoyment of Negro dialect comes largely from this
sense of rhythm which, when projected adequately, is likely
to bring audience response in swaying, patting, or in some
other manner giving evidence of empathic response.

A few dialect selections are given in the following pages.
As you practice for adequate dialect, remember: the idea

126 DRAMATIC TIMING

should take precedence over enunciation; the mental at-
titude of the character is more important than his oddities
of speech.

In the introduction to a volume of Irwin Russell's poems
Joel Chandler Harris writes:

Irwin Russell was among the first — if not the very first — of
Southern writers to appreciate the literary possibilities of the
negro character, and of the unique relations existing between
the two races before the war, and was among the first to develop
them. The opinion of an uncritical mind ought not to go for
much, but it seems to me that some of Irwin Russell's negro
character studies rise to the level of what, in a large way, we
term literature. His negro operetta, "Christmas-Night in the
Quarters," is inimitable. It combines the features of a character
study with a scries of bold and striking plantation pictures that
have never been surpassed. In this remarkable group, — if I may
so term it, — the old life before the war is reproduced with a fi-
delity that is marvelous.

From this "group" we have selected the Negro preacher's
prayer, delivered as an invocation before the dance.

From CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS1

Irwin Russell

O Mahsr! let dis gath'rin' fin' a blessin' in yo' sight!

Don't jedge us hard fur what we does — you know it's Chrismus-

night;
An' all de balunce ob de yeah we does as right's we kin.
Ef dancin's wrong, O Mahsr! let de time excuse de sin!

1 Irwin Russell, Christmas Night in the Quarters (New York: The
Century Co.), pp. 8-12. By permission of the publishers.

STUDIES IN DIALECT 127

We labors in de vineya'd, wukin' hard and wukin' true;
Now, shorely you won't notus, ef we eats a grape or two,
An' takes a leetle holiday, — a leetle restin'-spell, —
Bekase, nex' week, we'll start in fresh, an' labor twicet as well.

Remember, Mahsr, — min' dis now, — de sinfullness ob sin
Is 'pendin' 'pon de sperrit what we goes an' does it in:
An' in a righchis frame ob min' we's gwine to dance an' sing.
A-feelin' like King David, when he cut de pigeon wing.

It seems to me — indeed it do — I mebbe mout be wrong —
That people raly ought to dance, when Chrismus comes along;
Des dance bekase dey's happy — like de birds hops in de trees,
De pine-top fiddle soundin' to de bowin' ob de breeze.

We has no ark to dance afore, like Isrul's prophet king;
We has no harp to soun' de chords, to holp us out to sing;
But 'cordin' to de gif's we has we does de bes' we knows,
An' folks don't 'spise the vi'let-flower bekase it ain't de rose.

You bless us, please, sah, eben ef we's doin' wrong to-night;
Kase den we'll need de blessin' more'n ef we's doin' right;
An' let de blessin' stay wid us, untel we comes to die,
An' goes to keep our Chrismus wid dem sherriffs in de sky!

Yes, tell dem preshis anguls we's a-gwine to jine 'em soon:
Our voices we's a-trainin' fur to sing de glory tune;
We's ready when you wants us, an' it ain't no matter when —
O Mahsr! call yo' chillen soon, an' take 'em home! Amen.

A Scene from DAVID COPPERFIELD

Charles Dickens

CHARACTERS: Old Fisherman Peggotty, Ham Peggotty,
David Copperfield.

NOTE. The scene is the interior of the Old Ark; the time is
evening. The rain is falling outside, yet inside the Old Ark

128 DRAMATIC TIMING

all is snug and comfortable. The fire is burning brightly on
the hearth, and Mother Gummidge sits by it knitting. Ham
has gone out to fetch Little Em'ly home from her work, and
the old fisherman sits smoking liis evening pipe by the table
near the window. They are expecting Steerforth and Cop-
perfield in to spend the evening. Presently a knock is heard
and David enters. Old Peggotty gets up to greet him.

Old Peggotty. Why! It's Mas'r Davy! Glad to see you. Mas'r
Davy, you're the first of the lot! Take off that cloak of yours if
it's wet and draw right up to the fire. Don't you mind Mawther
Gummidge, Mas'r Davy; she's a-thinkin' of the old 'un. She
allers do be thinkin' of the old 'un when ther's a storm a-
comin' up, along of his havin' been drownded at sea. Well,
now, I must go and light up accordin' to custom. [He lights a
candle and puts it on the table by the window.'] Theer we are!
A-lighted up accordin' to custom. Now, Mas'r Davy, you're
a-wonderin' what that little candle is fur, ain't yer? Well, I'll
tell yer. It's for my Little Em'ly. You see, the path ain't light
or cheerful arter dark, so when I'm home along the time that
Little Em'ly comes home from her work, I allers lights the
little candle and puts it there on the table in the winder, and
it serves two purposes, — first, Em'ly sees it and she says:
"Theer's home," and likewise, "Theer's Uncle," fur if I ain't
here I never have no light showed. Theer! Now you're
laughin' at me, Mas'r Davy! You're sayin' as how I'm a babby.
Well, I don't know but I am. [Walks toward table.] Not a
babby to look at, but a babby to consider on. A babby in the
form of a Sea Porkypine.

See the candle sparkle! I can hear it say — "Em'ly's lookin'
at me! Little Em'ly's comin'!" Right I am for here she is! [He
goes to the door to meet her; the door opens and Ham comes
staggering in.]

STUDIES IN DIALECT 129

Ham. She's gone! Her that I'd a died fur, and will die fur even
now! She's gone!

Peggotty. Gone!

Ham. Gone! She's run away! And think how she's run away
when I pray my good and gracious God to strike her down
dead, sooner than let her come to disgrace and shame.

Peggotty. Em'ly gone! I'll not believe it. I must have proof —
proof.

Ham. Read that writin'.

Peggotty. No! I won't read that writin' — read it you, Mas'r
Davy. Slow, please. I don't know as I can understand.

David [reads]. "When you see this I shall be far away."

Peggotty. Stop theer, Mas'r Davy! Stop theer! Fur away! My
Little Em'ly fur away! Well?

David [reads]. "Never to come back again unless he brings me
back a lady. Don't remember, Ham, that we were to be mar-
ried, but try to think of me as if I had died long ago, and was
buried somewhere. My last love and last tears for Uncle."

Peggotty. Who's the man? What's his name? I want to know the
man's name.

Ham. It warn't no fault of yours, Mas'r Davy, that I know.

Peggotty. What! You don't mean his name's Steerforth, do you?

Ham. Yes! His name is Steerforth and he's a cursed villain!

Peggotty. Where's my coat? Give me my coat! Help me on with
it, Mas'r Davy. Now bear a hand theer with my hat.

David. Where are you going, Mr. Peggotty?

Peggotty. I'm a goin' to seek fur my Little Em'ly. First I'm go-
ing to stave in that theer boat and sink it where I'd a drownded
him, as I'm a livin' soul, if I'd a known what he had in him!
I'd a drownded him, and thought I was doin' right! Now I'm
going to seek fur my Little Em'ly throughout the wide
wurreld!

Abridged

130 DRAMATIC TIMING

BONIE DOON

Robert Burns

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon,

How can ye blume sae fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae fu' o' care?

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,

That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o' the happy days,

When my fause luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,

That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,

And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon

To see the wood-bine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

And sae I did o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose

Frae aff its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw my rose

But left the thorn wi' me.

TOMORROW

Alfred Tennyson

Her, that yer Honor was spakin* to? Whin, yer Honor? last

year —
vStandin' here be the bridge, when last yer Honor was here?
An' yer Honor ye gev her the top of the mornin', "Tomorra,"

says she.

STUDIES IN DIALECT 131

What did they call her, yer Honor? They called her Molly
Magee. . . .

Shure, an' meself remimbers wan night comin' down be the

sthrame,
An' it seems to me now like a bit of histher-day in a dhrame —
Here where yer Honor seen her — there was but a slip of a moon,
But I heard thim — Molly Magee wid her batchelor, Danny

O'Roon —
"You've been takin' a dhrop o' the crathur," an' Danny says,

"Troth, an' I been
Dhrinkin' yer health wid Shamus O'Shea at Katty's shebeen;
But I must be lavin' ye soon." "Ochone are ye goin' away?"
"Goin' to cut the Sassenach whate," he says, "over the say" —
"An' whin will ye meet me agin?" an' I heard him "Molly

asthore,
I'll meet you agin tomorra," says he, "be the chapel-door."
"An' whin are ye goin' to lave me?" "O' Monday mornin'," says

he;
"An' shure thin ye'll met me tomorra?" "Tomorra, tomorra,

Machree!"
Thin Molly's ould mother, yer Honor, that had no likin' for

Dan,
Call'd from her cabin an' tould her to come away from the man,
An' Molly Magee kem flyin' acrass me, as light as a lark,
An' Dan stood there for a minute, an' thin wint into the dark.
But wirrah! the storm that night — the tundher, an' rain that fell,
An' the sthrames runnin' down at the back o' the glin 'ud 'a

dhrownded Hell.

But airth was at pace nixth mornin', an' Hiven in its glory

smiled,
As the Holy Mother o' Glory that smiles at her sleepin' child —
Ethen — she stept on the chapel-green, an' she turn'd herself

roun'
Wid a diamond dhrop in her eye, for Danny was not to be foun',

132 DRAMATIC TIMING

An' many's the time that I watch'd her at mass lettin' down the

tear,
For the Divil a Danny was there, yer Honor, for forty year.

Och, Molly Magee, wid the red o' the rose an' the white o' the

May,
An' yer hair as black as the night, an' yer eyes as bright as the

day! . . .
An' sorra the queen wid her scepter in sich an illigant han',
An' the fall of yer foot in the dance was as light as snow on the

Ian' . . .
An' the boys wor about her agin whin Dan didn't come to the

fore,
An' Shamus along wid the rest, but she put thim all to the door.
An', afther, I thried her meself av the bird 'ud come to me call,
But Molly, begorrah, 'ud listen to naither at all, at all. . . .

An' afther her paarints had inter'd glory, an' both in wan day,
She began to spake to herself, the crathur, an' whisper, an' say
"Tomorra, tomorra!" an' Father Malowny he tuk her in han',
"Molly, you're manin'," he says, "me dear, av I undherstan',
That ye'll meet your paarints agin an' yer Danny O'Roon afore

God
Wid his blest Mathyrs an' Saints"; an' she gev him a friendly

nod,
"Tomorra, tomorra," she says, an' she didn't intend to desave,
But her wits wor dead, an' her hair was as white as the snow

on a grave.

Arrah now, here last month they wor diggin' the bog, an' they

foun'
Dhrownded in black bog-wather a corp lyin' undher

groun' ....
An' they laid this body they foun' on the grass
Be the chapel-door, an' the people 'ud see it that wint into

mass —

STUDIES IN DIALECT 133

But a frish gineration had riz, an' most of the ould was few,
An' I didn't know him meself, an' none of the parish knew.

But Molly kem limpin' up wid her stick, she was lamed iv a

knee,
Thin a slip of a gossoon call'd, "Div ye know him, Molly

Magee?"
An' she stood up straight as the Queen of the world — she lifted

her head —
"He said he would meet me tomorra!" an' dhropt down dead

on the dead.

Och, Molly, we thought, machree, ye would start back agin into

life,
Whin we laid yez, aich be aich, at yer wake like husban' an' wife,
Sorra the dhry eye thin but was wet for the friends that was gone!
Sorra the silent throat but we hard it cryin' "Ochone!"
An' Shamus O'Shea that has now ten childr' han'some an' tall,
Him an' his childr' wor keenin' as if he had lost thim all.

Thin his Riverence buried thim both in wan grave be the dead

boor-tree,
The young man Danny O'Roon wid his ould woman, Molly

Magee. . . .
An' now that I tould yer Honor whatever I hard an' seen,
Yer Honor '11 give me a thrifle to dhrink yer health in potheen.

Chapter V

STRUCTURE IN INTERPRETATIVE
READING

Art is feeling passed through thought and fixed in form.

Delsarte

The need of a technique of thinking for interpretative
reading was emphasized in Chapter I. In Chapters II and
III techniques of thinking in relation to sensation and
dramatic timing were suggested as a means of conveying
concepts to an audience. The student is now invited to
consider carefully the structural elements in the art of in-
terpretative reading.

In one of her well-known sonnets Edna St. Vincent Millay
says, "Euclid alone has looked on beauty bare." Miss Millay
gives recognition here to the principle that back of all
beauty there is geometric form. According to her statement,
Euclid, who discovered the laws of geometry, is the only
one who has looked upon beauty stripped of all ornamenta-
tion. Miss Millay suggests by this statement that others have
looked upon the coverings of beauty, but Euclid alone has
looked on beauty bare.

The purpose of art is to create illusion; the artist wishes
to cover his form, for the best art conceals its artistry. The
twisted smile of the Mona Lisa baffles the onlooker. It is
said that to achieve this effect Leonardo da Vinci painted the
lines on one side of her face with a downward, and on the

134

CLIMAX 135

other side with an upward trend. The artist has covered
his technique so well that the observer finds it difficult to
perceive the direction of the lines; he sees only the mocking,
teasing, baffling smile of the woman with the folded hands.
The illusion is for the spectator; the form is for the artist.
As was suggested in Chapter I, the fear of artificiality has
frequently prevented the reader's looking frankly at the
form of oral reading. The result has been inadequate struc-
ture for the art of interpretative reading. The creative
reader, like other creative artists, has need to build upon a
stable structural form. He must not be afraid to look upon
beauty bare.

CLIMAX

A technique of climax is an important phase of interpreta-
tive reading. The word climax comes from a Greek word
meaning ladder. The comparison of the principles of climax
to a ladder should help the student of creative reading to
understand the nature of climax. The term climax is usu-
ally understood to mean the highest peak of interest, or the
turning point in a play, story, or poem. The climax is
reached by a series of lesser climaxes and is often followed
by other lesser climaxes. The process of reaching a climax
may be compared to climbing a ladder. The process of go-
ing from one climax to another may be compared to de-
scending a ladder and ascending another. The writer uses
the principle of climax to climb to or to descend from points
of special interest. The reader, to interpret adequately,
must give oral expression to the mounting and descending
of these ladders.

The principle of climax may be said to characterize a

136 STRUCTURE

piece of literature as a whole and also each separate part.
Each act of a play, each chapter of a book, or each stanza
of a poem may have its climax which forms a step to or from
the climax of the whole. The principle of climax may be
discerned in sentences, even in phrases. For example, Ham-
let says:

O! that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew;
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter.

Shakespeare has given the words in a climactic order:
melt, thaw, resolve itself into a dew. The reader's technique
of climax should be commensurate with that of the writer.
An increase in emphasis is the natural means of giving the
climax in this phrase.

Build

The word build (a term familiar to actors) suggests the
process of ascending climaxes and may be applied in in-
terpretative reading. One builds in intensity, tempo, and
volume as one senses the need of climbing to a peak of
interest. The creative reader should sense the build in a
piece of literature as a whole and also in the various parts.
Each portion may be built in proportion to the climax of the
whole. In some plays, novels, or poems the climax is toward
the end. Sometimes, however, the author places the climax
much earlier in order that there may be a descent in in-
tensity as the problem is solved, or the plot unraveled.

Shakespeare's plays, consisting of five acts with the climax

CLIMAX 137

usually occurring in the third act, present an interesting
study in climax. One explanation for his placing the climax
so early in the play is that the play may end with a more
normal emotion than that which characterizes the climax.
For example, in The Merchant of Venice it is much more
pleasant for the play to end with the charm and humor of
the ring scene than with the conflict of the trial scene. This
play builds in intensity until Portia pronounces the sentence
upon the Jew. There is a moment of intense emotion as
Portia delivers the verdict upon Shylock. The relief from
this tension is almost immediate as the sub-plot is resumed
and the minor climax is built concerning the rinsfs.

Planes

The creative reader may find it helpful in building cli-
maxes to think of the phrases as spoken on different planes
of pitch. Diagrams of the relative position of phrases in
building a climax may help the student to sense builds.
Practice in building his oral expression according to a
diagram of planes may aid him in breaking up habits of
monotony in reading.

For example, let us make a diagram of Pippa's song, ''The
Year's At the Spring," from "Pippa Passes" by Browning.

The year's at the spring
And the day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:
God's in his heaven —
All's right with the world!

138 STRUCTURE

This lyric suggests a division of two builds of four lines
each. We may read each of these portions with each succeed-
ing line on a slightly higher plane than the line preceding.
What about the relation of the two portions to each other?
It seems evident to us that the climax is in one of the last
two lines. Let us say the last line is the climax. Our second
portion would then build higher than our first portion, but
the first line of the second portion would not be quite so
high as the last line of the first portion. Consider the diagram
below and test its adequacy by reading the lyric according
to this form.

8. All's right with the world!

7. God's in his heaven —
4. The hillside's dew-pearled;

6. The snail's on the thorn:
3. Morning's at seven

5. The lark's on the wing;
2. And the day's at the morn;

1. The year's at the spring

How would you build the following excerpt?
In the Cathedral of Liibeck, Germany, is this inscription:

Thus speaketh Christ our Lord to us:
Ye call me Master, and obey me not;
Ye call me Light, and seek me not;
Ye call me Way, and walk me not;
Ye call me Life, and desire me not;
Ye call me Wise, and follow me not;
Ye call me Fair, and love me not;
Ye call me Rich, and ask me not;
Ye call me Eternal, and seek me not;
Ye call me Gracious, and trust me not;
Ye call me Noble, and serve me not;
Ye call me Mighty, and honor me not;

CLIMAX 139

Ye call me Just, and hear me not;
If I condemn you, blame me not.

Crescendo and Diminuendo

In music the ascent and descent in climax is called cre-
scendo and diminuendo. "The Volga Boatman" is a song the
popularity of which is probably due to this principle. The
song starts very softly as if the boatman were far away down
the river. The song gradually builds in volume and intensity
as if the boatman were coming nearer and nearer. When
the climax (the turning point) is reached, the volume and
intensity begin to diminish as gradually as they were built.
The song seems finally to fade away as if the boatman had
disappeared in the distance with the last few notes of the
soviQ- floating back to the listeners.

The student of interpretative reading will find many
places in literature where the technique of crescendo and
diminuendo may be used effectively. In Vachel Lindsay's
"The Santa Fe Trail" the coming and receding of auto
horns may be suggested by this technique. In the stanza
which follows, from "The Explorer" by Rudyard Kipling,
hope may be built and despair suggested by the technique
of crescendo and diminuendo.

Till the snow ran out in flowers, and the flowers turned to

aloes,
And the aloes sprung to thickets and a brimming stream ran

by;
But the thickets dwined to thorn-scrub, and the water drained

to shallows,
And I dropped again on desert — blasted earth, and blasting

sky. . . .*

1 Rudyard Kipling, "The Explorer," from The Five Nations, Lon-
don, A. P. Watt & Son; New York, Doubleday, Doran and Company,
Inc., 1903, 1931. Reprinted by permission.

140 STRUCTURE

DIAGRAM

4. and a brimming stream ran by;

5. But the thickets dwined to thorn-scrub,
3. And the aloes sprung to thickets

6. and the water drained to shallows,
2. and the flowers turned to aloes,

7. And I dropped again on desert-
1. Till the snow ran out in flowers,

8. blasted earth,
9. and blasting
10. sky. . . .

Topping

When in dialogue two or more characters build a climax
together, they are said to top each other, the technique being
known as topping. The student of interpretative reading
may be wise to spend some time practicing this technique.
Students may sense the interplay of characters if they are
cast in the roles of the characters and build a scene together,
topping each other as they ascend to the climax. After gain-
ing some proficiency in topping others, the student may then
be able to suggest the various characters and also to apply
the technique of topping as he reads the scene alone.

The technique of topping is of value in building scenes
in tragedy and in comedy. In tragedy the student is more
likely to sense the builds due to the compelling power of the
emotion.

Topping is almost a sure technique for gaining laughs in
comedy. Even a simple dialogue will prove amusing if built
by topping. For example, apply the technique of topping
in the following dialogue. Suggest a man's and a woman's

CLIMAX 141

voice each topping the other as you build to the woman's
final "no" which should be given on a very high pitch with
a feeling of finality in the tone.

He. Yes!
She. No!
He. Yes!
She. No!
He. Yes!
She. No!
He. Yes!
She. No!

Relief

In mastering a technique of climax it is important for
the student to realize the need of relief as well as of tension.
The descent is as important as the ascent. Relief may often
be given within a general build. For example, within a
speech of a character the topping may be achieved with the
first phrase, the rest of the speech being given on other
levels. To keep one level too long results in monotony
whether that level is too low or too high. When the level
is too high it gives the effect of ranting, when too low, of
indifference or boredom.

The School for Scandal offers enjoyable scenes for the
technique of topping. Lady Teazle and Sir Peter both seem
to enjoy their quarrels. Humor can be projected by keeping
Lady Teazle good humored as she provokes Sir Peter almost
to the point of exasperation. Comedy is heightened in a
quarrel scene by allowing only one character at a time to
become tense. The one who feels himself winning is often
relaxed and good humored. High comedy may be attained

142 STRUCTURE

by a quick shift as the one who has seemed defeated turns
tables and gets on top.

From THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL1

Richard Sheridan
SCENE. — A room in Sir Peter Teazle's house.

[Enter Sir Peter and Lady Teazle.]

Sir Peter. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it!

Lady Teazle. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as
you please; but I ought to have my own way in everything,
and what's more, I will too. What though I was educated in
the country, I know very well that women of fashion in Lon-
don are accountable to nobody after they are married.

Sir Peter. Very well, ma'am, very well; so a husband is to
have no influence, no authority.

Lady Teazle. Authority! No, to be sure; if you wanted au-
thority over me, you should have adopted me, and not mar-
ried me; I am sure you were old enough.

Sir Peter. Old enough! ay — there it is. Well, well, Lady Teazle,
though my life may be made unhappy by your temper, I'll
not be ruined by your extravagance.

Lady Teazle. My extravagance! I'm sure I'm not more ex-
travagant than a woman ought to be.

Sir Peter. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums
on such unmeaning luxury. 'Slife! to spend as much to fur-
nish your dressing-room with flowers in winter as would
suffice to turn the Pantheon into a green-house.

Lady Teazle. Lud, Sir Peter, am I to blame, because flowers
are dear in cold weather? You should find fault with the
climate, and not with me. For my part, I'm sure, I wish it

1 Act II, Scene i.

CLIMAX 143

was spring all the year round, and that roses grew under our
feet!

Sir Peter. Zounds! madam — if you had been born to this, I
shouldn't wonder at your talking thus; but you forget what
your situation was when I married you.

Lady Teazle. No, no, I don't; 'twas a very disagreeable one, or
I should never have married you.

Sir Peter. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat a
humbler style, — the daughter of a plain country squire. Rec-
ollect, Lady Teazle, when I saw you first sitting at your
tamber, in a pretty figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys
at your side; your hair combed smooth over a roll, and your
apartment hung around with fruits in worsted of your own
working.

Lady Teazle. Oh, yes! I remember it very well, and a curious
life I led, — my daily occupation to inspect the dairy, superin-
tend the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt-book,
and comb my Aunt Deborah's lap dog.

Sir Peter. Yes, yes, ma'am, 'twas so indeed.

Lady Teazle. And then, you know, my evening amusements;
— to draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not materials to
make up; to play Pope Joan with the curate; to read a novel
to my aunt; or to be stuck down to an old spinnet to strum
my father to sleep after a fox-chase.

Sir Peter. I am glad you have so good a memory. Yes, madam,
these were the recreations I took you from; but now you must
have your coach — vis-a-vis and in summer, a pair of white cats
to draw you to Kensington Gardens. No recollection, I sup-
pose, when you were content to ride double, behind the
butler, on a docked coach-horse.

Lady Teazle. No — I never did that: I deny the butler and the
coach horse.

144 STRUCTURE

Sir Peter. This, madam, was your situation; and what have I
done for you? I have made you a woman of fashion, of for-
tune, of rank; in short I have made you my wife.

Lady Teazle. Well, then; and there is but one thing more you
can make me add to the obligation, and that is —

Sir Peter. My widow, I suppose?

Lady Teazle. Hem. Hem!

Sir Peter. I thank you, madam; but don't flatter yourelf; for
though your ill conduct may disturb my peace of mind, it
shall never break my heart, I promise you: however, I am
equally obliged to you for the hint.

Lady Teazle. Then why will you endeavor to make yourself
so disagreeable to me, and thwart me in every little elegant
expense?

Sir Peter. 'Slife, madam, I say, had you any of these little
elegant expenses when you married me?

Lady Teazle. Lud, Sir Peter! Would you have me be out of the
fashion?

Sir Peter. The fashion, indeed. What had you to do with the
fashion before you married me?

Lady Teazle. For my part, I should think you would like to
have your wife thought a woman of taste.

Sir Peter. Ay; there again — taste. Zounds! Madam, you had no
taste when you married me!

Lady Teazle. That's very true indeed, Sir Peter; and after
having married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I
allow. But now, Sir Peter, since we have finished our daily
jangle I presume I may go to my engagement at Lady Sneer-
well's?

Sir Peter. Ay, there's another precious circumstance — a charm-
ing set of acquaintance you have made there.

Lady Teazle. Nay, Sir Peter, they are all people of rank and
fortune, and remarkably tenacious of reputation.

CLIMAX 145

Sir Peter. Yes, egad, they are tenacious of reputation with a
vengeance; lor they don't choose anybody should have a
character but themselves! — such a crew! Ah! many a wretch
had rid on a hurdle who has done less mischief than these
utterers of forged tales, coiners of scandal, and clippers of
reputation.

Lady Teazle. What! would you restrain the freedom of speech?

Sir Peter. Ah! they have made you just as bad as any one of
the society.

Lady Teazle. Why, I believe 1 do bear a part with a tolerable
grace.

Sir Peter. Grace, indeed!

Lady Teazle. But I vow I bear no malice against the people
I abuse. When I say an ill-natured thing, 'tis out of pure
good humor; and 1 take it for granted, they deal exactly in
the same manner with me. But, Sir Peter, you know you
promised to come to Lady Sneerwell's too.

Sir Peter. Well, well, I'll call in just to look after my character.

Lady Teazle. Then indeed you must make haste after me, or
you'll be too late. So, good-by to you. [Exit.]

Sir Peter. So — I have gained much by my intended expostula-
tion; yet, with what a charming air she contradicts every-
thing I say, and how pleasingly she shows her contempt for
my authority. Well, though I can't make her love me, there
is great satisfaction in quarrelling with her; and I think she
never appears to such advantage, as when she is doing every-
thing in her power to plague me.

Reserve

One of the secrets of effectiveness in climax is for the
reader to save intensity, force, and volume for the climax.
This principle is called reserve. One needs to reserve one's

146 STRUCTURE

power for peaks of interest. The creative reader usually
needs to reserve his energy at the beginning of every portion
in order that he may build. He must also keep a sense of pro-
portion in order not to build too high in the early climaxes
and thus lack the ability to ascend higher as he reaches the
climax. A good rule is never to use more intensity than is
essential for the projection of the idea. Actors sometimes
find that they have been unable to build a climax effectively
because they have started on too high a plane. The excite-
ment of public occasions often causes speakers to start on
too high a pitch, and it becomes increasingly difficult for
them to come down, which results in ranting.

Contrast

Contrast is an essential element of art for which the stu-
dent of interpretative reading should be constantly on the
alert. A certain student won a declamation contest with a
rendition of Kipling's "Recessional." He read the entire
poem in one mood, in a high sounding manner, as it were. It
sounded good to two of the judges but the third judge, feel-
ing that the student had misinterpreted the poem from the
viewpoint of contrast, voted against him. The student's
rendition showed dramatic power and he might have won
all three votes if he had used the principle of contrast. Por-
tions of "The Recessional" depict the pomp and grandeur
of the successful reign of Queen Victoria. Although the
student's high sounding tones were fitting for these portions,
they should have been contrasted with the attitude of hu-
mility which the poet felt to be essential on such an occasion

CONTRAST 147

Read the following poems, observing the principle of

contrast.

LOVE AMONG THE RUINS

Robert Browning

Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles

Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep

Half-asleep
Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stray or stop

As they crop —
Was the site once of a city great and gay

(So they say)
Of our country's very capital, its prince

Ages since
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far

Peace or war.

Now, — the country does not even boast a tree,

As you see,
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills

From the hills
Intersect and give a name to (else they run

Into one,)
Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires

Up like fires
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall

Bounding all,
Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed,

Twelve abreast.

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
Never was!

148 STRUCTURE

Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'er-spreads

And embeds
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,

Stock or stone —
Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe

Long ago;
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame

Struck them tame;
And that glory and that shame alike, the gold

Bought and sold.

Now, — the single little turret that remains

On the plains
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd

Overscored,
While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks

Through the chinks —
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time

Sprang sublime,
And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced

As they raced,
And the monarch and his minions and his dames

Viewed the games.

And I know — while thus the quiet-colored eve

Smiles to leave
To their folding, all our many tinkling fleece

In such peace,
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray

Melt away —
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair

Waits me there
In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul

For the goal,
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb

Till I come.

CONTRAST 149

But he looked upon the city, every side,

Far and wide,
All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'

Colonnades,
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, — and then,

All the men!
When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,

Either hand
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace

Of my face,
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech

Each on each.

•
In one year they sent a million fighters forth

South and north,
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high

As the sky,
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force —

Gold, of course.
Oh heart! Oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!

Earth's returns
For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!

Shut them in,
With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! I

Love is best.

YOUNG AND OLD

Charles Kingsley

When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green;

And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;

Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;

150 STRUCTURE

Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,

And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,

And all the wheels run down:
Creep home, and take your place there,

The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there,

You loved when all was young.

Polarity

Sometimes the contrasted elements seem so far apart that
the term polarity may be used effectively signifying "as far
apart as the poles." Literature is filled with contrasts, such
as life and death, kings and clowns, black and white. The
mood in one portion may be very different to that of an-
other. Witness how Shakespeare follows tragic scenes with
comic, how Longfellow contrasts the peace of the Arcadian
village life with the ruthless separations which follow, how
Browning contrasts the sweet innocence of Pompilia with
the brutal character of Guido Franceschini. Polarity makes
the writer's ideas bold and vivid. The creative reader musl
match the writer's technique with bold tones, bold rhythms,
bold changes in pitch, with polarity.

Any sudden change in pitch is arresting because it givey
contrast. An idea may be intensified by a sudden leap in
stead of a gradual climb. Octave leaps and octave drops give
dramatic, startling effects conducive to an increase in au-
dience interest. For example, The Taming o] the Shreu
offers interesting scenes for the study of polarity. The reader

PATTERNS 151

is likely to sense octave leaps from the voice of Petruchio
to the voice of Katharine, the shrew, and sometimes in the
midst of the speeches of each. Read the lines which follow,
testing the effectiveness of octave leaps and drops.1

Petruchio. Good morrow, Kate; for that's your name, I hear.
Katharine. Well have you heard, but something hard of

hearing:

They call me Katharine that do talk of me.
Petruchio. You lie, in faith; for you are called plain Kate.

Read the following speech of Katharine's, observing the
effectiveness of an octave leap between the last two words.

Katharine. I chafe you, if I tarry: let me go.

Read the next speech of Katharine's with a leap on the
second word and a quick drop on the phrase which follows:

Katharine. Go, fool, and whom thou keep'st command.

SPEECH PATTERNS

One frequently hears a speaker criticized for having a
speech pattern. The suggestion is that he says everything
in the same intonation (or with the same geometric form).
One speaks of a "ministerial tone" in which every phrase
seems to turn up at the end. The pattern might be dia-
gramed as follows:

1 From Act II, Scene i.

152 STRUCTURE

A rather typical reading pattern seems to go like this:

Debaters are said to develop a pattern with a strong down-
ward inflection somewhat the reverse of the ministers:

Speech patterns are gained through environment from
many sources, social and professional. The smooth salesman,
the gossipy housewife, the giggling girl are all likely to have
speech patterns indicative of their modes of life and habits
of thinking. The weakness in these modes of speech is due
largely to their sameness.

It is easy for all of us to fall into ruts of thinking, speak-
ing, or living. The creative artist puts forth real effort not
to fall into such ruts but to keep a creative attitude and to
approach each new situation with a childlike freshness of
interest. The interpretative reader avoids a speech pattern
by creating a variety of speech patterns. Changes in speech
patterns suggest changes in ideas, it being the ideal of the
creative reader to approach the infinite mind which creates
a different pattern for every snowflake.

An objective means of breaking up a monotonous pat-
tern in reading and an aid in creating varied patterns ex-
pressive of varied ideas is for the student to draw patterns
which he conceives adequate for the expression of the ideas
in a given piece of literature. These patterns may be drawn
for brief phrases only or for portions long enough to show

PATTERNS 153

interclausal relations, as was suggested by the diagram of
builds for the lyric, "The Year's At the Spring."

A possible pattern for the first sentence of Hamlet's
famous soliloquy is as follows:

that is the question.

Draw diagrams for patterns which will express the ideas
of the following poems. Practice reading according to your
patterns until your voice follows them.

FROM A RAILWAY CARRIAGE

Robert L. Stevenson

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troups in battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone forever!

154 STRUCTURE

ABNEGATION

Christina Rossetti

If there be any one can take my place
And make you happy whom I grieve to grieve,
Think not that I can grudge it, but believe
I do commend you to that nobler grace,
That readier wit than mine, that sweeter face;
Yea, since your riches make me rich, conceive
I too am crowned, while bridal crowns I weave,
And thread the bridal dance with jocund pace.
For if I did not love you, it might be
That I should grudge you some one dear delight;
But since the heart is yours that was mine own,
Your pleasure is my pleasure, right my right,
Your honorable freedom makes me free,
And you companioned I am not alone.

TO A SKYLARK

William Wordsworth

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

To the last point of vision, and beyond
Mount, daring warbler! — that love-promoted strain
— 'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond —
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
All independent of the leafy Spring.

EMPHASIS AND SUBORDINATION 155

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;

A privacy of glorious light is thine,

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood

Of harmony, with instinct more divine;

Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam —

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.

EMPHASIS AND SUBORDINATION

The interpretative reader needs not only to be aware of
general trends and emphasis but to be discreet in perceiv-
ing portions to be subordinated. Interpretative reading is
like the art of painting in that for adequate perspective
most of the picture should be in the background. If the
painter tried to emphasize every detail by bringing it into
the focus of attention (into the foreground) he would pro-
duce a very unnatural effect. This same situation exists when
the reader attempts to emphasize every word or attempts
to bring every phase of every idea into the foreground of
his word picture. Most of the words should be spoken in a
subordinate manner providing background and perspective
for the comparatively few words or ideas the reader wishes
to make emphatic.

The amateur reader may either drone along without
emphasizing anything or he may attempt to emphasize too
much. Let us take the emphasis of words, for example. One
word in a phrase will usually carry the meaning. The other
words may be given without stress or even slurred without
marring the sense. This principle is illustrated in the scene
from Othello which follows. For clarity we have italicized
the emphatic words. Read the scene aloud, giving emphasis
to the words which are italicized.

156 STRUCTURE

From OTHELLO1

William Shakespeare

Iago. My noble lord, —

Othello. What dost thou say, Iago?

Iago. Did Michael Cassio, when you woo'd my lady

Know of your love?
Othello. He did, from the first to last: why dost thou ask?
Iago. But for a satisfaction of my thought;

No further harm.
Othello. Why of thy thought, Iago?

Iago. I did not think he had been acquainted with her.

Othello. O! Yes; and went between us very oft.
Iago. Indeed!

Othello. Indeed! ay, indeed; discern st thou aught in that?

Is he not honest?
Iago. Honest, my lord?

Othello. Honest! ay, honest.

Iago. My lord, for aught I know.

Othello. What dost thou think?
Iago. Think, my lord!

Othello. Think, my lord!

By heaven, he echoes me,

As if there were some monster in his thought

Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean some-
thing.

To illustrate further the fact that one word often carries
the meaning of a phrase, we have reduced the speeches of
this scene to key words. Read the dialogue below, thinking
the meaning you have found in the author's phrases but
uttering the key words only.

1 Act III, Scene iii.

EMPHASIS AND SUBORDINATION 157

Iago. M'lord.

Othello. What?

Iago. Cassio — know?

Othello. Yes — why?

Iago. Thought.

Othello. Thought?

Iago. Acquainted?

Othello. Yes.

Iago. Indeed?

Othello. Indeed — honest?

Iago. Honest?

Othello. Honest!

Iago. Perhaps.

Othello. Think?

Iago. Think!

Othello. Think! Echoes — monster — hideous — meaning?

An interesting example of this principle is found in the
dialogue In a Garden by Frank C. Egan.1 This dialogue is
made up of the emphatic words which might have emerged
from sentences or phrases. The words in this dialogue grew
out of ideas, the essence of which is expressed not in the
usual sentence or phrase but in key words. In order to in-
terpret these key words the reader must think what the
character does not say that causes the words which he does
say.

Emphasis

Emphasis may be defined as the prominence given to
wrords, syllables, and ideas. The prominence given to the
emphatic syllable of a word is called accent. The promi-

1 Gertrude E. Johnson, Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation
(New York: D. Appleton-Century Co., Inc., 1920), pp. 190-95.

158 STRUCTURE

nence given to a word (in order that emphasis may be given
to the meaning of the phrase) is called sense stress, which is
often referred to merely as emphasis. Sense stress usually
falls upon one syllable of a phrase only. The accented syl-
lable of the emphatic word carries the stress; the rest of
the word is subordinate as is the rest of the phrase. The
emphatic word carries the meaning as was illustrated by
the dialogue composed entirely of emphatic words.

Read aloud the following sentences emphasizing the syl-
lables written in capitals. Observe how these emphatic
syllables carry the meaning and how the subordinate parts
give perspective. After testing this principle read the sen-
tences, emphasizing several words or every word and ob-
serve how meaning is distorted. One should always end
such an experiment with a repetition of the better form,
in order that he may cultivate the habit of good form.

What COLor shall I take upon my brush?

It led me with its INnocence.

There's wild aZALea on the hill.

What was he DOing, the great god Pan?

They are dragged to the withered BRACKen.

Occasionally for the sake of direct contrast the unaccented
syllable is stressed, as,

I said Apartment, not DEpartment.

Sense Stress and Meter

In reading poetry one finds it necessary to merge sense
stress with meter or to discriminate as to which is more
important in conveying the author's purpose. In poetry the

EMPHASIS AND SUBORDINATION 159

accented syllable of the word usually carries the metric stress
as well as the sense stress.

Whither is fled the visionary gleam.

Wordsworth

\J — w

She was as safe as in a sanctuary.

Spencer

Kind solace in a dying hour.

When there is conflict in these various forms of emphasis,
the reader's emphasis must be guided by his own discrimi-
nation. Some readers place accepted forms of pronunciation
above meter in poetry reading; others think meter should
take precedence; and others decide in favor of meaning.
For example in As You Like It the duke says:

Firm and irrevocable is my decree.

The dictionary indicates the pronunciation irrevocable
with the accent on the second syllable of the word. Try scan-
ning the line with a metrical stress on that syllable.

■ ■ i ■ W w _ www _ w w —i m

Firm and irrevocable is my decree.

Now scan the line with a stress on the third syllable of that
word.

— — w _ w ■ ■■■ WW _ W w -■ -

Firm and irrevocable is my decree.

Which manner of scansion seems more rhythmical to you?
Now give the line the sense test. Which accent makes the
meaning stronger? Does the force given by emphasis on the

160 STRUCTURE

third syllable of the word take precedence, in your judg-
ment, over the dictionary pronunciation of the word? This
line is read differently by different actors. We have come
to appreciate the force in the pronunciation with the em-
phasis on the third syllable, irrevocable. The creative reader
who assumes the responsibility of interpreter must decide
these matters for himself. He may be guided, in emphasis,
by his understanding of the meaning and by his judgment
of the relative importance of meaning, pronunciation, and
meter.

New Ideas Versus Old

It should be observed that the word which gives the new
idea is usually the word to be emphasized. For example, in
the following series of phrases the emphasis shifts to the
new word which brings out a new phase of the idea.

I have ridden the wind.

I have ridden the sea.

I have ridden the moon and stars.

Cale Young Rice

That is an attractive dress. It is a new dress, a blue dress, a
silk dress.

Echo

When the emphasis shifts to the new idea, the old idea
(the idea already in the mind of the reader and audience)
is given somewhat in the form of an echo of its first enuncia-
tion. In the example given above the word dress was stressed
the first time and merely echoed the other three times. Ef-
fectiveness is often gained by repeating phrases or a portion

EMPHASIS AND SUBORDINATION 161

of a phrase as an echo. Test the effectiveness of echo in the
following examples:

lest we forget, lest we forget.

Rudyard Kipling 1

if we had the time, if we had the time.

Read the following poems, testing the effect of the tech-
nique of echo.

THE OWL

Alfred Tennyson

When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,

And the whirring sail goes round;
And the whirring sail goes round;

Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,

And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Twice or thrice his roundelay;

Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfy sits.

1 Rudyard Kipling, "Recessional" from The Five Nations, Lon-
don, A. P. Watt & Son; New York, Doubleday, Doran and Company,
Inc., 1903, 1931. Reprinted by permission.

1 62 STRUCTURE

LITTLE MAN AND LITTLE SOUL

A Ballad to the Tune of "There was a little man, and he

wooed a little maid"

Thomas Moore

There was a little Man and he had a little Soul,

And he said, "Little Soul, let us try, try, try,

Whether it's within our reach

To make up a little Speech,

Just between little you and little I, I, I,

Just between little you and little I!"

Then said his little Soul,

Peeping from her little hole,

I protest, little Man, you are stout, stout, stout,

But, if it's not uncivil,

Pray tell me what the devil,

Must our little, little speech be about, 'bout, 'bout,

Must our little, little speech be about?"

The little Man then spoke,

Little Soul, it is no joke,

For as sure as Jacky Fuller loves a sup, sup, sup,

I will tell the Prince and People

What I think of Church and Steeple,

And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up,

And my little patent plan to prop them up."

Away then, cheek by jowl,

Little Man and little Soul

Went and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, tittle,

And the world all declare

That this priggish little pair

Never yet in all their lies lookt so little, little, little,

Never yet in all their lives lookt so little!

EMPHASIS AND SUBORDINATION 163

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT

Thomas Hood

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,

Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch

She sang the 'Song of the Shirt.'

'Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work — work — work,

Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's Oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,

If this is Christian work!

'Work — work — work ,

Till the brain begins to swim;
Work — work — work ,

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band.

Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep.

And sew them on in a dream!

'Oh, Men with Sisters dear!

Oh, Men with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out

But human creatures' lives!
Stitch — stitch — stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

164 STRUCTURE

Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

'Work — work — work !

My labor never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread — and rags.
That shattered roof — this naked floor —

A table — a broken chair —
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank

For sometimes falling there!

'Work — work — work !

From weary chime to chime,
Work — work — work ,

As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,

As well as the weary hand.'

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,

Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch —
Would that its tone could reach the Rich! —

She sang this 'Song of the Shirt!'

Unity and Emphasis

The interpretative reader's understanding of the prin-
ciple of emphasis should not be limited to stress given to
syllables, words, or even to phrases. Emphasis and sub-

EMPHASIS AND SUBORDINATION 165

ordination have a larger significance. The creative artist
sees every portion of his work in relation to every other
portion. The reader must have a grasp of his material as
a whole. Every piece of literature should have a central
thought, a theme, an idea which should be emphasized above
all other ideas. Through subordinating other thoughts to
the central thought the reader achieves a perspective, or
unity in emphasis.

The Central Thought

The painter gives emphasis to his central figure by various
devices, such as placing it in the foreground, and through
such media as light and shade, lines, and color. The creative
reader gives emphasis to the central thought by similar
devices, such as changes in tempo, rhythm, pitch, pause,
force, and climax. Through balance, harmony and contrast
the painter brings his central figure into the focus of at-
tention. Through balance, harmony, and contrast the reader
gives emphasis to the central thought and relative subordi-
nation to all other ideas.

One of the first steps in interpretative reading is to decide
what is the author's central thought. Have you observed that
the central thought of this textbook is that interpretative
reading must have both form and spirit, with the spirit
predominant? The student should train himself to perceive
the author's central thought and to keep it in mind as he
prepares his reading. It is well for the student to state the
central thought of various types of literature in a single
sentence. What is the central thought in "To a Water-
fowl," the scene from The School for Scandal, and "Thr
Eagle"?

166 STRUCTURE

The Dominant Unity

We have borrowed the term dominant unity from Profes-
sor Mai lory because it expresses so clearly an important
phase of the interpretative reader's analysis. We cannot do
better, here, than to quote somewhat at length Professor
Mallory's explanation.

Every well-written composition has a dominant unity, a
single, main impression which the author wishes to establish,
or a purpose which he wishes to serve and to which everything
else is subordinate. As quickly as possible, the reader should
determine what this dominant unity is, for it is only by recog-
nizing it that he can evaluate the whole. The dominant unity
may be a general idea or theme. It may consist of a specific,
logical proposition. It may be a mood, an attitude, or an emo-
tion. Sometimes it is a character. It may be nothing more than
a situation. Whatever it is, the reader should recognize it and
respond to it constantly as he reads. If it is explicitly stated by
the author himself, its recognition is, of course, easy. Frequently
the problem is more complex. The dominant unity must be
inferred from what the characters say or do, or from the general
organization and structure of the material. The reader must
be alert for every sign that points to the single response which
the author wants the reader to carry away with him as the most
important element of the composition.

The reader must recognize, too, just what the nature of that
response should be. Sometimes the central idea or the main
proposition must be explicitly stated in its logical entirety be-
fore it can be adequately grasped. Sometimes the chief char-
acteristics of the mood, attitude, atmosphere, feeling, character,,
or situation can only be described. It is an error to attempt to
reduce every type of material to the logical exactness of a legal

UNITY 167

brief. Much imaginative literature may be ruined if this ap-
proach is used. It is also an error to be vague about what the
author is driving at merely because the main element of the
whole composition has been missed. The reader should check
his grasp of the dominant unity by expressing it in writing.
State it in a logical proposition if the nature of the material
permits. Give a succinct description of its essential character-
istics if it cannot be reduced to logical expression. The proposi-
tion or description should include all the essential elements
contained in the dominant unity.1

Means of Emphasis

As suggested several times in our discussions, there are
various devices for emphasis. The most obvious is loud-
ness, and it is, perhaps, the least subtle; a soft tone may
prove quite as emphatic as a loud one. If one has been
talking in a loud voice, a sudden change to softness may
prove an effective means of giving emphasis. This suggestion
indicates contrast, which has been mentioned before as a
means of emphasis, as have changes in pitch, rhythm, tempo,
and pause. At a later time we shall discuss changes in tone.
It is important for the interpretative reader to use many
devices and thus to present a more colorful picture than he
would give should he think of emphasis in terms of mere
loudness or force.

1 Louis A. Mallory, "Reading Aloud" in Foundations of Speech,
ed. James M. O'Neill (New York: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1941), pp.
271-72. By permission.

Chapter VI
ILLUSION IN INTERPRETATIVE READING

The attempt at high adventure brings reward undreamt.1

John Mase field

How far should one go in perfecting his form for in-
terpretative reading? Perfection of form is an ideal toward
which most artists work. Opinions differ, however, as to
whether it is desirable for a reader to develop a fixed form.
Spontaneity is certainly an essential for creative reading.
Flashes of insight come to the reader out of the environ-
ment of the specific occasion, lending impressiveness which
studied form could not achieve. But is it necessary for a
carefully developed form to appear studied?

As long as form demands a portion of a reader's thinking
it is likely to be within the consciousness of the audience
also. Audience consciousness of the means by which the
reader achieves his effect is usually considered objectiona-
ble. When, however, the form becomes so familiar, so habit-
ual, so crystallized that the reader may devote his thinking
to the concept, then is not the reader free to react with
spontaneity, trusting to the illumination of the moment?
Professor Lyman compares the skilled reader's freedom to
that of the musician.

1 John Masefield, "The Ending," in The JVandcrer of lAi>erpool
(New York: The Macnhllan Company). By permission of the pub-
lishers.

1G8

CRYSTALLIZATION 1 69

We can use a parallel in learning to read music. A pretty
painful process it is, that laborious picking out of the proper
keys when one first begins! Gradually the difficulty disappears.
Finally the musician sits at his instrument and runs his hands
lightly over the keyboard, unconsciously performing with ra-
pidity and skill acts which were once painfully slow. He now
reads mere notes and phrases without effort and executes them
with ease. His mind is free to dwell upon what the composer
is saying, what the music means. In other words, the skilled
performer's mind goes beyond the mechanics, into the realm of
interpretation. He thinks, feels, lives his music. In a somewhat
similar way, a skilled reader goes beyond symbols, and thinks,
feels, and lives the meanings of the printed page.1

CRYSTALLIZATION

Let us consider carefully the significance of crystalliza-
tion in the interpretative reader's technique. According to
Webster's dictionary crystallization means the ''process of
assuming a fixed and definite form." Since there is some
question as to the desirability of a fixed form in interpreta-
tive reading; let us look further into the definition. We find
"to assume a crystalline character." Now, crystalline is de-
fined as "transparent." If the reader's form by becoming
fixed becomes transparent, so that through it the thought
is revealed with clarity, then surely crystallization is de-
sirable for the reader's technique.

It seems apparent that mechanical reading results not so
much from crystallization of form as from the reader's con-
centration on form. According to Amy Lowell, "Art becomes

1 R. L. Lyman, The Mind at Work (Chicago: Scott, Foresman and
Co., 1924), p. 15. By permission of the publishers.

170 ILLUSION

artificial only when form takes precedence over spirit." 1
When a reader has practiced upon his form until he is sure
of it, he may be more free to concentrate upon the spirit.
Crystallization may then be a means by which he achieves
spontaneity in his reading.

Let us consider certain elements of form concerning
which there is little doubt of the value of crystallization.
Take, for example, the pronunciation of difficult words.
As long as the reader's concentration is upon vowel or con-
sonant sounds, accent, or syllabification, the word is weak-
ened as a carrier of meaning. When pronunciation becomes
crystallized, the reader's concentration can be focused
upon the significance of the word. When words and phrases
have become so much a part of a reader's thinking that his
manner of speaking them is habitual, then they should be
transparent so far as audience attention upon the reader's
manner of saying them is concerned. This transparency
permits awareness of content for both reader and audience,
relieving both of consciousness of form.

The need of crystallization is obvious for the reading of
dialect. In learning a dialect one must drill upon speech
sounds, accent, and rhythm. As the dialect becomes crystal-
lized the reader may concentrate more upon the mental
and emotional attitudes of the character. The character,
with his thoughts, feelings, reactions, is of primary im-
portance in dialect reading. The dialect is a means of re-
vealing the character — his background and processes of
thinking. When the reader's technique of speaking the
dialect becomes crystallized then the dialect becomes a

1 Amy Lowell, Tendencies in Modern Poetry (Boston: Houghton
Mifflin Company), p. 7. By permission of the publishers.

CRYSTALLIZATION 171

medium for revealing the thoughts and feelings of the char-
acter.

Let the student test the value of crystallization further
by reviewing his experience with some of the techniques
already presented in this book. Have the techniques that
have been suggested served to free the imagination? Have
they stimulated your thinking? Does the fact that your
form has, to some extent, become crystallized add freedom
in revealing the spirit of literature? As the form has be-
come easier, more habitual, more crystallized has concentra-
tion upon the essence become easier, more habitual? Your
process of thinking will determine whether crystallization
results in mechanical reading or in transparency through
which the essence is made more clear and your reading made
more spontaneous.

THE ILLUSION OF THE FIRST TIME

The student may achieve spontaneity in creative oral
reading by keeping in mind the ideal of dramatic art known
as the illusion of the first time. It is the ideal of the actor
to give each movement, each word, each idea as if it had
occurred to him for the first time at the moment of de-
livery. He wishes to react to each idea with such freshness ot
appreciation that he gives the illusion that the significance
of the idea has just flashed upon him. The spontaneous re-
action which remains with the artist after the form has be-
come crystallized is knowTn as the illusion of the first time.

Walter Hampden says that at times while playing a scene
on which he has worked for perfection of form he is tempted
to think of how he is doing it. This, he says, is bad. He casts
aside the temptation and trusts to "the illumination of the

172 ILLUSION

moment." "The illumination which comes to the actor in
moments of creative expression is," he states, "worth all
the self-discipline, all the privations, which great art de-
mands from its creator." x

As the student of interpretative reading drills upon ele-
ments of technique and works for crystallization of form
let him also, at the same time, work to retain the illumina-
tion which gives the illusion of the first time. Let him
realize that form is born of spirit, that adequate form and
spontaneous response grow together, and that each is in-
complete without the other. Let him not be satisfied with
less than the finest art of reading, which is achieved by per-
fection of form coordinated with sincere, spontaneous re-
sponse.

The student of interpretative reading should resolve that
each time he reads he will capture, or recapture, that spon-
taneity which gives the illusion of the first time. Let him
realize the truth of art, that the most carefully planned
techniques may appear accidental; the most studied effects
must appear careless. The interpretative reader's effects
should be comparable to that of the thrush as described by
Robert Browning:

... he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
That first fine careless rapture!

RESTRAINT

Restraint has been suggested many times already as an
essential in interpretative reading. When asked his opinion

1 Phonetic Transcription of Walter Hampden, Windsor P. Daggett,
The Spoken Word Course (New York: The Daggett Studio Publica-
tions, 1936), p. 43. By permission.

CRYSTALLIZATION 173

of the art of acting, John Galsworthy said that all he knew
could be summed up in the one word, restraint. Shakespeare
suggests the need for restraint when, in the speech to the
players, Hamlet says,

Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus; but
use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may
say, whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a tem-
perance that may give it smoothness. O! it offends me to the
soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion
to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who
for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable
dumb show and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped
for o'er-doing Termagant. It out-herods Herod. Pray you,
avoid it.

It is the purpose of art to awaken feeling in others — not
to make a display of itself. When an emotion is overdone
it is likely to call the attention of the audience to the
performance rather than to arouse feeling in the audience.
The student is no doubt familiar with a certain type of
religious worker who weeps over his story of unfortunates,
causing the audience to pity him instead of being moved by
the story itself. The audience feels sorry for such a speaker
because he does not have more control over his own emo-
tions. Occasionally, however, one hears a speaker whose
voice and manner are quiet and controlled but who so pro-
jects feeling to the audience that they are moved to weep.
Such a speaker uses restraint, or what Hamilton Wright
Mabie calls "noble balance."

The Classical writers, with their delicate sense of proportion,
harmony, and form, never attempted to pass beyond the limits

174 ILLUSION

of a sound art; they were sometimes formal and cold, but they
were never tumultuous, unbalanced, and lawless. In Sophocles,
for instance, one never loses consciousness of the presence of
a genius which, dealing with the most perplexing and terrible
questions of destiny, is never tempted to pass the bounds of clear
and definite artistic expression, but sustains the theme to the
end with a masterful self-restraint and majesty of repose. In
that noble balance, based on the harmony, not on the subjec-
tion of the heart and mind of the artist, one gets a glimpse of
one of the great ends of art; which is not to express but to
suggest that which transcends human thought and speech. For
the great play, statue, picture, speech are prophetic, and find
their fulfilment, not in themselves, but in the imagination
which comes under their spell; the more complete their beauty,
therefore, the more powerfully do they affirm the existence of
a beauty beyond themselves. The definiteness of Greek art was
not a limitation; it was a source of transcendent power.1

The old problem of whether an actor should feel or
should merely pretend to feel his part is still argued. Actors
usually agree that one should not feel to the extent that he
loses control and allows feeling to run away with him; he
must not go on an emotional debauch. So must the creative
reader develop discretion as to the amount of feeling in
which he indulges. The highest compliment the public can
pay an artist is that he performed with ease. Controlled, ef-
fortless performance invites admiration. The maximum of
effect with the minimum of effort is the ideal of the creative
reader as it is of the actor, the champion golfer, the painter,
or the musician.

Restraint does not mean a lack of feeling. Some students

1 From My Study Fire, by Hamilton Wright Mabic. Reprinted by
permission of the publishers, Dodd, Mead 8c Company, Inc.

CRYSTALLIZATION 175

claim that they are using restraint when they are impassive,
even cold or indifferent. The word itself suggests otherwise;
restraint means to hold back. The race horse needs to be
restrained; when a horse is running away he is in need of
restraint. So with emotion: the greater the feeling the more
need for restraint. When the reader so controls the evidence
of feeling that the feeling appears to be stronger than the
expression, he may be said to use restraint. When the audi-
ence senses that the feeling is greater than the means by
which it is projected, they feel that there is restraint.

Restraint might be called the "art which conceals art." It
is most needed when there is the greatest amount of aban-
don, just as control is essential where there is most freedom.
Freedom and control pulling against each other give pro-
portion. Strong feeling held in check by restraint gives bal-
ance.

Abandon

Students of interpretative reading usually need to work
for abandon before they can understand the nature of re-
straint; they need first to develop something to be restrained.
Until one has vitalized his concepts and abandoned himself
to feeling, he is hardly ready for a technique of restraint. It
is often advisable, in the beginning, for the student of in-
terpretative reading to overdo, even to exaggerate feeling.
When he has experienced abandon he is then ready to draw
in the feeling, or at least the expression of the feeling. Ef-
fective restraint might be compared with the effect of keep-
ing a cap on a bottle when the contents within are seeking
to push it out. That is the feeling one has in creative reading
when the feeling is so strong it requires utmost control for

176 ILLUSION

the reader to restrain it. After such readings members of the
audience may express the intensity of their own reactions by
saying to the reader, "But you were so calm, I don't see how
you did it."

Reread some of the material you have worked on and see
how effectively you can use restraint. Bear in mind that feel-
ing is one's greatest power in influencing others; when held
in check by restraint it becomes power under control.

AESTHETIC DISTANCE

Aesthetic distance suggests a detachment which character-
izes great art. The painter frames his picture to set it off from
its surroundings and give to it a certain distance. For the
same reason the sculptor places his statue on a pedestal. In
the theater the proscenium frames the stage picture. Dis-
tance between the stage and the audience adds to the illu-
sion by giving perspective. What, then, of aesthetic distance
in creative oral reading? Dolman says that the essential dif-
ference between acting and reading is a matter of aesthetic
distance. In the theater the distance is between the audience
and the stage, or the actor.

In reading, the audience and reader are one, enjoying the
book together. There is aesthetic distance, but the reader and
the audience are on the same end of it; the book is on the other.
The reader is really one of the audience, in constant com-
munication with the rest and sharing his enjoyment of the
reading with them. Being in possession of the book — or of the
memorized text — he is in a situation of leadership, but he is
in no sense a part of the book himself; there is no pretense or
illusion about his identity, and no detachment in his audience's
attitude toward him. He may go very far in enlivening his

AESTHETIC DISTANCE 177

reading by play of voice, gesture, and facial expression, so long
as what he does is clearly suggestion; but he must avoid an at-
titude of exhibition.1

This statement of Dolman's seems to us to uphold the
technique suggested throughout this textbook, namely: that
the reader should think of his material, not as being on the
stage with him as does the actor, but off stage, perhaps on or
beyond the back wall of the room. Both reader and audi-
ence should picture the scenes before them. They are not a
part of the scene, but they share the scene: they react to the
scene together. For the reader to objectify the experiences of
the literature he interprets by placing mental pictures as
far away from him as the back wall of the room establishes
with certainty a distance between the reader and his mate-
rial. It gives him freedom to share his reactions with the
audience but never to become a part of the scene itself.

Contrast the effect of this technique with the effect of
readers you have heard who thought of their material as on
the stage with them and considered themselves a part of
the performance. Were they not continually in the con-
sciousness of the audience, blocking at times the audience's
visualization of the concepts of the literature? Did you ever
feel that a reader was constantly getting between you and
the imaginative concept, taking your mind off of the au-
thor's concept and focusing attention on himself, as reader?

Some readers seem to have a mixed point of view, giving
descriptions and narration with off-stage technique (visual-
izing with definite distance), but giving characterizations

1 John Dolman, Jr., The Art of Play Production (New York:
Harper and Brothers, 1928), pp. 41-2. Reprinted by permission of
Harper and Brothers.

178 ILLUSION

on-stage. They continually shift their point of view from
reader to actor and back and forth to their own confusion
and to that of the audience. It is little wonder that the art of
oral reading has come into bad repute and caused so many
to say they abhor the word recitation.

As a first requisite in maintaining aesthetic distance in
interpretative reading we suggest the off-stage point of view.
Let the student keep an objective attitude toward his mate-
rial reacting to the sights, sounds, and characters, but never
acting them; visualizing scenes as far away as the back wall,
but never on the stage with him. Let him keep the point
of view of the reader, the storyteller, the narrator, but never
the actor. He may go as far as his own temperament, en-
thusiasm, or discretion dictates in suggesting characters and
actions and in empathizing with them just so long as he
keeps the point of view of sharing reactions with the audi-
ence and not of performing them for the audience.

Chapter VII
VOICE IN INTERPRETATIVE READING

Surely whoever speaks to me in the right voice, him
or her I shall follow, as the waters follow the moon
silently with fluid steps, anywhere around the globe.

Walt Whitman

Interpretative reading implies a speaking voice which at-
tracts the listener as a magnet attracts a needle. It may seem
strange that a book on interpretative reading should delay
so long in introducing the subject of voice, since voice is so
utterly essential in conveying moods, ideas, concepts. There
are several reasons for this delay, the chief one of which is
that it is presupposed that students of interpretative reading
will have had some elementary training in voice and diction.
It was suggested in the Foreword that no textbook is ade-
quate without supplementary work from the teacher. It was
expected that the teacher would build the course of study
around the individual students, strengthening them here
and there as special needs were made evident. One problem
in presenting techniques of an art is that many techniques
must be applied simultaneously if the student is to develop
naturally, that is, as a whole. Interpretative reading infers
the coordinated use of body, voice, and language guided by
the thought content of the literature one chooses to read.

Interpretative reading presents an interesting and con-

179

180 VOICE

structive cycle for the speaking voice. A good voice is es-
sential for adequate oral interpretation of literature, and
the oral expression of moods, and universal thoughts ex-
pressed in choice language refines the speaking voice. So
while the student is challenged to use the voice which ade-
quately expresses his concept, at the same time he improves
his voice as a medium for the expression of concepts. While
a good voice is needed through which to interpret noble
thoughts, the expression of noble thoughts in turn tends
to purify the tones.

Since vocal quality is an index to a speaker's total, or
emotional, response, it follows that the reader's first neces-
sity is a voice of good timbre. Such a voice depends first
upon an adequate voice instrument and second upon a
magnetic personality. Some of the attributes of a magnetic
personality are kindness, tolerance, appreciation, and un-
selfish interest in others. Interpretative reading presents a
very practical way of developing such a personality as each
step deals with the process of sharing an appreciation of
literature with others. Interpretative reading focuses atten-
tion upon percepts and concepts and upon the projection
of these to others.

Let us think of some types of voice and of how they re-
flect the personality of the individual. What type of voice,
for example, would you create for Xantippe, the scolding
wife of Socrates, or for Maggie, who upbraids Jiggs on the
funny page? It is obvious that the voice of a scold is high
pitched, shrill and rasping. What type of voice would you
create for Iago, the fawning hypocrite of Shakespeare's
Othello? What kind of voice would you use to suggest
Romeo, or Juliet, or Portia? A little contemplation on the

VOICE TIMBRE 181

character of each gives an idea of the type of voice which
would suggest the personality.

In thinking of your own voice, then, you naturally desire
a good voice expressive of your best yet suggestive of the
personality which is essentially you. Each person has a
normal voice quality which is suggestive of his individu-
ality. It is by this individual quality that his voice is recog-
nized on the telephone, the radio, or in the next room. This
quality is unique; it sets one apart as an individual; at its
optimum it is desirable and distinctive in interpretative
reading. No amount of training should take from you that
individuality, that complex arrangement of personal at-
tributes which is you. In fact, training in interpretative
reading, and specifically training in voice, should increase
the difference between your voice and that of others; train-
ing should release and build the individuality of a voice.

An adequate voice instrument depends first upon the
instrument itself and second upon one's use of the instru-
ment. One's voice instrument depends first upon the bodily
structure and psychical tendencies given him by his fore-
bears and second upon what he does with this body and these
tendencies. Most of us have inherited normal bodies and
hence normal voice instruments; we can do much to keep
them so and to improve them by proper use. Children often
have beautiful voices which carry like the tinkle of a silver
bell, and the secrets of good voice technique can be found
in the use normal children make of their voices. Breath
comes from the center of the body, their throats are relaxed,
their tones are well placed, and overtones are formed in
open resonant cavities until the inhibitions of life upset
these normal conditions. It is the ideal of the creative artist

182 voice

to keep the childlike attitude, and it is the desire of the
creative reader to keep or to regain the normal, natural,
use of the speaking voice.

The interpretative reader's voice technique should con-
sist of a coordinated adjustment of the phases of voice con-
trol. Dr. Weaver gives a clear summation of the factors of
voice control as follows:

It would be impossible to give a complete inventory of all
the factors which affect vocalization. However, there are four
principal psychological and physiological elements involved
in the control of the mechanism: hearing, intelligence, emo-
tional sensitivity, and n euro-muscular co-ordination.1

It has for some time been recognized that the ear guides
the voice. One speaks of "a good ear" for music — of "perfect
pitch." The interpretative reader must become sensitive
to tone quality for its own value (whether pleasing or not)
and its value in projecting meaning.

Flexibility of tone is as essential as a good normal tone
for interpretative reading. Flexibility has already been sug-
gested in connection with changes of pitch and volume for
climax and with variety for speech patterns. We now come
to a consideration of tone quality in influencing the think-
ing of others. Many readers seem to depend largely upon
words to carry meaning, underestimating the significance
of tone. Words are important and when rightly used go far
in communicating ideas, but when words and tones denote
different feeling, the listener is inclined to believe the tone.
One may say, "I'll pay you next week" and receive the

1 Andrew Thomas Weaver, Speech, Forms and Principles (New
York: Longmans, Green and Co., 1942), p. 192. By permission of the
publishers.

TONE COLOR 183

answer, "Oh, yeah!" The second speaker suggests meaning
contrary to that implied by the words. A boy may chuckle
with pleasure when a girl says to him, "You mean thing.
I just hate you." His pleasure is in response to her tone
which undoubtedly suggests a friendly rather than an an-
tagonistic attitude. Literature is rife with examples of femi-
nine sagacity in which "no" really signifies "yes." The prov-
erb, "A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words
stir up anger" may well be considered as referring to tone,
for it is the tone of anger more than words which really
provokes wrath.

When tones and words suggest the same mood speech be-
comes truly effective. There is a natural coordination be-
tween tone and words, though people occasionally develop
the habit of habitual tones which do not express their exact
meaning. One may occasionally say, "Oh, he sounds hard
but he really is not. Underneath that gruff exterior he has
a warm heart."

TONE COLOR

The interpretative reader should cultivate the habit of
speaking in tones which express the exact mood of the
words. When a reader's tones convey the feeling of the
words, they may be said to have tone color. Tone color is
to the reader what onomatopoeia (sound suggestive of sense)
is to poetry. By thinking the significance of the word as he
speaks it, the creative reader may give to the tone the
quality, or color, which conveys the exact meaning. The
tone in which one says the word hard should suggest hard-
ness; the tone used in saying soft should suggest softness.

Winston Churchill gave an excellent example of the

184 voice

projection of meaning through tone color when in his
speech before the Congress of the United States he spoke
of Mussolini. Surely none who heard him failed to get the
contempt in the tone as he said the word "Mussolini." The
quick audience response was due not to the word, but to
the expressive tone through which the word was uttered.

The secret of tone color is found in sincere and earnest
thinking coupled with good psycho-physical coordination.
Through the practice of the technique of tone color together
with a technique of good tone production the reader may
develop a voice of sufficient flexibility and warmth to ex-
press delicate shades of meaning. The creative reader may
develop the habit of expressing meaning by tone color with
a voice which responds quickly and with discrimination to
the exact atmosphere which the word is intended to convey.

Read the following passages, seeking to give tones which
express the exact moods the words convey. Be on the alert
for tone contrasts even within the phrase.

SONNET

William Shakespeare

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, — and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising

TONE COLOR 185

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember 'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

THE BEE AND THE FLOWER

Alfred Tennyson

The bee buzz'd up in the heat.
'I am faint for your honey, my sweet.'
The flower said 'Take it, my dear,
For now is the spring of the year.
So come, come!'
'Hum!'
And the bee buzz'd down from the heat.

And the bee buzz'd up in the cold
When the flower was wither'd and old.
'Have you still any honey, my dear?'
She said 'It's the fall of the year,
But come, come!'
'Hum!'
And the bee buzz'd off in the cold.

From I WAS BORN AN AMERICAN

Daniel Webster

I was born an American; I live an American; I shall die an
American; and I intend to perform the duties incumbent upon
me in that character to the end of my career. I mean to do this
with absolute disregard of personal consequences. What are
the personal consequences? What is the individual man, with
all the good or evil that may betide him, in comparison with
the good or evil which may befall a great country, and in the
midst of great transactions which concern that country's fate?

186 voice

Let the consequences be what they will, I am careless. No man
can suffer too much, and no man can fall too soon, if he suffer
or if he fall in the defense of the liberties and constitution of
his country.

A VOICE SPOKE OUT OF THE SKIES

Alfred Tennyson

A voice spoke out of the skies
To a just man and a wise —
'The world and all within it
Will only last a minute!'
And a beggar began to cry
'Food, food or I die!'
Is it worth his while to eat,
Or mine to give him meat,
If the world and all within it
Were nothing the next minute?

KING LEAR'S DEFIANCE

From King Lear *

William Shakespeare

Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! Spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children,
You owe me no subscription: then let fall
Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man:
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That have with two pernicious daughters joined
Your high engender'd battles 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. O! O! 'tis foul!

3 Act III, Scene ii.

MELODY 187

MELODY

The interpretative reader needs not only a good, normal
voice quality, a voice sufficiently flexible for tone color, but
also a communicative and pleasing speech melody. The so-
called reading tone which is monotonous, whether high or
low in pitch, will never adequately convey the meaning of
literature. This reading tone is the result of an artificial
mental attitude. The student of interpretative reading who
has followed the techniques thus far has, no doubt, already
overcome tendencies toward such an unnatural tone, for
the reading tone indicates a lack of clear and creative think-
ing, and creative thinking breaks down monotonous vocal
tendencies.

Speech melody may be defined as the modulation of the
voice from one pitch to another. The ideal of the interpreta-
tive reader is that his voice shall be modulated in response
to the idea the written form conveys. In normal conversa-
tion the voice is inclined to move up and down the scale
in response to the ideas or moods one wishes to communi-
cate. The interpretative reader frequently wishes his melody
to resemble that of simple, normal, everyday conversation;
but sometimes he desires his melody to suggest idealized
conversation such as is suggested in the balcony scenes from
Romeo and Juliet and Cyrano de Bergerac. For such scenes
the reader may wish a song-like melody which lifts speech
above the plane of everyday life into the realm of idealiza-
tion. A song-like melody is often used in the reading of
poetry, especially the lyric.

Speech melody seldom follows as definite a pattern as
song, and hence the tune is not as easy to represent. It is

188 voice

sometimes helpful, however, for the student to trace speech
melody with drawings or with body movements. As a means
of developing flexibility of voice and sensitivity to melody
it is advisable that students experiment with diagrams sug-
gestive of the voice modulation they think adequate for the
expression of specific ideas. The sinuous line should be used
for diagrams of speech melody. In the diagrams for climax
and emphasis we used straight lines to suggest the general
direction. A more complete suggestion of the voice move-
ment would have called for sinuous lines. The student will
recall that the curved line was used to suggest the melody
of the minister's and debater's patterns, the modulation of
which may not be bad except for the sameness of pattern.1

Inflection

Inflection may be defined as the modulation on a sus-
tained tone within a syllable or as vocal slide. There are
two general classifications of inflection, the upward and
downward. Upward inflections suggest that the thought
is incomplete, indefinite, or indecisive. The downward sug-
gests that the thought is complete, or final. Inflection is
caused by a state of mind, either specific or general. There
is a characteristic tendency of individuals, localities, and
languages. The modern American is said to overdo the
downward inflection. Poetry usually calls for much upward
inflection, or a general trend upward. It is advisable for the
student to 2rive some thought to inflection, but let him be
sure to work from the cause to the effect. Inflection like all
of these other techniques is a natural way of expressing
intellectual and emotional attitudes. We used inflection and

iSee pp. 151-152.

MELODY 189

tone to express our meaning before we had a vocabulary of
words. Language is acquired, but inflections are natural.

Punctuation and Inflections

Punctuation marks are an aid in finding the meaning
and hence in guiding inflections. Punctuation, however,
must not be depended upon as an infallible guide. For ex-
ample, students are sometimes told to lift their voices at
interrogation marks and to drop them at periods. Now the
interrogation mark does indicate incompleteness of thought,
but the question may be in the first portion and the last
word before the interrogation mark may suggest a positive
mental attitude. The words where, who, what, why may at
times be given with an upward and at other times with a
downward inflection. Likewise a period may indicate that
the sentence is complete, yet the general mental attitude
may be one of indecision and incompleteness. Much of
poetry should be read with an upward inflection. Some
people like the chanting of poetry. It is partly a matter of
taste and partly a matter of discrimination as to the poet's
meaning. Punctuation is for grammatical construction,
which is to be observed by the eye, and inflection is for the
ear; they differ just enough for the reader to need to be
on the alert for more significant cues to the author's mean-

ing.

For example, read the lines from the poem "Whoa" by an
anonymous author:

Whoa, confound ye! Can't ye give

Me a peek at that there wren
Fussin' underneath the eaves —

Goin' t' build her nest again?

190 VOICE

The interrogation mark is placed after the word again,
thousrh it is rather clear that the last line of this stanza is a
statement rather than a question. The question comes
earlier in the stanza. There may be an upward trend in
the voice through the word eaves, but there should be a
downward trend on the last line.

TONE COPYING

Tone copying is a helpful device in interpretative read-
ing when the reader has difficulty in deciding upon the tone
or inflection for the author's meaning. In tone copying the
reader translates the meaning of the passage into familiar
words, then while speaking his own words he listens to the
tone and inflection he uses to express the meaning. When
he has expressed the meaning adequately in his own words
he then reads the author's words, copying the tone he used
when he expressed the thought in familiar words. By copy-
ing the tones and inflections used when speaking familiar
words, the reader may make the use of the author's lan-
guage appear natural. Eventually, through tone copying,
the author's language may become quite as natural as, and
even more meaningful than, one's own words. Let the
student observe that the technique of tone copying is not
the copying of another's tone or inflection but the copying
of one's own when one expresses the author's meaning in
more familiar words than the author's language.

No textbook can give much more than a general idea of
voice. Voice training calls for a patient teacher with a good
ear and a background of knowledge and experience. Voice
recording proves an objective aid in procuring adequate
voice and in detecting vocal flaws. A mirror is helpful in

MELODY 191

detecting faults in the manipulation of tongue, lips, et
cetera.

VOICES i

Walt Whitman

Now I make a leaf of Voices — for I have found nothing

mightier than they are,
And I have found that no word spoken, but is beautiful, in

its place.

0 what is it in me that makes me tremble so at voices?

Surely, whoever speaks to me in the right voice, him or her I
shall follow, as the water follows the moon, silently, with
fluid steps, any where around the globe.

Now I believe that all waits for the right voices;

Where is the practis'd and perfect organ? Where is the de-

velop'd Soul?
For I see every word utter'd thence has deeper, sweeter, new

sounds, impossible on less terms.

1 see brains and lips closed — I see tympans and temples un-

struck,
Until that comes which has the quality to strike and to unclose,
Until that comes which has the quality to bring forth what

lies slumbering, forever ready, in all words.

What am I after all, but a child, pleased with the sound of my

own name? repeating it over and over,
I cannot tell why it affects me so much, when I hear it from

women's voices, and from men's voices, or from my own

voice,
I stand apart to hear — it never tires me.

1 From Leaves of Grass (Philadelphia: David McKay Company,
1900). By permission.

192 voice

To you, your name also,

Did you think there was nothing but two or three pronuncia
tions in the sound of your name?

ORATOR PUFF

Thomas Moore

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones to his voice,
The one squeaking thus, and the other down so;
In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice,
For one half was B alt, and the rest G below.

Oh! Oh! Orator Puff,
One voice for an orator's surely enough!

But he still talked away, spite of coughs and of frowns,
So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs,
That a wag once, on hearing the orator say,
"My voice is for war"; asked him "Which of them, pray?"

Oh! Oh! Orator Puff,
One voice for an orator's surely enough!

Reeling homeward one evening, top-heavy with gin,
And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown,
He tripped near a saw-pit, and tumbled right in, —
"Sinking fund," his last words as his noddle came down.

Oh! Oh! Orator Puff!

One voice for an orator's surely enough!

"Oh, save!" he exclaimed in his he-and-she tones,
"Help me out! help me out! — I have broken my bones!"
"Help you out!" said a Paddy who passed, "what a bother!
Why, there's two of you there; can't you help one another?"

Oh! Oh! Orator Puff,

One voice for an orator's surely enough!

DICTION 193

ON THE LIFE OF MAN

Francis Beaumont

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:
Even such is Man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in and paid tonight.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies;
The dew's dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, — and man forgot.

DICTION

The term diction used in its broadest sense may include
both choice of word and phrase and the speech sounds which
one uses in uttering words and phrases. The dictionary
recognizes two meanings in its definitions: "choice of words
for the expression of ideas" and "mode of verbal expres-
sion." In the speech field we use the term diction in its oral
sense and oftentimes limit it to the choice of speech sounds.
One's diction, then, in interpretative reading may mean the
manner of speech as regards pronunciation and articula-
tion.

In considering diction, the thought of speech stand-
ards naturally arises. Is there a standard for spoken English?
If so is it desirable for students of interpretative reading to

194 voice

adhere to that standard? A group of British scholars at one
time decided upon a speech which they called Standard
English. This speech was that of the educated people of
southern England. It is recorded, as far as words are con-
cerned, in An English Pronouncing Dictionary by Daniel
Jones.1 Some interpretative readers have thought it advisa-
ble to adopt this speech for the platform, and some have
chosen it for general communication.

American speech differs in so many respects from the
speech of southern England that many students and teachers
have preferred to use the speech of their own locality. Dr.
Wise divides America into three speech regions: Eastern,
Southern, and General American. Concerning the problem
in the teaching of speech Dr. Wise states:

We may summarize the point of view taken in this discussion
by saying that for the current years in the United States,
regional standards are likely to prevail.2 Speech teaching, in-
stead of trying the impossible task of moving the pronuncia-
tion of a whole population toward the dialect of some very
small area, will busy itself with the improvement of the speech
of the various regions, continually aiding those who use sub-
standard regional speech to achieve the level of standard re-
gional speech.3

This position appears rational for the student of in-
terpretative reading. If he should wish to develop the art

1 New York: E. P. Dutton and Company, Inc.

2 For a detailed outline of the sound systems of eastern, southern,
and general American speech, see G. W. Gray and C. M. Wise, The
Bases of Speech (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1934).

3 C. M. Wise, in Foundations of Speech, edited by James M. O'Neill
(New York: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1941), p. 19. By permission of the pub-
lishers.

DICTION 195

for the platform or stage he would wish to investigate the
trends of stage speech and, at least, emphasize universal
elements and reduce colloquial elements. Dr. Wise sums
up the situation with a rather comprehensive statement:

In summary, it may be said of the speech of the stage and
of the platform that the actor, interpretative reader, and direc-
tor should be conscious of the problem of dialect, should think
the problem through wisely, and in each instance should make
a choice on the basis of all of the merits of the given case.1

There are at least two general criteria for acceptable dic-
tion other than the matter of standardization. The first of
these is clarity. Every interpretative reader should speak
clearly so as to be heard and understood with ease. Clarity
calls for distinct enunciation of both vowel and consonant
sounds. Enunciation comes from a Latin word meaning "to
set forth." An important phase of the interpreter's technique
is to "set forth" his words with clarity. He must speak loud
enough to be heard and clearly enough to be understood.

The other criteria for acceptable diction is that of beauty,
or a speech which is pleasing to hear. There is nothing in-
nately ugly or beautiful in the speech sounds themselves —
a "broad a" is neither less nor more pleasing than a "short
a." Beauty depends upon the manner of articulation. So
whatever speech the student may choose as his criteria, let
him remember that there may be music in vowel sounds
and in sonorant consonants and that clarity in enunciation
goes far in projecting meaning and in commanding the
interest and attention of an audience.

1 Wise; Loc. cit.

196 voice

LANGUAGE

From Poems of a Few Greatnesses x

Walt Whitman

Great is Language — it is the mightiest of the sciences,

It is the fulness, color, form, diversity of the earth, and of men

and women, and of all qualities and processes,
It is greater than wealth — it is greater than buildings, ships,

religions, paintings, music.

Great is the English speech — what speech is so great as the

English?
Great is the English brood — what brood has so vast a destiny

as the English?
It is the mother of the brood that must rule the earth with the

new rule,
The new rule shall rule as the Soul rules, and as the love,

justice, equality in the Soul, rule.

1 From Leaves of Grass (Philadelphia: David McKay Company,
1900). By permission.

Chapter VIII
INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

When observation has passed into meditation, and
meditation has transformed knowledge into truth, and
the brooding imagination has incorporated truth into
the nature of the artist, then comes the creative mo-
ment.1

Hamilton Wright Mabie

Creative reading calls for a careful and authoritative in-
terpretation of the meaning in literature. In considering
the significance of the word interpretation it will prove
helpful for the student to give attention to dictionary defini-
tions. According to Webster the word interpret means, "to
translate; to elucidate; to construe or give force or meaning
to, as in the light of individual belief or judgment, as, to
interpret a poem." Synonyms given are "solve, render, un-
fold, or unravel." The interpretative reader, therefore, at-
tempts to translate into the spoken word the meaning im-
plied in the written word. It is the reader's purpose to
elucidate for the audience the meaning of the author's lan-
guage; it is the reader's purpose to construe, to give force
to, or to give meaning to the words of the author according
to the light of the reader's individual belief or judgment.

The student of interpretative reading should give care-
ful consideration to the significance of the word judgment.

1 From My Study Fire, by Hamilton Wright Mabie. Reprinted by
permission of the publishers, Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc.

197

198 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

Readers differ in their judgment as to the author's meaning
and hence they differ in their interpretation. The judgment
of two or more readers may result in very different inter-
pretations of the same poem, leaving decidedly different
impressions on the audience. As has been suggested before,
we understand with our experience. Readers with widely
different lives are likely to differ in their judgment as to the
meaning of a piece of literature.

Two readers were discussing the poem, "The Day," by
Grace Noll Crowell.1 One reader interpreted the poem as
if the words were spoken by a carefree girl who had formed
the habit of looking for the lovely things of life, even to
the silver lining of gray clouds. The mood created by this
reader was light, bright, and charmingly gay. Another reader
bavins: felt the weight of life's dark clouds found in this
poem a poignancy which revealed loveliness through a veil
of tears, as it were; her reading was half glad, half sad but
caused a catch in the throats of those who heard.

These two readers gave their interpretations to the au-
thor, Mrs. Crowell, who listened graciously and with char-
acteristic generosity said she could understand the very dif-
ferent interpretations resulting from the different lives of
the two readers. When urged to give her own interpreta-
tion Mrs. Crowell said that what she felt in writing the
poem was more nearly expressed by the reader whose in-
terpretation was half sad, half glad. The poet was quick to
encourage the other reader to continue to give her own
interpretation of a gay, carefree mood. Mrs. Crowell stated
that although she, the author, had never thought of the

1 Grace Noll Crowell, Silver in the Sun (Dallas: The Turner Com-
pany, revised edition, 1934), p. 5.

INDIVIDUALITY IN INTERPRETATION 199

poem in that way, she was happy to hear it interpreted in
such a manner.

This difference in interpretation is found in all of the
arts. Two musicians may play a Beethoven sonata and one
may leave the audience transfixed with emotion, while the
other commands a sort of intellectual interest in his skill.
Katharine Cornell and Norma Shearer both interpreted the
role of Elizabeth Barrett Browning and presented very dif-
ferent characterizations. One person who heard them both
said that Miss Cornell was Elizabeth Barrett and that Miss
Shearer was "a dream of loveliness." To this person the
one seemed real and the other ideal. Raphael and Leonardo
da Vinci both painted Madonnas. A connoisseur sees distinct
differences in the paintings of each artist and quickly recog-
nizes which Madonnas are the creation of each.

The individuality of the interpretative artist is always
significant, his interpretation being valued by the particular
slant he gives to his material. Without the stamp of the
reader's personality the interpretation lacks authenticity,
vitality, originality. One understands, hence interprets in
the light of his own experience. The value of one's inter-
pretation is in proportion to one's worth as an individual,
plus one's insight into the life he depicts, plus his skill in
presentation. The value of originality is suggested by an-
other of the dictionary definitions of the word interpreta-
tion: "an artist's way of expressing his thought or concep-
tion of a subject."

It is essential for the creative reader to develop discrimi-
nation as a basis for his interpretation. A reader's opinion
is a determining factor in the individuality of his inter-
pretation. As a basis for discrimination the reader must

200 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

develop insight into the intent of the author. Novices some-
times express their own ideas in reading a piece of litera-
ture, regardless of the author's meaning, claiming that self-
expression is their purpose. If so they should write their
own poetry. Interpretative art involves loyalty to the au-
thor of the concept one is interpreting. The creative reader
should become a medium through which the author's con-
cept is revealed with clarity and force. He is truest to him-
self when he is true to the author. As the actor projects a
feeling of oneness with the character, the creative reader
should give a feeling of oneness with the author. The first
problem of interpreting meaning is for us to discern the
meaning implied by the author's words.

THE MEANING OF WORDS

It is obvious that we cannot understand the meaning of
lines if we do not know the meaning of the words; yet stu-
dents of interpretative reading are often careless in this
regard. We should form the habit of checking our knowl-
edge of words by the definitions given in dictionaries and
encyclopedias. A hazy or inaccurate idea of the denotative
meaning of a word may cause a reader to go completely
astray in his judgment of what the author intended to imply.
While the reader is checking the meaning of a word he
should also give attention to the pronunciation, for he
must be discriminating in pronunciation, also, if his oral
art is to be adequate.

WORD CONNOTATIONS

While the dictionary meaning of a word is important in
revealing the author's intention, it is not always adequate

CONNOTATION 201

for a clear understanding of his meaning. As was suggested
in Chapter II, word connotation (the association of ideas)
is also important for understanding an author's purpose.
Literature is often made vivid and colorful by allusions to
mythology, to history, to ideas which the author takes for
granted are within the experience of the reader. An under-
standing of such allusions is essential for adequate dis-
crimination as to the author's meaning. Sometimes the
significance of an allusion is clarified by data given in an
encyclopedia; sometimes much research is essential for a
clear understanding of the significance of a single word or
phrase. The interpretative reader does not hesitate to spend
as much time as is needed to trace allusions to a satisfactory
source.

"The World is Too Much with Us" is a sonnet in which
allusions are made to mythology. In order to understand the
meaning of the last two lines, and hence the author's conclu-
sion to his idea, the student must know something about
Proteus and the significance of Old Triton. One is fortunate
if he possesses a colorful background in Greek mythology
and as a consequence has happy memories of childhood won-
der and pleasure in such myths. For those to whom these
words carry no such connotations, an encyclopedia, or pref-
erably The Classic Myths in English Literature by Gayley,1
will aid in gaining a basis for understanding and apprecia-
tion.

1 Charles Mills Gayley, The Classic Myths in English Literature,
new edition, revised and enlarged (Boston: Ginn and Company, 1911).

202 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US

William Wordsworth

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. — Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

THE AUTHOR'S MEANING

It is not always easy to find an author's meaning even
when one understands the denotative and connotative mean-
ing of words. For example, much of the poetry of Robert
Browning is obscure. It is difficult to determine, with any
degree of accuracy, just what he meant to imply in certain
lines. In "Prospice" we find the lines:

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.

One's interpretation of these lines depends largely upon
one's judgment concerning the use of the word glad. Is glad
an adjective modifying life? Some students interpret it so
and find support for their interpretation in the gladness of
the life of Robert Browning. Read the lines suggesting the

the author's meaning 203

close relationship of the noun and the adjective by paus-
ing after pay and grouping the word glad with the word life.

In a minute pay glad life's arrears

Of pain, darkness and cold.

Does this reading satisfy you as an adequate interpreta-
tion of the author's meaning?

Other students consider the word glad an adverb modify-
ing pay. In such an interpretation one admits both the
adjective form of glad instead of the adverb form, gladly,
and the use of inversion, which today is not considered good
form in poetry. A close study of Browning reveals that the
poet was often indifferent to form and that inversions were
frequent in the poetry of his day. Read the lines again
implying the meaning gladly pay by pausing after glad,
indicating the close relation of pay and glad.

In a minute pay glad life's arrears

Of pain, darkness and cold.

Which of the two interpretations do you like better?
Which seems to you more expressive of the poet's attitude
in the poem as a whole?

PROSPICE

Robert Browning

Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat,

The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and blasts denote

I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,

The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,

204 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

Yet the strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit attained,

And the barriers fall,
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,

The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more,

The best and the last!
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forebore,

And bade me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers

The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears

Of pain, darkness and cold.
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,

The black minute's at end,
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,

Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,

Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,

And with God be the rest!

Read the passages which follow, giving through your
oral form your judgment as to the author's intent.

MEETING AT NIGHT

Robert Browning

The gray sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

And a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;

the author's meaning 205

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!

PARTING AT MORNING *

Robert Browning

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun looked over the mountain's rim:
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me.

LADY MACBETH'S PREPARATION

From Macbeth 2

William Shakespeare

[Macbeth has been deliberating about the murder of Duncan;
Lady Macbeth enters as he is meditating.]

Macb. Now now! What news?

Lady M. He has almost supp'd. Why have you left the cham-
ber?

Macb. Hath he asked for me?

Lady M. Know you not he has?

Macb. We will proceed no further in this business.

He hath honour'd me of late; and I have sought
Golden opinion from all sorts of people,
Which would be worn now in their newest gloss,
Nor cast aside so soon.

Lady M. Was the hope drunk

Wherein you dress'd yourself? Hath it slept since

1 One commentator interprets this poem as spoken by a woman,
the pronoun in the third line referring to the man and the pronoun
in the fourth line to the woman. Another thinks the speaker in this
poem is a man, the pronoun in the third line referring to the sun
and the pronoun in the fourth line to himself.

2 Act I, Scene vii.

206 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

And wakes it now. to look so green and pale
At what it did so freely? From this time
Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard
To be the same in thine own act and valour
As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that
Which thou esteemst the ornament of life,
And live a coward in thine own esteem,
Letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would,"
Like the poor cat i' the adage?

Macb. Prithee, peace. I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more is none.

Lady M. What beast was't, then,

That made you break this enterprise to me?
When you durst do it, then you were a man;
And, to be more than what you were, you would
Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place
Did then adhere, and yet you would make both.
They have made themselves, and that their fitness

now
Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me;
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums
And dash'd the brains out, had I sworn as you
Have done to this.

Macb. If we should fail?

Lady M. We fail! *

1 This line is found punctuated differently in various versions. It is
interpreted differently by various actors, critics, and readers. In a
certain college, English and Speech teachers were preparing students
for the enjoyment of Walter Hampden's production of Macbeth. One
teacher read the line with emphasis on we, and as if the line were
punctuated with a question mark, "We fail?" Another read it as an
emphatic statement, "We jail." The students listened eagerly for the
interpretation given by Mabel Moore who was playing Lady Macbeth
in Mr. Hampden's production. She gave an easy glide on the word
fail and grouped it quickly with the following phrase as if the word
were followed by a comma.

INTERCLAUSAL RELATIONS 207

But screw your courage to the sticking-place
And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep —
Whereto the rather shall this day's hard journey
Soundly invite him — his two chamberlains
Will I with wine and wassail so convince
That memory, the warder of the brain,
Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason
A limbeck only. When in swinish sleep
Their drenched natures lie as in a death,
What cannot you and I perform upon
That unguarded Duncan? What not put upon
The spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt
Of our great quell?
Macb. Bring forth men-children only;

For thy undaunted mettle should compose
Nothing but males. ... I am settled, and bend up
Each corporal agent to this terrible feat.
Away, and mock the time with fairest show;
False face must hide what false heart doth know.

INTERCLAUSAL RELATIONS

The student of interpretative reading must give due con-
sideration to interclausal relations. Ideas in literature are
often interdependent. The meaning of one sentence may
depend upon the meaning conveyed by another sentence.
Likewise, clauses are interdependent, limiting, explaining,
or amplifying each other. A portion of a sentence taken out
of its context may carry an entirely different meaning from
that intended by the author or from that which would be
understood if the entire sentence were given. Authors are
frequently misquoted in this manner by well-meaning ad-
vocates. Let us consider what is frequently called Words-
worth's definition of poetry. Have we not often heard

208 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

that Wordsworth defined poetry as "emotion recollected
in tranquillity"? Let us consider his entire sentence with its
interclausal relations.

I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of power-
ful feelings; it takes its origin from emotion recollected in
tranquillity; the emotion is contemplated, till, by a species of
reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emo-
tion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contem-
plation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist
in the mind.1

Now does Wordsworth say that poetry is "emotion recol-
lected in tranquillity," or does he say that "tranquillity dis-
appears" and emotion actually exists as one creates a poem?
To interpret a sentence fairly the reader must keep in mind
the meaning of the sentence as a whole, the relation of all
parts to each other, and the relation of parts to the whole.

In interpreting the meaning of lines the reader needs to
go beyond the sentence and consider the relation of the
whole piece of literature, or even of the whole works of an
author or of a period. Sometimes the clause which gives
understanding to another clause is found in a separate stanza
or paragraph. Let us consider, for example, some lines of
Robert Browning the meaning of which is dependent upon
lines in another stanza. In "Rabbi Ben Ezra" the poet states:

To man, propose this test —

Thy body at its best,

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

1 William Wordsworth, Preface to Lyrical Ballads.

INTERCLAUSAL RELATIONS 209

The line which follows immediately in the next stanza is
frequently interpreted as indicating that the poet thought
the body had little to do with the soul's development.

Yet gifts should prove their use.

When one reads further he finds the lines:

Let us not always say,

"Spite of this flesh today
I strove, made head, gained

Ground upon the whole!"

Still further on the poet states:

Nor soul helps flesh more, now,
Than flesh helps soul.

These last lines suggest that Browning thought the body
had much to do with projecting "the soul on its lone way."
The reader must consider the interclausal relations of five
stanzas in order not to misinterpret the poet's question:

Thy body at its best,

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

The five stanzas which include the author's discussion
of the relation of soul to flesh are quoted below:

What is he but a brute

Whose flesh has soul to suit,

Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play?

To -man, propose this test — #

Thy body at its best,

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

Yet gifts should prove their use:
I own the Past profuse

210 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

Of power each side, perfection every turn:

Eyes, ears took in their dole,

Brain treasured up the whole;

Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn?"

Not once beat "praise be thine!

I see the whole design,

I, who saw power, see how Love perfect too:

Perfect I call thy plan:

Thanks that I was a man!

Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what thou shalt do!"

For pleasant is this flesh:

Our soul, in its rose-mesh

Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest:

Would we some prize might hold

To match those manifold

Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we did best!

Let us not always say,

"Spite of this flesh today

I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!"

As the bird wings and sings,

Let us cry, "All good things

Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soull"

SUGGESTIVENESS

The interpretative reader has need of a technique of
suggestiveness, the pointing up of details which indicate
(or suggest) the denouement. Suggestiveness is a technique
which is used by writers and should be emphasized by the
reader. Let us emphasize the fact that for an adequate inter-
pretation of a piece of literature the reader must keep be-
fore him the whole, the relation of parts to the whole, and

SUGGESTIVENESS 211

the relation of the parts to each other. Each part must be
interpreted in the light of that which goes before and that
which is to come afterwards. In an interpretation of a short
story, for example, the reader knows the denouement and
guides his reading, from the introduction, in the light of
the author's conclusion. O. Henry is known for his surprise
endings. The quick turn which his stories take at the con-
clusion gives his audience a delightful surprise. When one
re-reads an O. Henry story, he may observe that the author
has hinted the conclusion all the way through and that his
stories really come to logical conclusions. The reader's tech-
nique of suggestion should be in accord with this technique
of the author, and although the denouement may surprise
the audience, it will not disappoint them or make them
feel that they have been led astray either by the author or
by the reader.

When the author has skillfully built his story for a sur-
prise ending, the reader may actually point up the lines
which suggest the denouement and add to the interest and
suspense at the end. If the reader has interpreted each detail
in the light of the conclusion, the audience will have been
prepared for the denouement, and will feel that the denoue-
ment is logical even though they had not suspected the
author's solution. In looking back over the story the au-
dience will recall the details which pointed to the author's
ending and will wonder why they did not catch on sooner.

Read the following story and note how many times the
author suggests the conclusion. This is done more by what
he omits to say than by what he actually says. Observe how
with a pause, a tone, or an inflection the reader may add
to the suggestiveness of the author.

212 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

THE DIAMOND NECKLACE

Guy De Maupassant

The girl was one of those pretty and charming young crea-
tures who sometimes are born, as if by a mistake of destiny,
in a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no
way of being known, understood, loved, married, by any rich
and distinguished man; so she let herself be married to a little
clerk at the Ministry of Public Instruction.

She had no gowns, no jewels, and she loved nothing else. She
felt made for that alone. She was filled with a desire to please,
to be envied, to be bewitching, to be sought after.

She had a friend, a former school mate at the convent, who
was rich and whom she did not like to see any more, because
she suffered so much when she came home.

One evening her husband came home with a triumphant air,
holding a large envelope in his hand.

"There, there is something for you."

She tore the paper quickly, and drew out a printed card
which bore these words: "The minister of Public Instruction
and Madame Georges Rampouneau request the honor of Ma-
dame Loisel's company at the palace of the Ministry on Mon-
day evening, January 18th."

Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she
threw the invitation on the table with disdain, murmuring:
"What do you wish me to do with that?"

"Why, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You never go
out, and this is such a fine opportunity."

"And what do you wish me to wear?"

"Why the gown you go to the theater in. It looks very well
to me." He stopped stupefied, distracted, on seeing that his
wife was crying. "Why, what is the matter?"

SUGGESTIVENESS 213

"Nothing, only I have no gown, and therefore cannot go to
this ball. Give your card to some colleague whose wife is better
equipped than I."

"Come, let us see, Mathilde. How much would it cost, a
suitable gown, which you could use on other occasions?"

She reflected several seconds, making her calculations and
wondering also what sum she could ask without drawing on
herself an immediate refusal. Finally she replied: "I don't
know exactly, but I think I could manage it with four hundred
francs."

He turned a trifle pale, for he had been saving just that
sum to buy a gun and treat himself to a little hunting trip.
However, he said, "Very well, I will give you four hundred
francs. And try to have a pretty gown."

The day of the ball drew near, and Madame Loisel seemed
sad, uneasy, anxious. Her husband said to her one evening:
"What is the matter? Come, you have seemed very queer these
last three days."

"It annoys me not to have jewels, not a single stone. I shall
look poverty-stricken. I should almost rather not go at all."

"How stupid you are! Go look up your friend Madame
Forestier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You're intimate
enough with her to do that."

"True! I never thought of it."

The next day she went to her friend and told of her distress.

Madame Forestier went to a wardrobe with a glass door,
took out a large jewel box, brought it back, opened it, and
said to Madame Loisel: "Choose, my dear."

She tried on the ornaments before the mirror, hesitated, and
suddenly she discovered, in a black satin box, a superb diamond
necklace, and her heart throbbed with an immoderate desire.
Her hands trembled as she took it. She fastened it around her
throat, outside her high-necked waist, and was lost in ecstasy

214 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

at the sight of herself. Then she asked: "Will you lend me this,
only this?"

"Why, yes, certainly."

The night of the ball arrived. Madame Loisel made a great
success. She was prettier than any other woman present, elegant,
graceful, smiling, and intoxicated with joy. All the men looked
at her, asked her name, endeavoured to be introduced.

She danced with rapture, with passion, made drunk by pleas-
ure, forgetting all, in the triumph of her beauty, in the glory
of her success.

She left the ball about four o'clock in the morning. Her
husband had been sleeping since midnight, in a little deserted
anteroom with three other gentlemen whose wives were en-
joying the ball.

He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought, the
modest wraps of common life, the poverty of which contrasted
with the elegance of the ball dress. She felt this, and wished to
escape so as not to be remarked by the other women, who were
enveloping themselves in costly furs.

Loisel held her back saying: "Wait a bit. You will catch cold
outside. I will call a cab."

But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the
stairs. When they reached the street they could not find a car-
riage, and began to look for one, shouting after the cabmen
passing at a distance.

They went toward the Seine, in despair, shivering with cold.
At last they found on the quay one of those ancient night cabs
which, as if they were ashamed to show their shabbiness during
the day, are never seen round Paris until after dark.

It took them to their dwelling, and sadly they climbed up
to their apartment. He reflected that he must be at the Ministry
at ten o'clock that morning.

She removed her wraps before the glass so as to see herself

SUGGESTIVENESS 215

once more in all her glory. But suddenly she uttered a cry. The
necklace was no longer around her neck!

They looked among the folds of her skirt, of her cloak, in
her pockets, everywhere, but did not find it. They looked,
thunderstruck, at each other. At last Loisel went out. She sat
waiting on a chair in her ball-dress, without strength to go to
bed, overwhelmed, without fire, without a thought.

Her husband returned about seven o'clock. He had found
nothing. He went to police headquarters, to the newspaper
offices, to offer a reward; he went to the cab companies — every-
where, in fact, whither he was urged by the least spark of hope.

Loisel returned at night with a hollow, pale face; he had
discovered nothing.

At the end of the week they had lost all hope. Loisel de-
clared: "We must consider how to replace the ornament."

The next day they took the box that had contained it, and
went to the jeweler whose name was found within. He con-
sulted his books. "It is not I, Madame, who sold that necklace;
I must simply have furnished the case."

Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for a
necklace like the other, consulting their memories, both sick
with chagrin and anguish.

They found in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string of dia-
monds that seemed to them exactly like the one they had lost.
It was worth forty thousand francs.

They begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days yet.

Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his father
had left him. He would borrow the rest. He did borrow, asking
a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another, five louis
here, three louis there. He gave notes, took up ruinous obliga-
tions, dealt with usurers and all the race of lenders. He com-
promised all the rest of his life, risked his signature without
even knowing whether he could honour it; and frightened by

216 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

the trouble yet to come, by the black misery that was about to
fall upon him, by the prospect of all the physical privations
and moral tortures that he was to face, he went to get the new
necklace, laying upon the jeweler's counter the forty thousand
francs.

When Madame Loisel took back the necklace, Madame
Forestier said to her in a chilly manner: "You should have
returned it sooner; I might have needed it."

She did not open the case, as her friend had so much feared.
If she had detected the substitution, what would she have
thought, what would she have said? Would she not have taken
Madame Loisel for a thief?

Thereafter Madame Loisel knew the horrible existence of
the needy. She bore her part, however, with sudden heroism.
That dreadful debt must be paid. She would pay it off. They
dismissed their servant; they changed their lodgings; they
rented a garret under the roof.

Every month they met some notes, renewed others, obtained
more time.

At the end of ten years they had paid everything, everything,
with the rates of usury and accumulations of the compound
interest.

Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become the woman
of impoverished households — strong, and hard, and rough.
With frowsy hair, skirts askew, and red hands, she talked
loudly while washing the floor with a great swish of water.
But sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she sat
down near the window, and thought of that gay evening long
ago, of that ball where she had been so beautiful and so ad-
mired.

What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace?
Who knows? Who knows? How strange and changeful is life!
How little a thing is needed for us to be lost or saved!

SUGGESTIVENESS 217

But, one Sunday, having gone to take a walk to refresh her-
self from the labours of the week, she suddenly perceived a
woman who was leading a child. It was Madame Forestier,
still young, still beautiful, still charming.

Madame Loisel felt moved. Should she speak to her? Yes
certainly, and now that she had paid, she would tell her all
about it. Why not?

She went up. "Good day, Jeanne."

The other, astonished to be thus familiarly addressed, did
not recognize her at all and stammered: "But — Madame — I do
not know — You must be mistaken."

"No. I am Mathilde Loisel."

"Oh, my poor Mathilde! How you are changed!"

"Yes, I have had days hard enough since I have seen you,
days wretched enough — and that because of you!"

"Of me! How so?"

"Do you remember that diamond necklace you lent me to
wear at the Ministerial ball?"

"Yes, well?"

"Well, I lost it."

"How can that be? You returned it to me."

"I returned you another exactly like it. And for this we
have been ten years paying. You can understand that it was
not easy for us, us who had nothing. At last it is ended and
I am very glad."

"You say that you bought a necklace of diamonds to replace
mine?"

"Yes. You never noticed then! They were very like."

"Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was paste! It
was worth at most only five hundred francs."

218 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

»
ATTITUDES

The interpretation of attitudes is important, in that the
meaning may frequently depend upon the attitude sug-
gested— the attitude of the author, of the character, or of
the reader. The attitude of the reader, of course, is guided
by that of the author or the character. As was suggested be-
fore, an understanding of the author's meaning may depend
upon a knowledge of the author's works in general or of the
period in which it was written. The work itself usually gives
a rather clear indication of the attitude; hence the inter-
pretative reader should maintain an unbiased attitude on
his own part. It is inexcusable for a reader to superimpose
upon a piece of literature his own pet ideas, theories, preju-
dices, or attitudes.

In his book, Reading Aloud, Maxfield Parrish devotes a
chapter to the interpretation of attitude. He states:

There is a third factor in reading which is necessary for
a complete understanding of meaning, and that is the attitude
of the reader toward what he says. A given phrase or sentence
may mean several quite different things depending upon the
mood or attitude of the speaker. He may be joking or in ear-
nest, ironical or matter-of-fact, sarcastic or sympathetic. Unless
you understand your author's attitude, and communicate it
to your hearers, you are giving them only an imperfect under-
standing of his meaning. . . .

When listening to a speaker's voice we generally have no
difficulty in recognizing these shades of meaning, but they are
nearly always too subtle for analysis. They consist partly of
emphasis, partly of voice-glide, or of changes in quality or
rate, but we cannot define the exact combination of cxpres-

ATTITUDES 219

sional elements involved. We must still depend upon the
"natural" method, assuming that a correct perception of the
writer's attitude will prompt a correct expression of it.1

Sometimes in a poem, a story, or an essay a character is
implied. For example, Louis Untermeyer wrote a poem
called "Caliban in the Coal Mines." An understanding of
the attitude in this poem depends upon the reader's under-
standing of the nature or character of Caliban, but even
more upon an understanding of Mr. Untermeyer's social
attitudes. Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote a number of chil-
dren's poems under the caption, From a Very Little Sphinx.
In one of them the child says, "I know a hundred ways to
die." 2 The reader's problem is to decide what is the attitude
of a "very little sphinx" as she contemplates the various
modes of death her imagination can contrive. We are in-
clined to interpret the attitude in this poem as that of "in-
nocent pleasure." There is no fear, no horror, nor dread
suggested; the innocence of the child forms a charming and
somewhat amusing contrast to that of adults who contem-
plate such things.

Read the following scene from Romeo and Juliet observ-
ing the contrast in the attitudes of Juliet and of the Nurse.,
Juliet's general attitude is one of eagerness and impatience.
The nurse evades her questions in order to tease her. The
effect upon the audience is one of humor. Be on the alert
for quick changes in attitude.

1 Wayland Maxfield Parrish, Reading Aloud (New York: Thomas
Nelson and Sons, 1932), p. 69.

2 Edna St. Vincent Millay, Poems (New York: Harper and Brothers,
1929).

220 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

JULIET'S DILEMMA
Front Romeo and Juliet x

William Shakespeare

Juliet. The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse;
In half an hour she promised to return.
Perchance she cannot meet him: that's not so.
O, she is lame! love's heralds should be thoughts,
Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams,
Driving back shadows over lowering hills

Now is the sun upon the high most hill

Of this day's journey, and from nine till twelve

Is three long hours; yet she is not come.

But old folks, many feign as they were dead;

Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.
[Enter Nurse with Peter.]

O God, she comes! O honey nurse, what news?

Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.
Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate.
[Exit Peter.]
Juliet. Now, good sweet nurse, — O lord, why look'st thou sad?

Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily;

If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news

By playing it to me with so sour a face.
Nurse. I am a-weary; give me leave a while.

Fie, how my bones ache! what a jaunce have I had!
Juliet. I would thou hadst my bones and I thy news:

Nay, come, I pray thee, speak; good, good nurse, speak.
Nurse. Jesu, what haste? Can you not stay a while?

Do you not see that I am out of breath?

1 Act II, Scene v.

ATTITUDES

221

Juliet. How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath

To say to me that thou art out of breath?

The excuse that thou dost make in this delay

Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.

Is thy news good, or bad? answer to that;

Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance:

Let me be satisfied, is't good or bad?
Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice; you

know not how to choose a man: Romeo! no, not he;

though his face be better than any man's, yet his

leg excels all men's; and for a hand, and a foot,

and a body, though they be not to be talked on, yet

they are past compare: he is not the flower of

courtesy, but, I'll warrant him as gentle as a

lamb. Go thy ways, wench; serve God. What, have

you dined at home?
Juliet. No, no: but all this did I know before.

What says he of our marriage? what of that?
Nurse. Lord, how my head aches! What a head have I!

It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.

My back o' t'other side, — ah, my back, my back!

Beshrew your heart for sending me about,

To catch my death with jauncing up and down!
Juliet. I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.

Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love?
Nurse. Your love says, like an honest gentleman,

and a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome, and I

warrant, virtuous, — Where is your mother?
Juliet. Where is my mother! Why, she is within;

Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest!

'Your love says, like an honest gentleman,

Where is your mother?'
Nurse. O God's lady dear!

Are you so hot? marry, come up, I trow;

Is this the poultice for my aching bones?

Henceforward do your messages yourself.

222 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

Juliet. Here's such a coil! Come, what says Romeo?

Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift today?

Juliet. I have.

Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell;
There stays a husband to make you a wife:
Now comes a wanton blood up in your cheeks,
They'll be in scarlet straight at any news.
Hie you to church; I must another way,
To fetch a ladder, by the which your love
Must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark;
I am the drudge, and toil in your delight;
But you shall bear the burthen soon at night.
Go; I'll to dinner; hie you to the cell.

Juliet. Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell.

Acting, a Helpful Device

A helpful device for finding the attitude expressed in a
piece of literature is for the student to act it out with in-
formal posture, bearing, or movement. To be sure, we have
emphasized that reading is not acting — yet acting may prove
a means of experiencing the reality; it may prove a device
for finding the attitude. As Max Eastman says, "Poetry is an
attitude of body," and, as we have suggested, through motor
imagery the student may find an understanding of the es-
sence which might be obscure to him if he approached the
poem from a purely logical or intellectual point of view.
A teacher once said, "Oral interpretation is difficult to teach
because the reader cannot do anything with his body." We
would say that something does happen in the body if one
interprets adequately. We would go a step further and say
one may "do" something with one's body as a means of
experiencing the reality of literature. There are times when
definite and positive action is the surest means of experienc-

ATTITUDES 223

ing the reality, sensing the meaning, and finding the at-
titude.

A group of students staged "My Last Duchess" with a girl
posing as the Duchess of the portrait, another acting out the
role of the Duke, and a third pantomiming the envoy. A
member of the audience said it was a fine show but com-
pletely concealed Browning's idea. To that observer the
acting concealed rather than revealed the author's meaning.
Suppose, however, such a performance had been given as
a classroom project only, as a means of experiencing reali-
ties in preparation for an interpretative reading. Do you
think those participating would have had a clearer under-
standing of the Duke's attitude? We suggest that as a class-
room project you act out this monologue as completely as
you wish, even letting the envoy put in a few lines where
they seem natural. After this experiment let one or more
members of the class read it interpretatively, with no repre-
sentative actions and with "off-stage" technique. The re-
sults will probably justify the time spent in such a realistic
performance.

MY LAST DUCHESS

Robert Browning

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by

224 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not

Her husband's presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek; perhaps

Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps

Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart — how shall I say? — too soon made glad.

Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, 't was all one! My favor at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bou^h of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace — all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech.

Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good! but thanked

Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this

Or that in you disgust me: here you miss,

Or there exceed the mark" — and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,

— E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

ATTITUDES 225

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet

The company below, then. I repeat

The Count your master's known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretence

Of mine for dowery will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

A student once brought to a speech class the poem, "A
Sailor Boy" by Alfred Tennyson. Because the teacher en-
couraged informal delivery, the student sat at the teacher's
desk and read the poem to the class. He made a definite
effort to "think aloud" the author's ideas. The delivery was
cramped and the communication inadequate. In the class-
room were some steps left by a group of drama students. It
was suggested that the reader place one foot on a step and
assume the easy informal posture of a boy contemplating
the life of a sailor. With this pose his body became vital and
as he read bodily changes suggested each mood naturally
and vividly. At one point he took his foot off of the step
and with both feet planted firmly on the floor concluded
the reading with a sense of reality which brought empathic
response from the class.

A SAILOR BOY

Alfred Tennyson

He rose at dawn and, fired with hope,
Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar,

226 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

And reach'd the ship and caught the rope,
And whistled to the morning star.

And while he whistled long and loud
He heard a fierce mermaiden cry,
"O boy, tho' thou art young and proud,
I see the place where thou wilt lie.

"The sands and yeasty surges mix
In caves about the dreary bay,
And on thy ribs the limpet sticks,
And in thy heart the scrawl shall play."

"Fool," he answer'd, "death is sure
To those that stay and those that roam,
But I will nevermore endure
To sit with empty hands at home.

"My mother clings about my neck,

My sisters crying, 'Stay for shame;'

My father raves of death and wreck,

They are all to blame, they are all to blame.

"God help me! save I take my part
Of danger on the roaring sea,
A devil rises in my heart,
Far worse than any death to me."

These suggestions concerning the acting of poetry are
made largely as a means to an end. But, after all, why should
the interpretative reader of necessity stand in a certain
definite place on a platform? If he can communicate the au-
thor's purpose better by sitting, by leaning against a column,
or by moving about — why should he not do so? Readers at
one time, it appears, thought they must stand stiffly erect,

ATTITUDES 227

give the title and author, then move two steps forward be-
fore reciting the first line of their "piece." While such a con-
vention may no longer exist, unnatural stiffness has often re-
sulted from the instruction that interpretative readers must
beware of actions which are too literal or movements which
call attention to themselves and interfere with the mental
concept. While we agree with Dr. Curry that the higher
the art the more manifestative and less representative the
form; still, we insist that flexibility of form and spontaneity
of expression may at times justify informal bearing and
literal actions.

Read Browning's "Home Thoughts from Abroad."
Could you sense the reality better sitting in an armchair
than standing in the center of a platform? Would a yellow
flower held in the hand aid you in relating these thoughts
concerning spring in England? Experiment a bit with this
idea of natural, informal bearing and see if you are aided
in finding and in projecting the author's attitude.

HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD

Robert Browning;

Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England — now!

And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!

228 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge —
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture I

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All wall be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
— Far brighter than this gaudy melonfiower!

APPRECIATION

The reader's own enjoyment, the reader's own apprecia-
tion of literature are essential for adequate interpretation.
How can one share with an audience that which he does
not possess? How can one cause an audience to enjoy that
to which he is indifferent? How can a reader project an
appreciation in which he does not share? Interpretative
reading is a process of sharing with others the moods, at-
titudes, ideas one finds suggested on the printed page. En-
thusiasm is contagious, and so are enjoyment and apprecia-
tion. A positive attitude of appreciation on the part of the
reader invites a positive reaction from the audience. A nega-
tive attitude from the reader engenders a negative response
from the audience. The reader's own appreciation is the
sine qua non of audience appreciation.

Rapport between reader and listener is achieved through
the reader's active appreciation at the moment he is reading.
No amount of advance preparation can take the place of
the reader's response at the moment he is reading aloud to
others. Communication of ideas involves concentration
upon ideas and something more — the reader's own reaction,

APPRECIATION 229

his own enjoyment, his own appreciation plus his desire to
share with others.

If the mood involves humor the reader must perceive the
humor and enjoy sharing it with the audience. The laugh
may be for the audience only, but the appreciation which
occasions the laugh is as essential for the reader as it is for
the hearer. If the material is tragic the reader must under-
stand and sympathize with the conditions which cause the
tragedy and share his understanding with the audience. If
the material is deeply philosophical, thought provoking, the
reader's appreciation of the significance of the ideas is his
means of creating the expression which will stimulate the
thinking of the audience. Vagueness in the reader's com-
prehension engenders vagueness in his interpretation; a
casual or indifferent attitude in the reader is very likely to
result in indifference on the part of the audience.

The reader must not expect audience appreciation neces-
sarily to equal his own. Factors other than a response to the
reader's appreciation will enter into the understanding and
appreciation of the audience. The probability is that the
appreciation of the majority in any audience will fall far
below the appreciation of the reader. A few listeners with
unusual background and astuteness may go beyond the
reader in appreciation. The appreciation of listeners will
depend upon their own capacity and receptivity plus the
reader's projection of the idea or mood. A reader teeming
with enthusiasm for his material and eager to share his
appreciation with others may overcome obstacles in the
hearer's background and turn attitudes of indifference, even
antagonism, into enthusiasm. We are all subject to the in-
fluence of that which causes enthusiasm in others.

230 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

HOW TO DEVELOP APPRECIATION

The student may say, "But suppose I don't like the litera-
ture assigned to me to read? How can I share with an au-
dience an appreciation I don't have?" The answer is obvi-
ously, "You can't." One of the first steps in developing ap-
preciation and the ability to project appreciation is to read
that which you do enjoy. You may be wise to omit, for a
while, that to which you do not respond with immediate
enjoyment. As a beginning in the art of sharing apprecia-
tion with others, choose that which you like and stay with
it until you like it tremendously, then read it to an audience
with a will to make them like it too. It may be wise for you
to ignore what you do not like until you have developed
confidence in your ability to project appreciation to others.
You must avoid making your prejudices deep-rooted by
developing your capacity for appreciation.

Open-Mindedness

Prejudices are indications of a limited point of view; one
dislikes what he does not understand. You may dislike a
poem because the idea it suggests is more profound than
your understanding. You may be wise to keep quiet about
your prejudices until you have developed a capacity for
broader enjoyment. To express your dislike may be to admit
that you are not big enough to appreciate it. Instead of
rejecting it and building reasons for your dislike try facing
the matter honestly and asking yourself why you do not
like it. Are some of the words unfamiliar? The dictionary
may care for that. Are the allusions obscure? Perhaps the
encyclopedia or other reference works will disclose their

APPRECIATION 231

significance. Is the phase of life outside your experience?
Perhaps you've been missing something thrilling: why not
investigate? Maybe your prejudice is due to your ignorance.
Surely you do not wish to close your mind to that which
great minds create and respond to, so why not remedy the
situation by substituting knowledge for ignorance?

Dr. Frank Crane says, "The great soul makes sure he is
right and is then firm; the small soul is first firm and then
casts about for reasons for being so." 1 There is no place for
a small soul in the field of interpretative reading. Do not
take the first step towards making or keeping yourself so
by closing your mind to that which you do not understand.
If you would be really big, pay the price for bigness by in-
vestigating the life which you do not understand, for wisdom
comes from understanding, and understanding is based
upon information. Until you have spent due time in in-
vestigation you are not ready to pronounce judgment.

One of the most tragic scenes in literature is depicted in
Tennyson's The Idylls of the King when Queen Guinevere
realized where her happiness lay — too late. Read her words
thoughtfully:

I thought I could not breathe in that fine air,

That pure severity of perfect light —

I yearned for warmth and color which I found

In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou art,

Thou art the highest and most human too,

. . . Ah my God,

What might I not have made of thy fair world,

Had I but loved thy highest creature here?

It was my duty to have loved the highest:

1 Dr. Frank Crane, Four Minute Essays (New York: Wm. H. Wise
& Co., Inc., 1919), Vol. VII, p. 77. Reprinted by permission.

232 INTERPRETATION OF MEANING

It surely was my profit had I known:

It would have been my pleasure had I seen.

We needs must love the highest when we see it.

Many students go through college missing the best be-
cause they think they cannot live in that "fine air." Many
never discover that "the highest is the most human too."

A wise teacher explained to his students the difference
between firmness and stubborness as follows. The stubborn
person says, "Right or wrong I keep my opinion." The firm
person says, "I keep my opinion as long as I believe it is
right but I will remain open minded, and if I am convinced
that I am wrong I will change and be just as firm on the
other side. I am seeking the truth and will stand firmly by
what I consider true."

The student has a right to his opinion about literature;
he has a right to decide what is worthy of his appreciation.
Passive acceptance is not appreciation: appreciation is posi-
tive; it is dynamic; it is individual. Appreciation is a result
of one's own response and not something superimposed by
a teacher or textbook. It is important for the student to
work for a sense of values and not to close his mind to any
literature which others of more experience than he con-
sider worth while.

Yet appreciation cannot be forced; it is partly a matter
of growth. There is an Eastern proverb which states, "My
children know me when I pass by." One recognizes truth
when he has the knowledge or the experience to understand
and to appreciate it. One feels a kinship for a poet or a
philosopher who interprets for him his own experience. We
have all had the experience of suddenly becoming aware
of the truth of a familiar quotation. The truth flashes upon

APPRECIATION 233

us with astounding clarity when knowledge and experience
enable us to say, "I see, I understand, I know that is true."

Significance of Imagination

Should one wait, then, to interpret certain literature until
he has had the experience which will clarify it for him? No,
everyone has the power to understand and to appreciate
experiences he has not participated in. Through imagina-
tion he can put together odd bits of his own past and create
new experiences revealed to him in literature. There is a
kinship in all nature by which understanding comes. Ex-
perience clarifies, it vivifies, it is revealing, but it is not the
only revealing force in nature.

Every student has asked himself after a startling experi-
ence, "How did I know the truth before this happened to
me?" For example, a young girl after a bereavement felt
the comforting power of words of sympathy, flowers, the
presence of friends. Their meaning came with such clarity
she wondered how she had known, before this happened to
her, to write notes of sympathy, to send flowers, or to attend
the funeral services when her friends were bereaved. The
answer is simple; she possessed a sympathetic nature. By
the power of imagination, she could place herself in the
situation of others. Jane Addams has said, "The person of
the highest culture is the one who can put himself in the
place of the greatest number of other persons." Interpreta-
tive reading gives one vicarious experiences which aid in
developing this power.

Chapter IX

BACKGROUNDS, INTRODUCTIONS, AND

PROGRAMS

I am a part of all that I have met.

All experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world.

Tennyson

Backgrounds for interpretative reading may be consid-
ered from two points of view: (1) the reader's general back-
ground of knowledge and experience, and (2) the specific
background concerning the author and the literature to
be interpreted. Let us consider first the background of the
reader's own experience, direct or vicarious, which is so
clearly stated in the two quotations above from Alfred
Tennyson's "Ulysses." As suggested by these words, we are
what we are as a result of our experiences, and experience
enables us to see "gleams" of the world we have not traveled.
We create new concepts out of old experiences. J. B. Ker-
foot suggests this idea when he says:

The living we ourselves do is never really comprehended by
us until we have read and reread it into other lives; and the
infinitely various livingness of others is never really grasped
by us until we have read and reread it into as many as may be

234

BACKGROUND 235

of those potential selves that life has denied us the chance
to be.1

We have heard much of a similar nature in modern educa-
tion since Dr. Watson announced, as something more or
less new, "To every stimulus the organism receives from
without, it makes a definite response, the nature of which
depends upon both the stimulus and the past experience of
the organism." But even in "the gay nineties" Dr. S. S. Curry
was stating, "A man cannot express that he does not possess."
Surely this last is just another way of stating that the re-
sponse of the individual depends upon his experience.2

Background for interpretative reading is gained directly
through experience and indirectly through reading and all
forms of listening. Sound films offer opportunity for ex-
periences in lands and periods of time which would other-
wise be less realistic and vivid. A group of people were
invited to a home to see color films of Hawaii. One member
of the group testified that her appreciation of the beauty of
that land of charm was vivified, she believed, more than the
actual experience would have afforded. Another who had
been to Hawaii said her experience was made more mean-
ingful by the films.

Indirect experiences, however, are not usually as vivid as
direct experiences. One may have an imaginative picture
of the Grand Canyon of Arizona, but that picture is vivified
and one's appreciation is increased by seeing the Canyon
itself especially at sunrise or sunset when the crags reflect

1 J. B. Kerfoot, How to Read (Boston and New York: Houghton
Mifflin Company, 1916), p. 3. By permission of the publishers.

2 Gertrude E. Johnson, Studies in the Art of Interpretation (New
York: D. Appleton-Century Co., Inc., 1940), p. 3.

236 BACKGROUNDS AND PROGRAMS

the colors of the sky. Travel, reading, human contacts, and
the theater are means one may employ to increase a general
background.

The value of experience, however, for creative art is de-
termined largely by one's response to experience. Concern-
ing this important aspect Hamilton Wright Mabie states:

Great art of any kind involves a great temperament even
more than a great intellect; since the essence of art is never
intellectual, but always the complete expression of the whole
nature. A great temperament is a rarer gift than a great mind;
and it is the distinctive gift of the artist. Browning had the vi-
tality, the freshness of feeling, the eagerness of interest, the
energy of spirit, which witness this temperament. He had an
intense joy in life, in nature simply as nature, without refer-
ence to what lay behind. For one must feel freshly and power-
fully through the senses before one can represent the inner
meaning of life and nature in art.1

The use one makes of experience, as Mr. Mabie suggests,
is significant in determining its value as background. To the
poetic, a sunset, moonlight on a lake, or cleaning a pasture
spring is sufficient motivation for a poem, a painting, or a
creative response which gives meaning and fullness to life.
Mr. Frost aptly expresses this idea in his poem, "The Pas-
ture," in which the farmer so simply sums up the whole
cycle of life in the words, "You come too." 2 Literature and
experience set up a constructive cycle for the interpreter
by which experience gives appreciation for literature and

1 From My Study Fire, by Hamilton Wright Mabie, pp. 51-2. Re-
printed by permission of Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc.

2 Robert Frost, The Collected Poems of Robert Frost (New York:
Halcyon Hovise, 1936).

BACKGROUND 237

literature in turn interprets life. Yet there are those who
''having eyes, see not; and having ears, hear not." The stu-
dent of interpretative reading must develop the habit of
reacting positively to experience and of translating ex-
perience into creative reading. A constructive cycle is thus
formed, giving color and interest to life and in turn un-
derstanding and appreciation to literature.

This principle is developed in the writings of John
Ruskin whose art principle Agnes Knox Black applies to
interpretative reading in her discussion of Speech as a Fine
Art, wherein she points out the relation of oral interpreta-
tion to creative writing in the lives of well-known authors:

Each one of the great prose writers of the Nineteenth Cen-
tury has left on record — in letters or biography — his indebted-
ness to vocal interpretation as a means of liberating the crea-
tive impulse, and each one of the far-flung band was himself
an interpreter of literature through vocal rendering. De Quin-
cey never wearied of declaiming the impassioned prose of
Hooker and Sir Thomas Browne; Macaulay was not more ef-
fective as a writer than as a speaker; Carlyle and Ruskin were
most impressive lecturers and readers. Mr. Mallock of the New
Republic has said: "I have heard him (Ruskin) lecture several
times, and that singular voice of his, which would often hold
all the theater breathless, haunts me still. He read magnifi-
cently. Passages came with new force and meaning when re-
cited with appropriate emphasis and intonation." Surely every
reader of this magazine knows of the marvelous tones of Em-
erson's voice as described by Lowell and Dr. Ames, or New-
man's as described by Shairp and Matthew Arnold. What mag-
nificent readers and interpreters were the three latest of the
great novelists of England — Dickens, Thackeray, and George
Eliot! The principle informing these significant facts is that

238 BACKGROUNDS AND PROGRAMS

intelligent, sympathetic reading aloud gives us the true vision
of a writer's meaning, and thereby are stirred into activity
those ideas which respond to the ideas enshrined in great
books. It is from the power of true appreciation — the appreci-
ation which can be developed only by contact with the great —
that good and noble expression comes.1

SPECIFIC BACKGROUND

No matter how adequate our general background may
be there is need also for special background for the under-
standing and appreciation of specific literature. What this
background is to consist of depends largely upon the litera-
ture itself. Much literature is an expression of the point of
view of the author, so knowledge of his life is often signifi-
cant. One cannot always segregate those elements in an au-
thor's life which contribute to an appreciation of his writ-
ing, but a knowledge of his experience, his struggles, and
his attainments as influenced by his environment usually
adds insight and thus gives a specific background for inter-
pretative reading. A student gave a lecture-recital on Lord
Byron, using as the basis for her program the biography of
Byron by Andre Maurois. She interspersed her program with
poetry connected with experiences related in the biography.
At the conclusion of the program a young man remarked,
"Isn't it interesting how an understanding of a man's life
affects your reaction to his works? I'd never liked Byron be-
fore. Now I believe I'll read his poetry with interest and
understanding."

Sometimes a background is needed concerning the char-

1 Agnes Knox Black, "Speech as a Fine Art," in Studies in the Art
of Interpretation, edited by Gertrude E. Johnson (New York:
D. Appleton-Century Co., Inc., 1940), pp. 68-9. By permission of
the author.

BACKGROUND 239

acter which the author interprets. A young woman was
preparing a review of Mary of Scotland by Maxwell Ander-
son. She asked her teacher just what Mary's attitude was
towards Queen Elizabeth, and Elizabeth's attitude towards
Mary, Queen of Scots. The teacher answered, "I do not
know, but if I were sroin^ to review the book I would find
out." "How?" asked the student. "Well," responded the
teacher, "I would draw out of the library every biography
listed of both Mary and of Elizabeth. I would read some
of them carefully and read portions of others. When I had
a sufficient basis of knowledge I would compare Maxwell
Anderson's interpretation of the two queens with that of
other biographers." A few days later the student came back
for another conference with the teacher. She had followed
the suggestions and was eager to share her knowledge of
these queens and the varied interpretations biographers had
given. A few weeks later this student gave her review of the
play, and afterwards a guest remarked, "You show a remark-
able understanding; there is so much back of your inter-
pretation."

A knowledge of the circumstances under which a piece of
literature is written is helpful. The working conditions
for children in England at the time Elizabeth Barrett wrote
motivated her poem, "The Cry of the Children." One who
reads this poem needs similar motivation gained from
knowledge of those conditions. A knowledge of the histori-
cal significance of Gettysbury is needed as background for
an interpretative reading of Lincoln's Gettysburg Address.
A knowledge of the fact that Robert Browning wrote "Pros-
pice" (looking forward) after the death of his wife and that
the line, "I shall clasp thee again," refers to her, gives un-

240 BACKGROUNDS AND PROGRAMS

demanding to Browning's attitude towards death as ex-
pressed in this poem.

It is sometimes essential for the reader to become familiar
with an author's works as a whole in order to understand
his philosophy, grasp his style, and do justice to him in
interpretative reading. One reader said that before she at-
tempted to give an interpretative reading of a certain poem
by Archibald MacLeish, she read a number of his books
and found that understanding came gradually but surely
as she became more familiar with his general philosophy
and style. One of the most helpful sources she found was
A Note on Verse written as a preface to his poetic play
Panic. In this preface Mr. MacLeish explains his method
of developing his verse form.

Many things in that preface should prove helpful to an
actor, a director, or an interpretative reader in giving an
authentic interpretation, for Mr. MacLeish explains his
attempt to find "a verse form capable of catching and carry-
ing the rhythm of the spoken language of his time and
place." A further statement strikes a responsive chord for
every interpretative reader:

Verse, alter all, is not an arrangement upon the page: it is a
pattern for the ear. If it does not exist in the ear, it does not
exist.1

In a similar fashion, the preface which Maxwell Anderson
wrote for Winterset gives insight into his thought for poetic
creation and expression; Mr. Anderson considers the stage
a cathedral for the unfolding of mysteries and the building

1 Archibald MacLeish, Preface to Panic (Boston: Houghton Mifflin
Company, 1935), p. ix. By permission.

INTRODUCTIONS 241

of faith. He considers poetry a necessary medium in the
theater.

A written analysis of the background and its relation to
a piece of literature will prove helpful to the student in
assimilating his material. Written analyses clarify one's
thinking; they insure thorough study in preparation for
an interpretative reading. They help one to overcome care-
less and superficial habits.

INTRODUCTIONS

All art involves selection. From the background one has
accumulated he may select certain important elements to
be given to his audience in an introduction in order that
the audience may also have a background for understand-
ing and appreciation. Someone has said that a speaker's
wastebasket should contain more material than his note-
book. Even if the reader discards most of the notes he has
accumulated as background, the effect of his study will
remain with him. Out of his scope of knowledge he will
evolve understanding which will give authority to his in-
terpretation. He should select from this background only
the choicest, most fitting information for his introduction.
Only that which is needed for a clear understanding of the
author's ideas and moods should be included in the in-
troduction.

Consideration should also be given to the length of an
introduction. In general, introductions should be brief. One
who has given sufficient preparation to a background for
interpretation will be tempted to make his introduction
too lengthy. Remember — the background will be revealed
in the interpretation of the lines; only the most significant

242 BACKGROUNDS AND PROGRAMS

ideas should be included in the introduction. Five minutes
or less should be sufficient time for an introduction to almost
any piece of literature. One well-developed, carefully
phrased sentence is frequently sufficient.

The audience and occasion also serve to guide the reader
in selecting material for introductions. He may supple-
ment this planned introduction at the last minute with
spontaneous remarks which grow out of the occasion. One
should be alert for incidents which occur just prior to his
reading and to the value of such in giving interest, under-
standing, freshness, and direct contact to his material. How
well Will Rogers understood that principle! He not only
read the daily papers but he was constantly on the alert for
data concerning local interests. In a college town during
football season he inquired naively if the college had a Dean
or a President. He said that he had heard of the coach and
of the football team but he wasn't sure whether the college
had a faculty or administrative officials. The delighted au-
dience called for the President, who was loved as much as
the coach; then Will Rogers showed his further knowledge
of the local situation by remarking facetiously, "Mr. Presi-
dent, I want to give you some advice. Don't you teach those
Baptists out there too much; if you do they won't be Bap-
tists." When the audience laughed, Will Rogers added,
"Oh, you Methodists needn't laugh!"

A reader's introduction should lead naturally into the
interpretation of the first line of the literature he is to
interpret. Natural transitions are important for sustained
interest and coherent thinking. The introduction must
create atmosphere which will prepare for, or blend with,
the first line of the literature. This transition from the

PROGRAMS 243

introduction to the material is partly a matter of writing
and partly a matter of reading technique.

PROGRAMS

As in the case of introductions, so also in selecting ma-
terial for a program, questions of occasion, time of day,
place of program, type of audience, must always be con-
sidered. The reader is likely to have certain tendencies,
likes and dislikes, some types of material he "does best," but
care should always be exerted to check the impulse to do
those things one "does best" to the exclusion of other neces-
sary considerations. One's taste must be catholic. In an
hour's general program to be given by one person there
should be a balance in elements of humor, drama, prose,
poetry, scene, sketch, monologue. But not all these in one
hour!

The opening number in a general program is an im-
portant consideration. It should not be overlong: better
under ten minutes than over. It should have a fairly simple
and direct appeal, preferably with an element of humor
though not in excess. An audience is not prepared upon
our first appearance to give as good a response to our "ap-
peals" as later when they are "settled" and have had a chance
to become acquainted, as it were, with the interpreter. The
mistake in opening with selections which are in monologue
form is that the audience does not know us yet, so why ask
them to meet a character other than ourselves? The mistake
in opening with dialect is that the audience should know
our speech and enjoy it ere we ask them to enjoy another
speech form. And the mistake in opening with poetry is that
while some may enjoy it, certainly others will not, since

244 BACKGROUNDS AND PROGRAMS

prose forms are nearer the general life and daily ways of
most of humanity. These forms all offer hindrances as open-
ing numbers. Be simple, direct, easy, with normal humor
and no attempt to run the gamut of emotion or bedazzle
with an array of characters or your acting ability; give the
hearers a chance to meet you as a normal human being like
themselves. Your ability and versatility, your artistry, will
grow upon them as you progress.

One of the chief concerns in arrangement of selections
chosen for a program should be to place them so that the
audience will be prepared to give to every number as favora-
ble a response as possible. Our general reactions do not go
abruptly from grave to gay and back to grave, nor from
sublime to ridiculous. Arranging selections in too great
or too regular contrast is not likely to gain the best possible
response. Shading, leading away from the mood just pre-
sented and on towards another definitely different mood,
offers a better basic plan. One prose narrative following
another, even if in a different vein, is not desirable, for the
fact of the identical form tends to dull the reception. There
is the possibility of shorter numbers intervening, probably
poetry which may be grouped into "a" and "b" numbers,
which will help to form a break and lend the possibility of
the melding of mood, mentioned earlier.

A word or two as to "grouping." There should be some
basic reason for this, and since poetry is most likely to fall
into the grouping idea we might mention that mood, and
idea or theme, are two reasons for grouping. Selections by
the same author may be grouped, though the fact that it is
the same author should not be the primary reason; theme
and mood would still supersede. Seldom if ever should prose

PROGRAMS 245

and poetry form an "a" and "b," as unity of mood and idea
does not usually appear in these two forms. Prose is usually
long, and the difference in the forms of the writing does
not make for unity. A number long enough to form a whole
unit, such as an eight or ten minute selection, usually should
stand alone. A scene from a play or a one-act play should
not be included as an "a" and "b" number. There might
be exceptions in the case of scenes from plays but seldom
in the case of the one-act play. This latter in particular
would overshadow any other number in the group.

There is also the question of climax. Some advocate mov-
ing in a steadily rising intensity with the crescendo at the
close, while others contend that the hearers are likely to be
best prepared to react favorably to the most intense num-
ber (not necessarily tragedy) about half or two-thirds of the
way through the program. The latter seems definitely more
sound, psychologically speaking.

Sometimes it is necessary or desirable to break the pro-
gram into parts, as Part One and Part Two, in which case
there may be some selection desirable to include which is
in the nature of an exit, a monologue perhaps, in which the
character in the monologue is making his or her exit from
the scene and hence concludes a part. Preferably one should
use this to end Part One rather than making it the closing
number of an entire program.

In giving a program from the works of one author, the
reader should always have as a primary objective not only
the pleasure and profit of the audience but the various facets
of approach and interests of the author. This is frequently
overlooked. The reader too often seems to have chosen his
favorites or those selections which have "dramatic" pos-

246 BACKGROUNDS AND PROGRAMS

sibilities or, and here we must be guarded, those in which
his talents or idiosyncratic style will shine. None of these
reasons should stand foremost in any program selection,
but when the reader is presenting the work of one author
he must in his selections, and as far as possible, do justice
to that author.

The following examples are offered as suggestions observ-
ing many of the principles set forth. They are intended for
general audiences.

RECITAL FROM THE POETRY OF
JOHN MASEFIELD

Part I

A Consecration
Ships

WANDERLUST

Roadways

The West Wind

Vagabond

A Wanderer's Song

SAILORS

Sea Change

Cape Horn Gospel

Mother Cary

The Port of Many Ships

D'Avalo's Prayer

Part II

Reynard the Fox

(Introduction: Mr. Masefield says that he wrote this story of a
fox hunt because the events have been for many centuries the

PROGRAMS 247

deepest pleasure in English country life, bringing together on
terms of equality all sorts and conditions of the English people.
He adds that he felt that a fox hunt made a frame in which
many of the more permanent types of English character might
be portrayed. The fox hunt means and will always mean more
to the English people than to any other.)

RECITAL

SELECTED READINGS

Prose and Poetry

Part I

The Check-Book (Prose) Geoffrey Kerr

(Truth or fiction?)

poetry Robert Frost

Blueberries

Wild Grapes

A Servant to Servants

LYRICS

The Telephone
The Rose Family
Into My Own

Part II

The Butterfly That Stamped Rudyard Kipling

(A Fable in Prose)

RHYTHMS

The Potatoes Dance Vachel Lindsay

Tarantella Hilaire Belloc
When I Danced with the Great

King of Spain Anna Hempstead Branch

248 BACKGROUNDS AND PROGRAMS

DRAMATIC RECITAL

Part I

The First Act of

CALL IT A DAY

By

C. L. Anthony

CHARACTERS

Roger Hilton

Dorothy Hilton (his wife)

Ann (aged 15)

Martin (aged 17)

Catherine (aged 19)

Vera (the maid)

SCENE

Early morning in Roger and Dorothy's bedroom.

Part II

POETRY

The Poodle and the Pug H. H. Herbert

Miss Busy H. H. Herbert

Lilacs Amy Lowell

The Passing Strange John Mase field

We turn rather too easily and often to the play for our
hour's reading, but the royalty question makes the use of
the play for reading increasingly difficult, and in a final
analysis the ultimate values for the interpreter's growth in
the use of the play are too closely connected with char-
acterization. Arranging a play offers some problems, but
they are not too difficult. The main theme can usually be
followed, care being taken not to destroy balance in moods

PROGRAMS 249

and situations. Keep the play "whole" as to its central idea
whatever is done. An hour and fifteen minutes should or-
dinarily be an outside limit for time.

No discussion of program materials is complete without
considering the values of the book-length novel for inter-
pretative purposes. Oddly enough it is not so generally
used as are drama and poetry. The prose form itself doesn't
receive the attention from many teachers that it deserves as
a training for the interpreter. It contains many teaching
"devices," both in content and form, which no other type of
material offers. Says W. H. Crawshaw in his book, The In-
terpretation of Literature:

The novel deals principally with humanity. In the treatment
of individual character, it is dealing mostly with man; and in
the treatment of character relations, it is dealing with human
life. We have seen that drama, being chiefly concerned with
human action, is more likely to emphasize the latter. In the
novel, however, man is likely to be more prominent; for action
is not so important, and there is more opportunity for psycho-
logical analysis. Another important difference between drama
and novel is that the latter deals with the common man and
emphasizes the worth of the individual soul. The novel holds
closely to the human centre; but it is very free in showing the
relation of humanity to the other great subjects.

The novel is practically a combination of the drama and
the romance. It is like the drama in substance and in purpose,
and is therefore to be regarded as dramatic literature. It is
like the romance in form and method; for it presents its char-
acters and its plot by means of direct prose narration. Even
more than the prose drama, the novel is the typical prose repre-
sentative of the dramatic impulse; for the true realm of the
drama is poetry, and the novel has made good its position as

250 BACKGROUNDS AND PROGRAMS

the most appropriate literary form for the representation of
life in its more prosaic aspects.1

Many further direct values must be admitted as valid
justification for more comprehensive use of the novel for
interpretative purposes. Historical significance as in The
Sea of Grass, Show Boat, Sans Go Down, and Gone With
the Wind; the lure of foreign lands in Listen! The Wind,
North to the Orient, and Keys of the Kingdom; character
studies as in The Bridge of San Litis Rey, My Antonia, One
More Spring, One Foot in Heaven, and Grandma Called It
Carnal; animals holding the center of interest as in The
Voice of Bugle Ann, Flush, and The Ugly Dachshund; fami-
lies and their doings, as in Life With Father, Time at Her
Heels, Jahia, and Oh, Promise Me. These are but a few ex-
amples chosen as they come to mind, and the list can be ex-
tended indefinitely in every direction.

Nor is the arrangement so difficult as might at first be
supposed. Usually it will be desirable to condense and ar-
range to occupy not over an hour or a little more, the time
varying somewhat according to the nature of the novel
chosen for arrangement. Much may be condensed and told
in part in the reader's own words, or portions of material
omitted may be woven into brief connecting statements.

The arranging of the novel may call for a reduction in
the number of characters, for too many will make for con-
fusion and by involving too much dialogue will retard the
dramatic progress of events or climaxes. Minor characters
may be omitted as in a play. If drama and comedy or con-
trasting moods of any sort are present, these should be kept
in proper proportion and balance. In all cases the inherent

i W. H. Crawshaw, The Interpretation of Literature (New York:
Macmillan Company, 1908), Chapter V, p. 87. By permission of the
publishers.

THE LECTURE-RECITAL 251

ideas and intention of the author must be thoroughly un-
derstood and adhered to for a truthful and artistic result.

The Lecture-Recital

The lecture-recital offers opportunity for the reader to
combine the values of public speaking and reading in a
unified and effective manner. In the lecture portion the
reader may give information and explanations which clarify
the selections of literature he chooses to read. The vivid-
ness and color of interpretative reading should keep audi-
ence interest at a high peak of enjoyment. A lecture-recital,
like a well developed speech, should be built upon a single
theme from which unity is derived. Variety may be at-
tained through choice of material and techniques of de-
livery. Personal comment from the reader aids apprecia-
tion; it seems to be an integral part of a lecture-recital.

The development of a lecture-recital follows basic prin-
ciples of both public speaking and interpretative reading.
The introduction should win the good will of the audience
to the speaker and to the theme. It is usually advisable for
the speaker to state the theme clearly, evoking audience in-
terest in its development through explanations and illus-
trations. Introductions are usually more effective when
given extemporaneously than when read.

Due credit should be given to authors for material
quoted. One may state the sources from which material is
taken in the introduction, before or after specific portions,
or at the end of the program. Frequently in radio, data such
as titles, authors, et cetera are given by an announcer at the
end of the program. In the lecture-recital these data often
seem an essential part of the lecture and hence are given as

252 BACKGROUNDS AND PROGRAMS

introductory to the reading of specific selections. Clear state-
ments concerning the source give authenticity, a part of the
scholarly work expected of both readers and lecturers. No
reader of integrity would wish to claim as his own any
quoted material. Due credit to the author seems always
desirable.

Selections should be arranged in sequence following the
principles of composition. This sequence may be chrono-
logical, according to time. It may be logical according to
cause and effect. It may be psychological: according to the
effect the reader wishes to produce upon the audience. For
example, one may start a program with an amusing anec-
dote, fable, or poem in order to catch the interest of the
audience and establish rapport between speaker and audi-
ence. It is usually considered wise to give the more intel-
lectual portions toward the beginning while the audience
is fresh. Interest may be sustained by emotion or material
that is varied and vital. The principle of climax is impor-
tant. It may be applied in many ways. Sometimes it is a
climax of feeling, sometimes of spectacular or novel ele-
ments. Sometimes there is the climax, or turning point, of
a plot, such as the lecture-recital built upon the correspond-
ence of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett
printed in the second section of this book. It is entitled,
Loves Courage.

Continuity is sustained through well planned transitions
from one portion to another. Transitions which grow out
of the idea or mood of one portion should lead into the next
portion. This continuity should seem to rise naturally and
spontaneously and should lead progressively to the climax.
Transitions may be read or spoken extemporaneously. The

THE LECTURE-RECITAL 253

directness of extempore speech gives the audience a feeling
of intimacy and informality that is often highly desirable.
The conclusion, whether spoken or read, should give a sense
of completeness, though it is always good to leave an audi-
ence wanting more.

If a program lasts more than twenty or thirty minutes the
audience is likely to have restless moments. No matter how
interesting the material may be individuals must shift posi-
tion occasionally. An effective reader may, by pausing and
shifting his own position, cause the audience to make these
shifts between ideas or portions, and prevent distracting
shifts during important moments. A speaker who had held
the audience virtually spellbound for twenty minutes said
with disarming charm, "Now I think we'd better have a
squirming pause." The audience laughed, relaxed and was
ready for more of the intense concentration for which that
occasion called. Squirming pauses do not have to be labeled
to be effective. In fact they are usually more effective with-
out the audience even being aware of them. Yet the reader
should be aware and may even mark his manuscript to re-
mind him to give the audience time to relax before he takes
up a new idea, mood or situation.

Chapter X
CHORAL READING

Choric speech as a method of teaching has proved
itself worthy of consideration. As a method of artistic
expression it contains possibilities of renewing and
vivifying the whole art of poetry.

Dr. Gordon Bottomly

A modern book on interpretative reading would hardly
be complete without some word concerning the communal
approach known as choral reading. This form of reading
has been used continually through the ages in religious
services and, to a certain extent, in drama, notably that of
the Greeks. The twentieth century revival of choral reading
has spread from religion and the theater into radio and
education. Its forms now include not only the rituals of the
church and the choral parts of plays but the reading of
lyrics, ballads, essays, narration, of prose and poetry ad
infinitum. Some verse speaking choirs have been organized
to give public performances with a view to entertainment
or for the promotion of an art form. Choral speaking has
flourished in radio because, no doubt, of its heightening of
dramatic effect not only for plays but for current events, his-
torical episodes, narration, and announcements even to a
football game given in duo instead of by the more usual sin-
gle voice of a sports reporter.

254

CHORAL READING 255

Concerning the value of a revival of choral reading Cecile
de Banke says:

The value of a revival of any form of art lies not so much in
the emulation of past achievement as in the fact that, once the
standard of that achievement is recognized and accepted as a
challenge, the artists evolve a new expression of the art, which
has the further value of being creative, vital, and contemporane-
ous. So with the revival of choral speaking, we find, after four-
teen years' study of its history and past achievement, and after
experimental work in all its phases, that a form is beginning to
emerge which, carrying the dignity and impress of its splendid
past, yet expresses the virile rhythm and tone of its immediate
environment. A rapid survey of the growth of choral speaking
from its earliest forms to the latest expression of the modern
revival, and ending with conjecture as to its future expansion,
will serve, perhaps, to clarify our own objective in studying and
teaching what is at the same time the oldest and the newest
manifestation of the spoken word.1

Students of interpretation may approach choral reading
from one of two distinct points of view neither wholly
precluding the other but each having ultimate aims quite
widely divergent. These two approaches are (1) as an educa-
tional device, with the ultimate aim of improving the in-
dividual's understanding, appreciation, and skill in the
interpretation of literature; and (2) as an art form for public
presentation. This book is dedicated to the stabilizing in-
fluence of interpretative reading upon the individual. This
phase of interpretation will therefore be considered from
the educational point of view, and choral speaking as a

1 Cecile de Banke, The Art of Choral Speaking (Boston: Walter H.
Baker Co., 1937), p. 15. By permission of the publishers.

256 CHORAL READING

public performance will be left entirely to the discretion
of the individual students or teachers.

As a teaching function, group reading has usually been
a part of the procedure of classes in interpretative reading.
Voice drills and exercises are given chorally with the teacher
serving as director. It is a short step, then, from a choral
exercise, in which good tone quality is the goal, to an art
form in which tone is achieved as a means of expressing
the mood, the idea, and the effect intended by the author.
The starting point in choral reading is adequate tone quality
for the expression of an idea. The danger is that the group
will lose sight of the idea and work for tone alone. This is
no uncommon fault in individual reading, but it is more
likely to occur with a group due to the necessity of preserv-
ing harmony with other voices.

Some advocates of choral speaking claim that there is such
a thing as "group thinking" and that choral reading can
therefore be as spontaneous as individual interpretation.
Others claim that the members of the group think as in-
dividuals but that through a process of crystallization the
form becomes sufficiently stable for harmony and spon-
taneity to be preserved together. Elsie Fogerty solved this
problem with the chorus for the London production of
T. S. Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral by directing each
individual in the chorus to create a character as individual
as if he were acting alone. The chorus then spoke not as
a single voice but as a group of individuals voicing similar
sentiments and reacting to the same stimuli.

In choral speaking a consideration of tempo and rhythm
follows closely upon that of tone. Herein lies an excellent

CHORAL READING 257

opportunity for developing flexibility and for breaking up
an individual's habit of superimposing his own tempo and
rhythm upon whatever he may read. The necessity of "keep-
ing in step" with the group causes the slow ones to speed
up, the fast ones to slow down, and the inflexible ones to
work for variation. One perhaps learns to sense rhythms
better by group reading than by individual interpretation;
at least he must submit to the discipline of the rhythm es-
tablished by the group and in this discipline may learn to
sense other rhythms than his own habitual ones.

The same possibilities may be recognized for other tech-
niques, such as change of pitch, inflection, pause, emphasis,
and climax. The chief danger in choral reading is that the
concentration may be too much upon effects and the very
essence of art, the revelation of an idea, may be lost. This
tendency must be counterbalanced by the stimulation that
a group gives to the individual to sense, to create, to imagine
the oral expression which will adequately interpret the au-
thor's purpose. When the interpretation of a selection is
shared by a group, interesting aspects are sometimes dis-
closed. To one a line means this, to another it suggests that.
Through sharing ideas a broader, more thorough approach
may be gained and individual thinking stimulated.

In her conclusion to a discussion of the art of choral speak-
ing, Louise Abney says:

Its classroom value in the appreciation and enjoyment of
poetry, and its constructive contribution to better speech and
better reading, far surpass its auditorium value. On the other
hand, the bringing together of many groups of boys and girls
in a great co-operative experience has brought much inspira-

258 CHORAL READING

tion to both participants and audience, especially at the Christ-
mas and Easter seasons. "I hear America singing" is coming
true in the music of speech as well as in that of song.1

DIRECTING CHORAL READING

The amount of direction a group should be given by
the director (or leader) is an important problem in choral
reading. Some authors take it for granted that the director
is the artist and the choir the instrument and that the direc-
tor plays upon this human instrument as a musician plays
upon an organ. The education viewpoint may call for the
reverse of this attitude. Since our purpose is the develop-
ment of the individuals in the group, we might favor an
interpretation which grows out of the thinking of the mem-
bers of the group. One schoolteacher encourages small chil-
dren to plan (to create) the interpretation and to lead the
group in their interpretation. A child may be allowed to go
to the cloakroom "to think aloud" and upon his return to
the schoolroom lead the group in the interpretation he
worked out while alone. A piece may be led by several dif
ferent boys or girls with others in the chorus offering sug-
gestions here and there, the group then selecting the inter-
pretation or the phases of interpretation which the majority
like best. Such a plan encourages individual initiative, crea-
tiveness, and cooperation. Such a plan helps to prevent
regimentation by the director with a form superimposed
upon the group.

There is a difference of opinion as to how many should

1 Louise Abncy, Choral Speaking Arrangements for the Junior
High (Boston: Expression Company, 1939), p. 21. By permission of the
publishers.

UNISON READING 259

compose the group for choral reading. One writer suggests
that the group consist of not less than ten, while another
suggests that seven and nine are ideal for choral groups. It
would seem that the number would depend upon the total
situation and in a large measure upon the material the
group is reading, the purpose of the performance (whether
as a schoolroom exercise, for a public reading, or for radio),
and upon the age, ability, and organization of the group.
For instance, in public performance for a seen or unseen
audience the group speaking in unison should not be so
large that the voices sound muddled and the enunciation
indistinct. The leader may break up a large group into small
units for the reading of certain portions of a selection and
thus handle the situation of giving many people something
to do without having too many speak in unison.

There are various methods of arranging material for
choral interpretation, such as unison reading, antiphonal
reading, three part divisions, an echo chorus for refrains, a
line around, solo and chorus, adding and subtracting voices
and so forth. Some of these will be illustrated in the follow-
ing pages.

UNISON READING

In unison reading there is little attempt to direct the
voice pitch of the group except in the matter of interpreta-
tion. That is, each member of the chorus speaks in his own
normal key, allowing his voice to move up and down the
scale in response to the idea. Harmony results from the
blend of voices, and unity is gained by an agreement as to
the meaning. It is important that tempo and rhythm be
agreed upon in order that all may keep together. The

260 CHORAL READING

rhythm of a passage may be sensed by the individuals by feel-
ing the pulse of the rhythm as was suggested in Chapter III.
It is always essential at first to follow a leader (the teacher
or some member of the group). Some advocates of choral
reading claim that a group soon learns to sense the rhythm
and may keep together without a director. Modulations
must be agreed upon, although they may grow gradually,
out of an attempt to express the meaning rather than from
being accepted a priori from a teacher or leader.

The following lyrics lend themselves nicely to unison
reading. The three stanzas of the first poem suggest three
definite moods which give variety to the whole. The words
answer echoes and dying, dying, dying may be given with
an echo effect either by the entire chorus or by a selected
group of voices.

THE SPLENDOUR FALLS
From The Princess

Alfred Tennyson

The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

UNISON READING 261

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

CLEAR AND COOL

Charles Kingsley

Clear and cool, clear and cool,
By laughing and shallow and dreaming pool;

Cool and clear, cool and clear,
By shining shingle and foaming weir;
Under the crag where the ousel sings,
And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings,
Undefiled, for the undented;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Dank and foul, dank and foul
By the smoky town in its murky cowl;

Foul and dank, foul and dank,
By wharf and sewer and slimy bank;
Darker and darker the farther I go,

Who dare sport with the sin-defiled?

Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child.

Strong and free, strong and free,
The flood gates are open, away to the sea,

Free and strong, free and strong,
Cleansing my streams as I hurry along,
To the golden sands, and the leaping bar,
And the taintless tide that awaits me afar,
As I lose myself in the infinite main,
Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again,
Undefiled, for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

262 CHORAL READING

ANTIPHONAL READING

The Psalms and other portions of the Bible are used for
antiphonal reading in religious worship. Sometimes the
minister reads a line (or verse) and the congregation or
choir responds with the next line. Sometimes antiphonal
reading is given by two choirs (speaking, singing, or chant-
ing) or sometimes by one choir, with the congregation being
led by the minister. The popular Negro radio singers who
give the program Wings over Jordan read antiphonally,
with the leader reading a line and the choir repeating the
same portion. This technique gives opportunity for indi-
vidual interpretation on the part of the leader and re-
statement by the chorus of voices.

PSALM XXIV1

First Choir. The earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof;
The world, and they that dwell therein.
For he hath founded it upon the seas,
And established it upon the floods.
Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord?
Or who shall stand in his holy place?
Second Choir. He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart;

Who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity,
Nor sworn deceitfully.
He shall receive the blessing from the Lord,
And righteousness from the God of his salva-
tion.
This is the generation of them that seek him,
That seek thy face, O Jacob. Sclah.
First Choir. Lift up your heads, O ye gates;

And be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors:

1 Arranged by Sara Lowrey.

ANTIPHONAL READING 263

And the King of Glory shall come in.
Second Choir. Who is the King of Glory?
First Choir. The Lord strong and mighty,

The Lord mighty in battle.

Lift up your heads, O ye gates;

Even, lift them up, ye everlasting doors:
And the King of Glory shall come in.
Second Choir. Who is this King of Glory?
First Choir. The Lord of Hosts,
All. He is the King of Glory. Selah.

The technique of rhythm suggested for the interpreta-
tion of "The Old Clock on the Stairs" carries over effectively
into choral reading. A number of the chorus may be desig-
nated to give the rhythm of the clock while others speak
the narrative lines of the poem. For example, a group may
start the rhythm with "Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock," and
after a line or two the other group may start reading the
lines of the poem to the accompaniment of the chorus of
"tick-tocks." In "The Kitchen Clock" the two groups may
speak together lines such as those from "Seconds reckoned"
through "nickety-knock." The two groups may thus alter-
nately speak separately or together according to the in-
genuity and plan of the director or by group agreement.

THE KITCHEN CLOCK

John Vance Cheney

Knitting is the maid o' the kitchen, Milly;
Doing nothing, sits the chore boy, Billy;
"Seconds reckoned,
Seconds reckoned;
Every minute,
Sixty in it,

264 CHORAL READING

Milly, Billy,
Billy, Milly,
Tick-tock, tock-tick,
Nick-knock, knock-nick,
Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"
Goes the kitchen clock.

Close to the fire is rosy Milly,
Every whit as close and cosy, Billy;
"Time's a-flying,
Worth your trying;
Pretty Milly —
Kiss her, Billy!
Milly, Billy!
Billy, Milly,
Tick-tock, tock-tick,
Now — now, quick — quick!
Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"
Goes the kitchen clock.

Something's happened, very red is Milly;
Billy boy is looking very silly;
"Pretty misses,
Plenty kisses;
Make it twenty,
Take a plenty,
Billy, Milly,
Milly, Billy,
Right — left, left — right,
That's right, all right,
Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"
Goes the kitchen clock.

Weeks gone, still they're sitting, Milly, Billy;
Oh, the winter winds are wondrous chilly;
"Winter weather,

REFRAINS 265

Close together;
Wouldn't tarry,
Better marry,
Milly, Billy,
Billy, Milly,
Two — one, one — two,
Don't wait, 'twon't do,
Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"
Goes the kitchen clock.

Winters two are gone, and where is Milly?
Spring has come again, and where is Billy?
"Give me credit,
For I did it;
Treat me kindly.
Mind you wind me,
Mister Billy, Mistress Milly,
My-o, O-my,
By-by, by-by,

Nickety-knock, cradle rock," —
Goes the kitchen clock.

R E F RA I N S

"The Rhyme of the Duchess May" by Elizabeth Barrett
Browning offers an interesting opportunity for a group of
choral readers. When read by a single voice the refrain, toll
slowly, which occurs in every stanza may interfere with the
story or become somewhat monotonous. When given by a
chorus it may create a mood and preserve unity for the
interpretation. There are a number of arrangements which
may prove effective for a choral rendition, one of which is
for the chorus of voices to intone the refrain and the story
to be told by a cast consisting of a narrator, an old bell ringer,

266 CHORAL READING

the Duchess May, the Lord of Leigh, the Lord of Linteged,
and so on.

From THE RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

To the belfrey, one by one, went the ringers from the sun, —

Toll slowly.
And the oldest ringer said, "Ours is music for the Dead,
When the rebecks are all done."

There I sate beneath the tree, and the bell tolled solemnly, —

Toll slowly.
While the trees' and river's voices flowed between the solemn
noises, —

Yet death seemed more loud to me.

There, I read this ancient rhyme, while the bell did all the
time

Toll slowly.
And the solemn knell fell in with the tale of life and sin,
Like a rhythmic fate sublime.

Broad the forest stood (I read) on the hills of Linteged, —

Toll slowly.
And three hundred years had stood, mute adown each hoary
wood,

Like a full heart, having prayed.

And the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, —

Toll slowly.
And but little thought was theirs, of the silent antique years,
In the building of their nest.

Down the sun dropt, large and red, on the towers of Linte-
ged—

REFRAINS 267

Toll slowly.
Lance and spear upon the height, bristling strange in fiery
light,

While the castle stood in shade.

There, the castle stood up black, with the red sun at its back, —

Toll slowly,
Like a sullen smouldering pyre, with a top that flickers fire,
When the wind is on its track.

And five hundred archers tall did besiege the castle wall, —

Toll slowly,
And the castle, seethed in blood, fourteen days and nights had
stood,

And to-night was near its fall.

Yet thereunto, blind to doom, three months since, a bride did
come, —

Toll slowly.
One who proudly trod the floors, and softly whispered in the
doors,

"May good angels bless our home."

'Twas a Duke's fair orphan-girl, and her uncle's ward, the
Earl

Toll slowly.
Who betrothed her twelve years old, for the sake of dowry
gold,

To his son Lord Leigh, the churl.

But what time she had made good all her years of woman-
hood,—

Toll slowly.
Unto both these Lords of Leigh spake she out right sovranly,
"My will runneth as my blood.

268 CHORAL READING

"And while this same blood makes red this same right hand's
veins," she said, —

Toll slowly,
" 'Tis my will, as lady free, not to wed a Lord of Leigh,
But Sir Guy of Linteged."

The old Earl he smiled smooth, then he sighed for wilful
youth, —

Toll slowly.
"Good my niece, that hand withal looketh somewhat soft and
small

For so large a will, in sooth."

She too smiled by that same sign, — but her smile was cold and
fine, —

Toll slowly.
"Little hand clasps muckle gold; or it were not worth the hold
Of thy son, good uncle minel"

Unto each she bowed her head, and swept past with lofty
tread, —

Toll slowly.
Ere the midnight-bell had ceased, in the chapel had the priest
Blessed her, bride of Linteged.

Fast and fain the bridal train along the night-storm rode
amain: —

Toll slowly.
Hard the steeds of lord and serf struck their hoofs out on the
turf,

In the pauses of the rain.

Fast and fain the kinsmen's train along the storm pursued
amain, —

REFRAINS 269

Toll sloxuly, —
Steed on steed-track, dashing off — thickening, doubling, hoof
on hoof,

In the pauses of the rain.

And the bridegroom led the flight, on his red-roan steed of
might, —

Toll slowly.
And the bride lay on his arm, still, as if she feared no harm,
Smiling out into the night.

"Dost thou fear?" he said at last; — "Nay!" she answered him
in haste, —

Toll slowly.
"Not such death as we could find — only life with one behind —
Ride on fast as fear — ride fast!"

Up the mountain wheeled the steed — girth to ground, and
fetlocks spread, —

Toll slowly.
Headlong bounds, and rocking flanks, — down he staggered —
down the banks,

To the towers of Linteged.

High and low the serfs looked out, red the flambeaus tossed
about, —

Toll slowly.
In the courtyard rose the cry — "Live the Duchess and Sir Guy!"
But she never heard them shout.

On the steed she dropped her cheek, kissed his mane and kissed
his neck, —

Toll slowly.
"I had happier died by thee, than lived on as Lady Leigh,"
Were the first words she did speak.

270 CHORAL READING

But a three months' joyaunce lay 'twixt that moment and
to-day, —

Toll slowly.
When five hundred archers tall stand beside the castle wall,
To recapture Duchess May.

And the castle standeth black, with the red sun at its back, —

Toll slowly.
And a fortnight's siege is done — and, except the Duchess, none
Can misdoubt the coming wrack.

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, —

Toll slowly.
On the tower the castle's lord leant in silence on his sword,
With an anguish in his breast.

With a spirit-laden weight did he lean down passionate, —

Toll slowly.
They have almost sapped the wall, — they will enter there withal,
With no knocking at the gate.

Then the sword he leant upon, shivered — snapped upon the
stone, —

Toll slowly.
"Sword," he thought, with inward laugh, "ill thou servest for a
staff,

When thy nobler use is done!

"Sword, thy nobler use is done! — tower is lost, and shame
begun:" —

Toll sloxvly.
"If we met them in the breach, hilt to hilt or speech to speech,
We should die there, each for one.

"If we met them at the wall, we should singly, vainly fall," —

Toll slowly.
"But if I die here alone, — then I die, who am but one,
And die nobly for them all.

REFRAINS 271

"Five true friends lie for my sake — in the moat and in the
brake;"—

Toll slowly.
"Thirteen warriors lie at rest, with a black wound in the breast,
And not one of these will wake.

"So no more of this shall be! — heart-blood weights too
heavily," —

Toll slowly.
"And I could not sleep in grave, with the faithful and the brave
Heaped around and over me.

"Since young Clare a mother hath, and young Ralph a plighted
faith,"—

Toll slowly.
"Since my pale young sister's cheeks blush like rose when
Ronald speaks,

Albeit never a word she saith —

"These shall never die for me — life-blood falls too heavily:" —

Toll slowly.
"And if I die here apart, — o'er my dead and silent heart
They shall pass out safe and free.

"When the foe hath heard it said — 'Death holds Guy of Lin-
teged,' " —

Toll slowly.
"That new corse new peace shall bring; and a blessed, blessed
thing

Shall the stone be at its head.

"Then my friends shall pass out free, and shall bear my mem-
ory,"—

Toll slowly.
"Then my foes shall sleek their pride, soothing fair my widowed
bride,

Whose sole sin was love of me.

272 CHORAL READING

"She will weep her woman's tears, she will pray her woman's
prayers," —

Toll slowly.
"But her heart is young in pain, and her hopes will spring again
By the suntime of her years."

All these silent thoughts did swim o'er his eyes grown strange
and dim, —

Toll slowly.
Till his true men in the place wished they stood there face to face
With the foe instead of him.

"One last oath, my friends, that wear faithful hearts to do and
dare!"

Toll slowly.
"Tower must fall, and bride be lost! — swear me service worth
the cost,"

— Bold they stood around to swear.

"Each man clasp my hand, and swear, by the deed we failed in
there," —

Toll slowly.
"Not for vengeance, not for right, will ye strike one blow to-
night!"—

Pale they stood around — to swear.

"One last boon, young Ralph and Clare! faithful hearts to do
and dare!"

Toll slowly.
"Bring that steed up from his stall, which she kissed before you
all-
Guide him up the turret-stair.

"Ye shall harness him aright, and lead upward to this
height!"—

REFRAINS 273

Toll slowly.
"Once in love and twice in war, hath he borne me strong and
far, —

He shall bear me far to-night."

They have fetched the steed with care, in the harness he did
wear, —

Toll slowly.
Past the court and through the doors, across the rushes of the
floors;

But they goad him up the stair.

Then from out her bower chambere did the Duchess May re-
pair,—

Toll slowly.
"Tell me now what is your need," said the lady, "of this steed,
That ye goad him up the stair?"

"Get thee back, sweet Duchess May! hope is gone like yester-
day,"—

Toll slowly.
"One half-hour completes the breach; and thy lord grows wild
of speech. —

Get thee in, sweet lady, and pray.

"In the east tower, high'st of all, — loud he cries for steed from
stall,"—

Toll slowly.
" 'He would ride as far,' quoth he, 'as for love and victory,
Though he rides the castle-wall.'

"And we fetch the steed from stall, up where never a hoof did
fall."—

Toll slowly.
"Wifely prayer meets deathly need! may the sweet Heavens
hear thee plead,

If he rides the castle-wall."

274 CHORAL READING

She stood up in bitter case, with a pale yet steady face, —

Toll slowly.
Like a statue thunderstruck, which, though quivering, seems
to look

Right against the thunder-place.

Then the good steed's rein she took, and his neck did kiss and
stroke: —

Toll slowly.
Soft he neighed to answer her; and then followed up the stair,
For the love of her sweet look.

Oh, and steeply, steeply wound up the narrow stair around, —

Toll slozuly.
Oh, and closely, closely speeding, step by step beside her tread-
ing,

Did he follow, meek as hound.

On the east tower, high'st of all, — there, where never a hoof
did fall-
To// slowly.
Out they swept, a vision steady, — noble steed and lovely lady,
Calm as if in bower or stall.

Down she knelt at her lord's knee, and she looked up silently, —

Toll slowly.
And he kissed her twice and thrice, for that look within her
eyes,

Which he could not bear to see.

Quoth he, "Get thee from this strife, — and the sweet saints
bless thy life!" —

Toll slowly.
"In this hour, I stand in need of my noble red-roan steed —
But no more of my noble wife."

REFRAINS 275

Quoth she, "Meekly have I done all thy biddings under sun:" —

Toll slowly.
"But by all my womanhood, — which is proved so, true and
good,

I will never do this one.

"Now, by womanhood's degree, and by wifehood's verity," —

Toll slowly.
"In this hour if thou hast need of thy noble red-roan steed,
Thou hast also need of me."

Oh,, he sprang up in the selle, and he laughed out bitter well,—

Toll slowly.
"Wouldst thou ride among the leaves, as we used on other eves,
To hear chime a vesper-bell?"

She clang closer to his knee — "Ay, beneath the cypress-tree!" —

Toll slowly.
"Mock me not; for otherwhere, than along the greenwood fair,
Have I ridden fast with thee!

"Fast I rode with new-made vows, from my angry kinsman's
house!"

Toll slowly.
"What! and would you men should reck, that I dared more for
love's sake,

As a bride than as a spouse?

"What, and would you it should fall, as a proverb, before
all,"—

Toll slowly,
"That a bride may keep your side, while through castle-gate
you ride,

Yet eschew the castle-wall?"

Twice he wrung her hands in twain, — but the small hands
closed again, —

276 CHORAL READING

Toll sloxuly.
Back he reined the steed — back, back! but she trailed along
his track,

With a frantic clasp and strain.

And his heel did press and goad on the quivering flank be-
strode,—

Toll slowly.
"Friends, and brothers! save my wife! — Pardon, sweet, in
change for life, —

But I ride alone to God."

Straight as if the Holy Name had upbreathed her like a flame, —

Toll slowly.
She unsprang, she rose upright — in his selle she sate in sight;
By her love she overcame.

And, "Ring, ring, thou passing-bell," still she cried, "i' the
old chapelle!" —

Toll slowly.
Then back-toppling, crashing back — a dead weight flung out
to wrack,

Horse and riders overfell.

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, —

Toll slowly.
And I read this ancient Rhyme, in the kirkyard, while the
chime

Slowly tolled for one at rest.

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, —

Toll slowly.
And I said in underbrcath, — All our life is mixed with death,
And who knoweth which is best?

A LINE AROUND 277

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west. —

Toll slowly.
And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our in-
completeness,—

Round our restlessness, His rest.

A LINE AROUND

"The Drinking Song" by Sheridan presents a charming
chorus for a group of men or boys. It may be read by a line
around, with the entire group repeating the refrain. The
last stanza may be read by the entire group or by divisions
according to some arrangement whereby the speakers seem
to be agreed upon the idea that all women are worthy of a
toast.

DRINKING SONG

Richard Brinsley Sheridan

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen,

Here's to the widow of fifty;
Here's to the flaunting extravagant queen,

And here's to the housewife that's thrifty;

Chorus. Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.

Here's to the charmer, whose dimples we prize,
And now to the maid who has none, sir,

Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And here's to the nymph with but one, sir.
Let the toast pass, etc.

278 CHORAL READING

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow,
And to her that's as brown as a berry;

Here's to the wife with a face full of woe,
And now to her that is merry:
Let the toast pass, etc.

For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather;

So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim,
And let us e'en toast them together.

Chorus. Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.

THREE-PART DIVISION

The reading chorus is sometimes divided into three
groups, high, medium, and low, according to the normal
key of the voices. The selection is then divided as seems
fitting for the various voice groups. The following poem
may be read in such a manner.

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY

John Dry den

Medium. From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
This universal frame began:
When Nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay
And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,

'Arise, ye more than dead!'
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry
In order to their stations leap,
And Music's power obey.

THREE-PART DIVISION 279

Low. From harmony, from heavenly harmony

This universal frame began:

From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.

Medium. What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound.
Less than a god they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell
That spoke so sweetly and so well.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

Low. The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.
Medium. The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum
High. Cries 'Hark! the foes come;

Low. Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!'

High. The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers
Medium. The woes of hopeless lovers,
Low. Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

High. Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion
For the fair disdainful dame.

280 CHORAL READING

Medium. But oh! what art can teach,

What human voice can reach

The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways

To mend the choirs above.

Low. Orpheus could lead the savage race,

And trees unrooted left their place
Sequacious of the lyre:
Medium. But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher;

When to her Organ vocal breath was given
High. An Angel heard, and straight appear'd —
Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

Grand Chorus

all. As from the power of sacred lays

The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blest above;
Low. So when the last and dreadful hour

This crumbling pageant shall devour,
Medium. The trumpet shall be heard on high,
High The dead shall live, the living die,
all. And Music shall untune the sky.

ADDING AND SUBTRACTING VOICES

The crescendo and diminuendo effect frequently needed
in the interpretation of literature may be gained in choral
reading by adding and subtracting voices as the climax
is built or diminished. The following poem, suggesting a
mystical mood which may be interpreted in a chanting tone
with marked rhythm and changes in tempo, lends itself well
to the choral technique of adding and subtracting voices.

ADDING AND SUBTRACTING VOICES 281

The arrangement suggested below calls for a small chorus
to set the mood from which other moods may be built by
adding or subtracting voices. The exact number of voices
is left to the discretion of the group. Five would be an ac-
ceptable number for the small chorus. Two voices could
be added or subtracted each time that such a suggestion is
made by the marginal notation. This matter must, in the
final analysis, depend upon the total number of speakers
who are to participate in the reading.

SONG OF SLAVES IN THE DESERT

John Greenleaf Whittier

Small Chorus. Where are we going? [add voices] Where are

we going,
Add Voices. . Where are we going, Rubee?

Small Chorus. Lord of peoples, lords of lands,
Add Voices. Look across these shining sands,

Add Voices. Through the furnace of the noon.

Add Voices. Through the white light of the moon,

Add Voices. Strong the Ghiblee wind is blowing,

Strange and large the world is growing!
Subtract Voices. Speak and tell us where we are going,
Subtract Voices. Where are we going, Rubee?

Add Voices. Bornou land was rich and good,

Add Voices. Wells of water, fields of food,

Add Voices. Dourra fields, and bloom of bean,

And the palm-tree cool and green:
Subtract Voices. Bornou land we see no longer,
Subtract Voices. Here we thirst and here we hunger,
Subtract Voices. Here the Moor-man smites in anger:
Small Chorus. Where are we going, Rubee?

282

CHORAL READING

Add Voices.
Add Voices.
Add Voices.
Small Cliorus.
Add Voices.
Add Voices.
Add Voices.
Small Chorus.

Add Voices.

Add Voices.

Add Voices.
Add Voices.
Add Voices.
Small Chorus.

Small Chorus.
Add Voices.
Small Chorus.

Small Chorus.
Large Chorus.

Small Chorus.

When we went from Bornou land,
We were like the leaves and sand,
We were many, [small chorus] we are few;
Life has one, and death has two:
Whiten'd bones our path are showing.
Thou all-seeing, thou all-knowing!
Hear us, tell us, where are we going,
Where are we going, Rubee?

Moons of marches from our eyes
Bornou land behind us lies;
Stranger round us day by day
Bends the desert circle grey;
Wild the waves of sand are flowing,
Hot the winds above them blowing,
Lord of all things! where are we going?
Where are we going, Rubee?

We are weak, [add voices] but thou art strong;

Short our lives, but Thine is long:

We are blind, [add voices] but Thou hast

eyes;
We are fools, [add voices] but Thou art wise!
Thou, our morrow's pathway knowing
Through the strange world round us growing,
Hear us, tell us where are we going?
Where are we going, Rubee?

A LIST OF SELECTIONS FOR VARIOUS CHORAL
ARRANGEMENTS

FOR REFRAIN WORK

"The Pirate Don Durke of Dowdee" . Mildred Plew Meigs

"Sir Eglamare" English Ballad

"Robin-A-Thrush" English Ballad

"In Come de Animals" Negro Rhyme

"Leave Her, Johnny, Leave Her" . . Traditional

"Jessie James" William Rose Ben£t

LISTS FOR CHORAL ARRANGEMENTS

283

"Pioneers! O Pioneers!" .

"Our Drums"

"It Was a Lover and his Lass"

"The Lobster Quadrille" .

"Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind"

"The Wind"

"The Old Clock on the Stairs" .

Walt Whitman
Carrie Rasmussen
Shakespeare
Lewis Carroll
Shakespeare
Robert L. Stevenson
Henry W. Longfellow

FOR ANTIPHONAL WORK

"Lord Randal" English Ballad

"An Apple Orchard in the Spring" . . William Martin

"The Throstle" Alfred Lord Tennyson

"Tarantella" Hilaire Belloc

Father William Lewis Carroll

"Psalm Twenty Four" King James version of Bible

"When All the World Is Young" . . Charles Kingsley

Psalm One Hundred and Forty-seven . Bible

Psalm One Hundred and Forty-eight . Bible

Psalm One Hundred and Fifty . . . Bible

The Beatitudes ... .... Matthew 5:3-11

"Whistle, Whistle" Traditional Verse

"Friday Street" Elenn Farjean

FOR SEQUENCE WORK

(Line around)

"I Hear America Singing" .... Walt Whitman

"Give Me the Splendid Silent Sun" . . Walt Whitman

"Chicago" Carl Sandburg

"The Sugar Plum Tree" Eugene Field

"Sweet Is the Rose" Edmund Spenser

"The Owl and the Pussy Cat" . . . Edward Lear

"Pioneers! O Pioneers!" Walt Whitman

"When Icicles Hang" Shakespeare

"A Tract for Autos" Arthur Ginterman

"Thanksgiving Hymn" Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Boots" Rudyard Kipling

"The Year's at the Spring" .... Robert Browning

"Elephant Song" ....... Don Blanding

"Barter" Sara Teasdale

"Dirge for a Righteous Kitten" . . . Vachel Lindsay

284 CHORAL READING

FOR CUMULATIVE WORK OR PART SPEAKING

"The Judgment Day" James Weldon Johnson

"Daniel" Vachel Lindsay

"The Sands of Dee" Charles Kingsley

"The Squaw Dance" Lew Sarett

"Four Little Foxes" Lew Sarett

"The Mysterious Cat" Vachel Lindsay

"Boot and Saddle" Robert Browning

"A Tragic Tale" Thackeray

"Foreboding" Don Blanding

"Marching Along" Robert Browning

"Drake's Drum" Sir Henry Newbolt

"Lochinvar" Sir Walter Scott

FOR UNISON SPEAKING

"Oh Captain! My Captain!" .... Walt Whitman

"Allen-A-Dale" ....... Sir Walter Scott

"Harp Song of the Dane Wonien" . . Rudyard Kipling

"Sea Fever" Jonn Masefield

"The Music Makers" O'Shaughnessy

Psalm One Hundred .... . Bible

"Sunrise" from "Pippa Passes" . . . Robert Browning

"The World Is Too Much with Us" . . Wordsworth

"Love of Country" Sir Walter Scott

"Fairy Land" Shakespeare

"Shoes and Stockings" A. A. Milne

Chapter XI
INTERPRETATIVE READING FOR RADIO

As broadcasts become better, their execution seems
easier. In faet the success of a broadcast may be said to
to be in inverse ratio to the amount of strain it reveals.

John S. Carlile

Radio has increased the scope of the art of interpretative
reading. It has given recognition and emphasis to effective,
natural, and creative reading. Much of broadcasting is
through reading, even though the effect may suggest spon-
taneous, informal, and even impromptu speech. Speeches,
plays, poetry, stories, announcements, and news reports are
in a large measure read from scripts. This close adherence
to scripts is due to the demands for accurate adjustment
of time allotment and the need for adequate use of every
second on the air. Oral reading usually seems to be the
most satisfactory means by which the broadcaster may give
the maximum of effect with a minimum of error.

The style of reading desirable for the radio is similar to
the style we have recommended for reading to a seen au-
dience. As yet the radio speaker is not seen except when such
an audience is provided for the purpose of stimulating in-
terest. In radio reading, technique for the ear must be
emphasized and eye appeals must not be depended upon.
The voice of the radio reader must carry the mental pic-
tures, the concepts, the reactions suggested by the words

285

286 RADIO

of the script. Does this mean, then, that the reader need
use no body movement while on the air? Quite the con-
trary, for while movement is not seen "on the air" it is, in
a measure, heard. The suggestion of movement in the voice
can hardly be made without a sense of movement in the
body. Concerning this fact Professor Abbot says:

Psychological experiment has shown that the muscles of the
body respond in perfect accord with speech efforts. If one were
to record in waves, on a strip of paper, the voice of a speaker
and also the subconscious movements of any part of his body,
for instance, the arm, one would find that these two curves
agree.1

Motor sense images are fundamental to effective reading
for radio as are all other types of imagery. Live bodies
produce live voices. Bodily activity, both overt and covert,
contributes to vitalized thinking, to vibrant tones, accurate
timing, and a sense of unity, climax, and emphasis. Aban-
doned body movements are the surest means of gaining
convincing tones and persuasive rhythms. Professor Abbot
makes a similar suggestion:

If the use of quiet gestures will help your delivery, by all
means use them. Point your finger at an imaginary listener.
Shake your fist. A smile is heard over the radio because it
changes the quality of your voice. A person a thousand miles
away will "hear" you lift your eyebrows. Do not neglect these
aids to speech. Make no gesture or movement, however, which
might cause extraneous sound. Do not shake the hand that
holds the manuscript paper. Do not rub an unshaven chin. Do

1 Waldo Abbot, Handbook of Broadcasting (New York: McGraw-
Hill Book Company, Inc., 1941), p. 25. By permission of the publishers.

RADIO 287

not smack your lips or snap your fingers. Do not sigh or pound
the desk, for these sounds will not be understood by the distant
listener.1

The interpretative reader needs to project less volume
on the air than when reading to a seen audience. Volume
in radio is controlled to a large degree by the technician
at the broadcasting station, by the wave length and power
of the station, and by the individuals who happen to turn
the dials of the various radios. Furthermore the microphone
is a very sensitive instrument which picks up slight sounds
often unheard even in small rooms. The individual reader
needs to learn something concerning his relation to the
microphone, techniques of tone production, and the con-
trol of breath and articulation for the best effect on the air.

Intimacy is considered important in radio reading. One
is often instructed to think of a radio audience as a small
group in the home — a family consisting of father, mother,
and child gathered about the proverbial "fireside" which
in modern life may be the radio. The "fireside chats" of
President Franklin Delano Roosevelt hold a high place in
the annals of radio lore. The clarity, force, and apparently
unstudied effects of his radio speeches have successfully
projected the illusion of intimate conversation.

Radio demands the art which commands the interest
and attention of its audience. Will Rogers used to say that
he felt sorry for the person who was too lazy to turn a dial
when he was bored. It is easy for one to turn a radio dial
and to find other programs which appeal to his taste. It is
therefore important for the radio reader to find the an
which commands the interest and attention of listeners.

1 Abbot; Op cit., p. 26.

288 RADIO

The techniques given in this book should result in that
art. The first requisite to the art of commanding attention
and interest is imagination and the second is adequate tech-
nique for the projection of ideas. The technique of thinking
with the senses should result in tones vibrant with the es-
sence of meaning, tones which catch the imagination of the
hearer and hold his interest. The techniques of timing,
climax, and illusion should result in the variety, force, and
subtlety essential for sustained interest. We offer the tech-
niques of interpretative reading as techniques of effective
radio reading.

A former student, having gained progressively better posi-
tions in radio, passed an audition test of the National Broad-
casting Company for a position with one of the largest clear
channel stations in America. This student testified that his
success in radio, and specifically on the audition test, was
due in a large measure to a course in interpretative reading.
Through interpretative reading he learned the essentials
for commanding the interest and attention of listeners. He
said that as he approached each phase of the audition he
thought, "I can do this. I had experiences similar to this in
that course in interpretative reading."

Dr. Mallory, of Brooklyn College, emphasized this fact
in an address before the Convention of the National Associa-
tion of Teachers of Speech:

The basic problems encountered in oral interpretation for
the radio and for the platform are identical. The radio reader's
initial concern, like that of the platform reader, must be the
understanding, appreciation, and assimilation of his material.
After meaning has been as fully as possible mastered, the
reader must then have general speech skill sufficient to enable

RADIO 289

him to express that meaning effectively. The microphone may
introduce new factors and special problems, but microphone
technique offers no short cut to the basic reading skills.1

Concerning the value of techniques of tempo, rhythm,
and pause in radio Mr. McGill states in his authentic book
on Radio Directing:

Life is geared to rational tempi; when any one of them is
interpolated into a situation in which it does not belong the
result is an incongruous violation of all our normal expecta-
tions. Consequently a director should remember that scenes
should be played at tempi that are consistent with their emo-
tional and ideational content, and transitions from one scene
to another, from one pace to another, should be arrived at
without a violent rhythmic wrench. Perfectly integrated drama
has the beat and cadence of music. The flow of words and
music and sound and ideas is actuated by its own inner com-
pulsion and should always obey the canons of harmony and
rhythm. The pause between two words can often demand a
little eternity of its own, and the sensitive director will supply
it at the cost of cutting a page of dialogue. That awareness of
the need for speed or slow time should be part of a director's
equipment, and if he has none of it there is no way to supply
him with it any more than a monotone can be equipped with
absolute pitch.2

There is one kind of reading for radio which we have not
yet emphasized in this book. Frequently on the air, espe-
cially in a broadcast in a radio station, it is essential for one

1 Louis A. Mallory, Oral Interpretation for the Radio and for the
Platform (Detroit, 1941). By permission.

2Earle McGill, Radio Directing (New York: McGraw-Hill Book
Company, Inc., 1940), pp. 113-14. By permission of the publishers.

290 RADIO

to be able to read effectively at sight. The broadcaster may
be handed announcements, bulletins, or corrections while
he is at the microphone and be expected to read these con-
vincingly. He may develop a technique of sight reading
which will serve him well on such occasions. As has been
mentioned before, one thinks in groups of words; the phrase
is the unit of thought. Since this is the natural way to think,
even in sight reading one may develop the habit of think-
ing the idea as he reads the word-group which expresses
it. In sight reading one should read for information and
at the same time share that information with others. This
method offers a striking contrast to that of calling words
with little thought of the meaning conveyed by the words.

It is not easy in sight reading to perceive interclausal rela-
tions and to project a sense of unity, but it can be done. One
may discipline oneself even in sight reading to grasp the
essentials of a paragraph almost instantly and to perceive
the relationship of thoughts during the brief pauses essential
for carrying the meaning. Sight reading may be as spon-
taneous, clear, and convincing as carefully prepared read-
ing if the reader concentrates upon the meaning and signifi-
cance of the words and the relation of thoughts to the whole.
Even sight reading may be creative if the reader makes it
so — if he creates in the imagination the concepts, and shares
with his listeners the essence, of the material he reads.

Pauses, as pointed out by Mr. McGill, are essential in
radio reading. We would emphasize this matter because
some people seem to think that since sound is the medium
in radio there must be a continuous flow of sound. Effective
reading always demands the adequate timing of periods
of silence. The listeners must have time to grasp ideas and

RADIO 291

time to react to moods. The reader must use pauses for the
spacing of thoughts and for the reinforcement of ideas. He
must take time to create and time to react to concepts. The
chief difference between pauses on the air and pauses in
reading to a seen audience is that in the latter case audience
reaction may aid in guiding the reader in timing his pauses
whereas on the air the reader must be guided entirely by
the meaning and his own discretion as to the time needed
for audience reaction.

So the radio reader's problem and method are very much
the same as those of any other interpretative reader: he must
so vivify the imaginative concept that the reality is projected
to the listener. The radio reader must share ideas with
listeners who are not there, communicating as much as
he would if they were in the studio with him. Indeed the
radio reader must at times create even his audience in his
imagination. The radio reader is expected to be so direct,
spontaneous, interesting, and communicative that a man
will put down his newspaper, a woman will refrain from
conversation, and a child will listen with rapt attention
in preference to any other occupation or amusement!

Can interpretative reading meet these demands? We be-
lieve that at times it does. People in general are interested
in stories, ideas, and philosophy couched in simple, unaf-
fected speech and projected by varied tones and rhythms.
Sometimes it is advisable to supplement these simpler forms
with music, special sound effects, group speaking, or a cast
of readers. Even then creative reading may be the essential
medium by which the essence of the script is projected.
Even acting, in radio, is essentially the interpretative read-
ing of the lines of a script, and its technique is more akin to

292 RADIO

the technique of reading than that of acting in the theater.
Radio reading as a profession, and certainly as an art,
presupposes a good voice. Milton Cross suggests, "An an-
nouncer's voice must be healthy, well dressed, and cheer-
ful." Mr. Carlile of the Columbia Broadcasting System says:

Proper voice production is more important in radio broad-
casting than in conversation or platform address because, on
the air, the voice becomes the full medium of expression of the
man; and the microphone picks up every variation in sound.
Radio and telephone engineers refer to the microphone in this
connection as "a device for converting the energy of sound
waves which a speaker produces into electrical energy that has
similar vibrational characteristics." The sound of the voice is
translated into electrical energy and back into sound without
distortion. Improperly produced voice sounds become more
noticeable; faults in speech more apparent. The necessity for
the improvement of vocal production is obvious.1

Does radio reading call for more striking vocal effects or
closer identification with the characters than other creative
reading? This question cannot be answered arbitrarily. The
student of interpretative reading should not draw lines
around himself saying, "This is good art and that, bad."
Anything done well may be called good and anything done
poorly is bad. What should be done depends to a great
extent upon the one who is doing it — his interpretation,
his individual slant, or his purpose. Many a person has suc-
ceeded by doing the thing which others said could not or
should not be done. As creative artists let us keep open,

1 John S. Carlile, Production and Direction of Radio Programs
(New York: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1940), p. 269.

A RADIO READING CLUB 293

alert minds to respond with appreciation to that which is
done well, to catch a vision of that which we may do, and
to work on forms until we find ways which adequately ex-
press our ideas.

Radio invites experimentation, although it demands that
experimentation succeed, if success can be measured by
listener response through fan mail or by increase in sales
of the product advertised. It has not yet been proved that
spectacular forms meet with greater success than simple
forms of direct, communicative speech. Reading with musi-
cal backgrounds, dramatizations, and variety shows have at
times seemed to take the spotlight in radio. How long they
will hold it and what other forms will be developed one
can hardly predict. The one certainty is that there will be
change within the forms now in vogue and that new forms
will be developed. There is no progress without change,
though the student must not conclude that all change is
progress. Ideas are the most important things in radio now
and probably will continue to be, as ideas are the determin-
ing factors in progress. Some forms, however, are universal
and permanent and hence always acceptable. Among the
permanent forms are simple, sincere, and unaffected speech,
and vivid, imaginative, creative oral reading.

A RADIO READING CLUB

There have been many successful radio programs based
specifically upon the art of interpretative reading. Ken
Peters,1 who developed such a program, has given us per-
mission to quote a portion of his report concerning the
success of his experiment:

1 "Ken Peters," Radio Station WLW, Cincinnati, Ohio.

294 RADIO

The reading club experiment in oral interpretation by radio,
as conducted over station WMFG at Hibbing, Minnesota.

I. Its inception.

A. Although seen from the start as an experiment in
adult education, it was presented throughout as pri-
marily an entertainment feature.

B. Introductory program.

The program was introduced as a half hour to be
set aside each week-day afternoon as a time to read to-
gether from different works of literature. By writing in
and expressing approval of the idea the audience be-
came reading club members and as such were free to
comment on works read, and to suggest works to be
used. We were free to delve into all forms of literature:
short story, poetry, drama, novels, biographies, etc.

The first two weeks were devoted to short stories,
during which time a very encouraging number of listen-
ers responded enthusiastically. An active audience once
established, we felt free to start with reading of a longer
work which would be continued from day to day. This
proved most popular and novels became the primary
vehicle of the club, with short stories and poetry being
used between the longer works.

II. Audience response.

A. Its interest was general from the start.

B. Listeners felt "in," and soon were referring to the
program as "our reading club."

C. A general comment was that they could "just see"
everything that was read, and many expressed it as
"just like seeing a movie."

D. Letters came in from literary clubs of the various range

A RADIO READING CLUB 295

towns expressing appreciation. At the same time a large
number of people of foreign birth, of little or no formal
education, professed that they "never missed a single
program."

III. Its educational value.

A. Made available to many an appreciation and under-
standing of works which they were unable to absorb for
themselves. While they could not "get into" certain
books when they tried to read them, themselves, they
were able to when read to them by one who had pre-
pared them for oral presentation.

B. Libraries of the range reported that there was a de-
mand for each book which had been or was being used
on the reading club. They also reported inquiries for
other books by authors featured.

C. Listening demanded an active play of the imagination,
and many who said they had no time to read for them-
selves were regular members.

IV. The job is more than reading "a chapter a day."

A. Judicious cutting is essential.

1. The usual procedure was to spend two-week, or 10

half-hour, periods on each of the longer works.
Cutting was guided by an attempt to retain descrip-
tion and dialogue which was a vital part of the
underlying theme and mood of the story.

2. A carefully planned synopsis of what had gone be-

fore was essential.

B. Knowledge of the technique of interpretation is neces-
sary.

C. Choice of material is an important factor.
1. Certain authors "read aloud" well.

296 RADIO

D. All success depends upon establishing rapport with
the audience.
1. The approach throughout was one of the reader and
the listener uniting in quest of mutual entertain-
ment and enlightenment.
2. A feeling of sincere friendship and common interest
arose.

(a) Received regular weekly letters from certain
listeners discussing the work being read, and mak-
ing suggestions for the future. Still receive letters
from some of these unseen friends.
(6) Faithful and enthusiastic listening I would at-
tribute largely to the fact that the half hour
was in no respect just a half hour's job each day,
but rather something in which I was vitally in-
terested heart and soul. I personally had ab-
sorbed the work much more completely after
presenting it orally than I ever could from silent
reading.

V. Novels and other continued works read.

A. The starting of each new work was prefaced with a
brief discussion of the author, and any pertinent facts
concerned with the writing, or with the reason for the
choice. I always attempted to make each day's reading a
unit as much as possible.

B. A listing of works used.
So Big — Ferber
Cimarron — Ferber

// Winter Comes — Hutchinson
Years of Achievement — Starett
A Lantern in Her Hand — Aldrich
Spring Came on Forever — Aldrich

A RADIO READING CLUB 297

Flush — Woolf
Lost Horizon — Hilton
We Are Not Alone — Hilton
Life with Father — Day
The Exile — Buck
East Wind, West Wind — Buck
Ethan Frome — Wharton
Jeremy — Walpole
Jeremy and Hamlet — Walpole
A Prayer for My Son — Walpole
Beyond Sing the Woods — Gulbranssen
Wind from the Mountain — Gulbranssen
The Man of Property — Galsworthy
Suns Go Down — Lewis (Flannery)
Turmoil — Tarkington
Gone with the Wind — Mitchell
Green Gates — Sheriff
The Homemaker — Canfield
The Sea of Grass — Richter
Midnight on the Desert — Priestley
Years of Grace — Barnes
Sorrell and Son — Deeping
A Man for the Ages — Bacheller
Growing Pains — Touhey
C. Conclusions.

1. Looking back over the more than two years' existence
of the reading club, I would not be able to cite one
particular type of story which was most popular.
I believe that with careful consideration to variety,
all types were well received. Once the proper listen-
ing spirit is instilled, the listeners are in a re-
sponsive mood to whatever work is chosen.

2. The most general response was gained by the read-

298 RADIO

ing of works which had not been previously read
by the listeners.

3. A large number of listeners expressed appreciation

of works which they had previously read. The
usual comment was that they had gained a deeper
appreciation of the work through its reading club.

4. The question arises — "Would works popular in this

particular locale be given equal approval elsewhere,
or for nationwide audience?" Since the listeners
represented people of all degrees of schooling, peo-
ple in all walks of life, it would seem that its re-
sponse could be duplicated elsewhere.

VI. The use of poetry.

A. I found that I was able from time to time to devote
a half hour to the reading of poetry and call forth
general response on it.

1. A half hour with the poetry of Robert Frost. (Read

introduction.)

2. Two lives — William Ellery Leonard

3. Readings from John Brown's Body.

B. Additional evening program of poetry with organ
music reached another audience, and developed a regu-
lar group of listeners.

1. Usual procedure was to select a theme — autumn,
hills, gardens, home, portraits, friendship, and
to select poems expressive of the theme. The or-
ganist selected music in the mood of the poem.

VII. Programs for special days and seasons.

A. Whenever possible we sought to add to the apprecia-
tion and significance of different holidays with ap-
propriate readings.

A RADIO READING CLUB 299

VIII. Consideration of "rights" for broadcasting books and
published writings.

A. After consulting with different people, I felt free to
use locally any works which did not contain specific
restrictions against dramatic and radio use.

B. If such programs become general the problem of
copyrights will be a real one which must be met.

IX. General Conclusions.

A. Radio is an effective medium for the oral interpreta-
tion of literature and could conceivably restore it as
a popular art.

B. Such oral interpretation has effective possibilities as
a medium of radio education.

C. Radio might conceivably become a medium for "first
publication" of literary works.

Concerning general training for radio speaking Mr. Peters
says:

A. Microphone technique is incidental to a thorough
training in the fundamentals of speech.

1. Primary purpose is still to win response and the

problems are essentially the same as that of the
platform.

2. Proper bodily action is still necessary, though
unseen.

B. The successful speaker will see himself as speaking
not to a mass audience, but to individuals.

1. To many successful performers, the microphone
possesses a personality and itself becomes the
audience.

C. Work in Oral Interpretation provides effective train-
ing for radio performance.

300 RADIO

I. Radio performing is dependent upon the ability
to speak effectively from a manuscript.

Concerning the reader's technique Mr. Peters observes:

A. Reader should use voice as if what he was saying
were being said for the first time.

B. Over-dramatic emphasis is just as bad as monotony.
The eloquent variation of pitch and tone must not
attempt to mimic the persons of the tale; it must be,
if it is to be warmly received, the expression of the
reader's own emotion.

C. A great deal must depend upon the rapport between
the reader and the listener.

THE SELECTION AND ARRANGEMENT
OF LITERATURE FOR RADIO

Whether there is need for a special type of literature for
radio is a debatable question. Some writers have experi-
mented with poetry and drama written especially for radio.
Notable among these is Archibald MacLeish and his The
Fall of the City, Air Raid, and America Was Promises.1
Various types of literature have been adapted or arranged
for radio with evident success. A turn of the dial has brought
us Shakespeare, fairy tales, poetry, novels, short stories, his-
tory, and current events. The requisites which have seemed
to be of primary importance are universality of appeal,
timeliness, appeal to the ear, and adaptability to the time
allotment.

1 Ducll, Sloan and Pierce, Publishers, New York, 1941.

ARRANGEMENT OF LITERATURE FOR RADIO 301

Universality

Great literature is suitable for radio, since its require-
ments are universality and permanence. Literature which
lasts does so because it expresses truth which is true for
all men at all times; it is not limited to a certain group nor
to the period in which it was written. The characters of
Shakespeare are as human today as when the Bard of Avon
produced them; his philosophy is as true and his plots as
conceivable in spite of the fact that we no longer believe
in witches and that few governments are ruled by kings and
queens. Literary merit was the first item given by Max Wylie
in selecting a short story adaptation for his Best Broadcasts.
Concerning the criteria upon which choice was made he
states:

Determining the best broadcast in the classification of serious
short story adaptations presented one of the severest problems
met with in the preparation of this anthology. The short story
adaptation is one of radio's most common dramatic types,
and it has been estimated with reasonable accuracy that over
thirty thousand programs for this division alone are broadcast
every year. Four hundred and fifty were examined for this
book. Many fine pieces were rejected as candidates for inclusion
and the final choice was arrived at only by making the criteria
of qualification so severe as to render ineligible, on one claim
or another, most of the disputed properties. In the final judg-
ment the following factors were taken into account:

1. Literary merit of the original.

2. Difficulty of the adaptation problem.

3. Artistic integrity of the adapter's inventions.

4. Adherence to the pattern, mood, and intention of the
original.

302 RADIO

5. Recognition and use of expansible suggestion.

6. Playing power.

In the degree to which each story adaptation met these tests,
it was given its independent rating.1

Timeliness

Current events give special force and meaning to certain
pieces of literature. For example, Hitler's rise to power gave
motivation for the Orson Welles interpretation of Julius
Caesar. The world again understood the significance of the
lines of Brutus:

Had you rather Caesar were living,

And die all slaves, than that

Caesar were dead, to live all free men?

So, whether presented on the stage or over the air, Shake-
speare's Julius Caesar was especially timely before and dur-
ing the second World War.

The Trojan Women, by Euripides, likewise became
timely and meaningful with the subjugation of Europe by
the Nazis and the rumors of Japanese atrocities in the Far
East. The heroism and effective fighting of the small group
of Americans on Wake Island gave understanding to stories
of Thermopylae, Bunker Hill, and The Alamo.

The timeliness of great literature may often be made
evident by the adaptation, especially by the introduction.
The adaptation of a radio script should bring the literature
into the lives, the personal experience of the audience.
Arthur Edward Phillips gives "reference to experience" as

1 Max Wylic, Best Broadcasts of 1Q3S-39 (New York: McGraw-Hill
Book Company, Inc., 1939), p. 22. By permission of the publishers.

ARRANGEMENT OF LITERATURE FOR RADIO 303

a basic principle of effective speaking. His explanation of
the principle emphasizes the need of bringing an idea into
the experience of an audience by linking it with that which
is vivid in audience experience. As criteria for evaluating
audience experiences he suggests that which is recent, fre-
quent, and originally intense.1

Appeal to the Ear

Since radio calls for adaptations principally for the ear,
should the script call for more varied tones and vocal devices
than in other interpretative reading? Should the radio script
emphasize character parts and special sounds which the
reader may reproduce in a realistic manner? The answer to
these questions will depend upon a number of things such
as the material, the reader, and the purpose. Some litera-
ture lends itself to vocal tricks. Some readers can visualize
and imitate a wide number of characters and can project
through the voice convincing and realistic characterizations
and imitations. Some listeners like to hear vocal stunts, and
they admire the reader or actor who can change his voice
so as to present realistic imitations. Tricks and stunts, how-
ever, are not necessary to the most convincing interpreta-
tive reading. The radio reader like other readers or speakers
should be careful not to go off on tangents and gain a reputa-
tion for tricks when he has the ability for a fine artistic tech-
nique. Mr. Carlile suggests the force of sincere interpreta-
tive reading in setting the scene for radio drama.

In writing legitimate drama, tradition has the author com-
mence each scene and act with description of the set. This is

1 Arthur Edward Phillips, Effective Speaking (Chicago: The New-
ton Company, 1926), pp. 28-35.

304 RADIO

later constructed to his specifications. In the script for a radio
play, the author sometimes does the same. If intelligently read
by the actor or narrator, he can help the listener construct the
scene better than any group of architects, carpenters, and
painters. A vivid description of Johnny the Priest's saloon, or
the stern of Old Chris' Barge at once transports the audience
into a scene of "Anna Christie" with such suggested realism as
would gratify O'Neill. New times, new devices! The swing of
the pendulum carries us forward, but it swings back to do so.
If the dramatist renews his acquaintance with the ancient
Greek theatre, he may find in the messenger who trod the
stage erected beside the temple of Dionysus, and in the chorus
which chanted tragedies unseen, the prototypes of announcers,
narrators, and formal voices of radio.1

The same point of view may be taken toward background
music, special sound effects, and group reading. Radio has
brought an increase in group reading as well as in reading
with musical background. Music gives atmosphere and in
the opinion of many is a needed supplement for poetry
reading on the air. Mr. Whipple suggests that musical back-
ground may be overdone for radio drama:

Music which is used for background or mood requires care-
ful thought on the part of the writer. In the author's opinion
there is little excuse for introducing music as a background to
the ordinary dramatic scene to enhance its emotional value.
The motion picture producers often have done this unintelli-
gently to the detriment of the picture. The audience cannot
help being conscious of the fact that in certain situations music
has no logical reason for expression, and is used merely to aid
emotional reactions. It is an old device used on the stage in

i Carlile; Op. cit., p. 173.

ARRANGEMENT OF LITERATURE FOR RADIO 305

sentimental melodramas, and is not good modern technique.
The true aim of a dramatic presentation is to make the
listener unaware of the medium of expression — to make him,
as nearly as possible, a participant in the lives and emotions of
the actors. Any false or illogical device makes him aware of
an attempt to create an emotional response, and the illusion
of actual participation in the play is destroyed. Many in the
audience resent this use of music to stimulate their emotions.1

Group reading, cast reading, and duo voices for announce-
ments and advertisements are sometimes thought to be
more effective than a single voice in getting and holding
the attention of the listener. While these supplements and
innovations have frequently proved effective, they too may
be overdone. The reader must not lose proportion in his
evaluation of them or neglect the use of individual inter-
pretative reading as a medium for radio. Poetry, stories,
monologues, and plays have been read effectively on the
air without such supplements.

Adapting to the Time Allotment

The three essentials emphasized for effective radio adapta-
tion are (1) an arresting introduction, (2) sustained interest
throughout the script, and (3) a satisfying conclusion.

The introduction should gain attention and interest. It
may do so by a striking comparison to that which already
holds the listener's interest or by the use of the unusual.
The introduction may be so simple and subtle that it slips
into the listener's attention without his awareness, or it may

1 James Whipple, How to Write for Radio (New York: McGraw-
Hill Book Company, Inc., 1938), p. 50. By permission of the pub-
lishers.

306 RADIO

be so novel, so striking, so unusual that his curiosity will
not allow him to turn from that frequency. Whatever the
methods, the introduction must lend itself to immediate
interest on the part of the listener.

This interest must not be lost during the body of the
script. Easy and natural transitions are needed. The word
continuity suggests coherence in writing as well as in de-
livery. Variety is needed for sustained interest; climax is
essential to a build in interest. Irrelevant material must be
eliminated and essential details should be emphasized by
varied devices of writing and delivery. Since conversation
often gives a better opportunity for vividness, stories may
be adapted so as to emphasize characterization. Two or
more characters may be kept before the minds of the listen-
ers by having each call the name of the other more often
than would be necessary in print. Actions should be de-
scribed either in the conversation of characters or in the
narrative portions.

It is always the purpose of a conclusion to give a sense of
completeness. This may be done by a clear and vivid summa-
tion of the idea in a forceful concluding paragraph or sen-
tence or by climactic effect in sound, in feeling, or in con-
cept. An effective conclusion will depend, like all other
portions, partly upon the effectiveness of the writing and
partly upon the force of delivery.

When George W. Fithian x was with Radio Station
WKRC in Cincinnati he found radio an interesting me-
dium for the projection of the art of interpretative reading.
"What interested me most," he says, "was a series of adap-

1 Formerly with WKRC, the Times Star Station, Cincinnati, Ohio;
now with United States Signal Corps Depot, Avon, Kentucky.

ARRANGEMENT OF LITERATURE FOR RADIO 307

tations for a sustaining feature. I set about applying my
theories and ideals of oral interpretation to radio and I
surely ran into a good many aesthetic as well as practical
problems. The public response was surprisingly encourag-
ing." Mr. Fithian read the following script over the radio
just before the fall of France.

(Short-Story Series) x
''Remember This One?"
"The Last Lesson" by Alphonse Daudet
Announcer. [Cold.] Remember This One?

MUSIC THEME, UP FIVE SECONDS AND UNDER

Announcer. Can you remember a time, ever, when you were
forbidden to speak your native tongue? Stop and reflect a
moment. What does it mean to you — your native tongue?
The rhythm of your speech falters or quickens with the
rhythm of your heart beat, with the movement of the tide,
the moon and the sun, perhaps with the very pulse of the
heart of God. Is one language, then, any more than another,
the language of freedom, of liberty? — Today we bring you
a story of war-torn France written seventy years ago, yet
as timely and pertinent today as it was then.

music — OUT

Announcer. And here's your narrator.

Reader. Good afternoon. If you or I were a native of Alsace-
Lorraine, how would we feel today? — Alsace-Lorraine, for
two thousand years shuttle-cocked back and forth between
France and Germany. Perhaps just like the man who tells
this story. He's an old man talking to a younger, maybe
his son.

1 George W. Fithian, by permission.

308 RADIO

MUSIC IN VERY SOFTLY AND UNDER FOR TWENTY SECONDS, WHEN

IT FADES OUT ALMOST IMPERCEPTIBLY

You hear those guns? They're coming nearer now, nearer
and nearer. Oh, God! It's coming again — the time when this
land of ours will not be ours. Oh, I can remember another
time when it happened. I was just a little kid then.

I started to school very late that morning and was in
great dread of scolding, especially because M. Hamel had
said that he would question us on participles, and I did
not know the first word about them. For a moment I
thought of running away and spending the day out of
doors. It was so warm, so bright! The birds were chirping
at the edge of the woods; and in the open field back of
the sawmill the German soldiers were drilling. It was all
much more tempting than the rules of participles, but I
had the strength to resist, and hurried off to school.

When I passed the town hall, there was a crowd in front
of the bulletin board. For the past two years all our bad
news had come from there — the lost battles, the draft, the
orders of the commanding officer. And I thought to my-
self, without stopping: What can be the matter now?

Then, as I hurried by as fast as I could go, the black-
smith, Wachter, who was there, with his apprentice, read-
ing the bulletin, called after me, "Don't go so fast, bub;
you'll get to school in plenty of time!"

I thought he was making fun of me, and reached M.
Hamel's little garden all out of breath. Usually, when
school began, there was a great hustle, which could be
heard out in the street, the opening and closing of desks,
lessons repeated in unison, very loud, with our hands over
our ears to understand better, and the teacher's great ruler
rapping on the table. But now it was all so still; I had
counted on the commotion to get to my desk without be-

ARRANGEMENT OF LITERATURE FOR RADIO 309

ing seen; but, of course, that day everything had to be as
quiet as Sunday morning. Through the window I saw my
class-mates, already in their places, and M. Hamel walk-
ing up and down with his terrible iron ruler under his
arm. I had to open the door and go in before everybody.
You can imagine how I blushed and how frightened I was.
But nothing happened. M. Hamel saw me and said (very
kindly): "Go to your place quickly, little Franz. We were
beginning without you."

I jumped over the bench and sat down at my desk. Not
till then, when I had got a little over my fright, did I see
that our teacher had on his beautiful green coat, his frilled
shirt, and the little embroidered black cap, that he never
wore except on inspection and prize days. Besides, the
whole school seemed so strange and solemn; but the thing
that surprised me most was to see, on the back benches
that were always empty, the village people sitting quietly
like ourselves; old Houser with his three-cornered hat, the
former mayor, the former postmaster, and several others
besides. Everybody looked sad; and Houser had brought his
old primer, thumbed at the edges; and he held it open on
his knees with great spectacles lying across the pages. While
I was wondering about it all, M. Hamel mounted his chair,
and in the same grave manner and gentle tone which he
had used to me, he said:

"My poor children, this is the last lesson I shall give
you. The order has come from Berlin to teach only Ger-
man in the schools of Alsace-Lorraine. The new master
comes tomorrow. This is your last French lesson. I want
you to be attentive."

What a thunder-clap those words were to me!

Oh, the wretches; that was what they had put up at the
town hall! My last French lesson! Why, I hardly knew how

310 RADIO

to write! I should never learn any more! I must stop there,
then! Oh, how sorry I was for not learning my lessons, for
hunting bird's eggs, or going sliding on the Soar! My books,
that had seemed such a nuisance a while ago, were old
friends now, that I couldn't give up. And M. Hamel, too;
the idea that he was going away, that I should not see him
again, made me forget all about how cranky he was.

Poor man! It was in honor of the last lesson that he had
put on his fine Sunday clothes, and now I understood why
the old men of the village were sitting there in the back of
the room. It was because they too were sorry that they had
not gone to school more. It was their way of showing the
master how they appreciated his forty years of service, and
of showing their respect for the country that was theirs no
more.

While I was thinking of all this, I heard my name called.
It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to
be able to say that dreadful rule for the participle all
through, very loud and clear, and without one mistake?
But I got mixed up on the first words and stood there,
holding on to my desk, my heart beating, and not daring
to look up. I heard M. Hamel say to me:

"I won't scold you, little Franz; you must feel bad
enough. See how it is? Every day we have said to ourselves:
'Bah, I've plenty time. I'll learn it tomorrow.' Now, you
see where we've come to! Ah, there's great trouble in Al-
sace; she puts off learning until tomorrow. And now those
fellows out there will have the right to say to you: (scorn)
'How is it? You pretend to be Frenchmen! And yet you
can't even speak or write the language!' But you are not
the worst, little Franz. We've all a great deal to reproach
ourselves with.

"Your parents weren't anxious enough to have you learn.

ARRANGEMENT OF LITERATURE FOR RADIO 311

They preferred to put you to work on the farm or at the
mills, so as to have a little money. And I? I've been to
blame also. Have I not often sent you to water my flowers
instead of learning your lessons? And when I wanted to
go fishing, did I not just give you a holiday?"

Then from one thing to another, M. Hamel went on to
talk of the French language, saying that it was the most
beautiful language in the world, and the cleverest, the most
logical; that we must guard it among us and never forget
it, because when people are enslaved, as long as they hold
fast to their language it is as if they had a key to their
prison. Then he opened a grammar and read us our les-
son. I was amazed to see how well I understood it. All he
said seemed easy, so easy! I think, too, that I never listened
so carefully, and that he had never explained everything
with so much patience. It seemed almost as if the poor man
wanted to give us all he knew before going away, and to
put it all into our heads at one stroke.

After the grammar, we had a lesson in writing. That day
M. Hamel had new copies for us, written in a beautiful
round hand; "France, Alsace; Alsace, France." They looked
like little flags floating everywhere in the school-room. How
everyone set to work! And how quiet it was! The only
sounds were the scratching of the pens on the paper and
the cooing of the pigeons on the roof. I thought to myself:
Will they make them sing in German, even the pigeons?

When I looked up from my writing, I saw M. Hamel
sitting motionless in his chair and gazing first at one thing,
then at another, as if he wanted to fix in his mind just how
everything looked in that little school-room. Fancy! For
forty years he had been there in the same place, with his
garden outside the window and his class in front of him,
just like that. Only the desks and benches had been worn

312 RADIO

smooth; the walnut trees in the garden had grown taller;
and the hop-vine that he had planted himself twined about
the windows to the roof. It must have broken his heart to
leave it all, poor man; and to hear his sister moving about
in the room above, packing their trunks. For they must
leave the country the next day.

But he had the courage to hear every lesson to the very
last, history, spelling. At the back of the room old Houser
had put on his spectacles, and, holding his primer in both
hands, spelled out the letters. He was crying: his voice
trembled with emotion; and it was so funny to hear him
that we all wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Oh,
how well I remember it — that last lesson!

All at once the church clock struck twelve. Then the
Angelus. At the same time the trumpets of the Germans,
returning from drill

MUSIC IN VERY SOFTLY

sounded under our windows. M. Hamel stood up, very
pale, in his chair. I never saw him look so tall.

"My friends," he said, "I — I — " but something choked
him. He could not go on. Then he turned to the black-
board, took a piece of chalk, and, bearing down with all
his might, he wrote as large as he could:

"Vive la France!"

Then he stopped and leaned his head against the wall,
and, without a word, he made a gesture to us with his
hand, as if to say:

"School is dismissed — you may go."

MUSIC FADE OUT

I'll never forget it — that last lesson. It's hard to talk
about . . . and to think, it's coming again — with those
guns, and all the dead! Oh, there are other lessons we

ARRANGEMENT OF LITERATURE FOR RADIO 313

never learned, but not the last! I pray to God, not the
last!
Reader.

The last lesson. IS YOUR LANGUAGE, more than
another's, THE KEY TO LIBERTY, AND RIGHT,
AND JUSTICE: Is it the key to THE GREATER LIB-
ERTY? There must be one somewhere. Good afternoon.

MUSIC THEME, UP AND UNDER

Announcer. We have read for you Alphonse Daudet's story
"The Last Lesson" taken from the volume Monday
Tales [etc,].

(Short-Story Series) x
"Remember This OneT*
"The Snow Man" by Hans Christian Andersen
Announcer. [Cold.] Remember This One?

MUSIC THEME, UP FIVE SECONDS AND UNDER

Announcer. Do you remember the time when snows fell heavier
and the drifts were deeper? the time when hearts seemed
warmer and affections keener? — so that even a man of ice
and snow felt love within his breast? . . .

This afternoon we bring you a love story for the Valen-
tine season.

MUSIC FADE OUT

Announcer. Okay, here goes! And hearts are trumps.

Reader. Thanks [etc.]. And good afternoon. Yes, hearts are
trumps in this story — and there's a spade in it too. But I
can't call it a spade; to be exact, I'll have to call it a shovel.
And remember that shovel.

The emotions, I'm told, depend on what the heart is

1 George W. Fithian, by permission.

314 RADIO

made of. Sometimes I doubt that adage; because today,
like the man in this story, I love nothing so much as a
good warm stove. For there's snow outside, even though
it's not so deep as I remember its being years ago, when
it was fun to make a snow man. Do you remember any
one snow man that you made, who, when your back was
turned, fell in love? I remember one that did, on Valen-
tine's Day. But he had a very special kind of heart that
might have caused it. And not only did he have a heart
but he talked. He said:
(Snow Man.) It's so crisp and cold I'm really crackling. That
North wind just bites life into me. And that round bright
thing going down! how she does blaze! But she can't make
me blink; I'll hold on to my parts tight enough.

He was talking about the sun, and his "parts" were two
big three-cornered pieces of slate shingle that he had for
eyes; his mouth was a piece of old rake, so that he had
some teeth ... he was born amid the cheering of the
boys and the cracking of whips from the sleighs.

The sun went down and the full moon rose, big and
bright and beautiful, in the sky.
(Snow.) There she comes up again from another direction.

He mistook the moon for the sun showing itself again.
(Snow.) But I've taught her to quit that blazing. But she can
hang up there and light up, so I can look at myself . . .
I wish I knew how to go about moving myself. I'd like
to shift myself: why, if I could do that, I'd go down and
slide on the ice like the boys, but I don't know how to run.
(Dog.) Off! Off! . . .

It was the watchdog; he had been rather hoarse ever
since he had been a house dog and lay under the stove.
(Dog.) The sun will teach you to run all right. [Cynical.] Off!
Off! Oh yes, you'll run off!

ARRANGEMENT OF LITERATURE FOR RADIO 315

(Snow.) That bright thing up there can't teach me to run.
Why, she ran when I looked hard at her, and now she comes
creeping up from another direction.

(Dog.) [Scornful.] You've just been put together; so you
don't know anything. That one up there is called the
moon; the one that went off just now is the sun. She'll
come up again tomorrow, and she'll teach you to run —
down into the moat!

(Snow.) The way you say that sounds rather uncomfortable,
friend.

(Dog.) Off! Off!

And the watchdog turned himself round three times
and lay down in his kennel to sleep. . . . Early next
morning, a mist, all thick and damp, spread itself over
the whole neighborhood. At dawn a breeze sprang up, so
icy that the frost took a tight hold; but what a sight there
was when the sun rose! Every tree and bush was covered
with hoar-frost, like a whole forest of white coral. It was
as though every branch was loaded with dazzling white
flowers. Every tiny twig came into view, and formed a
lace-work so brilliantly white that a white radiance seemed
to flow from every branch. The weeping birch waved in
the wind; and when the sun came out, how it sparkled, as
if it were powdered with diamond dust. And all about
over the earth's snow coverlet big diamonds shone out.
A young girl, with a young man, came into the garden.

(Girl.) It is very beautiful; a lovelier sight one doesn't get
even in summer.

(Man.) And such a fellow as that Snow Man isn't to be seen
either. He's in his prime.

The Girl laughed and nodded to the Snow Man, and
danced off with her friend, over the snow, which crunched
under their feet as if they were walking on starch.

316 RADIO

(Snow.) Who were those two, Dog? You've been here longer
than I. Do you know them?

(Dog.) Off with them! Of course I do. She's often patted me,
and he's given me many a bone. I don't bite them though.

(Snow.) But what are they doing here?

(Dog.) Sweet-hear-r-rt-ing. They're to move off into another
kennel and gnaw the same bone. Off! Off!

(Snow.) Do those two matter as much as you and me?

(Dog.) Why, they belong to the quality! Foh! people don't
know much that were born only yesterday. That's you.
I'm old, and know everybody about this place; I've known
the time when I didn't stand out here in the cold. [Shiver.]
Uff! Uff!

(Snow.) Why, the cold is lovely. But tell me all about it. And
please don't rattle your chain, it makes me crackle.

(Dog.) [Mournful.] Uff! Uff! I was a puppy — cute little thing,
they said. I lay on a soft chair there in the house, and,
yes, in the lap of the best of the quality, was kissed on the
mouth and had my paws wiped with a handkerchief. They
called me "sweet thing" and "poochkins." But I got too
big for them, so they gave me to the housekeeper. It was
a lower situation than upstairs, but it was comfortabler. I
had just as good food and lots more of it. I had my own
pillow, and then there was the stove; in weather like this
it was the finest thing in the world. I used to crawl right
under it and hide. I dream about it still. Uff! Uff! You
can see it from where you stand, down there in the base-
ment.

(Snow.) Is a stove beautiful to look at, like me?

(Dog.) Umph! Nothing like you! It's coal black, has a long
neck with a tin pipe. It eats coal, and that makes fire come
out of its mouth. And when you hug the stove or get under-

ARRANGEMENT OF LITERATURE FOR RADIO 317

neath it, there's nothing so comfortable. You can see it
in there through the window.

And the Snow Man looked, and he saw a black polished
object with fire burning underneath. The Snow Man felt
very queer; he couldn't explain the sensation. Something
came over him that he knew nothing about; but all human
beings know it if they are not Snow Men.

(Snow.) And why did you forsake her then?
He felt the stove must be a female.

(Snow.) How could you leave such a place as that?

(Dog.) I had to go; they pushed me out, and tied me here on
a chain. I bit the youngest one of them in the leg, because
he kicked away the bone I was gnawing; and I thought
"bone for bone," and from that time I have been chained
up — and lost my clear voice. [Clearing his throat.] Uff ! Off!
Hear how hoarse I am?

But the Snow Man wasn't listening: he was gazing into
the housekeeper's window, into her room, — where stood
the stove on four iron legs, looking about as big as the
Snow Man himself.

(Snow.) There's a strange crackling inside me here. . . .
Oh, if I could only get in there! I must get in there; I must
nestle up against her, even if I have to break the window.

(Dog.) You'll never get in. And if you get to the stove,
[laugh] you'll be off! off!

(Snow.) I might as well be off, the way I feel. I'm all to pieces,
I think.

All day long the Snow Man stood and looked in the win-
dow. When night came the room looked still more attrac-
tive; from the stove there shone a light so kindly that
neither the moon nor the sun can equal it — a light such
as only a stove can give. When the door was opened, a

318 RADIO

glow poured forth, so that the Snow Man blushed red
from the waist up.

(Snow.) I can't stand it! How beautiful she looks when she
sticks her tongue out!

All night long the Snow Man was absorbed in his won-
derful thoughts; and it froze so, that they crackled in-
side him. In the early hours the windows of her room
bloomed with the loveliest ice-flowers that any Snow Man
could wish for. Oh, but they hid the stove! The panes
would not thaw! He could not see her! ... It crackled, it
crunched; it was just such weather as ought to delight a
Snow Man; but he was not delighted. He was exceedingly
unhappy: he had stove-sickness.

(Dog.) [Apprehensively.] Unf! Unf! that's a bad complaint
for a Snow Man. I've had it myself, but I got over it. . . .
Off! Off! Now the weather is going to change.

The weather did change; it turned to a thaw. The thaw
came on; the Snow Man went off. He didn't say anything,
he didn't complain; and that is the plainest of symptoms.
. . . One morning he tumbled down. Something that
looked like a broomstick remained sticking up where he
had stood. The boys had built him up around it. The Dog
looked at it.

(Dog.) Humph! Now I understand that yearning of his. The
Snow Man had a shovel in his body! that's what stirred
itself in him, but now it's all over and done with: Off! Off!
And soon winter was over and done with too. "It's gone
off, off!" barked the watch-dog. The little girls in the
house sang:

Bloom, pussy-willow, little wooly kittens!
Come, bloom! Hang out your mittens!
Lark, cuckoo! come and sing;

ARRANGEMENT OF LITERATURE FOR RADIO 319

February's here, so we must have spring.
Chwee-chwee! Cuckoo; I'll sing too.
Shine out, Sun! Make haste with you!

And nobody thought about the Snow Man any more.
He'd gone off, off. And nothing was left of him but his
heart, a heart that was a spade.

MUSIC THEME UP AND UNDER

Announcer. The story read for you was Hans Christian An-
dersen's "The Snow Man" [etc.].

SECTION II

SELECTIONS
FOR INTERPRETATION

THE DEFENCE OF POETRY

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world,
and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar; it
reproduces all that it represents, and the impersonations
clothed in its Elysian light stand thenceforward, in the minds
of those who have once contemplated them, as memorials of
that gentle and exalted content which extends itself over all
thought and actions with which it coexists. The great secret
of morals is love; or a going out of our nature, and an identi-
fication of ourselves with the beautiful which exists in thought,
action, or person, not our own. A man to be greatly good must
imagine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself
in the place of another and of many others; the pains and
pleasures of his species must become his own. The great instru-
ment of moral good is the imagination; and poetry administers
to the effect by acting upon the cause. Poetry enlarges the cir-
cumference of the imagination by replenishing it with thoughts
of ever new delight, which have the power of attracting and
assimilating to their own nature all other thoughts, and which
form new intervals and interstices whose void forever craves
fresh food. Poetry strengthens the faculty which is the organ
of the moral nature of man, in the same manner as exercise
strengthens a limb.

Poetry is indeed something divine. It is at once the centre

and circumference of knowledge; it is that which comprehends

all science, and that to which all science must be referred. It is

at the same time the root and blossom of all other systems of

thought; it is that from which all spring, and that which

323

324 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

adorns all; and that which, if blighted, denies the fruit and
the seed, and withholds from the barren world the nourish-
ment and the succession of the scions of the tree of life. It is
the perfect and consummate surface and bloom of all things;
it is as the odour and the colour of the rose to the texture of
the elements which compose it, as the form and splendour of
unfaded beauty to the secrets of anatomy and corruption.
What were virtue, love, patriotism, friendship; what were the
scenery of this beautiful universe which we inhabit; what were
our consolations on this side of the grave, and what were our
aspirations beyond it, — if poetry did not ascend to bring light
and fire from those eternal regions where the owl-winged fac-
ulty of calculation dare not ever soar?

Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of
the happiest and best minds. We are aware of evanescent visit-
ations of thought and feeling sometimes associated with place
or person, sometimes regarding our own mind alone, and al-
ways arising unforeseen and departing unbidden, but elevating
and delightful beyond all expression: so that even in the desire
and the regret they leave, there cannot be but pleasure, partici-
pating as it does in the nature of its object. It is as it were the
interpenetration of a diviner nature through our own; but its
footsteps are like those of a wind over the sea, which the com-
ing calm erases, and whose traces remain only as on the wrin-
kled sands which pave it. These and corresponding conditions
of being are experienced principally by those of the most deli-
cate sensibility and the most enlarged imagination; and the
state of mind produced by them is at war with every base de-
sire. The enthusiasm of virtue, love, patriotism, and friendship
is essentially linked with such emotions; and whilst they last,
self appears as what it is, — an atom to a universe. Poets are
not only subject to these experiences as spirits of the most
refined organisation, but they can colour all that they combine

SINCERITY THE SOUL OF ELOQUENCE 325

with the evanescent hue of this ethereal world; a word, a trait
in the representation of a scene or a passion will touch the en-
chanted chord, and reanimate, in those who have ever expe-
rienced these emotions, the sleeping, the cold, the buried image
of the past. Poetry thus makes immortal all that is best and
most beautiful in the world; it arrests the vanishing appari-
tions which haunt the interlunations of life, and veiling them,
or in language or in form, sends them forth among mankind,
bearing sweet news of kindred joy to those with whom their
sisters abide, — abide, because there is no portal of expression
from the caverns of the spirit which they inhabit into the uni-
verse of things. Poetry redeems from decay the visitations of
the divinity in man.

Abridged

SINCERITY THE SOUL OF ELOQUENCE

Goethe

How shall we learn to sway the minds of men
By eloquence? — to rule them, or persuade? —
Do you seek genuine and worthy fame?
Reason and honest feeling want no arts
Of utterance, ask no toil of elocution!
And, when you speak in earnest, do you need
A search for words? Oh! these fine holiday phrases,
In which you robe your worn-out commonplaces,
These scraps of paper which you crimp and curl
And twist into a thousand idle shapes,
These filigree ornaments, are good for nothing, —
Cost time and pains, please few, impose on no one;
Are unrefreshing as the wind that whistles,
In autumn, 'mong the dry and wrinkled leaves.
If feeling does not prompt, in vain you strive.
If from the soul the language does not come,

326 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

By its own impulse, to impel the hearts

Of hearers with communicated power,

In vain you strive, in vain you study earnestly!

Toil on forever, piece together fragments,

Cook up your broken scraps of sentences,

And blow, with puffing breath, a struggling light,

Glimmering confusedly now, now cold in ashes;

Startle the school-boys with their metaphors, —

And, if such food may suit your appetite,

Win the vain wonder of applauding children, —

But never hope to stir the hearts of men,

And mould the souls of many into one,

By words which come not native from the heart!

STANZAS ON FREEDOM

James Russell Lowell

Men! whose boast it is that ye
Come of fathers brave and free,
If there breathe on earth a slave,
Are ye truly free and brave?
If ye do not feel the chain,
When it works a brother's pain,
Are ye not base slaves indeed,
Slaves unworthy to be freed?

Women! who shall one day bear
Sons to breathe New England air,
If ye hear, without a blush,
Deeds to make the roused blood rush
Like red lava through your veins,
For your sisters now in chains, —
Answer! are ye fit to be
Mothers of the brave and free?

WE MUST BE FREE OR DIE 327

Is true Freedom but to break
Fetters for our own dear sake,
And, with leathern hearts, forget
That we owe mankind a debt?
NO! true freedom is to share
All the chains our brothers wear,
And, with heart and hand, to be
Earnest to make others free!

They are slaves who fear to speak
For the fallen and the weak;
They are slaves who will not choose
Hatred, scoffing, and abuse
Rather than in silence shrink
From the truth they needs must think;
They are slaves who dare not be
In the right with two or three.

WE MUST BE FREE OR DIE

William Wordsworth

It is not to be thought of that the flood

Of British freedom, which, to the open sea

Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity

Hath flowed, 'with pomp of waters, unwithstood,'

Roused though it be full often to a mood

Which spurns the check of salutary bands,

That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands

Should perish; and to evil and to good

Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung

Armoury of the invincible knights of old:

We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spoke: the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held. — In everything we are sprung
Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold.

328 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

THERE WAS A CHILD WENT FORTH *

Walt Whitman

There was a child went forth every day;

And the first object he look'd upon, that object he became;

And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain

part of the day, or for many years, or stretching cycles of

years.

The early lilacs became part of this child,

And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and
red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,

And the Third-month lambs, and the sow's pink-faint litter,
and the mare's foal, and the cow's calf,

And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the
pond-side,

And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there —
and the beautiful curious liquid,

And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads — all be-
came part of him.

The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became

part of him;
Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and

the esculent roots of the garden,
And the apple-trees cover'd with blossoms, and the fruit after-
ward, and wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the
road;
And the school-mistress that pass'd on her way to the school,
And the friendly boys that pass'd — and the quarrelsome boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheek'd girls — and the barefoot Negro
boy and girl,

1 From Leaves of Grass (Philadelphia: David McKay Company,
1900).

THE HERO 329

And all the changes of city and country, wherever he went . . .
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank'd wharves — the huge crossing

at the ferries,
The village on the highlands, seen from afar at sunset — the

river between,
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roof and gables

of white or brown, two miles off,
The schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the tide — the

little boat slack-tow'd astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,
The strata of color'd clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint, away

solitary by itself — the spread of purity, it lies motionless in,
The horizon's edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt

marsh and shore mud;
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and

who now goes, and will always go forth every day.

THE HERO

Sir Henry Taylor

What makes a hero? — not success, not fame,

Inebriate merchants, and the loud acclaim
Of glutted Avarice, — caps toss'd up in air,
Or pen of journalist with flourish fair;

Bells peal'd, stars, ribbons, and a titular name —
These, though his rightful tribute, he can spare;

His rightful tribute, not his end or aim,
Or true reward; for never yet did these
Refresh the soul, or set the heart at ease.

What makes a hero? — An heroic mind,
Express'd in action, in endurance prov'd.
And if there be preeminence of right,
Deriv'd through pain well suffer'd, to the height
Of rank heroic, 'tis to bear unmov'd,

330 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or wind,
Not the brute fury of barbarians blind,

But worse — ingratitude and poisonous darts,
Launch'd by the country he had serv'd and lov'd:

This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure,
This, in the strength of silence to endure,

A dignity to noble deeds imparts

Beyond the gauds and trappings of renown;

This is the hero's complement and crown;
This miss'd, one struggle had been wanting still,
One glorious triumph of the heroic will,

One self-approval in his heart of hearts.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY i

Joseph Addison

When I am in a serious humor, I very often walk by myself
in Westminster Abbey; where the gloominess of the place and
the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity of the build-
ing, and the condition of the people who lie in it, are apt to
fill the mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather thoughtful-
ness, that is not disagreeable. I yesterday passed a whole after-
noon in the churchyard, the cloisters, and the church, amusing
myself with the tombstones and inscriptions that I met with
in those several regions of the dead. Most of them recorded
nothing else of the buried person, but that he was born upon
one day, and died upon another, the whole history of his life
being comprehended in those two circumstances, that are com-
mon to all mankind. I could not but look upon these registers
of existence, whether of brass or marble, as a kind of satire
upon the departed persons; who had left no other memorial
of them, but that they were born and that they died. They put

i Friday, March 30, 1711.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY 331

me in mind of several persons mentioned in the battles of
heroic poems, who have sounding names given them, for no
other reason but that they may be killed, and are celebrated
for nothing but being knocked on the head.

Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself with
the digging of a grave; and saw in every shovel-full of it that
was thrown up, the fragment of a bone or skull intermixt with
a kind of fresh moldering earth, that some time or other had a
place in the composition of an human body. Upon this. I
began to consider with myself what innumerable multitudes
of people lay confused together under the pavement of that
ancient cathedral; how men and women, friends and enemies,
priests and soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were crumbled
amongst one another, and blended together in the same com-
mon mass; how beauty, strength, and youth, with old-age,
weakness and deformity, lay undistinguished in the same pro-
miscuous heap of matter.

After having thus surveyed this great magazine of mortality,
as it were, in the lump; I examined it more particularly by the
accounts which I found on several of the monuments which are
raised in every quarter of that ancient fabric. Some of them
were covered with such extravagant epitaphs, that, if it were
possible for the dead person to be acquainted with them, he
would blush at the praises which his friends have bestowed
upon him. There are others so excessively modest, that they
deliver the character of the person departed in Greek or He-
brew, and by that means are not understood once in a twelve-
month. In the poetical quarter, I found there were poets who
had no monuments, and monuments which had no poets. I
observed indeed that the present war had filled the church
with many of these uninhabited monuments, which had been
erected to the memory of persons whose bodies were perhaps
buried in the plains of Blenheim, or in the bosom of the ocean.

332 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

I could not but be very much delighted with several mod-
ern epitaphs, which are written with great elegance of expres-
sion and justness of thought, and therefore do honor to the
living as well as to the dead. As a foreigner is very apt to
conceive an idea of the ignorance or politeness of a nation,
from the turn of their public monuments and inscriptions, they
should be submitted to the perusal of men of learning and
genius, before they are put in execution. Sir Cloudesly Shov-
el's monument has very often given me great offense: Instead of
the distinguishing character of that plain gallant man, he is
represented on his tomb by the figure of a beau, dressed in long
periwig, and reposing himself upon velvet cushions under a
canopy of state. The inscription is answerable to the Monu-
ment; for instead of celebrating the many remarkable actions
he had performed in the service of his country, it acquaints us
only with the manner of his death, in which it was impossible
for him to reap any honor. The Dutch, whom we are apt to
despise for want of genius, shew an infinitely greater taste of
antiquity and politeness in their buildings and works of this
nature, than what we meet with in those of our own country.
The monuments of their admirals, which have been erected
at the public expense, represent them like themselves; and are
adorned with rostral crowns and naval ornaments, with beau-
tiful festoons of sea-weed, shells, and coral.

But to return to our subject. I have left the repository of
our English kings for the contemplation of another day, when
I shall find my mind disposed for so serious an amusement. I
know that entertainments of this nature are apt to raise dark
and dismal thoughts in timorous minds, and gloomy imagina-
tions; but for my own part, though I am always serious, I do
not know what it is to be melancholy; and can therefore take a
view of nature in her deep and solemn scenes, with the same
pleasure as in her most gay and delightful ones; by this means

SNOW-BOUND 333

I can improve myself with those objects, which others consider
with terror. When I look upon the tombs of the great, every
emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the
beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with
the grief of parents upon a tomb-stone, my heart melts with
compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I
consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly
follow; when I see kings lying by those who deposed them,
when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men
that divided the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect
with sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions, fac-
tions and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates
of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hun-
dred years ago, I consider that great day when we shall all of
us be contemporaries, and make our appearance together.

SNOW-BOUND

John Greenleaf Whittier

The sun that brief December day

Rose cheerless over hills of gray,

And, darkly circled, gave at noon

A sadder light than waning moon.

Slow tracing down the thickening sky,

Its mute and ominous prophecy,

A portent seeming less than threat,

It sank from sight before it set.

A chill no coat, however stout,

Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,

A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,

The coming of the snow-storm told.
The wind blew east; we heard the roar

334 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Of Ocean on his wintry shore,

And felt the strong pulse throbbing there

Beat with low rhythm our inland air.

Meanwhile we did our nightly chores, —
Brought in the wood from out of doors,
Littered the stalls, and from the mows
Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows:
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn;
And, sharply clashing horn on horn,
Impatient down the stanchion rows
The cattle shake their walnut bows;
While, peering from his early perch
Upon the scaffold's pole of birch,
The cock his crested helmet bent
And down his querulous challenge sent.

Unwarmed by any sunset light

The gray day darkened into night,

So all night long the storm roared on:

The morning broke without a sun;

All day the hoary meteor fell;

And, when the second morning shone,

We looked upon a world unknown,

On nothing we could call our own.

Around the glistening wonder bent

The blue walls of the firmament,

No cloud above, no earth below, —

A universe of sky and snow!

The old familiar sights of ours

Took marvelous shapes; strange domes and towers

Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,

Or garden-wall, or belt of wood;

A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,

A fenceless drift what once was road;

The bridle-post an old man sat

SNOW-BOUND 335

With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat;
The well-curb had a Chinese roof;
And even the long sweep, high aloof,
In its slant splendor, seemed to tell
Of Pisa's leaning miracle.

All day the gusty north-wind bore
The loosening drift its breath before;
Beyond the circle of our hearth
No welcome sound of toil or mirth
Unbound the spell, and testified
Of human life and thought outside.
Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north-wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door.
What matter how the night behaved?
What matter how the north-wind raved?
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow
Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow.
O Time and Change! — with hair as gray
As was my sire's that winter day,
How strange it seems, with so much gone
Of life and love, to still live on!
Ah, brother! only I and thou
Are left of all that circle now, —
The dear home faces whereupon
That fitful firelight paled and shone.
Henceforth, listen as we will,
The voices of that hearth are still;
Look where we may, the wide earth o'er
Those lighted faces smile no more.
We tread the paths their feet have worn,
We sit beneath their orchard trees,
We hear, like them, the hum of bees
And rustle of the bladed corn:

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We turn the pages that they read,

Their written words we linger o'er,
But in the sun they cast no shade,
No voice is heard, no sign is made,

No step is on the conscious floor!
Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust,
(Since He who knows our need is just,)
That somehow, somewhere, meet we must.
Alas for him who never sees
The stars shine through his cypress-trees!
Who, hopeless, lays his dead away,
Nor looks to see the breaking day
Across the mournful marbles play!
Who hath not learned, in hours of faith,

The truth to flesh and sense unknown,
That Life is ever lord of Death,

And Love can never lose its own!

Our mother, while she turned her wheel
Or run the new-knit stocking-heel,
Told how the Indian hordes came down
At midnight on Cocheco town.
Our uncle, innocent of books,
Was rich in lore of fields and brooks,
In moons and tides and weather wise,
He read the clouds as prophecies.
There, too, our elder sister plied
Her evening task the stand beside;
A full, rich nature, free to trust,
Truthful, and almost sternly just.

Brisk wielder of the birch and rule,
The master of the district school
Held at the fire his favored place,
Its warm glow lit a laughing face
Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared

SNOW-BOUND 337

The uncertain prophecy of beard.
He teased the mitten-blinded cat,
Played cross-pins on my uncle's hat,
Sang songs, and told us what befalls
In classic Dartmouth's college halls.

At last the great logs, crumbling low,

Sent out a dull and duller glow,

The bull's-eye watch that hung in view,

Ticking its weary circuit through,

Pointed with mutely warning sign

Its black hand to the hour of nine.

That sign the pleasant circle broke;

My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke,

Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray,

And laid it tenderly away;

Then roused himself to safely cover

The dull red brands with ashes over.

And while, with care, our mother laid

The work aside, her steps she stayed

One moment, seeking to express

Her grateful sense of happiness

For food and shelter, warmth and health,

And love's contentment more than wealth,

With simple wishes . . .

That none might lack, that bitter night,

For bread and clothing, warmth and light.

Within our beds awhile we heard
The wind that round the gables roared,
With now and then a ruder shock,
Which made our very bedsteads rock.
We heard the loosened clapboards tost,
The board-nails snapping in the frost;
And on us, through the unplastered wall,
Felt the light sifted snow-flakes fall.

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But sleep stole on, as sleep will do
When hearts are light and life is new;
Faint and more faint the murmurs grew,
Till in the summer-land of dreams
They softened to the sound of streams,
Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars,
And lapping waves on quiet shores.

Abridged

TO A SKYLARK

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,

Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun
O'er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven

In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:

TO A SKYLARK 339

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

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Like a rose embower'd

In its own green leaves,
By warm winds de flower 'd,

Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.

Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard

Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal

Or triumphal chaunt
Match'd with thine, would be all

But an empty vaunt —
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee:
Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety;

WISDOM UNAPPLIED 341

Waking or asleep

Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep

Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,

And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet if we could scorn

Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures

Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures

That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow
The world should listen then, as I am listening now!

WISDOM UNAPPLIED

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

If I were thou, O butterfly,

And poised my purple wing to spy

The sweetest flowers that live and die,

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I would not waste my strength on those,
As thou, — for summer has a close,
And pansies bloom not in the snows.

If I were thou, O working bee,
And all that honey-gold I see
Could delve from roses easily,

I would not have it at man's door,
As thou, — that heirdom of my store
Should make him rich and leave me poor.

If I were thou, O eagle proud,

And screamed the thunder back aloud,

And faced the lightning from the cloud,

I would not build my eyrie-throne,
As thou, — upon a crumbling stone
Which the next storm may trample down.

If I were thou, O gallant steed,
With pawing hoof and dancing head,
And eye outrunning thine own speed,

I would not meeken to the rein,

As thou, — nor smooth my nostril plain

From the glad desert's snort and strain.

If I were thou, red-breasted bird,
With song at shut-up window heard,
Like Love's sweet Yes too long deferred,

I would not overstay delight,

As thou, — but take a swallow-flight

Till the new spring returned to sight.

THE PRINCESS PORCELAIN 343

While yet I spake, a touch was laid
Upon my brow, whose pride did fade
As thus, methought, an angel said, —

'If I were thou who sing'st this song,
Most wise for others, and most strong
In seeing right while doing wrong,

'I would not waste my cares, and choose,
As thou, — to seek what thou must lose,
Such gains as perish in the use.

'I would not work where none can win,
As thou, — halfway 'twixt grief and sin,
But look above and judge within.

'I would not let my pulse beat high,
As thou, — towards fame's regality,
Nor yet in love's great jeopardy.

'I would not champ the hard cold bit,
As thou, — of what the world thinks fit,
But take God's freedom, using it.

'I would not play earth's winter out,
As thou, — but gird my soul about,
And live for life past death and doubt.

'Then sing, O singer! — but allow,
Beast, fly and bird, called foolish now,
Are wise (for all thy scorn) as thou.'

THE PRINCESS PORCELAIN

Clara Morris

He had always been interested in the frail little thing. They
were in the same row — the outer one — of the same oval bed
that was crowded with fellow-Pansies, and he was quick to

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notice that by the gardener's carelessness the space between
himself and his left-hand neighbor was wider than it should
have been, a fact that annoyed him even then, and later be-
came a source of real distress in his otherwise quiet life.

This little left-hand neighbor seemed to attract by her very
weakness and slowness of growth. He, himself, came of a Dutch
strain and showed it in his sturdy growth of stem and the
body and velvet of his blossom. King of the Blacks he was
called, and really he deserved his name, though one intensely
"dark purple fellow" who had been called "Black" the summer
before, remarked, somewhat maliciously, that "the title of the
King of the Blacks could never pay him for going through life
with a pinhead orange dot for an eye."

The King used sometimes to fear the little maid at his side
would never reach maturity. If the sun were very strong, she
shrank beneath the heat. If the rain fell, she would sometimes
lie prostrate, and those were the times when the distance be-
tween them distressed him, for, as he often told her, he could
and would have supported her, and at least partly sheltered
her with his broader leaves, but as it was he could only help
her with his advice. And when she at last formed her flower
buds and a shower was imminent he would warn her to turn
those delicate buds downward that the water might run off
and so save the tenderly folded petals within from watery ruin.

Up to that time his feeling for her had been simply the ten-
der affection one is apt to feel for the creature we help or pro-
tect, and he had often looked back with a bold, admiring
orange eye at the smiling little mottled, banded Pansies, who
had not hesitated one moment to nod at him, — for they are a
generally coquettish tribe.

THE PRINCESS PORCELAIN 345

But one warm, still May morning all this was changed for
the King of the Blacks, for there stood his slow-growing, frail
neighbor holding up to his startled gaze the sweetest, tenderest,
truest little face in all Pansydom. She was not brilliant nor
velvet-blotched, nor yet banded, just a lovely porcelain blue
of a perfectly even tint without markings of any kind, the pure
color deepening into a violet eye with that speck of gold in
the centre which, in a Pansy, answers to the pupil of a human
eye.

Looking upon this innocent beauty the King of the Blacks
was suddenly shaken by a great passion of love and longing.
He realized in that moment that she held all the sweetness of
life for him. For one moment he enjoyed the unalloyed bliss
of his discovery; the next, alas! brought to his knowledge some
of the tortures that invariably accompany true love. Was he,
then, jealous? Of course! Who could see that small, fierce
orange eye of his and doubt his jealousy — and goodness knows
he had cause enough, but through no fault of little Porcelain
Blue's, mind you! She adored him: was aquiver with love from
the edge of her topmost petal to the tips of her threadlike
roots.

But think of the maddening space between them! Do what
they would they could not bridge it over. They looked and
longed, and longed and looked, but only their sighs sweetly
mingled. They knew neither embrace nor kiss.

The King of the Blacks was a sturdy fellow, and jealousy and
disappointment made his temper prickly, and sometimes he
wished many things of an unpleasant nature upon the gar-
dener, whose carelessness had caused so much suffering. Often
he cried out for a pest of mealy-bugs, or slugs, or snails to
come upon his garden. Once he went so far as to wish moles
to follow his footsteps beneath the lawn, but seeing how he

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had frightened Porcelain Blue he took that back, like the
Dutch gentleman he really was.

But it was hard to see all the winged marauders buzzing
around his gentle little sweetheart, offering her the tattered com-
pliments they had offered to each floral feminine they had met
that day. To see a great "bumble-bee" go blundering so
heavily against her as to nearly knock her down! But, oh!
worst of all, to see that Butterfly — that royally striped, banded,
powdered, idiotic flirt masculine — to see him impudently cling-
ing to shy little Porcelain Blue's shoulder, while he stole the
precious nectar from the sweet flower lips that cried vainly for
the King to drive him away.

No wonder he grew ill-tempered. He was so helpless. All he
could do was to urge Porcelain Blue to call up her power of
growing, and then to direct that growth toward him, while he
cheered her up by calling her attention to the long arm he
was forcing forward as rapidly as possible toward her, knowing
well that the lady mistress of them all would much prefer his
black, velvety blossoms to such a growth of leaf and stem.

Then, too, the King of the Blacks had much to endure from
those about him. He had never concealed either his love or
his distress, and there was much merriment at his expense
among the flowers of his own bed and the insects that daily
visited them.

One perfect morning, when all the world seemed made for
love, the King of the Blacks felt his heart was breaking, little
Porcelain Blue dropped and hung her head so sadly, while all
the others were fairly asway with laughter. Just then, warm and
sweet and strong, the West Wind came blowing. The romping,
teasing, rowdy West Wind! Many a time had he chucked the

THE PRINCESS PORCELAIN 347

little one under the chin and set her petals into a wild, blue
flutter, and now he paused a moment, disturbed at this sadness.
Sadness in the path of the West Wind? Oh, no! he could not
tolerate that. So back he drew a pace, gathered himself to-
gether, and then made a laughing rush upon the lovers, flinging
with tender force young Porcelain Blue full upon the eager
and clinging arms of the King of the Blacks. Then bumping
their pretty faces together, he, rustling, fluttering, and waving,
went on his merry way, leaving them to learn in peace the
sweetness of the flower kiss. Porcelain Blue was so entangled
in the strong arms of the King that she remained there, and if
he found his Heaven in her sweet face she found hers in his
gentle strength. And so happily they lived their little space
and knew nothing but joy.

One early summer day the following year the mistress stood
looking down with puzzled eyes upon a stranger in her great
bed of saucy, wide-eyed beauties, in all their satiny, velvety
gorgeousness. She knew them all by name. They were "Kings
This," and "Queens That," and "Warrior So-and-So," and
"French-Stained," and "German Blotched," and "Somebody's
Royal Collection." But where did this stranger come from,
here in the outer row of the big oval bed?

Down on his knees the gardener expatiated on the perfec-
tion of form and the firmness of texture to be found in this
beautiful nameless blossom that was upheld so firmly by its
sturdy stem.

"Pure porcelain blue, with markings that give it an almost
human smile!" murmured the lady. "The markings of black-
est velvet, and that great red-orange eye! Where have I seen
that peculiar eye, and where that pure even tint of blue?

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Why — !" and at the same moment the gardener struck his
earth-stained hands together, exclaiming, "The King of the
Blacks, ma'am!"

While his mistress cried, "Porcelain Blue!" and the gardener
finished, "Hit's the offspring of them two plants, ma'am, has
sure has you're halive, and she 'as no name, poor thing."

"Oh, yes, she has," smiled his mistress: "She is of Royal
parentage and beautiful, and she is called The Princess Porce-
lain." And to herself she whispered, "Ah, love never dies! That
is amply proved by the existence here of Princess Porcelain."

SEVEN TIMES TWO, ROMANCE

Jean Ingelow

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes

How many soever they be,
And let the brown meadow lark's note as he ranges

Come over, come over to me.

Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling

No magical sense- conveys,
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling

The fortune of future days.

"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily

While a boy listened alone;
Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily

All by himself on a stone.

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over,

And mine, they are yet to be;
No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover:

You leave the story to me.

ORPHEUS 349

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather,

And hangeth her hoods of snow;
She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather:

O children take long to grow!

I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster,

Nor long summer bide so late;
And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster,

For some things are ill to wait.

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,
While dear hands are laid on my head;

"The child is a woman, the book may close over,
For all the lessons are said."

I wait for my story — the birds cannot sing it,

Not one, as he sits on the tree;
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O, bring it!

Such as I wish it to be!

ORPHEUS
From King Henry VIII x

William Shakespeare

Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain-tops that freeze,
Bow themselves, when he did sing:
To his music, plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as Sun and showers
There had made a lasting Spring.

Everything that heard him play,

Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads, and then lay by.

1 Act III, Scene i.

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In sweet music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart
Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.

THE FUGITIVES

Percy Bysshe Shelley

i

The waters are flashing,
The white hail is dashing,
The lightnings are glancing,
The hoar-spray is dancing —
Away!

The whirlwind is rolling,
The thunder is tolling,
The forest is swinging,
The minster bells ringing —
Come away!

The earth is like Ocean,
Wreck-strewn and in motion:
Bird, beast, man and worm
Have crept out of the storm —
Come away!

ii

'Our boat has one sail,
And the helmsman is pale; —
A bold pilot I trow,
Who should follow us now,' —
Shouted he —

And she cried: 'Ply the oar!
Put off gaily from shore!' —

THE FUGITIVES 351

As she spoke, bolts of death
Mixed with hail, specked their path
O'er the sea.

And from isle, tower and rock,
The blue beacon-cloud broke,
And though dumb in the blast,
The red cannon flashed fast
From the lee.

in

And 'Fear'st thou?' and 'Fear'st thou?'
And 'Seest thou?' and 'Hear'st thou?'
And 'Drive we not free
O'er the terrible sea,
I and thou?'

One boat-cloak did cover
The loved and the lover —
Their blood beats one measure,
They murmur proud pleasure
Soft and low; —

While around the lashed Ocean,
Like mountains in motion,
Is withdrawn and uplifted,
Sunk, shattered and shifted
To and fro.

IV

In the court of the fortress
Beside the pale portress,
Like a bloodhound well beaten
The bridegroom stands, eaten
By shame;

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On the topmost watch-turret,
As a death-boding spirit,
Stands the gray tyrant father,
To his voice the mad weather
Seems tame;

And with curses as wild
As e'er clung to child,
He devotes to the blast,
The best loveliest and last
Of his name!

A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR

Charles Dickens

There was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal,
and thought of a number of things. He had a sister, who was a
child too, and his constant companion. These two used to won-
der all day long. They wondered at the beauty of the flowers;
they wondered at the height and blueness of the sky; they won-
dered at the depth of the bright water; they wondered at the
goodness and the power of GOD who made the lovely world.

They used to say to one another, sometimes, Supposing all
the children upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the
water, and the sky be sorry? They believed they would be
sorry. For, said they, the buds are the children of the flowers,
and the little playful streams that gambol down the hill-sides
are the children of the water; and the smallest bright specks
playing at hide and seek in the sky all night, must surely be
the children of the stars; and they would all be grieved to see
their playmates, the children of men, no more.

There was one clear shining star that used to come out in
the sky before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves.
It was larger and more beautiful, they thought, than all the

a child's dream of a star 353

others, and every night they watched for it, standing hand in
hand at a window. Whoever saw it first cried out, "I see the
star!" And often they cried out both together, knowing so
well when it would rise, and where.

But while she was still very young, oh very very young, the
sister drooped, and came to be so very weak that she could no
longer stand in the window at night; and then the child looked
sadly out by himself, and when he saw the star, turned round
and said to the patient pale face on the bed, "I see the star!"

But the time came all too soon when the child looked out
alone, and when there was no face on the bed and when the
star made long rays down towards him, as he saw it through
his tears.

Now, these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make
such a shining way from earth to Heaven, that when the child
went to his solitary bed, he dreamed about the star; and
dreamed that, lying where he was, he saw a train of people
taken up that sparkling road by angels. And the star, opening,
showed him a great world of light, where many more such
angels waited to receive them.

All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming
eyes upon the people who were carried up into the star; his
sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said
to the leader among those who had brought the people thither:

"Is my brother come?"

And he said, "No."

She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched
out his arms, and cried, "O, sister, I am here! Take me!" and
then she turned her beaming eyes upon him, and it was night;
and the star was shining in the room, making long rays down
towards him as he saw it through his tears.

From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as
on the home he was to go to, when his time should come.

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He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books when
an old servant came to him and said:

"Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling
son!

Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company.

And he grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, and
he was sitting in his chair by his fireside, heavy with grief, and
with his face bedewed with tears, when the star opened once
again.

Said his sister's angel to the leader: "Is my brother come?"

And he said, "Nay, but his maiden daughter."

And the man who had been the child saw his daughter,
newly lost to him, a celestial creature among those three, and
the star was shining.

Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth
face was wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his
back was bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed, his
children standing round, he cried, as he had cried so long ago:

"I see the star! My age is falling from me like a garment, and
I move towards the star as a child."

And the star was shining; and it shines upon his grave.

Abridged

HOW WE FOUGHT THE FIRE
Will Carlton

'Twas a drowsy night on Tompkins Hill;
The very leaves of the trees lay still;
The world was slumbering ocean deep;
And even the stars seemed half asleep,
And winked and blinked at the roofs below,
As yearning for morn, that they might go.

HOW WE FOUGHT THE FIRE 355

The streets as stolid and still did lie

As they would have done if streets could die;

The sidewalks stretched as quietly prone

As if a foot they had never known;

And not a cottage within the town

But looked as if it would fain lie down.

Away in the west a stacken cloud,

With white arms drooping and bare head bowed,

Was leaning against — with drowsy eye —

The dark-blue velveting of the sky.

And that was the plight

Things were in that night,
Before we were roused the foe to fight —
The foe so greedy and grand and bright —

That plagued old Deacon Tompkins.

ii

The Deacon lay on his first wife's bed,

His second wife's pillow beneath his head,

His third wife's coverlet o'er him wide,

His fourth wife slumbering by his side.

The parson visioned his Sunday's text,

And what he should hurl at Satan next;

The doctor a drowsy half-vigil kept,

Still studying, as he partly slept,

How men might glutton and tope and fly

In the face of Death, and still not die;

The lawyer dreamed that his clients meant

To club together and then present,

As proof that their faith had not grown dim,

A small bright silver hatchet to him;

The laborer such sound slumber knew,

He hadn't a dream the whole night through;

The ladies dreamed, but I can't say well

What 'tis they dream, for they never tell;

In short, such a general drowsy time

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Had ne'er been known in that sleepy clime.

As on the night

Of clamor and fright,
We were roused the treacherous foe to fight —
The foe so greedy and grand and bright,
And carrying such an appetite —

That plagued old Deacon Tompkins.

in

When all at once the old court-house bell
(Which had a voice like a maniac's yell),
Cried out, as if in its dim old sight
The judgment day had come in the night,
"Bang, whang, whang, bang, clang, dang, bang, whangl"
The poor old parcel of metal sang;
Whereat, from mansion, cottage, and shed,
Rose men and women as from the dead,
In different stages of attire,
And shouted, "The town is all afire!"
(Which came as near to being true
As some more leisurely stories do.)
They saw on the Deacon's house a glare,
And everybody hurried there,
And such a lot of visitors he
Had never before the luck to see.
The Deacon received these guests of night
In costume very simple and white,
And after a drowsy, scared "Ahem!"
He asked them what he could do for them.
"Fire! Fire!" they shouted; "your house's afire!"
And then, with energy sudden and dire,
They rushed through the mansion's solitudes,
And helped the Deacon to move his goods.

And that was the sight

We had that night,
When roused by the people who saw the light

HOW WE FOUGHT THE FIRE 357

Atop of the residence, cozy and white,

Where lived old Deacon Tompkins.

IV

Ah! me! the way that they rummaged round!

Ah! me! the startling things they found!

No one with a fair idea of space

Would ever have thought that in one place

Were half the things, with a shout,

These neighborly burghers hustled out.

Came articles that the Deacon's wives

Had all been gathering all their lives;

Came furniture such as one might see

Didn't grow in the trunk of every tree.

A tall clock, centuries old, 'twas said,

Leaped out of a window, heels o'er head;

A veteran chair in which when new,

George Washington sat for a minute or two,

A bedstead strong as if in its lap

Old Time might take his terminal nap;

Dishes, that in meals long agone

The Deacon's fathers had eaten on;

Clothes, made of every cut and hue,

That couldn't remember when they were new;

A mirror, scatheless many a day,

Was promptly smashed in the regular way;

Old shoes enough, if properly thrown,

To bring good luck to all creatures known,

And children thirteen, more or less,

In varying plentitude of dress.

And that was the sight

We had that night,
When roused the terrible foe to fight,
Which blazed aloft to a moderate height,
And turned the cheeks of the timid white,

Including Deacon Tompkins.

358 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Lo! where the engines, reeking hot,
Dashed up to the interesting spot:
Came Number Two, "The City's Hope,"
Propelled by a line of men and rope,
And after them, on a spiteful run,
"The Ocean Billows," or Number One,
And soon the two, induced to play
By a hundred hands, were working away,
Until to the Deacon's flustered sight,
As he danced about in his robe of white,
It seemed as if, by the hand of Fate,
House-cleaning day were some two years late,
And with complete though late success
Had just arrived by the night express.
The "Ocean Billows" were at high tide,
And flung their spray upon every side;
The "City's Hope" were in perfect trim,
Preventing aught like an interim;
And a "Hook and Ladder Company" came
With hooks and poles and a long hard name,
And with an iconoclastic frown,
Were about to pull the whole thing down,
When some one raised the assuring shout,
"It's only the chimney a-burnin' out!"
Whereat, with a sense of injured trust,
The crowd went home in complete disgust.
Scarce one of those who, with joyous shout,
Assisted the Deacon moving out,
Refrained from the homeward-flowing din
To help the Deacon at moving in.

And that was the plight
At which, that night,
They left the Deacon, clad in white,
Who felt he was hardly treated right,

OUT OF THE CRADLE 359

And used some words in the flickering light,
Not orthodox in their purport quite —

Poor put-out Deacon Tompkins!

OUT OF THE CRADLE ENDLESSLY ROCKING1

Walt Whitman

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,

Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle,

Out of the Ninth-month midnight,

Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child

leaving his bed wandered alone, bare-headed, barefoot,
Down from the showered halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if

they were alive,
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,
From your memories, sad brother, from the fitful risings and

fallings I heard,
From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if

with tears,
From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the

mist,
From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease,
From the myriad thence-aroused words,
From the word stronger and more delicious than any,
From such as now they start the scene revisiting,
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,
Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly,
A man, yet by these tears a little boy again,
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,
Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond them,
A reminiscence sing.

1 From Leaves of Grass (Philadelphia: David McKay Company,
1900).

360 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Once Paumanok,

When the lilac-scent was in the air and Fifth-month grass was

growing,
Up this seashore in some briers,
Two feathered guests from Alabama, two together,
And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown,
And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand,
And every day the she-bird crouched on her nest, silent, with

bright eyes,
And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturb-
ing them,
Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.

Shine! shine! shine!

Pour down your warmth, great sun!

While we bask, we two together.

Two together!

Winds blow south, or winds blow north,

Day come white, or night come black,

Home, or rivers and mountains from home,

Singing all time, minding no time

While we two keep together.

Till of a sudden,

Maybe killed, unknown to her mate,

One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the nest,

Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next,

Nor ever appeared again,

And thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea,

And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather,

Over the hoarse surging of the sea,

Or flitting from brier to brier by day,

I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the he-bird,

The solitary guest from Alabama.

OUT OF THE CRADLE 361

Blow! blow! blow!

Blow up sea-winds along Paumanolis shore;

I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me.

Yes, when the stars glisten'd,

All night long on the prong of a moss-scalloped stake,

Down almost amid the slapping waves,

Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears.

He called on his mate,

He poured forth the meanings which I of all men know.

Yes, my brother, I know, —

The rest might not, but I have treasured every note,

For more than once dimly down to the beach gliding,

Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the

shadows,
Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and

sights after their sorts,
The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,
I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair,
Listened long and long.

Listened to keep, to sing, now translating the notes,
Following you, my brother.

Soothe! soothe! soothe!

Close on its wave soothes the wave behind,

And again another behind embracing and lapping, every one

close,
But my love soothes not me, not me.

Low hangs the moon, it rose late,

It is lagging — O I think it is heavy with love, with love.

O madly the sea pushes upon the land,
With love, with love.

362 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

O night! do I not see my love fluttering out among the break-
ers?
What is that little black thing I see there in the white?

Loud! loud! loud!

Loud I call to you, my love!

High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves,

Surely you must know who is here, is here,

You must know who I am, my love.

Low-hanging moon!

What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow?

O it is the shape, the shape of my mate!

O moon, do not keep her from me any longer.

Land! land! O land!

Whichever way I turn, O, I think you could give me my mate

back again if you only would,
For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.

O rising stars!

Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some
of you.

O throat! O trembling throat!

Sound clearer through the atmosphere!

Pierce the woods, the earth,

Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want.

Shake out carols!

Solitary here, the night's carols!

Carols of lonesome love! death's carols!

Carols under tJiat logging, yellow, loaning moon!

O under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea!

O reckless despairing carols!

OUT OF THE CRADLE 363

But soft! sink low!
Soft! let me just murmur,

And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea,
For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me,
So faint, I must be still, be still to listen,

But not altogether still, for then she might not come immedi-
ately to me.

Hither, my love!

Here I am! here!

With this just-sustained note I announce myself to you,

This gentle call is for you, my love, for you.

Do not be decoyed elsewhere:
That is the whistle of the wind, it is not my voice,
That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray,
Those are the shadows of leaves.

O darkness! O in vain!

O I am very sick and sorrowful.

O brown halo in the sky near the moon, drooping upon the

sea!
O troubled reflection in the sea!
O throat! O throbbing heart!
And I singing uselessly! uselessly all the night.

O past! O happy life! O songs of joy!
In the air, in the woods, over fields,
Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!
But my mate no more, no more with me!
We two together no more.

The aria sinking,

All else continuing, the stars shining,

The wind blowing, the notes of the bird continuous echoing,

With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning,

On the sands of Paumanok's shore gray and rustling,

364 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the

face of the sea almost touching,
The boy ecstatic, with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the

atmosphere dallying,
The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultu-

ously bursting,
The aria's meaning, the ears, the Soul, swiftly depositing,
The strange tears down the cheeks coursing,
The colloquy there, the trio, each uttering,
The undertone, the savage old mother incessantly crying,
To the boy's Soul's questions sullenly timing, some drown'd

secret hissing,
To the outsetting bard.

Demon or bird! (said the boy's soul)

Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it really to me?

For I, that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping, now I have

heard you,
Now in a moment I know what I am for, I awake,
And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer,

louder and more sorrowful than yours,
A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me,

never to die.

O you singer solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me,

O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease perpetuating

you,
Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations,
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before

what there in the night,
By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon,
The messenger there aroused, the fire, the sweet hell within,
The unknown want, the destiny of me,
O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here somewhere)
O if I am to have so much, let me have morel

OUT OF THE CRADLE 365

A word then, (for I will conquer it)

The word final, superior to all,

Subtle, sent up — what is it? — I listen;

Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-
waves?

Is that it from your liquid rims and set sands?

Whereto answering, the sea,

Delaying not, hurrying not,

Whispered me through the night, and very plainly before day-
break,

Lisped to me the low and delicious word death,

And again death, death, death, death,

Hissing melodious, neither like the bird nor like my aroused
child's heart,

But edging near as privately for me, rustling at my feet,

Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all
over,

Death, death, death, death, death.

Which I do not forget,

But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother,

That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok's gray

beach,
With the thousand responsive songs at random,
My own songs awaked from that hour,
And with them the key, the word up from the waves,
The word of the sweetest song and all songs,
That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet,
(Or like some old crone rocking the cradle, swathed in sweet

garments, bending aside)
The sea whispered me.

366 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

THE VILLAGE PREACHER

Oliver Goldsmith

Near yonder copse where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden flower grows wild,

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,

And passing rich with forty pounds a year.

Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, or wished to change, his place;

Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train;

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;

The long-remembered beggar was his guest,

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sat by his fire and talked the night away, —

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won.

Pleased with his guests the good man learned to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;

Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side;

But, in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,

THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG 367

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,

And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed,

The reverend champion stood. At his control

Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;

Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,

And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,

His looks adorned the venerable place;

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,

And fools who came to scoff remained to pray.

The service past, around the pious man

With ready zeal each honest rustic ran;

E'en children followed, with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.

His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed;

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG

John Francis Waller

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning;
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning;
Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting,
Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting.
"Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping."
" 'T is the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping."
"Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing."

368 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

" 'T is the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying."

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

"What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?"

'T is the little birds chirping the holly-bush under."
"What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on,
And singing all wrong that old song of 'The Coolun'?"
There's a form at the casement, — the form of her true love,-
And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love:
Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly;
We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly."
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers,

Steals up from her seat, — longs to go, and yet lingers;

A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother,

Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other.

Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round;

Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound;

Noiseless and light to the lattice above her

The maid steps, — then leaps to the arms of her lover.

Slower, and slower, and slower the wheel swings;

Lower, and lower, and lower the reel rings;

Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving,

Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.

falstaff 's recruits 369

FALSTAFF'S RECRUITS

From King Henry IV, Part II x

William Shakespeare

[NOTE: Sir John Falstaff has received a commission from
the King to raise a company of soldiers to fight in the King's
battles. After drafting a number of well-to-do farmers, who
he knows will pay him snug sums of money, he proceeds to
fill his company from the riff-raff of the country through
which he passes.

The scene is a village green before Justice Shallow's
house. The Justice has received word from Sir John that he
is about to visit him, and desires him to call together a num-
ber of the villagers from which recruits may be selected.

These villagers are now grouped upon the green, with
Justice Shallow standing near.

Bardolph, Sir John Falstaff's corporal, enters and ad-
dresses Justice Shallow.]

Bardolph. Good morrow, honest gentlemen: I beseech you,
which is Justice Shallow?

Shallow. I am Robert Shallow, sir; a poor esquire of this
county, and one of the king's justices of the peace: what is
your good pleasure with me?

Bardolph. My captain, sir, commends him to you; my cap-
tain, Sir John Falstaff, a tall gentleman, by heaven, and a
most gallant leader.

Shallow. He greets me well, sir. I knew him a good back-
sword man. How doth the good knight? . . .

[Enter Falstaff.]

Look, here comes good Sir John. Give me your good hand,
1 Act III, Scene ii.

370 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

give me your worship's good hand; by my troth, you look
well and bear your years very well: welcome, good Sir John.

Falstaff. I am glad to see you well, good Master Robert Shal-
low. . . . Fie! this is hot weather, gentlemen. Have you pro-
vided me here half a dozen sufficient men?

Shallow. Marry, have we, sir. Will you sit?

Falstaff. Let me see them, I beseech you.

Shallow. Where's the roll? where's the roll? where's the roll?
Let me see, let me see, let me see. So, so, so, so, so, so, so, so,
yea, marry, sir: Ralph Mouldy! Let them appear as I call;
let them do so, let them do so. Let me see; where is Mouldy?

Mouldy. Here, an't please you.

Shallow. What think you, Sir John? a good-limbed fellow;
young, strong, and of good friends.

Falstaff. Is thy name Mouldy?

Mouldy. Yea, an't please you.

Falstaff. 'T is the more time thou wert used.

Shallow. Ha, ha, ha! most excellent, i' faith! things that are
mouldy lack use: very singular good! in faith, well said, Sir
John, very well said. Shall I prick him, Sir John?

Falstaff. Yes, prick him.

Mouldy. I was pricked well enough before, an you could have
let me alone: my old dame will be undone now for one to
do her husbandry and her drudgery: you need not to have
pricked me; there are other men fitter to go out than I. . . .

Shallow. Peace, fellow, peace; stand aside: know you where
you are? For the other, Sir John: let me see: Simon Shadow!

Falstaff. Yea, marry, let me have him to sit under. He's like
to be a cold soldier.

Shallow. Where's Shadow?

Shadow. Here, sir.

Falstaff. Shadow, whose son art thou?

Shadow. My mother's son, sir.

falstaff's recruits 371

Falstaff. Thy mother's son! like enough, and thy father's
shadow. . . . Shadow will serve for summer; prick him. . . .

Shallow. Thomas Wart!

Falstaff. Where's he?

Wart. Here, sir.

Falstaff. Is thy name Wart?

Wart. Yea, sir.

Falstaff. Thou art a very ragged wart.

Shallow. Shall I prick him down, Sir John?

Falstaff. It were superfluous; for his apparel is built upon
his back and the whole frame stands upon pins: prick him
no more.

Shallow. Ha, ha, ha! you can do it, sir; you can do it: I com-
mend you well. Francis Feeble!

Feeble. Here, sir.

Falstaff. What trade art thou, Feeble?

Feeble. A woman's tailor, sir. . . .

Falstaff. Well, good woman's tailor! wilt thou make as many
holes in an enemy's battle as thou hast done in a woman's
petticoat?

Feeble. I will do my good will, sir: you can have no more.

Falstaff. Well said, good woman's tailor! Well said, coura-
geous Feeble! thou wilt be as valiant as the wrathful dove or
most magnanimous mouse. Prick the woman's tailor: well,
Master Shallow; deep, Master Shallow.

Feeble. I would Wart might have gone, sir.

Falstaff. I would thou wert a man's tailor, that thou mightst
mend him and make him fit to go. . . . Let that suffice, most
forcible Feeble.

Feeble. It shall suffice, sir.

Falstaff. I am bound to thee, reverend Feeble. Who is next?

Shallow. Peter Bullcalf o' the green!

Falstaff. Yea, marry, let's see Bullcalf.

372 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Bullcalf. Here, sir.

Falstaff. 'Fore God, a likely fellow! Come, prick me Bullcalf
till he roar again.

Bullcalf. O Lord! good my lord captain, —

Falstaff. What, dost thou roar before thou art pricked?

Bullcalf. O Lord, sir, I'm a diseased man.

Falstaff. What disease hast thou?

Bullcalf. A terrible cold, sir, a cough, sir. . . .

Falstaff. Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown; we will
have away thy cold. ... Is here all?

Shallow. Here is two more called than your number; you
must have but four here, sir; and so, I pray you, go in with
me to dinner.

Falstaff. Come, I will go drink with you. . . .

[Exeunt Falstaff and Justice Shallow.]

Bullcalf [approaching Bardolph]. Good Master Corporate
Bardolph, stand my friend; and here's four Harry ten shil-
lings in French crowns for you. In very truth, sir, I had as
lief be hanged, sir, as go: and yet, for mine own part, sir, I
do not care; but rather, because I am unwilling, and, for
mine own part, have a desire to stay with my friends; else,
sir, I did not care, for mine own part, so much.

Bardolph [pocketing the money]. Go to; stand aside. . . .

Feeble. By my troth, I care not.

Abridged

THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Mounted on Kyrat strong and licet,

His chestnut steed with lour white feet,

Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou,
Son of the road, and bandit chief,

THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG 373

Seeking refuge and relief,

Up the mountain pathway flew.

Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed,
Never yet could any steed

Reach the dust-cloud in his course.
More than maiden, more than wife,
More than gold and next to life

Roushan the Robber loved his horse.

In the land that lies beyond
Erzeroum and Trebizond,

Garden-girt his fortress stood;
Plundered khan,#or caravan
Journeying north from Koordistan,

Gave him wealth and wine and food.

Seven hundred and fourscore
Men at arms his livery wore,

Did his bidding night and day.
Now, through regions all unknown,
He was wandering, lost, alone,

Seeking without guide his way.

Suddenly the pathway ends,
Sheer the precipice descends,

Loud the torrent roars unseen;
Thirty feet from side to side
Yawns the chasm; on air must ride

He who crosses this ravine.

Following close in his pursuit,
At the precipice's foot,

Reyhan the Arab of Orfah
Halted with his hundred men,
Shouting upward from the glen,

"La Illah ilia Allah!"

374 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Gently Roushan Beg caressed
Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast;

Kissed him upon both his eyes;
Sang to him in his wild way,
As upon the topmost spray

Sings a bird before it flies.

"O my Kyrat, O my steed,
Round and slender as a reed,

Carry me this peril through!
Satin housings shall be thine,
Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine,

O thou soul of Kurroglou!

Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet,
Drew together his four white feet,

Paused a moment on the verge,
Measured with his eye the space,
And into the air's embrace

Leaped as leaps the ocean surge.

As the ocean surge o'er sand
Bears a swimmer safe to land,

Kyrat safe his rider bore;
Rattling down the deep abyss
Fragments of the precipice

Rolled like pebbles on a shore.

Roushan's tassel led cap of red
Trembled not upon his head,

Careless sat he and upright;
Neither hand nor bridle shook,
Nor his head he turned to look,

As he galloped out of sight.

Flash of harness in the air,
Seen a moment like the glare

THE PERFECT ONE 375

Of a sword drawn from its sheath;
Thus the phantom horseman passed,
And the shadow that he cast

Leaped the cataract underneath.

Reyhan the Arab held his breath
While this vision of life and death

Passed above him. "Allahu!"
Cried he. "In all Koordistan
Lives there not so brave a man

As this Robber Kurroglou!"

THE PERFECT ONE

Laurence Housman

Many years ago there lived in Persia a certain teacher and
philosopher named Sabbah who seemed as a shining light to all
who looked on him. His courtesy and dignity, his wisdom and
humility, his imperturbability of temper, and his charity to
all, won for him many followers; and among these there grew
toward him so great a devotion that they could see in him
nothing amiss. This, they said, was the perfect man whom all
the world had been looking for. And because they found no
flaw in his character and perceived no limitation in his wis-
dom, so far as things human were concerned, they called him
"the perfect one," and fixing upon him the blind eye of imi-
tation, but shutting upon him the eye of understanding, they
sat daily at his feet and hearkened to his sayings; they spoke
as he spoke and did as he did, hoping thereby to come in time
to a like perfection.

So when, in the contemplation of deep things, the perfect
one combed his beard with his fingers, they (such as had them)
combed theirs, and those who had not, made combings in the

376 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

air where presently their beards would be. And when he ate
they ate, and when he fasted they fasted, and when he spat
they spat, so as to be at one with him in all things appertain-
ing to conduct. And they were happy in these things, and
thought by discipline to come presently to the perfection
wherein he seemed perfect.

So when, his hours of teaching being over (for he sat
daily in the mosque and taught all that would hear him),
he rose to return to his own house, those that doted on his
example would rise and follow him; and where he trod they
trod, and if he stayed to look on a piece of merchandise, or to
handle a fabric and ask the price of it, they also would stay
and look and handle and inquire. And because of these things
they were a nuisance to the merchants, and the procession of
the perfect one was imperfectly welcomed in the bazaars of
that city. So presently the merchants would request the perfect
one to go by other ways if he wished not to buy, but to go their
way when buying was his intention; for when he bought then
those that followed him bought also.

Now, every day when the perfect one reached his house
thus accompanied and attended, he went in and shut
the door, and they saw no more of him; and going sadly to
their own homes, they wondered and questioned among them-
selves what he did when the door was shut, so that they also
might do likewise, and by that much be nearer to perfection.

And this grew to be so great a debate among them that at
last one, greatly daring, making himself spokesman for the rest,
said:

"O Perfect One, when you go into your house and shut
your door, so that we see no more of you, what is it that you
do then? Let us know, that we also may do it and be perfect,
as you are."

THE PERFECT ONE 377

And the perfect one answered:

"I do many things. If I told you them all, you would not
remember."

"Yet you may tell us the first thing," said he who spoke for
the rest.

"The first thing?" said Sabbah; and musingly he combed
his beard with his fingers, while all the rest did likewise. "The
first thing that I do is to stand on my head and stick out my
tongue and twiddle my toes, for I find great joy in it."

So that day when all his followers had parted from him and
returned each to their own houses, they stood on their heads
and stuck out their tongues and twiddled their toes, and found
great joy in it.

"Now we be growing perfect," said they.

But the next day one of his followers said to him:

"O Perfect One, why do you do this thing? For though we
find joy in it, we know not the celestial reason or the corre-
spondency which makes it seem good."

And Sabbah answered:

"I will tell you first what I do, and I will tell you the
reasons afterward."

So they said to him:

"O Perfect One, what is the next thing that you do?"

And Sabbah said:

"The next thing that I do? I tell my wife to beat me till I
cry out for mercy."

So when his followers returned to their houses that day and
had finished their first exercise in perfection, they told their
wives to beat them till they cried out for mercy. And their
wives did so.

The next day, a little crestfallen and sad, his followers came
back to him, and one of them said:

378 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

"O Perfect One, after your wife has begun beating you, when
do you cry out for mercy? There is a difference of opinion
among us, and truly it matters."

Sabbah answered:

"I do not cry out for mercy."

At this answer they all looked much astonished and very
sorry for themselves, and one who had come that day looking
more crestfallen than the rest said:

"But I, Perfect One, have ten wives!"

Sabbah smiled on him.

"I have none," said Sabbah.

His followers sat and looked at him for a while in silence,
then said one:

"O Perfect One, why have you done this?"

And the perfect one answered:

"When I go into my house and shut my door, then it is for
the relief of being alone and quit of the mockery wherewith
you mock me, pretending that I am perfect. It is for that, and
to realize the more fully my own imperfection, that I stand
on my head and twiddle my toes and stick out my tongue.
Then I know that I am a fool. And that is the celestial reason
and the correspondency which make me find joy in it.

"Then it is, because I know I am a fool, that I tell my wife
to beat me until I cry out for mercy. And truly — and this shall
be my last answer — the reason that I have no wife is because
I am a wise man."

Then the perfect one arose from his place and went home,
according to his custom; nor did any of his followers that time
bear him company. But they gazed after him with the open
eye of understanding, and, plucking out the blind eye of imi-
tation, cast it from them, and went home full of thought how
best to solve the domestic problem which there awaited them.

"Now I am at peace," said the perfect one, shutting his door.

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE 379

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE

John Greenleaf Whit tier

Of all the rides since the birth of time,

Told in story or sung in rhyme, —

On Apuleius's Golden Ass,

Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,

Witch astride of a human back,

Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, —

The strangest ride that ever was sped

Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Body of turkey, head of owl,

Wings adroop like a rained-on fowl,

Feathered and ruffled in every part,

Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.

Scores of women, old and young,

Strong of muscle and glib of tongue,

Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,

Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,

Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,

Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase

Bacchus round some antique vase,

Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,

Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,

With conch shells blowing and fish horns' twang,

380 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Over and over the Maenads sang:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Small pity for him! — He sailed away
From a leaky ship in Chaleur Bay, —
Sailed away from a sinking wreck,
With his own town's people on her deck!
"Lay by! lay by!" they called to him.
Back he answered, "Sink or swim!
Brag of your catch of fish again!"
And off he sailed through the fog and rain!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
That wreck shall lie forevermore,
Mother and sister, wife and maid,
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead
Over the moaning and rainy sea, —
Looked for the coming that might not be!
What did the winds and the sea birds say
Of the cruel captain who sailed away? —
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead.

Through the street, on either side,
Up flew windows, doors swung wide;
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
Treble lent the fish horn's bray.
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,
Hulks of old sailors run aground,
Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE 381

And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Sweetly along the Salem road

Bloom of orchard and lilac showed.

Little the wicked skipper knew

Of the fields so green and the sky so blue.

Riding there in his sorry trim,

Like an Indian idol glum and grim,

Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear

Of voices shouting, far and near:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"

"Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried, —

"What to me is this noisy ride?

What is the shame that clothes the skin

To the nameless horror that lives within?

Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,

And hear a cry from a reeling deck!

Hate me and curse me, — I only dread

The hand of God and the face of the dead!"
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea
Said, "God has touched him! why should we!"
Said an old wife mourning her only son,
"Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!"
So with soft relentings and rude excuse,
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,
And gave him a cloak to hide him in,

382 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

And left him alone with his shame and sin.
Poor Flovd Ireson for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

From ROMEO AND JULIET *

William Shakespeare

Mercutio. O, then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairy midwife; and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep.
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers:
Her wagon-spokes made of long spinner's legs;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
The traces, of the smallest spider's web;
The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams;
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film;
Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat.
And in this state, she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on curtsies straight;
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream:
Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail
Tickling a parson's nose that lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice:
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,

1 Act I, Scene iv.

LONGING FOR HOME 383

And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts, and wakes;
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again.

LONGING FOR HOME

Jean Ingelow

A song of a boat: —

There was. once a boat on a billow:

Lightly she rocked to her port remote:
And the foam was white in her wake like snow,
And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow.

And bent like a wand of willow.

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat
Went curtseying over the billow,

I marked her course till a dancing mote
She faded out on the moonlit foam,
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home:

And my thoughts all day were about the boat,

And my dreams upon the pillow.

I pray you hear my song of a boat,

For it is but short: —
My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat,

In river or port.
Long I looked out for the lad she bore,

On the open desolate sea,
And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore,

For he came not back to me—

Ah me!

384 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

A song of a nest: —
There was once a nest in a hollow:
Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed,
Soft and warm, and full to the brim —
Vetches leaned over it purple and dim,
With buttercup buds to follow.

I pray you hear my song of a nest,

For it is not long: —
You shall never light, in a summer quest

The bushes among —
Shall never light on a prouder sitter,

A fairer nestful, nor ever know
A softer sound than their tender twitter,

That wind-like did come and go.

I had a nestful once of my own,

Ah happy, happy I!
Right dearly I loved them: but when they were grown

They spread out their wings to fly —
O, one after one they flew away

Far up to the heavenly blue,
To the better country, the upper day,

And — I wish I was going too.

I pray you, what is the nest to me,

My empty nest?
And what is the shore where I stood to see

My boat sail down to the west?
Can I call that home where I anchor yet,

Though my good man has sailed?

Can I call that home where my nest was set,

Now all its hope hath failed?
Nay, but the port where my sailor went,

And the land where my nestlings be:

NAAMAN AND GEHAZI 385

There is the home where my thoughts are sent,
The only home for me —

Ah me!

NAAMAN AND GEHAZI
II Kings 5

Now Naaman, captain of the host of the king of Syria, was
a great man with his master, and honorable, because by him
the Lord had given deliverance unto Syria: he was also a
mighty man in valo% but he was a leper. And the Syrians had
gone out by companies, and had brought away captive out of
the land of Israel a little maid; and she waited on Naaman's
wife.

And she said unto her mistress, "Would God my Lord were
with the prophet that is in Samaria! for he would recover him
of his leprosy."

And one went in, and told his lord, saying, Thus and thus
said the maid that is of the land of Israel.

And the king of Syria said, "Go to, go, and I will send a
letter unto the king of Israel."

And he departed, and took with him ten talents of silver,
and six thousand pieces of gold, and ten changes of raiment.
And he brought the letter to the king of Israel, saying, "Now
when this letter is come unto thee, behold, I have therewith
sent Naaman my servant to thee, that thou mayest recover him
of his leprosy."

And it came to pass, when the king of Israel had read the
letter, that he rent his clothes, and said, "Am I God, to kill
and to make alive, that this man doth send unto me to re-
cover a man of his leprosy? Wherefore consider, I pray you,
and see how he seeketh a quarrel against me."

And it was so, when Elisha the man of God had heard that

386 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

the king of Israel had rent his clothes, that he sent to the
king, saying, "Wherefore hast thou rent thy clothes? Let him
come now to me, and he shall know that there is a prophet
in Israel."

So Naaman came with his horses and his chariot, and stood
at the door of the house of Elisha. And Elisha sent a messenger
unto him saying, "Go and wash in Jordon seven times, and
thy flesh shall come again to thee, and thou shalt be clean."

But Naaman was wroth, and went away, and said, "Behold,
I thought, he will surely come out to me and call on the name
of the Lord his God, and strike his hand over the place, and
recover the leper. Are not Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Da-
mascus, better than all the waters of Israel? May I not wash
in them and be clean?"

So he turned and went away in a rage.

And his servants came near, and spake unto him, and said,
"My father, if the prophet had bid thee do some great thing,
wouldst thou not have done it? How much rather, then, when
he saith to thee, 'Wash, and be clean'?"

Then went he down, and dipped himself seven times in
Jordan, according to the saying of the man of God; and his
flesh came again like unto the flesh of a little child, and he
was clean.

And he returned to the man of God, he and all his com-
pany, and came, and stood before him: and he said, "Behold,
now I know that there is no God in all the earth, but in Israel:
now therefore, I pray thee, take a blessing of thy servant."

But he said, "As the Lord liveth, before whom I stand, I
will receive none."

And he urged him to take it; but he refused.

And Naaman said, "Shall there not, then, I pray thee, be
given to thy servant two mules' burden of earth? for thy servant

NAAMAN AND GEHAZI 387

will henceforth offer neither burnt offering nor sacrifice unto
other gods, but unto the Lord. In this thing the Lord pardon
thy servant, that when my master goeth into the house of
Rimmon to worship there, and he leaneth upon my hand, and
I bow myself in the house of Rimmon: when I bow down my-
self in the house of Rimmon, the Lord pardon thy servant in
this thing."

And he said unto him, "Go in peace."

So he departed from him a little way.

But Gehazi, the servant of Elisha the man of God, said, "Be-
hold, my master hath spared Naaman this Syrian, in not re-
ceiving at his hands that which he brought; but as the Lord
liveth, I will run after him and take somewhat of him."

So Gehazi followed after Naaman. And when Naaman saw
him running after him, he lighted down from the chariot to
meet him, and said, "Is all well?"

And he said, "All is well. My master hath sent me, saying,
'Behold, even now there be come to me from Mount Ephraim
two young men of the sons of the prophets: give them, I pray
thee, a talent of silver, and two changes of garments.' "

And Naaman said, "Be content, take two talents." And he
urged him, and bound two talents of silver in two bags, with
two changes of garments, and laid them upon his two servants;
and they bare them before him. And when he came to the
tower, he took them from their hands, and bestowed them in
the house: and he let the men go, and they departed. But he
went in, and stood before his master.

And Elisha said unto him, "Whence comest thou, Gehazi?"

And he said, "Thy servant went no whither."

And he said unto him, "Went not mine heart with thee,
when the man turned again from his chariot to meet thee? Is
it a time to receive money, and to receive garments, and olive-

388 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

yards, and vineyards, and sheep, and oxen, and menservants, and
maidservants? The leprosy therefore of Naaman shall cleave
unto thee, and unto thy seed forever."

And he went out from his presence a leper, as white as snow.

THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT

Edward Lear

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey and plenty of money

Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,

And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are, %

What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,

How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh, let us be married; too long we have tarried:

But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,

To the land where the bong-tree grows;
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,

With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,

With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."

SPRING SONG 389

So they took it away, and were married next day

By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince and slices of quince,

Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

SPRING SONG

From As You Like It
William Shakespeare

It was a lover and his lass,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o'er the green corn-field did pass,

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the rye,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
These pretty country folks would lie,

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.

This carol they began that hour,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

How that a life was but a flower

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;

Sweet lovers love the spring.

390 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

And therefore take the present time,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

For love is crowned with the prime

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;

Sweet lovers love the spring.

SPINNING

Helen Hunt Jackson

Like a blind spinner in the sun,

I tread my days;
I know that all the threads will run

Appointed ways;
I know each day will bring its task,
And, being blind, no more I ask.

I know not now the use or name

Of that I spin;
I only know that some one came,

And laid within
My hand the thread, and said, "Since you
Are blind, but one thing you can do."

Sometimes the threads so rough and fast

And tangled fly,
I know wild storms are sweeping past,

And fear that I
Shall fall; but dare not try to find
A safer place, since I am blind.

I know not why, but I am sure

That tint and place,
In some great fabric to endure

Past time and race

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR 391

My threads will have; so from the first,
Though blind, I never felt accurst.

I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung

From one short word
Said over me when I was young, —

So young, I heard
It, knowing not that God's name signed
My brow, and sealed me His, though blind.

But whether this be seal or sign

Within, without,
It matters not. The bond divine

I never doubt.
I know he set me here, and still,
And glad, and blind, I wait His will;

But listen, listen, day by day,

To hear their tread
Who bear the finished web away,

And cut the thread;
And bring God's message in the sun,
"Thou poor blind spinner, work is done."

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR

Henry Wadsivorth Longfellow

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armor drest,

Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,

Why dost thou haunt me?"

392 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Then from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the Northern skies

Gleam in December;
And, like the water's flow
Under December's snow,
Came a dull voice of woe

From the heart's chamber.

"I was a Viking old!

My deeds, though manifold,

No Skald in song has told,

No Saga taught thee!
Take heed that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man's curse;

For this I sought thee.

"Far in the Northern Land,
By the wild Baltic's strand,
I, with my childish hand,

Tamed the gerfalcon;
And, with my skates fast bound,
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound
That the poor whimpering hound

Trembled to walk on.

"Oft to his frozen lair
Tracked I the grisly bear,
While from my path the hare

Fled like a shadow;
Oft through the forest dark
Followed the were-wolf's bark,
Until the soaring lark

o

Sang from the meadow.

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR 393

"But when I older grew,
Joining a corsair's crew,
O'er the dark sea I flew

With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led;
Many the souls that sped,
Many the hearts that bled,

By our stern orders.

"Many a wassail-bout
Wore the long Winter out;
Often our midnight shout

Set the cocks crowing,
As we the Berserk's tale
Measured in cups of ale,
Draining the oaken pail

Filled to o'erflowing.

"Once as I told in glee
Tales of the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,

Burning yet tender;
And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,
On that dark heart of mine

Fell their soft splendor.

"I wooed the blue-eyed maid,
Yielding, yet half afraid,
And in the forest's shade

Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosened vest
Fluttered her little breast,
Like birds within their nest

By the hawk frighted.

394 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

"Bright in her father's hall
Shields gleamed upon the wall,
Loud sang the minstrels all,

Chanting his glory;
When of old Hildebrand
I asked his daughter's hand,
Mute did the minstrels stand

To hear my story.

"While the brown ale he quaffed,
Loud then the champion laughed,
And as the wind gusts waft

The sea foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking horn

Blew the foam lightly.

"She was a Prince's child,

I but a Viking wild,

And though she blushed and smiled,

I was discarded!
Should not the dove so white
Follow the sea mew's flight?
Why did they leave that night

Her nest unguarded?

"Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me,—
Fairest of all was she

Among the Norsemen! —
When on the white sea strand,
Waving his armed hand,
Saw we old Hildebrand,

With twenty horsemen.

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR 395

"Then launched they to the blast,
Bent like a reed each mast,
Yet we were gaining fast,

When the wind failed us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,
So that our foe we saw

Laugh as he hailed us.

"And as to catch the gale
Round veered the flapping sail,
'Death!' was the helmsman's hail,

'Death without quarter!'
Midships with iron keel
Struck we her ribs of steel;
Down her black hulk did reel

Through the black water!

"As with his wings aslant,
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,

With his prey laden,
So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,
Through the wild hurricane,

Bore I the maiden.

"Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o'er,
Cloudlike we saw the shore

Stretching to leeward;
There for my lady's bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,

Stands looking seaward.

396 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

"There lived we many years;
Time dried the maiden's tears;
She had forgot her fears,

She was a mother;
Death closed her mild blue eyes;
Under that tower she lies;
Ne'er shall the sun arise

On such another.

"Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,

The sunlight hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,

Oh, death was grateful!

"Thus, seamed with many scars,
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars

My soul ascended!
There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior's soul,
Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!"

Thus the tale ended.

Scene from MACBETH 1

Wi 1 1 ia m Sh a k espea re

Macbeth. Co bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,

She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. —
[Exit Servant.]

1 Act II, Scene i (in part) and Scene ii.

MACBETH 397

Is this a dagger which I see before me,

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me

clutch thee: —
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use, —
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. — There's no such

thing:
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. — Now o'er the one-half-
world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd Murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy

pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, toward his

designs
Moves like a ghost. — Thou sure and firm-set

earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they take, for

fear
The very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. — Whiles I threat, he

lives:

398

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Lady Macbeth.

Macbeth.
Lady Macbeth.

Macbeth.

Lady Macbeth.

Macbeth.
Lady Macbeth.
Macbeth.
Lady Macbeth.

Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath
gives. [A bell rings.]

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.

Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell

That summons thee to Heaven or to Hell.

[Exit.]

[entering]. That which hath made them drunk
hath made me bold;

What hath quench'd them, hath given me fire.
— Hark! — Peace!

It was the owl that shriek'd the fatal bellman,

Which gives the stern's good-night. He is about
it;

The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms

Do mock their charge with snores. I have
drugg'd their possets,

That death and nature do contend about them,

Whether they live or die.

[within]. Who's there? — what, ho!

Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd,

And 'tis not done: — the attempt, and not the
deed,

Confounds us. — Hark! — I laid their daggers
ready;

He could not miss them. — Had he not re-
sembled

My father as he slept, I had done 't. — My hus-
band! [Enter Macbeth.]

I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a
noise?

I heard the owl scream, and the cricket cry.

Did you not speak?

When?

Now.

As I descended?

Ay.

MACBETH 399

Macbeth. Hark! —

Who lies i' the second chamber?
Lady Macbeth. Donalbain.

Macbeth. This is a sorry sight. [Looking at his hands.}

Lady Macbeth. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.
Macbeth. There's one did laugh in his sleep, and one

cried, "Murder!"
That they did wake each other: I stood and

heard them;
But they did say their prayers, and address'd

them
Again to sleep.
Lady Macbeth. There are two lodged together.

Macbeth. One cried "God bless us!" and "Amen," the

other;
As they had seen me, with these hangman's

hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say, "Amen,"
When they did say, "God bless us!"
Lady Macbeth. Consider it not so deeply.

Macbeth. But wherefore could not I pronounce,

"Amen"?
I had most need of blessing, and "Amen"
Stuck in my throat.
Lady Macbeth. These deeds must not be thought

After these ways; so, it will make us mad.
Macbeth. Methought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no

more!
Macbeth does murder sleep! the innocent

sleep;
Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second

course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast —
Lady Macbeth. What do you mean?

400
Macbeth.

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Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house:
"Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore

Cawdor
Shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no

more!"
Lady Macbeth. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy

thane,
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brain-sickly of things. Go, get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand. — ■
Why did you bring these daggers from the

place?
They must lie there: go, carry them; and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.

I'll go no more:
I am afraid to think what I have done;
Look on 't again I dare not.

Infirm of purpose!
Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,
For it must seem their guilt.
[Exit. Knocking within.']
Macbeth. Whence is that knocking?

How is 't with me, when every noise appals me?
What hands are here? Ha! They pluck out

mine eyes!
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will

rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red. [Re-enter Lady

Macbeth.]
Lady Macbeth. My hands are of your color, but I shame

Macbeth.

Lady Macbeth.

NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 401

To wear a heart so white. [Knock.] I hear a

knocking
At the south entry: — retire we to our chamber:
A little water clears us of this deed:
How easy it is then! Your constancy
Hath left you unattended. — [Knocking.] Hark,

more knocking.
Get on your night-gown, lest occasion call us,
And show us to be watchers. Be not lost
So poorly in your thoughts.
Macbeth. To know my deed, 'twere best not know my-

self. [Knock.]
Wake Duncan with thy knocking. I would thou
couldst!

NICHOLAS NICKLEBY LEAVING THE
YORKSHIRE SCHOOL

Charles Dickens

The poor creature, Smike, paid bitterly for the friendship
of Nicholas Nickleby; all the spleen and ill humor that could
not be vented on Nicholas were bestowed on him. Stripes and
blows, stripes and blows, morning, noon and night, were his
penalty for being compassionated by the daring new master.
Squeers was jealous of the influence which the said new master
soon acquired in the school, and hated him for it; Mrs. Squeers
had hated him from the first; and poor Smike paid heavily for
all.

One night he was poring hard over a book, vainly endeavor-
ing to master some task which a child of nine years could have
conquered with ease, but which to the brain of the crushed boy
of nineteen was a hopeless mystery. Nicholas laid his hand upon
his shoulder. "I can't do it."

402 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

"Do not try. You will do better, poor fellow, when I am gone."

"Gone? Are you going?"

"I cannot say. I was speaking more to my own thoughts than
to you. I shall be driven to that at last! The world is before
me, after all."

"Is the world as bad and dismal as this place?"

"Heaven forbid. Its hardest, coarsest toil is happiness to this."

"Should I ever meet you there?"

"Yes," — willing to soothe him.

"No! no! Should I — say I should be sure to find you."

"You would, and I would help and aid you, and not bring
fresh sorrow upon you, as I have done here."

The boy caught both his hands, and uttered a few broken
sounds which were unintelligible. Squeers entered at the mo-
ment, and he shrunk back into his old corner.

Two days later, the cold feeble dawn of a January morning
was stealing in at the windows of the common sleeping-room.

"Now, then," cried Squeers, from the bottom of the stairs,
"are you going to sleep all day up there?"

"We shall be down directly, sir."

"Down directly! Ah! you had better be down directly, or I'll
be down upon some of you in less time than directly. Where's
that Smike?"

Nicholas looked round. "He is not here, sir."

"Don't tell me a lie. He is."

Squeers bounced into the dormitory, and swinging his cane in
the air ready for a blow, darted into the corner where Smike
usually lay at night. The cane descended harmlessly. There was
nobody there.

"What does this mean? Where have you hid him?"

"I have seen nothing of him since last night."

"Come, you won't save him this way. Where is he?"

"At the bottom of the nearest pond, for anything I know."

NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 403

In a fright, Squeers inquired of the boys whether any one of
them knew anything of their missing school-mate. There was
a general hum of denial, in the midst of which one shrill voice
was heard to say — as indeed everybody thought —

"Please, sir, I think Smike's run away, sir."

"Ha! who said that?"

Squeers made a plunge into the crowd, and caught a very
little boy. "You think he has run away, do you, sir?"

"Yes, please, sir."

"And what reason have you to suppose that any boy would
run away from this establishment? Eh?"

The child raised a dismal cry by way of answer, and Squeers
beat him until he rolled out of his hands.

"There! Now if any other boy thinks Smike has run away, I
shall be glad to have a talk with him." Profound silence.

"Well, Nickleby, you think he has run away, I suppose?"

"I think it extremely likely."

"Maybe you know he has run away?"

"I know nothing about it."

"He didn't tell you he was going, I suppose?"

"He did not. I am very glad he did not, for then it would
have been my duty to tell you."

"Which no doubt you would have been sorry to do?"

"I shoulflfmdeed."
~"Mrs. Squeers now hastily made her way to the scene of action.
"What's all this here to-do? What on earth are you talking to
him for, Squeery? The cow-house and stables are locked up, so
Smike can't be there; and he's not downstairs anywhere. Now,
if you takes the chaise and goes one road, and I borrows Swal-
low's chaise and goes t'other, one qy other of us is moral sure
to lay hold of him."

The lady's plan was put in execution without delay, Nicholas
remaining behind in a tumult of feeling. Death, from want and

404 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

exposure, was the best that could be expected from the pro-
longed wandering of so helpless a creature. Nicholas lingered
on, in restless anxiety, picturing a thousand possibilities, until
the evening of the next day, when Squeers returned alone.

"No news of the scamp!"

Another day came, and Nicholas was scarcely awake when
he heard the wheels of a chaise approaching the house. It
stopped, and the voice of Mrs. Squeers was heard, ordering a
glass of spirits for somebody, which was in itself a sufficient
sign that something extraordinary had happened. Nicholas
hardly dared look out of the window, but he did so, and the
first object that met his eyes was the wretched Smike, bedabbled
with mud and rain, haggard and worn and wild.

"Lift him out," said Squeers. "Bring him in, bring him in."

"Take care," cried Mrs. Squeers. "We tied his legs under the
apron, and made 'em fast to the chaise, to prevent him giving
us the slip again."

With hands trembling with delight, Squeers loosened the
cord; and Smike more dead than alive, was brought in and
locked up in a cellar, until such a time as Squeers should deem
it expedient to operate upon him.

The news that the fugitive had been caught and brought back
ran like wildfire through the hungry community, and expecta-
tion was on tiptoe all the morning. In the afternoon, Squeers,
having refreshed himself with his dinner and an extra libation
or so, made his appearance, accompanied by his amiable partner,
with a fearful instrument of flagellation, strong, supple, wax-
ended and new.

"Is every boy here?" Every boy was there.

"Each boy keep his place/ Nickleby! go to your desk, sir."
There was a curious expression in the usher's face; but he took
his seat, without opening his lips in reply. Squeers left the room,
and shortly afterward returned, dragging Smike by the collar —

NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 405

or rather by that fragment of his jacket which was nearest the
place where his collar ought to have been.

"Now what have you got to say for yourself? Stand a little
out of the way, Mrs. Squeers; I've hardly got room enough."

"Spare me, sir!"

"Oh, that's all you've got to say, is it? Yes, I'll flog you within
an inch of your life, and spare you that."

One cruel blow had fallen on him, when Nicholas Nickleby
cried "Stop!"

"Who cried 'Stop!' "

"I did. This must not go on."

"Must not go on!"

"No! Must not! Shall not! I will prevent it! You have disre-
garded all my quiet interference in this miserable lad's behalf;
you have returned no answer to the letter in which I begged
forgiveness for him, and offered to be responsible that he would
remain quietly here. Don't blame me for this public interfer-
ence. You have brought it upon yourself, not I."

"Sit down, beggar!"

"Wretch, touch him again at your peril! I will not stand
by and see it done. My blood is up, and I have the strength of
ten such men as you^By^ Heaven! I will not spare you, if you
drive me on! I have a series of personal insults to avenge, and
my indignation is aggravated by the cruelties practised in this
cruel den. Have a care, or the consequences will fall heavily
upon your head!"

Squeers, in a violent outbreak, spat at him, and struck him a
blow across the face. Nicholas instantly sprung upon him,
wrested his weapon from his hand, and, pinning him by the
throat, beat the ruffian till he roared for mercy. He then flung
him away with all the force he could muster, and the violence
of his fall precipitated Mrs. Squeers over an adjacent form;
Squeers, striking his head against the same form in his descent,

406 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

lay at his full length on the ground, stunned and motionless.
Having brought affairs to this happy termination, and hav-
ing ascertained to his satisfaction that Squeers was only stunned,
and not dead, — upon which point he had had some unpleasant
doubts at first, — Nicholas packed up a few clothes in a small
valise, and finding that nobody offered to oppose his progress,
marched boldly out by the front door, and struck into the road.
Then such a cheer arose as the walls of Dotheboys Hall had
never echoed before, and would never respond to again. When
the sound had died away, the school was empty; and of the
crowd of boys not one remained.

DAYBREAK

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A wind came up out of the sea,

And said, "O, mists, make room for me."

It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone."

And hurried landward far away,
Crying, "Awake! it is the day."

It said unto the forest, "Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!"

It touched the wood bird's folded wing,
And said, "O bird, awake and sing."

And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow; the day is near."

It whispered to the fields of corn,

"Bow down, and hail the coming morn."

TAMPA ROBINS 407

It shouted through the belfry tower,
"Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour."

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie."

TAMPA ROBINS

Sidney Lanier

The robin laughed in the orange tree:
"Ho, windy North, a fig for thee:
While breasts are red and wings are bold
And green trees wave us globes of gold,
Time's scythe shall reap but bliss for me
— Sunlight, song, and the orange tree.

Burn, golden gloves in leady sky,
My orange planets: crimson I
Will shine and shoot among the spheres
(Blithe meteor that no mortal fears)
And thrid the heavenly orange tree
With orbits bright of minstrelsy.

If that I hate wild winter's spite —
The gibbet trees, the world in white,
The sky but gray wind over a grave —
Why should I ache, the season's slave?

I'll sing from the top of the orange tree,

Gramercy, winter's tyranny.

I'll south with the sun, and keep my clime;

My wing is king of the summer time;

My breast to the sun his torch shall hold;

And I'll call down through the green and gold,
Time, take thy scythe, reap bliss for me,
Bestir thee under the orange tree."

408 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING

Thomas Moore

The time I've lost in wooing,

In watching and pursuing

The light that lies

In woman's eyes,

Has been my heart's undoing.

Tho' wisdom oft has sought me,

I scorn'd the lore she brought me,

My only books

Were woman's looks,

And folly's all they taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted,

I hung with gaze enchanted,

Like him the sprite

Whom maids by night

Oft meet in glen that's haunted.

Like him, too, Beauty won me;

But when the spell was on me,

If once their ray

Was turn'd away,

O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going?
And is my proud heart growing
Too cold or wise
For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing?

AUNT MELISSY ON BOYS 409

No — vain, alas! th' endeavor
From so sweet to sever; —
Poor Wisdom's chance
Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever.

AUNT MELISSY ON BOYS
John T. Trowbridge

I hain't nothin' agin' boys, as sich. They're a necessary part
o' creation, I s'pose — like a good many disagreeable things!
But deliver me! I'd ruther bring up a family of nine gals, any
day in the year, with cats an' dogs throw'd in, than one boy.

Gittin' fishhooks into their jacket-pockets, to stick in yer
fingers washin'-days! Gals don't carry fishhooks in their jacket-
pockets. Tearin' their trousis a-climbin' fences! perfec'ly reck-
less! an' then, patch! patch!

Kiverin' the floor with whiddlin's soon as ever you've got
nicely slicked up! an' then down must come the broom an'
dustpan agin; an' I remember once, when I kep' house for Uncle
Amos, I hed the Dorkis S'iety to tea, an' I'd been makin' a nice
dish of cream-toast, an' we was waitin' for the minister — blessed
soul! he mos' gener'ly dropped in to tea when the S'iety met,
an' he never failed when 'twas to our house, he was so fond o'
my cream-toast — an' bimeby he come in, an' when everybody
was ready, I run and ketched up the things from the kitchen
hairth, where I'd left 'em to keep warm, an' put 'em ontew
the table, and we drawed up our chairs, an' got quiet, an' I
never noticed anything was out o' the way, till bimeby, jes's
the minister — blessed soul! — was a-askin' the blessin', I kind o'
opened one corner of my eye to see how the table looked — for
I prided myself on my table — when I declare to goodness, if

410 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

I didn't think I should go right through the top of the house!
For there was the great, splendid, elegant, nice dish o' cream-
toast, stuccoted all over with pine whiddlin's! right between the
blazin' candles Lucindy'd put on jes' as we was a-settin' down.

Ye see, I'd poured the cream over the toast the last thing
when I set it by the fire, an' never noticed Hezekier in the
corner a-whiddlin' out his canew — I should say canoo! Why, that
'air cream-toast was like a foamin' cataract kivered by a fleet of
canews, where the whiddlin's was curled up on't, capsized,
stickin' up eendways an' every which way, enough to make a
decent housekeeper go intew fits! An' I thought I should!

I shet my eyes, an' tried to keep my mind ontew things sper-
itooal, but I couldn't for my life think of anything but the
pesky whiddlin's in the toast, an' how was I ever goin' to snatch
it off'm the table an' out of sight, the minute the blcssin' was
through, an' 'fore the minister — blessed soul! — or anybody had
their eyes open to the material things; for right ontew the tail of
the Amen, ye know, comp'ny will kind o' look 'round, hopeful
and comf table, to see what creatur' comforts is put afore 'em.

But I watched my chance.

I knowed perty well the way he mos' gener'ly allers tapered
off, an' soon's ever that long-hankered-for Amen come out, I
jumped like a cat at a mouse, had that 'air toast off'm the table,
whisked it into the pantry, picked the whiddlin's out with my
thumb-an'-finger, give that Hezekier a good smart box on the
ear, as a foretaste of what was in store for him when the comp'ny
was gone, an' had it back ontew the table agin, all serene an'
beautiful, only I noticed Miss Smith, — she's got eyes like a
lynx, an' she was dreffle jealous of my housekeepin', — she'd seen
suthin'! she looked awful queer an' puzzled! an' I was mortified
tew death when the minister — blessed soul! — a-eatin' of his
slice, took suthin' tough out of his mouth, and laid it careful
under the side of his plate. He was a wonderful perlite man, an'

AUNT MELISSY ON BOYS 411

not a soul in the world 'sides me an' him ever 'spected he'd
been chorrin' ontew a pine whiddlin'l

That's jest a specimint o' that 'air Hezekier. His excuse allers
was, he didn't mean ter dew it. Once his pa give him about tew
quarts o' seed-corn in a bucket, an' told him to put it to soak —
his pa gener'ly soaked his seed-corn for plantin'; he said it come
up so much quicker. Hezekier, he took the bucket, but he was
tew lazy to git any water, so he jest ketched up the fust thing
come handy, which happened to be a jug o' rum, an' poured
it all into the corn, an' then went to flyin' his kite.

Wal, that afternoon, his pa was a-goin' through the wood-
shed, an' he kep' snuffin', snuffin', till bimeby says he "Melissy,"
says he, "what under the canopy ye been doin' with rum?" says
he. Of course I hadn't been doin' nothin' with rum, only smellin'
on't for the last half hour — I detest the stuff! — but we put our
noses together an' follered up the scent, and there was that corn!

"Now, Amos," says I, "I hope to gracious goodness you'll
give that boy a good tunin' — for he's jest sufferin' for it!"
says I.

"No, I ain't!" says Hezekier. "I shall be sufferin' if ye give it
tew me!" says he. "I seen pa drinkin' out o' the jug, an' thought
'twa'n't nothin' but water!" says he.

An' his pa jest kinder winked to me, an' scolded and threat-
ened a little, an' then drove off to town, tellin' Hezekier to toe
the mark an' jest look sharp arter things, or he'd give it to him.

Wal, Hezekier was perty quiet that arternoon, which I
noticed it, for gener'ly, if he wa'n't makin' a noise to drive ye
distracted, ye might be sure he was up to some wus mischief;
an' bimeby think says I to myself, think says I; "Now what under
the canopy can that Hezekier be up tew now!" think says I; for
I hadn't heerd him blow his squawker, nor pound on a tin pan,
nor pull the cat's tail, nor touch off his cannon, nor bounce
his ball agin' the house, nor screech, nor break a glass, nor

412 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

nothin', for all of five minutes; an' I was a-wonderin', when
perty soon he comes into the house of his own accord, a-lookin'
kinder scaret and meechin'; an' says he, "Aunt Melissy," says
he, "I'm a-feared there's suthin' the matter with them 'air
turkeys."

"The turkeys!" says I. "What in the name of goodness can be
the matter with them?"

"I don'o'," says he; "but I guess ye better come out an' look."

And I did go out an' look! an' there behind the woodshed
was all them seven turkeys, the hull caboodle of 'em, ol' gobbler
an' all, keeled over and stretched out on the ground, a sight
to behold!

"Massy goodness sakes alive! What's been an' gone an' killed
off all the turkeys?" *

"I don'o', 'thout it's suthin' they've et."

"Et!" says I. "What you been givin' on 'em to eat? fer good-
ness' sakes!"

"Nothin', only that corn that was sp'ilt for plantin'; I tho't
'twas too bad to have it all wasted, so I fed it to the turkeys."

"Fed it to the turkeys! An' you've jest killed 'em, every blessed
one! An' what'll yer pa say now dew you s'pose?"

"I didn't mean ter do it."

"I'd didn't mean ter yet, if ye was my boy!" says I. "Now ketch
hold and help me pick their feathers off an' dress 'em for market,
fust thing — for that's all the poor critters is good for now — so
much for yer plaguy nonsense!"

He sprung tew perty smart, for once, an' Lucindy she helped,
an we jest stripped them 'air turkeys jest as naked as any fowls
ever ye see, 'fore singein — all but their heads, an' I was jest a-goin'
to cut off the old gobbler's — I'd got it ontew the choppin' block,
an' raised the ax, when he kinder give a wiggle, an' squawked!

Jest then Lucindy, she spoke up: "Oh, Aunt Melissy! there's
one a-kickin'!" I jest dropped that 'air gobbler an' the ax an'

THE WAY TO SING 413

looked, an' there was one or tew more a-kickin' by that time;
for if you'll believe me, not one o' them turkeys was dead at
all, only dead drunk from the rum in the corn! an' it wa'n't many
minutes 'fore every one o' them poor, naked, ridic'lous critters
was up, staggerin' 'round, lookin' dizzy an' silly enough, massy
knows! While that Hezekier! he couldn't think o' nothin' else
to dew, but jest to keel over on the grass an' roll an' kick an'
screech, like all possessed! For my part, I couldn't see nothin'
to laugh at. I pitied the poor naked, tipsy things, an' set to
work that very arternoon, a-makin' little jackets for 'em to wear;
an' then that boy had to go intew coniptions agin, when he
seen 'em with their jackets on. An' if you'll believe it, his pa,
he laughed tew — so foolish! An' jes' said to Hezekier: "Didn't ye
know no better 'n to go an' give corn soaked in rum to the
turkeys?" says he, an' then kinder winked to me out o' t'other
side of his face; an' that's every speck of a whippin' that boy got!

A bridged.

THE WAY TO SING

Helen Hunt Jackson

The birds must know. Who wisely sings

Will sing as they;
The common air has generous wings,

Songs make their way.
No messenger to run before,

Devising plan;
No mention of the place or hour

To any man;
No waiting till some sound betrays

A listening ear;
No different voice, no new delays,

If steps draw near.

414 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

"What bird is that? Its song is good."

And eager eyes
Go peering through the dusky wood,

In glad surprise.
Then late at night, when by his fire

The traveller sits,
Watching the flame grow brighter, higher,

The sweet song flits
By snatches through his weary brain

To help him rest;
When next he goes that road again,

An empty nest
On leafless bough will make him sigh,

"Ah me! last spring
Just here I heard, in passing by,

That rare bird sing!"

But while he sighs, remembering

How sweet the song,
The little bird on tireless wing,

Is borne along
In other air, and other men

With weary feet,
On other roads, the simple strain

Are finding sweet.
The birds must know. Who wisely sings

Will sing as they;
The common air has generous wings,

Songs make their way.

MERLIN AND THE GLEAM

Alfred Tennyson

O young Mariner,
You from the haven

MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 415

Under the sea-cliff,
You that are watching
The gray Magician
With eyes of wonder,
I am Merlin,
And I am dying,
I am Merlin
Who follow The Gleam.

Mighty the Wizard
Who found me at sunrise
Sleeping, and woke me
And learned me magicl
Great the Master,
And sweet the Magic,
When over the valley,
In early summers,
Over the mountain,
On human faces,
And all around me,
Moving to melody,
Floated The Gleam.

Once at the croak of a Raven who crost it,

A barbarous people,

Blind to the Magic,

And deaf to the melody,

Snarled at and cursed me.

The light retreated,

The landskip darkened,

The melody deadened;

The Master whispered,

"Follow The Gleam."

Then to the melody,
Over a wilderness

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Gliding, and glancing at

Elf of woodland,

Gnome of the cavern,

Griffin and Giant,

And dancing Fairies

In desolate hollows,

And wraiths of the mountain,

And rolling of dragons

By warble of water,

Or cataract music

Of falling torrents,

Flitted The Gleam.

Down from the mountain

And over the level,

And streaming and shining on

Silent river,

Silvery willow,

Pasture and plowland,

Innocent maidens,

Garrulous children,

Homestead and harvest,

Reaper and gleaner,

And rough-ruddy faces

Of lowly labor,

Glided The Gleam —

Then, with a melody
Stronger and statelier,
Led me at length
To the city and palace
Of Arthur the king;
Touched at the golden
Cross of the churches,
Flashed on the Tournament,
Flickered and bickered

MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 417

From helmet to helmet,
And last on the forehead
Of Arthur the blameless
Rested The Gleam.

Clouds and darkness

Closed upon Camelot;

Arthur had vanished

I knew not whither,

The king who loved me

And cannot die;

For out of the darkness

Silent and slowly

The Gleam, that had waned to a wintry glimmer

On icy fallow

And faded forest,

Drew to the valley

Named of the shadow,

And slowly brightening

Out of the glimmer,

And slowly moving again to the melody

Yearningly tender,

Fell on the shadow,

No longer shadow,

But clothed with The Gleam.

And broader and brighter
The Gleam flying onward,
Wed to the melody,
Sang through the world;
And slower and fainter,
Old and weary,
But eager to follow,
I saw, whenever
In passing it glanced upon
Hamlet or city,

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That under the Crosses

The dead man's garden,

The mortal hillock,

Would break into blossom;

And so to the land's

Last limit I came —

And can no longer,

But die rejoicing,

For through the Magic

Of Him the Mighty,

Who taught me in childhood,

There on the border

Of boundless Ocean,

And all but in Heaven

Hovers The Gleam.

Not of the sunlight,
Not of the moonlight,
Not of the starlight!
O young Mariner,
Down to the haven,
Call your companions,
Launch your vessel,
And crowd your canvas,
And, ere it vanishes
Over the margin,
After it, follow it,
Follow The Gleam.

From ROMEO AND JULIET *

William Shakespeare

Romeo: He jests at scars, that never felt a wound.
[Juliet appears above at a window.]

1 Act II, Scene ii.

CONTENTMENT 419

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

Who is already sick and pale with grief,

That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she:

Be not her maid, since she is envious;

Her vestal livery is but sick and green,

And none but fools do wear it: cast it off.

It is my lady; oh, it is my love!

Oh that she knew she were!

She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that?

Her eye discourses, I will answer it. —

I am too bold, 't is not to me she speaks:

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,

Having some business, do entreat her eyes

To twinkle in their spheres till they return.

What if her eyes were there, they in her head?

The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,

As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven

Would through the airy region stream so bright

That birds would sing and think it were not night.

As silver-voiced; her eyes as jewel-like,

And cased as richly; in face another Juno;

Who starves the ears she feeds, and makes them hungry

The more she gives them speech.

CONTENTMENT

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Little I ask; my wants are few;

I only wish a hut of stone,
(A very plain brown stone will do,)

That I may call my own; —
And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.

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Plain food is quite enough for me;

Three courses are as good as ten; —
If Nature can subsist on three,

Thank Heaven for three. Amen!
I always thought cold victual nice; —
My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land; —
Give me a mortgage here and there, —

Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,
Or trifling railroad share, —

I only ask that Fortune send

A little more than I shall spend.

Honors are silly toys, I know,
And titles are but empty names;

I would, perhaps, be Plenipo, —
But only near St. James;

I'm very sure I should not care

To fill our Gubernator's chair.

Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sin

To care for such unfruitful things; —

One good-sized diamond in a pin, —
Some, not so large, in rings, —

A ruby, and a pearl, or so,

Will do for me; — I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire;

(Good, heavy silks are never dear;) —
I own perhaps I might desire

Some shawls of true Cashmere, —
Some marrowy crapes of China silk,
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

CONTENTMENT 421

I would not have the horse I drive

So fast that folks must stop and stare;
An easy gait — two forty-five —

Suits me; I do not care; —
Perhaps, for just a single spurt,
Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own

Titians and Raphaels three or four, —

I love so much their style and tone, —
One Turner, and no more,

(A landscape, — foreground golden dirt, —

The sunshine painted with a squirt.)

Of books but few, — some fifty score

For daily use, and bound for wear;
The rest upon an upper floor; —

Some little luxury there
Of red morocco's gilded gleam
And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems, — such things as these,

Which others often show for pride,
I value for their power to please,

And selfish churls deride; —
One Stradivarius, I confess,
Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn,
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool; —

Shall not carved tables serve my turn,
But all must be of buhl?

Give grasping pomp its double share, —

I ask but one recumbent chair.

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Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for Midas' golden touch;

If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them much, —

Too grateful for the blessing lent

Of simple tastes and mind content!

DRIFTING

Thomas Buchanan Read

My soul to-day

Is far away,
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;

My winged boat,

A bird afloat,
Swings round the purple peaks remote:

Round purple peaks

It sails, and seeks
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,

Where high rocks throw,

Through deeps below,
A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim,

The mountains swim;
While on Vesuvius' misty brim,

With outstretched hands,

The gray smoke stands
O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

I heed not if
My rippling skiff
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;

DRIFTING 423

With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.

Over the rail

My hand I trail
Within the shadow of the sail,

A joy intense,

The cooling sense
Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies
Where Summer sings and never dies, —

O'erveiled with vines

She glows and shines
Among her future oil and wines.

The fisher's child,

With tresses wild,
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,

With glowing lips

Sings as she skips,
Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes

Where traffic blows,
From lands of sun to lands of snows; —

This happier one,

Its course is run
From lands of snow to lands of sun.

O happy ship,
To rise and dip,
With the blue crystal at your lip!

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O happy crew,
My heart with you
Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

No more, no more

The worldly shore
Upbraids me with its loud uproar!

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise!

Abridged

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL

James Russell Lowell

PRELUDE TO PART FIRST

Over his keys the musing organist,

Beginning doubtfully and far away,
First lets his fingers wander as they list,

And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay:
Then, as the touch of his loved instrument

Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme,
First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent

Along the wavering vista of his dream.

Not only around our infancy
Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
We Sinais climb and know it not.

Over our manhood bend the skies;

Against our fallen and traitor lives
The great winds utter prophecies;

With our faint hearts the mountain strives;
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 425

Waits with its benedicte;
And to our age's drowsy blood
Still shouts the inspiring sea.

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us;

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,

We bargain for the graves we lie in;
At the devil's booth are all things sold,
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;

For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking:

'T is heaven alone that is given away,
'T is only God may be had for the asking;
No price is set on the lavish summer;
June may be had by the poorest comer.

And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean

To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun

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With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, —
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back
For other couriers we should not lack;

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, —
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving;
'T is as easy now for the heart to be true
As for the grass to be green or skies to be blue, —
'T is the natural way of living:

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 427

Who knows whither the clouds have fled?

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake;
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The soul partakes the season's youth,

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.
What wonder if Sir Launfal now
Remembered the keeping of his vow?

Part First

"My golden spurs now bring to me,

And bring to me my richest mail,
For to-morrow I go over land and sea

In search of the Holy Grail;
Shall never a bed for me be spread,
Nor shall a pillow be under my head,
Till I begin my vow to keep;
Here on the rushes will I sleep,
And perchance there may come a vision true
Ere day create the world anew."

Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim,

Slumber fell like a cloud on him,
And into his soul tfte vision flew.

ii

The crows flapped over by twos and threes,
In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees,
The little birds sang as if it were
The one day of summer in all the year,
And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees:
The castle alone in the landscape lay

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Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray:

'T was the proudest hall in the North Countree,

And never its gates might opened be,

Save to lord or lady of high degree;

Summer besieged it on every side,

But the churlish stone her assaults defied;

She could not scale the chilly wall,

Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall

Stretched left and right,

Over the hills and out of sight;

Green and broad was every tent,

And out of each a murmur went
Till the breeze fell off at night.

in

The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang,
And through the dark arch a charger sprang,
Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight,
In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright
It seemed the dark castle had gathered all
Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall

In his siege of three hundred summers long,
And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf,

Had cast them forth: so, young and strong,
And lightsome as a locust-leaf,
Sir Launfal flashed forth in his maiden mail,
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.

IV

It was morning on hill and stream and tree,
And morning in the young knight's heart;

Only the castle moodily

Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free,
And gloomed by itself apart;

The season brimmed all other things up

Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup.

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 429

As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate,

He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same,
Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate;

And a loathing over Sir Launfal came;
The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill,

The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan shrink and crawl,
And midway its leap his heart stood still

Like a frozen waterfall;
For this man, so foul and bent of stature,
Rasped harshly against his dainty nature,
And seemed the one blot on the summer morn, —
So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.

VI

The leper raised not the gold from the dust:

"Better to me the poor man's crust,

Better the blessing of the poor,

Though I turn me empty from his door;

That is no true alms which the hand can hold;

He gives only the worthless gold

Who gives from a sense of duty;
But he who gives but a slender mite,
And gives to that which is out of sight,

That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty
Which runs through all and doth all unite, —
The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms,
The heart outstretches its eager palms,
For a god goes with it and makes it store
To the soul that was starving in darkness before."

PRELUDE TO PART SECOND

Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,
From the snow five thousand summers old;

On open wold and hilltop bleak
It had gathered all the cold,

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And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek;

It carried a shiver everywhere

From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare;

The little brook heard it and built a roof

'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof;

All night by the white stars' frosty gleams

He groined his arches and matched his beams;

Slender and clear were his crystal spars

As the lashes of light that trim the stars:

He sculptured every summer delight

In his halls and chambers out of sight;

Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt

Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt,

Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees

Bending to counterfeit a breeze;

Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew

But silvery mosses that downward grew;

Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief

With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf;

Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear

For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here

He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops

And hung them thickly with diamond drops,

That crystalled the beams of moon and sun,

And made a star of every one:

No mortal builder's most rare device

Could match this winter-palace of ice;

'T was as if every image that mirrored lay

In his depths serene through the summer day,

Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky,

Lest the happy model should be lost,
Had been mimicked in fairy masonry

By the elfin builders of the frost.

Within the hall are song and laughter,

The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly,

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 431

And sprouting is every corbel and rafter

With lightsome green of ivy and holly;
Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide
Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide;
The broad flame-pennons droop and flap

And belly and tug as a flag in the wind;
Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap,

Hunted to death in its galleries blind;
And swift little troops of silent sparks,

Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear,
Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks

Like herds of startled deer.

But the wind without was eager and sharp,
Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp,

And rattles and wrings

The icy strings,
Singing, in dreary monotone,
A Christmas carol of its own,

Whose burden still, as he might guess,

Was "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!"
The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch
As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch,
And he sat in the gateway and saw all night

The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold,

Through the window-slits of the castle old,
Build out its piers of ruddy light
Against the drift of the cold.

Part Second

There was never a leaf on bush or tree,
The bare boughs rattled shudderingly;
The river was dumb and could not speak,

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For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun;
A single crow on the tree-top bleak

From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun;
Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold,
As if her veins were sapless and old,
And she rose up decrepitly
For a last dim look at earth and sea.

ii

Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate,

For another heir in his earldom sate;

An old, bent man, worn out and frail,

He came back from seeking the Holy Grail;

Little he recked of his earldom's loss,

No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross,

But deep in his soul the sign he wore,

The badge of the suffering and the poor.

in

Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare

Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air,

For it was just at the Christmas time;

So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime,

And sought for a shelter from cold and snow

In the light and warmth of long-ago;

He sees the snake-like caravan crawl

O'er the edge of the desert, black and small,

Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one,

He can count the camels in the sun,

As over the red-hot sands they pass

To where, in its slender necklace of grass,

The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade,

And with its own self like an infant played,

And waved its signal of palms.

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 433

IV

"For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms";
The happy camels may reach the spring,
But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing,
The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone,
That cowers beside him, a thing as lone
And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas
In the desolate horror of his disease.

And Sir Launfal said, "I behold in thee

An image of Him who died on the tree;

Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns,

Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns,

And to thy life were not denied

The wounds in the hands and feet and side;

Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me;

Behold, through him, I give to thee!"

VI

Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes

And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he
Remembered in what a haughtier guise

He had flung an alms to leprosie,
When he girt his young life up in gilded mail
And set forth in search of the Holy Grail.
The heart within him was ashes and dust;
He parted in twain his single crust,
He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink,
And gave the leper to eat and drink,
'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread,

'T was water out of a wooden bowl, —
Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed,

And 't was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul*

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VII

As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face

A light shone round about the place;

The leper no longer crouched at his side,

But stood before him glorified,

Shining and tall and fair and straight

As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, —

Himself the Gate whereby men can

Enter the temple of God in Man.

VIII

His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine,

And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine,

That mingle their softness and quiet in one

With the shaggy unrest they float down upon;

And the voice that was softer than silence said,

"Lo, it is I, be not afraid!

In many climes, without avail,

Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail;

Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou

Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now;

This crust is My body broken for thee,

This water His blood that died on the tree;

The Holy Supper is kept, indeed,

In whatso we share with another's need;

Not what we give, but what we share,

For the gift without the giver is bare;

Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,

Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me."

IX

Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound:
"The Grail in my castle here is found!
Hang my idle armor up on the wall,
Let it be the spider's banquet-hall;

THE STAGE-COACH 435

He must be fenced with stronger mail
Who would seek and find the Holy Grail."

x

The castle gate stands open now,

And the wanderer is welcome to the hall
As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough;

No longer scowl the turrets tall,
The summer's long siege at last is o'er;
When the first poor outcast went in at the door,
She entered with him in disguise,
And mastered the fortress by surprise;
There is no spot she loves so well on ground,
She lingers and smiles there the whole year round:
The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land
Has hall and bower at his command;
And there's no poor man in the North Countree
But is lord of the earldom as much as he.

THE STAGE-COACH

Charles Dickens

When the coach came round at last, with "London" blazoned
in letters of gold upon the boot, it gave Tom such a turn, that
he was half disposed to run away. But he didn't do it; for he
took his seat upon the box instead, and looking down upon
the four grays, felt as if he were another gray himself, or, at all
events, a part of the turn-out; and was quite confused by the
novelty and splendor of his situation.

And really it might have confused a less modest man than
Tom to find himself sitting next to that coachman; for of all
the swells that ever flourished a whip, professionally, he might
have been elected emperor. He didn't handle his gloves like
another man, but put them on — even when he was standing on

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the pavement, quite detached from the coach — as if the four
grays were, somehow or other, at the ends of the fingers. It
was the same with his hat. He did things with his hat, which
nothing but an unlimited knowledge of horses and the wildest
freedom of the road could ever have made him perfect in. Val-
uable little parcels were brought to him with particular instruc-
tions, and he pitched them into his hat, and stuck it on again,
as if the laws of gravity did not admit of such an event as its
being knocked off or blown off, and nothing like an accident
could befall it. The guard too! Seventy breezy miles a day were
written in his very whiskers. His manners were a canter; his
conversation a round trot. He was a fast coach upon a downhill
turnpike road; he was all pace. A wagon couldn't have moved
slowly, with that guard and his key-bugle on the top of it.

These were all foreshadowings of London, Tom thought, as
he sat upon the box, and looked about him. Such a coachman
and such a guard never could have existed between Salisbury
and any other place; the coach was none of your steady-going,
yokel coaches, but a swaggering, rakish, dissipated, London
coach; up all night, and lying by all day, and leading a terrible
life. It cared no more for Salisbury than if it had been a hamlet.
It rattled noisily through the best streets, defied the cathedral,
took the worst corners sharpest, went cutting in everywhere,
making everything get out of its way; and spun along the open
country-road, blowing a lively defiance out of its key-bugle, as
its last glad parting legacy.

It was a charming evening. Mild and bright. And even with
the weight upon his mind which arose out of the immensity and
uncertainty of London, Tom could not resist the captivating
sense of rapid motion through the pleasant air. The four grays
skimmed along, as if they liked it quite as well as Tom did; the
bugle was in as high spirits as the grays; the coachman chimed
in sometimes with his voice; the wheels hummed cheerfully in

THE STAGE-COACH 437

unison; the brass-work on the harness was an orchestra of little
bells; and thus they went clinking, jingling, rattling smoothly
on, the whole concern, from the buckles of the leaders' coupling-
reins to the handle of the hind boot, was one great instrument of
music.

Yoho! past hedges, gates, and trees; past cottages and barns,
and people going home from work. Hoho! past donkey-chaises,
drawn aside into the ditch, and empty carts with rampant horses,
whipped up at a bound upon the little water-course, and held by
struggling carters close to the five-barred gate, until the coach
had passed the narrow turning in the road. Yoho! by churches
dropped down by themselves in quiet nooks, with rustic burial-
grounds about them, where the graves are green, and daisies
sleep — for it is evening — on the bosoms of the dead. Yoho! past
streams, in which the cattle cool their feet, and where the rushes
grow; past paddock-fences, farms, and rick-yards; past last year's
stacks, cut, slice by slice, away, and showing, in the waning light,
like ruined gables, old and brown. Yoho! down the pebbly dip,
and through the merry water-splash, and up at a canter to the
level road again. Yoho! Yoho!

Yoho! among the gathering shades; making of no account the
deep reflections of the trees, but scampering on through light
and darkness, all the same, as if the light of London, fifty miles
away, were quite enough to travel by, and some to spare. Yoho!
beside the village green, where cricket-players linger yet, and
every little indentation made in the fresh grass by bat or wicket,
ball or player's foot, sheds out its perfume on the night. Away
with four fresh horses from the Bald-faced Stag, where topers
congregate about the door admiring; and the last team, with
traces hanging loose, go roaming off towards the pond, until
observed and shouted after by a dozen throats, while volunteer-
ing boys pursue them. Now with the clattering of hoofs and
striking out of fiery sparks, across the old stone bridge, and down

438 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

again into the shadowy road, and through the open gate, and
far away, away, into the wold. Yoho!

See the bright moon! High up before we know it: making the
earth reflect the objects on its breast like water. Hedges, trees,
low cottages, church steeples, blighted stumps and flourishing
young slips, have all grown vain upon the sudden, and mean
to contemplate their own fair images till morning. The poplars
yonder rustle, that their quivering leaves may see themselves
upon the ground. Not so the oak; trembling does not become
him; and he watches himself in his stout old burly steadfastness,
without the motion of a twig. The moss-grown gate, ill-poised
upon its creaking hinges, crippled and decayed, swings to and
fro before its glass like some fantastic dowager; while our own
ghostly likeness travels on. Yoho! Yoho! through ditch and
brake, upon the ploughed land and the smooth, along the steep
hillside and steeper wall, as if it were a phantom-hunter.

Clouds too! And a mist upon the hollow! Not a dull fog that
hides it, but a light airy gauze-like mist, which in our eyes of
modest admiration gives a new charm to the beauties it is spread
before: as real gauze has done ere now, and would again, so
please you, though we were the Pope. Yoho! Why, now we
travel like the moon herself. Hiding this minute in a grove of
trees, next minute in a patch of vapor; emerging now upon our
broad clear course; withdrawing now, but always dashing on,
our journey is a counterpart of hers. Yoho! A match against the
moon!

The beauty of the night is hardly felt, when day comes leaping
up. Yoho! Two stages and the country roads are almost changed
to a continuous street. Yoho! past market gardens, rows of
houses, villas, crescents, terraces, and squares; past wagons,
coaches, carts; past early workmen, late stragglers, drunken men,
and sober carriers of loads; past brick and mortar in its every
shape; and in among the rattling pavements, where a jaunty-

INDIRECTION 439

seat upon a coach is not so easy to preserve! Yoho! down count-
less turnings, and through countless mazy ways, until an old
inn-yard is gained, and Tom Pinch, getting down, quite stunned
and giddy, is in London.

INDIRECTION

Richard Realf

Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion

is fairer;
Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is

rarer;
Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is

sweeter;
And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning outmastered the

meter.

Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the growing;

Never a river that flows, but a majesty scepters the flowing;

Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than he did en-
fold him,

Nor ever a prophet foretells, but a mightier seer hath foretold
him.

Back of the canvas that throbs, the painter is hinted and hidden;
Into the statue that breathes, the soul of the sculptor is bidden;
Under the joy that is felt, lie the infinite issues of feeling;
Crowning the glory revealed, is the glory that crowns the re-
vealing.

Great are the symbols of being, but that which is symboled is

greater;
Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward creator;
Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift stands the

giving;

440 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves of re-
ceiving.

Space is as nothing to spirit, the deed is outdone by the doing;
The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of the

wooing;
And up from the pits where these shiver, and up from the

heights where those shine,
Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the essence of life

is divine.

THE TRUE BALLAD OF THE KING'S SINGER

Helen Hunt Jackson

The king rode fast, the king rode well,

The royal hunt went loud and gay,
A thousand bleeding chamois fell

For royal sport that day.

When sunset turned the hills all red,

The royal hunt went still and slow;
The king's great horse with weary tread

Plunged ankle-deep in snow.

Sudden a strain of music sweet,

Unearthly sweet, came through the wood;

Up sprang the king, and on both feet
Straight in his saddle stood.

"Now, by our lady, be it bird,

Or be it man or elf who plays,
Never before my ears have heard

A music fit for praise!"

Sullen and tired, the royal hunt

Followed the king, who tracked the song,

THE BALLAD OF THE SINGER 441

Unthinking, as is royal wont,
How hard the way and long.

Stretched on a rock the shepherd lay

And dreamed and piped, and dreamed and sang,
And careless heard the shout and bay

With which the echoes rang.

"Up, man! the king!" the hunters cried.

He slowly stood, and, wondering,
Turned honest eyes from side to side:

To him, each looked like king.

Strange shyness seized the king's bold tongue;

He saw how easy to displease
This savage man who stood among

His courtiers, so at ease.

But kings have silver speech to use

When on their pleasure they are bent;
The simple shepherd could not choose;

Like one in dream he went.

O hear! O hear! The ringing sound

Of twenty trumpets swept the street,
The king a minstrel now has found,

For royal music meet.

With cloth of gold, and cloth of red,

And woman's eyes the place is bright.
"Now, shepherd, sing," the king has said,

"The song you sang last night!"

One faint sound stirs the perfumed air,

The courtiers scornfully look down;
The shepherd kneels in dumb despair,

Seeing the king's dark frown.

442 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

The king is just; the king will wait.

"Ho, guards! let him be gently led,
Let him grow used to royal state, —

To being housed and fed."

All night the king unquiet lay,

Racked by his dream's presentiment;

Then rose in haste at break of day,
And for the shepherd sent.

"Ho now, thou beast, thou savage man,
How sound thou sleepest, not to hear!"

They jeering laughed, but soon began
To louder call in fear.

They wrenched the bolts; unrumpled stood

The princely bed all silken fine,
Untouched the plates of royal food,

The flask of royal wine!

The costly robes strewn on the floor,
The chamber empty, ghastly still;

The guards stood trembling at the door,
And dared not cross the sill.

All night the sentinels their round

Had kept. No man woud pass that way.

The window dizzy high from ground;
Below, the deep moat lay.

They crossed themselves. "The foul fiend lurks
In this," they said. They did not know

The miracles sweet Freedom works,
To let her children go.

THE BALLAD OF THE SINGER 443

It was the fiend himself who took

That shepherd's shape to pipe and sing;
And every man with terror shook,

For who would tell the king!

The heads of men all innocent

Rolled in the dust that day;
And east and west the bloodhounds went,

Baying their dreadful bay;

Safe on a snow too far, too high,

For scent of dogs or feet of men,
The shepherd watched the clouds sail by,

And dreamed and sang again;

And crossed himself, and knelt and cried,

And kissed the holy Edelweiss,
Believing that the fiends had tried

To buy him with a price.

The king rides fast, the king rides well;

The summer hunts go loud and gay;
The courtiers, who this tale can tell,

Are getting old and gray.

But still they say it was a fiend

That took a shepherd's shape to sing,
For still the king's heart is not weaned

To care for other thing.

Great minstrels come from far and near,

He will not let them sing or play,
But waits and listens still to hear

The song he heard that day.

444 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS

Oliver Wendell Holmes

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,

Sails the unshadowed main, —

The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,

And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;

Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,

Before thee lies revealed, —
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;

Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,

Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!

While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings-

JESUS AND THE BLIND MAN 445

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

JESUS AND THE BLIND MAN
John 9:1-21, 24-38

And as Jesus passed by, he saw a man which was blind from
his birth. And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did
sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind? Jesus
answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but
that the works of God should be made manifest in him. I must
work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the night
cometh, when no man can work. As long as I am in the world,
I am the light of the world. When he had thus spoken, he spat
on the ground, and made clay of the spittle, and he anointed
the eyes of the blind man with the clay, and said unto him, Go,
wash in the pool of Siloam. He went his way therefore, and
washed, and came seeing.

The neighbours therefore, and they which before had seen
him that he was blind, said, Is not this he that sat and begged?
Some said, This is he: others said, He is like him: but he said,
I am he. Therefore said they unto him, How were thine eyes
opened? He answered and said, A man that is called Jesus made
clay, and anointed mine eyes, and said unto me, Go to the pool
of Siloam, and wash: and I went and washed, and I received
sight. Then said they unto him, Where is he? He said, I know
not.

They brought to the Pharisees him that aforetime was blind,

446 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

And it was the sabbath day when Jesus made the clav, and
opened his eyes. Then again the Pharisees also asked him how
he had received his sight. He said unto them, He put clay upon
mine eyes, and I washed, and do see. Therefore said some of the
Pharisees, This man is not of God, because he keepeth not the
sabbath day. Others said, How can a man that is a sinner do
such miracles? And there was a division among them. They say
unto the blind man again, What sayest thou of him, that he
hath opened thine eyes? He said, He is a prophet.

But the Jews did not believe concerning him, that he had
been blind, and received his sight, until they called the parents
of him that had received his sight. And they asked them, saying,
Is this your son, who ye say was born blind? how then doth he
now see? His parents answered them and said, We know that
this is our son, and that he was born blind; but by what means
he now seeth, wre know not; or who hath opened his eyes, we
know not: he is of age; ask him; he shall speak for himself. . . .

Then again called they the man that was blind, and said
unto him, Give God the praise: we know that this man is a
sinner. He answered and said, Whether he be a sinner or not, I
know not: one thing I know, that, whereas I was blind, now I
see. Then said they to him again, What did he to thee? how
opened he thine eyes? He answered them, I have told you al-
ready, and ye did not hear: wherefore would ye hear it again?
will ye also be his disciples? Then they reviled him, and said,
Thou art his disciple; but we are Moses' disciples. We know that
God spake unto Moses: as for this fellow, we know not from
whence he is. The man answered and said unto them, Why
herein is a marvellous thing, that ye know not from whence he
is, and yet he hath opened mine eyes. Now we know that God
heareth not sinners: but if any man be a worshipper of God,
and doeth his will, him he heareth. Since the world began was
it not heard that any man opened the eyes of one that was born

love's courage 447

blind. If this man were not of God, he could do nothing. They
answered and said unto him, Thou wast altogether born in sin,
and dost thou teach us? And they cast him out.

Jesus heard that they had cast him out; and when he had
found him, he said unto him, Dost thou believe on the Son of
God? He answered and said, Who is he, Lord, that I might be-
lieve on him? And Jesus said unto him, Thou hast both seen
him, and it is he that talketh with thee. And he said, Lord, I
believe. And he worshipped him.

LOVE'S COURAGE

The Romance of Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning
As Revealed Through Their Poetry and Letters x

A Lecture-Recital Adapted by

Sara Lowrey

In his poem, "One Word More," Robert Browning stated:

God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures
Boasts two soul-sides; one to face the world with,
One to show a woman when he loves her!

In January of 1845, two letters were exchanged that marked
the beginning of one of the world's most famous correspond-
ences. The first, postmarked "New Cross, Surrey," was from
Robert Browning — a vigorous, handsome young man who be-
came the toast of Society upon the publication of his poem,
"Paracelsus." The vigor and depth of his poetry, his patrician
features, his graceful carriage, and his splendid figure con-
tributed to his charm. He soon became known as a favorite
"diner-out."

The second letter, post marked "50 Wimpole Street" was
from Elizabeth Barrett Barrett — a slender, fragile recluse —

1 The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett
(New York and London: Harper and Brothers, 1902), Vols. I and II.

448 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

no longer young — who was completely apart from society. An
invalid since an injury to her spine in childhood, a lonely gen-
ius wasting away in a gloomy house under the tyrannical rule
of a father whose harsh disciplines were as erratic and fanatical
as his prejudice against marriage — she had only one outlet for
her imagination: literature — reading and writing poetry, and
corresponding with literary figures of the day.

Her interest in contemporary poets wras her first introduction
to Robert Browning. Her appreciation of him is recorded in her
poem "Lady Geraldine's Courtship" where she said of him:

.... Or from Browning

Some Pomegranate, which if cut deep down the middle,
Shows a heart within, blood-tinctured, of veined human-
ity.

Browning's heart swelled with pride at these gracious words
from the mysterious poetess whose writing was already widely
known. Wishing to express his gratitude, he asked a friend, Mr.
Robert Kenyon — her cousin — about the possibility of meeting
Miss Barrett. Mr. Kenyon replied that she was an invalid and
saw no one, but agreed that she would be pleased to receive a
letter from a fellow poet.

This first letter of Robert Browning's was an open, impulsive
expression of gratitude, and of enthusiastic appreciation, end-
ing*

I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett.
The fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exqui-
site pathos, and true, new, brave thought; but in this ad-
dressing myself to you, your own sell, and for the first time,
my feeling rises altogether. I do, as 1 say, love these books
with all my heart, and I love you, too.

Elizabeth Barrett's feelings rose also, and her pulse raced with
excitement; but she replied with the discipline of an artist and
the restraint of her thirty-eight years:

love's courage 449

January 11, 1845
I thank you, dear Mr. Browning, from the bottom of my
heart. You meant to give me pleasure by your letter — and
even if the object had not been answered, I ought still to
thank you. But it is thoroughly answered. Such a letter
from such a hand! Sympathy is dear — very dear to me:
but the sympathy of a poet, and of such a poet, is the
quintessence of sympathy to me!

On January 28, 1845 Browning wrote:

If you hate writing me as I hate writing to nearly every-
body, I pray you never write — God Knows — I do not
know what will help me more than hearing from you —
and therefore if you do not so very much hate it, I know
I shall hear from you.

Elizabeth replied on February 3, 1845:

Why how could I hate to write to you, dear Mr. Brown-
ing? Everybody likes writing to somebody, and it would
be strange and contradictory if I were not always delighted
both to hear from you and to write to you; this talking
upon paper being as good a social pleasure as another.
As for me, I have done most of my talking by post of late
years — as people shut up in dungeons take up with scrawl-
ing mottoes on the walls. Not that I write to many in the
way of regular correspondence, but there are a few who
will write, and be written to by me without a sense of in-
jury. Dear Miss Mitford, for instance, has filled a large
drawer in this room with delightful letters, heart-warm
and soul-warm . . . driftings of nature (if sunshine could
drift like snow).

I write this to you to show how I can have pleasure in

450 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

letters, and never think them too long, nor too frequent,
if you will only promise to treat me as a comrade — taking
no thought for your sentences (nor for mine), nor for your
badd spelling (nor for mine), and if you agree to send me
a thought whenever you are in the mind for it, and with
as little ceremony and less legibility than you would think
it necessary to employ toward your printer — why, then I
I am ready to sign and seal the contract, and to rejoice in
being "articled" as your correspondent. Only don't let us
have any constraint. Don't be civil to me when you feel
rude, nor yielding when you are perverse.

See how out of the world I am! But you will find me an
honest man on the whole; and we have great sympathies
in common, and I am inclined to look up to you in many
things, and to learn as much of everything as you will teach
me. On the other hand, you must prepare yourself to fore-
bear and to forgive — will you? While I throw off the cere-
mony, I hold the faster to kindness. Need I assure you that
I shall always hear with the deepest interest every word
you will say to me of what you are doing or about to do?
I think — if I may dare to name myself with you in the
poetic relation — that we both have high views of the Art
we follow, and steadfast purpose in the pursuit of it, and
that we should not, either of us, be likely to be thrown
from the course, by the casting of any Atalanta-ball of
speedy popularity. But I do not know, I cannot guess
whether you are liable to be pained deeply by hard criti-
cisms and cold neglect, such as original writers, like your-
self, are too often exposed to — or whether the love of Art
is enough for you, and the exercise of Art the filling joy of
your life.

Browning evidently followed her instructions to some degree.
In his answer to her he said:

love's courage 451

I don't dare — yet I will — ask can you read this? I could
write a little better, but not so fast. Do you keep writing
just as you do now!

These early letters were long and concerned mostly with lit-
erary friendships and their art, the word Art being always capi-
talized. One day, however, Elizabeth wrote to explain her
pet name "Ba":

We are famous in this house for what is called nick-
names, and I am never called anything else except by the
nom de paix proving, as Mr. Kenyon says, that I am just
'half a baby' — no more nor less; and in fact the name has
that precise definition.

One day Ba wrote:

The mission of Art, like that of Religion, is to make the
rugged paths straight and the wilderness to blossom as
the rose — at least it seems so to me.

On February 17, 1845, Elizabeth wrote:

The pursuit of an Ideal acknowledged by the mind, will
draw and concentrate the powers of the mind — and Art
you know, is a jealous god and demands the whole of man
or woman. I cannot conceive of a sincere artist who is also
a careless one — though one may have a quicker hand than
another, in general, — and though all are liable to vicissi-
tudes in the degree of facility — and to entanglements in
the machinery, notwithstanding every degree of facility.
You may write twenty lines one day — or three like Euripi-
des in three days — and a hundred lines in one more day —

452 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

and yet on the hundred, may have been expended as much
good work as on the twenty and the three. And also, as you
say, the lamp is trimmed behind the wall — and the act of
utterance is the evidence of foregone study still more than
it is the occasion to study. The deep interest with which I
read all that you had the kindness to write to me of your-
self, you trust me for, as I find it hard to express it. It is
sympathy in one way, and interest every way. And now,
see! Although you proved to me with admirable logic that,
for reasons which you know and reasons which you don't
know, I couldn't possibly know anything about you; I
really did understand of you before I was told, exactly
what you told me! Yes, I did indeed. I felt sure that as a
poet you fronted the future — and that your chief works, in
your own apprehension were to come. But I do not, you
say, know yourself — You! I only know your abilities and
faculties. Well, then, teach me yourself — You! In fact,
you have not written the Robert Browning poem yet —
your rays fall obliquely rather than directly straight. I see
you only in your moon. Do tell me all of yourself that you
can and will.

And indeed Mr. Browning did write much of himself. He also
wrote of the weather. On Wednesday Morning, February 26,
1845, he wrote:

Real warm Spring, dear Miss Barrett, and the birds know
it; and in the Spring I shall see you, surely see you — for
when did I once fail to get whatever I had set my heart
upon?

She answered:

Yes, but, dear Mr. Browning, I want the spring according
to the new 'style' — (mine!), and not the old one of you and

love's courage 45

the rest of the poets. To me, unhappily, the snowdrop is
much the same as the snow — it feels as cold underfoot —
and I have grown sceptical about 'the voice of the turtle';
the east wind blows so loud. A little later comes my spring;
and indeed after such severe weather, from which I have
just escaped with my life, I may thank it for coming at
all. How happy you are, to be able to listen to the 'birds'
without the commentary of the east wind, which, like
other commentaries, spoils the music.

Is it true that your wishes fulfil themselves? And when
they do, are they not bitter to your taste — do you not wish
them unfulfilled? Oh, this life, this life! There is comfort
in it, they say, and I almost believe — but the brightest
place in the house, is the leaning out of the window — at
least, for me.

Ever faithfully yours,
E.B.B.

On March 1, 1845, Browning wrote:

Dear Miss Barrett, — I seem to find of a sudden — surely I
knew of it before — anyhow, I do find now, that with the
octaves on octaves of quite new golden strings you en-
larged the compass of my life's harp with, there is added,
too, such a tragic chord, that which you touched so gently,
in the beginning of your letter I got this morning. But if
my truest heart's wishes avail, as they have hitherto done,
you shall laugh at East winds yet, as I do!

She answered:

March 5, 1845
But I did not mean to strike a 'tragic chord'; dear Mr.
Browning, indeed I did not! Sometimes one's melancholy

o

454 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

will be uppermost and sometimes one's mirth, — the world
goes round, you know — and I suppose that in that letter
of mine the melancholy took the turn. It is well to fly to-
wards the light, even where there may be some fluttering
and bruising of wings against the windowpanes, is it not?

Mr. Browning suggested in one letter that Elizabeth some-
times took her own good time in writing; and:

You think that I 'unconsciously exaggerate what you are
to me.' Now, you don't know what that is, — nor can I
very well tell you.

She replied:

March 20, 1845
Whenever I delay to write to you, dear Mr. Browning, it
is not, be sure, that I take my 'own good time,' but sub-
mit to my own bad time. It was kind of you to wish to know
how I was, and not unkind of me to suspend my answer to
your question — for indeed, I have not been very well, nor
have had much heart for saying so. I will indeed see you
when the warm weather has revived me a little. If you
think that I shall not like to see you, you are wrong, for
all your learning. But I shall be afraid of you at first —
though I am not, in writing thus. You are Paracelsus, and
I am a recluse, with nerves that have been all broken on
the rack, and now hang loosely — quivering at a step or
breath.

When in one of his letters he almost demanded that she see
him, Elizabeth was overcome with nervousness and hesitance.
She had more faith in the written than in the spoken word, and
more than an invalid's normal timidity in the presence of

love's courage 455

strange faces. Her answer to his request was in the form of a
warning:

There is nothing to see in me, nor to hear in me. If my
poetry is worth anything, it is the flower of me — the rest
of me is nothing but a root fit for the ground and darkness.

Robert suggested that he might be permitted to judge that
for himself. He wrote re-assuringly:

You are the most entirely lovable creature I ever dreamed
might perhaps be in a better world.

His first gift was a yellow rose from his mother's garden. Ba
was amused, for she knew, if he did not, that the yellow rose
was the symbol of infidelity. "Come Tuesday at Three," she
wrote.

He came. He was announced by Arabel. Browning was tense
with anticipation and excitement; Elizabeth was nervous and
fearful, but her sense of humor came to their rescue. The awk-
ward moment dissolved in the warmth of her smile. At tea-
time the visitor departed, but as Miss Barrett expressed it later:

When you came, you never went away.

Robert hurried home to write her a letter, stating that he
had fallen deeply in love with her. She was at first dumbfounded,
then pleased; and not many weeks after, she realized that her
admiration of the poet was in reality love for the man. Incon-
ceivable as it was that he should love her, she was happy. In the
first of her now famous "Sonnets from the Portuguese" she
wrote:

I thought once how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

Who each one in a gracious hand appears

456 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:

And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,

The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,

Those of my own life, who by turns had flung

A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move

Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;

And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, —

'Guess now who holds thee' — 'Death,' I said. But there

The silver answer rang, — 'Not Death, but Love!'

With the daily exchange of letters — sometimes twice daily —
and weekly visits from Robert Browning, life for Elizabeth
Barrett took on new meaning. In Browning's mind a plan was
forming. Here was a woman who shared his devotion to poetry
— who understood him — who sympathized with him — who
loved him, as he loved her. Why should her invalidism stand
as an insurmountable obstacle to the beauty of life together?

In June 1845, he proposed marriage. She sorrowfully refused.
Her feelings were expressed in sonnets:

III

Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!

Unlike our uses and our destinies.

Our ministering two angels look surprise

On one another, as they strike athwart

Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art

A guest for queens to social pageantries,

With gages from a hundred brighter eyes

Than tears, even, can make mine, to play thy part

Of chief musician. What hast thou to do

With looking from the lattice-lights at me,

A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through

The dark, and leaning up :\ cypress tree?

The chrism is on thine head, — on mine, the dew, —

And Death must dig the level where these agree.

love's courage 457

IV

Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,

Most gracious singer of high poems! Where

The dancers will break footing, from the care

Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.

And dost thou lift this house's latch, too poor

For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear

To let thy music drop here unaware

In folds of golden fullness at my door?

Look up and see the casement broken in,

The bats and owlets builders in the roof!

My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.

Hush, call no echo up in further proof

Of desolation! There's a voice within

That weeps ... as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof.

VIII

What can I give thee, back, O liberal

And princely giver, who hast brought the gold

And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,

And laid them on the outside of the wall

For such as I to take or leave withal,

In unexpected largesse? Am I cold,

Ungrateful, that for these most manifold

High gifts, I render nothing back at all?

Not so; not cold, — but very poor instead.

Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run

The colors from my life, and left so dead

And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done

To give the same as pillow to thy head.

Go farther! let it serve to trample on.

IX

Can it be right to give what I can give?
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative

458 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live

For all thy adjurations? O my fears,

For this can scarce be right! We are not peers,

So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve,

That givers of such gifts as mine are, must

Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas!

I will not soil thy purple with my dust,

Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass,

Nor give thee any love — which were unjust.

Beloved, I only love thee! — let it pass.

VI

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore —
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

Yet these thoughts were concealed from Robert Browning for
many years. Elizabeth's letter of refusal stated that he must
never mention such things again. If he did (and she underscored
the line heavily) "I must not — / will not see you again!" She
advised him to burn the letter which she sent back to him, and
he did.

For three months he obeyed her, and soon he was calling twice
a week, carrying flowers. His agitation is suggested in one of
her letters. "The flowers look beautiful though you put their

love's courage 459

heads into the water instead of their feet." This friendship was
a tonic of happiness for Elizabeth whose health improved rap-
idly. In October she wrote:

Do I stand? — do I walk? Yes! — most uprightly. I walk
upright everyday. Do I go out? No, never!

But by spring of 1846 she was going out. On Sunday, June
22, she wrote:

Think of my having left Flush behind me fast asleep. He
dashes at the door in the most peremptory way, and nearly
throws me backward when I open it, with his leaping-up-
joy — if it is not rather his reproach.

Now I am here all alone, except Flush — sitting, leaning
against the open window with my feet curled up, and, at
them, Flush curled up too; and I writing on my knee. How
did you get home? How are you, dearest? And your
mother? tell me of her, and of you! You always, you know
(do you know) leave your presence with me in the flowers;
and, as the lilies unfold, of course I see more and more of
you in each apocalypse. Still the Saturday's visit is the
worst of all to come to an end, as always I feel. In the first
place stands Sunday, like a wall without a door in it. No
letter! Monday is a good day and makes up a little, but it
does not prevent Tuesday and Wednesday following —
more intervening days than between the other meetings —
or so it seems.

On Saturday June 27, 1846, she wrote:

I walked longer today than usual. How strong you make
me, you who make me happy!

Robert started calling Ba by her pet name immediately upon
hearing it. It was more than a year before she was able to call
him, "Robert." One day he wrote:

460 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

. . . Dearest — dearest, you did once, one time only, call
me by my name, Robert; and though it was to bid, 'Robert
not to talk extravagances' (your very words) still the name
so spoken became what it never had been before to me. I
am never called by any pet name, nor abbreviation, here at
home or elsewhere. Oh it is one of my incommunicable
advantages to have a Ba of my own, and call her so — in-
deed yes, my Ba! I write 'Dearest,' and 'Most dearest,' but
it all ends in 'Ba' — and the 'my' is its framework, — its sur-
rounding arm — Ba . . . my own Ba! 'Robert' is in Saxon
'famous in council,' so let him give a proof of his quality in
counselling you to hold your good, happy inspiration
about Italy . . ."

Ba answered:

No, No! Indeed I never did. If you heard me say 'Robert,'
it was on a stair-landing in the house of dreams — never
anywhere else! Why how could you fancy such a thing?
Wasn't it rather your own disquieted conscience which
spoke instead of me, saying 'Robert, don't be extravagant.'
Yes, just the speech that is for a 'good uneasy' discerning
conscience — and you took it for my speech! 'Don't be ex-
travagant.' I may certainly have said. Both I and the con-
science might have said so obvious a thing.

Ah — and now I have got the name, shall I have courage
to say it? Tell me, best councellor! I like it better than any
other name, though I never spoke it with my own lips —
I never called any one by such a name.

The next day she wrote:

Quite you make me laugh by your positiveness about the
name-calling. Well — if ever I did such a thing it was in a
moment of unconsciousness, all the more surprising, that

love's courage 461

even to my own soul, in the lowest spirit-whisper, I have
not been in the habit of saying 'Robert,' speaking of you.
You have only been the One. No word ever stood for you.
The idea admitted of no representative. Still such very
positive people must be right, of course — they always are!
Some day I expect to hear you say and swear that you saw
me fly out of one window and fly in another, oh my 'fa-
mous in council.'

Am I laughing? Am I crying? Who can tell. But I am
not teasing, . . . Robert!

Robert was not inattentive to Flush, the chaperon. He bore
flowers for Ba and cakes for Flush. But Flush was afraid of
trousers, and returned Robert's kindness with snarls and snaps.
He even sank his teeth into Robert's ankles once or twice, but
the poet, smiling happily, insisted that it was nothing. After one
of these incidents Ba wrote:

Ah Flush, Flush! He did not hurt you really? You will for-
give him for me? The truth is that he hates all unpetti-
coated people, and that though he does not hate you, he
has a certain distrust of you, which any outward sign, such
as the umbrella, reawakens. But if you had seen how sorry
and ashamed he was yesterday! I slapped his ears and told
him that he never should be loved again; and he sat on
the sofa with his eyes fixed on me all the time I did the
flowers, with an expression of quite despair in his face. At
last I said, 'If you are good, Flush, you may come and say
that you are sorry,' on which he dashed across the room
and, trembling all over, kissed first one of my hands and
then another, and put up his paws to be shaken, and
looked into my face with such beseeching eyes that you
would certainly have forgiven him just as I did. It is not
savageness; if he once loved you, you might pull his ears

462 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

or his tail, and take a bone out of his mouth even, and he
would not bite you. He has no savage caprices like other
dogs and men I have known.

Writing of Flush, in my uncle comes, and then my
cousin, and then my aunt — by relays! And now it is nearly
four and this letter may be too late for the post which
reaches you irregularly. So provoked I am! But I shall
write again tonight, you know.

Robert answered:

Oh poor Flush, do you think I do not love and respect
him for his jealous supervision — his slowness to know an-
other, having once known you? All my apprehension is
that, in the imaginations downstairs, he may very well
unconsciously play the part of the dog that is heard to
'bark violently' while something dreadful takes place.
Yet I do not sorrow over his slapped ears, as if they ever
pained him very much, you dear Ba.

And tomorrow I shall see you. Are you, can you be really
'better' after I have seen you?

In a Sonnet Ba had written:

XX

Beloved, my Beloved, when I think

That thou wast in the world a year ago,

What time I sat alone here in the snow

And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink

No moment at thy voice, but, link by link,

Went counting all my chains as if that so

They never could fall off at any blow

Struck by thy possible hand, — why, thus I drink

Of life's great cup of wonder! Wonderful,

Never to feel thee thrill the day or night

love's courage 463

With personal act or speech, — nor ever cull
Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white
Thou sawest growing! Atheists are so dull,
Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight.

Ba occasionally expressed the fear that Robert's love might
fade. In a sonnet she wrote:

XIV

If thou must love me, let it be for nought

Except for love's sake only. Do not say

'I love her for her smile — her look — her way

Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought

A sense of pleasant ease on such a day — '

For these things in themselves, Beloved, may

Be changed, or change for thee, — and love, so wrought,

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, —

A creature might forget to weep, who bore

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!

But love me for love's sake, that evermore

Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

On Wednesday morning, July 15, 1846, Ba wrote:

At dinner my aunt said to Papa ... I have not seen Ba
all day, — and when I went to her room, to my astonish-
ment a gentleman was sitting there.' 'Who was that?' said
Papa's eyes to Arabel. 'Mr. Browning called here today,'
she answered, 'and Ba bowed her head' continued my
aunt, 'as if she meant to signify to me that I was not to
come in.' 'Oh,' cried Henrietta, 'that must have been a
mistake of yours. Perhaps she meant just the contrary.'
'You should have gone in,' said Papa, 'and seen the poet.'
In speaking too of your visit this morning, Stormy said

464 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

to her, — 'Oh Mr. Browning is a great friend of Ba's. He
comes here twice a week. Is it twice a week or once, Ara-
bel?'

By the way I made quite clear to Flush that you left the
cakes, and they were graciously received indeed.

When Ba mentioned that her health might force her to go to
Italy for the winter, Robert was enthusiastic. He came to his
visits primed with information about that beloved country.
Ba's letters give evidence that by the middle of July they were
planning more than calls in Italy. In a letter postmarked July
17 she wrote

We must be humble and beseeching afterwards at least,
and try to get forgiven — poor Papa! I have turned it over
and over in my mind, whether it would be less offensive,
less shocking to him, if an application were made first. If
I were strong, I think I should incline to it at all risks —
but at it is, — it might, would, probably, — take away the
power of action from me altogether. We should be sepa-
rated, you see, from that moment — hindered from writing,
hindered from meeting — and I could evade nothing. Then
the positive disobedience might be a greater offense than
the unauthorized act. I shut my eyes in terror sometimes.
May God direct us to the best.

By July 23, 1846, plans seem to have become crystallized for
an elopement. Ba wrote:

Perhaps in the days to come we shall look back on these
days as covetable things. Will you do so, because you were
loved in them as a beginning, or because you were free? I
shall look back on these days gratefully and gladly, be-
cause the good in them has overcome the evil, for the first
time in days of mine.

love's courage 465

One extravagance I had intended to propose to you —
but it shall be exactly as you like, and I hesitate a little
as I begin to speak of it. I have thought of taking Wilson
with me — for a year, say, until I should be stronger per-
haps and wiser — rather less sublimely helpless and im-
potent than I am now. But if you would rather it were
otherwise, be honest and say so, and let me alter my
thoughts at once. But I fear that I cannot leave this house
with the necessary number of shoes and pocket handker-
chiefs, without help from somebody. Now whoever helps
me, will suffer through me. Besides if I left Wilson behind,
she would be turned into the street before sunset. Would
it be right and just of me to permit it? Consider! I must
manage a sheltering ignorance for my poor sisters, at the
last.

Wilson is attached to me, I believe — and, in all the dis-
cussions about Italy, she has professed herself willing to
'go anywhere in the world with me.'

Robert answered:

My dearest — dearest, — you might go to Italy without
shoes, — or feet to wear them for aught I know, since you
may have wings, but without your Wilson, or someone in
her capacity, you — no — She cannot be dispensed with! It
is most fortunate, most providential that Wilson is in-
clined to go — 1 am very happy; for a new servant, even
with the best disposition, would never be able to antici-
pate your wants and wishes.

In a letter postmarked Sunday, August 3rd, Ba wrote:

Dearest, Papa came into the room at about seven, before
he went to dinner — I was lying on the sofa and had on a

466 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

white dressing gown, to get rid of the strings — so oppres-
sive the air was, for all the purifications of lightning. He
looked a little as if the thunder had passed into him and
said, 'Has this been your costume since the morning,
pray?'

'Oh no,' I answered, 'Only just now, because of the
heat.'

'Well,' he resumed, with a still graver aspect, (so dis-
pleased he looked, dearest!) 'it appears that that man has
spent the whole day with you.' To which I replied as
quietly as I could that you had several times meant to go
away, but that the rain would not let you, — and there the
colloquy ended. Brief enough, — but it took my breath
away. . . .

Shall you dare come of Tuesday after all? He will be
out. If he is not — if my aunt should not be — if a new ob-
stacle should occur, — you shall hear on Tuesday. At any
rate I shall write.

If things should go smoothly, however, I want to say one
word, once for all, in relation to them. Once or twice you
have talked as if a change were to take place in your life
through marrying — whereas I do beg you to keep in mind
that not a pebble in the path changes, nor is pushed aside
because of me. If you should make me feel myself in the
way, should I like it, do you think? And how could I dis-
turb a single habit or manner of yours — as an unmarried
man — though being within call — I? The best of me is, that
I am really very quiet and not difficult to content — having
not been spoilt by an excess of prosperity even in little
things. It will be prosperity in the greatest, if you seem to
be happy — believe that, and leave all the rest. You will go
out just as you do now, — when you choose, and as a matter
of course, and without need of a word, — you will be pre-

love's courage 467

cisely as you are now in everything, lord of the house-
door-key, and of your own ways.

Robert answered:

Oh the comfort you are to me, Ba, — the perpetual blessing
and sustainment! And what a piece of you, how instinct
with you, this letter is! I will not try to thank you, but my
whole life shall.

A biographer suggests that the conduct of these intense lovers
was most circumspect; we find, however, the word "kiss" men-
tioned frequently in Robert's later letters. Ba expressed her
feelings in a sonnet:

XXXVIII

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed

The fingers of this hand wherewith I write:

And ever since, it grew more clean and white,

Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 'Oh, list,'

When angels speak. A ring of amethyst

I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,

Than that first kiss. The second passed in height

The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,

Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!

That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown,

With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.

The third upon my lips was folded down

In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,

I have been proud and said, 'My love, my own!'

On Sunday Morning, August 24, 1846, Ba wrote:

While I am writing, comes in Arabel with such a face. My
brother had been talking, talking to me. Stormy suddenly

468 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

touched her and said, — Ts it true that there is an engage-
ment between Mr. Browning and Ba?' She was taken un-
aware, but had just power to say, 'You had better ask them,
if you want to know. What nonsense, Storm.' 'Well,' he
resumed, 'I'll ask Ba when I go upstairs.'

George was by, looking as grave as if antedating his
judgeship. Think how frightened I was, Robert, — ex-
pecting them upstairs every minute, — for all my brothers
come here on Sunday, all together. But they came, and not
a single word was said — not on that subject — and I talked
on every other in a sort of hurried way, I was so frightened.

The one great heartache, now, was her father, who no doubt
was growing suspicious and hence decided to take his family
away from London. On September 10, 1846, Ba wrote:

Dearest, this night, an edict has gone out, and George is
tomorrow to be on his way to take a house for a month
either at Dover, Reigate, Tunbridge. . . . Papa 'did not
mind which,' he said, and 'you may settle it among you' — !!
— but he 'must have this house empty for a month in order
to its cleaning' — we are to go therefore and not delay.

Now! — what can be done? It is possible that the absense
may be longer than for a month, indeed it is probable. I
am embarrassed to the utmost degree as to the best path
to take. If we are taken away on Monday . . . what then?

Hastily written letters give us a rather complete story of
events leading to a dramatic climax.

Robert to Elizabeth, Thursday morning, 12 o'clock:

On returning I find your note, — We must be married di-
rectly, and go to Italy. I will go for a license today, and we
can be married on Saturday. I will call tomorrow at Three
and arrange everything with you.

love's courage 469

On Saturday, September 12, 1846, Elizabeth walked to Marie-
bone Church where she was married to Robert Browning. She
was sustained by thoughts that she later put into words:

In the emotion and confusion there was yet room in me
for one thought which was not a feeling. I thought that of
the many, many women who have stood, and to the same
end, there where I stood; not one, perhaps, since that
building was a church, had had reasons strong as mine for
an absolute trust and devotion towards the man she mar-
ried,— not one!

Ba returned to Wimpole Street immediately after her mar-
riage. On the following day she wrote:

I sit in a dream, when left to myself. I cannot believe, or
understand. Oh, but in all this difficult, embarrassing, and
painful situation, I feel happy and exulting to belong to
you, past every opposition, out of sight of every will of man
— none can put us assunder now, at least. Beseech for me
the indulgence of your father and mother, and ask your
sister to love me. I feel so as if I had slipped down over the
wall and into somebody's garden. I feel ashamed. To be
grateful and affectionate to them all, while I live, is all
that I can do, and it is too much a matter of course to need
to be promised. Promise it, however, for your own Ba,
whom you made so happy with the dear letter last night.
I did hate so, to have to take off the ring! You will have
to take the trouble of putting it on again, some day!

Robert answered:

My family all love you, dearest. You cannot conceive my
Father and Mother's childlike faith in Goodness — and my
sister is very quick of apprehension — so as to seize the true
point of the case at once.

470 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Elizabeth wrote on Monday Evening:

There seems so much to do, that I am frightened to look
towards the heap of it. The letters, the letters! I am para-
lysed when I think of having to write such words as . .
'Papa, I am married; I hope you will not be too dis-
pleased.' Ah, poor Papa! To the utmost he will be angry,
— he will cast me off. Well, there is no comfort in such
thoughts. How I felt tonight when I saw him at seven
o'clock for the first time since the event of Saturday! He
spoke kindly too, and asked me how I was. Once I heard
of his saying of me that I was 'the purest woman he ever
knew' — which made me smile at the moment, or laugh, I
believe, outright; because I understood perfectly what he
meant by that — that I had not troubled him with the in-
iquity of love affairs, or any impropriety of seeming to
think about being married. But now the whole sex will go
down to perdition. See the effect of my wickedness! 'Those
women!'

But we will submit, dearest. I will put myself under his
feet, to be forgiven a little — enough to be taken up again
in his arms. I love him — he is my father. He has good and
high qualities after all; he is my father, above all. And
you, because you are so generous and tender to me, will let
me, you say, and help me to try to win back the alienated
affection — for he will wish that I had died years ago! For
the storm will come and endure. And at last, perhaps, he
will forgive us — it is my hope.

On Wednesday she wrote:

Dearest, the general departure from this house takes place
on Monday — and the house at Little Bookham is six miles

love's courage 471

from the railroad, and a mile and a half from where a
coach runs. Now you are to judge. Certainly if I go with
you on Saturday I shall not have half the letters written.
Still I may certainly write the necessary letters and do the
others on the road.

Wilson and I have a light box and a carpet bag between
us. Have you a friend, someone to whose house they might
be sent? — or could they go directly to the railroad office —
and what office? In that case they should have your name
on them, should they not?

Now think for me, ever dearest.

Robert answered:

Take nothing you can leave — but secure our letters. I will
take out a passport.

All this in such haste! Bless you, my dearest, dearest, Ba.

In a sonnet Ba wrote:

XXVIII

My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!

And yet they seem alive and quivering

Against my tremulous hands, which loose the string

And let them drop down on my knee tonight.

This said, — he wished to have me in his sight

Once, as a friend; this fixed a day in spring

To come and touch my hand ... a simple thing,

Yet I wept for it! — this, the paper's light —

Said Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed

As if God's future thundered on my past.

This said, / am thine — and so its ink has paled

With lying at my heart that beat too fast.

472 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

And this . . . O love, thy words have ill availed
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!

In a letter she wrote:

At from half-past three to four, then, — four will not, I sup-
pose be too late. I will not write more — I cannot. By to-
morrow at this time I shall have you only, to love me, —
my beloved!

You only! As if one said 'God only.' And we shall have
Him beside, I pray of Him.

Is this my last letter to you, ever dearest? Oh — if I loved
you less — a little, little less.

Do you pray for me tonight, Robert? Pray for me, and
love me, that I may have courage, — feeling both.

Your own Ba
P. S.

The boxes are safely sent. Wilson has been perfect to
me. And I calling her 'timid,' and afraid of her timidity! I
begin to think that none are so bold as the timid when
they are fairly roused.

Edward-Moulton-Barrett never permitted Elizabeth to re-
turn home — never spoke to her — never wrote to her, nor read
her letters to him. They were returned to her years later with
the seals unbroken. But the sunshine of Italy and the devotion
of her husband gave Ba fifteen years of happiness. With pen
and ink she expressed her devotion to Robert in words of high-
est ecstasy:

XL1II

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace;

love's courage 473

I love thee to the level of every day's

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! and if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

Robert, in fewer words, but with all the sincerity of his being,
said, "I am all gratitude, and all pride. My life is in thy dearest
little hand."

In a sonnet Ba had said:

XXVI

I lived with visions for my company

Instead of men and women, years ago,

And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know

A sweeter music than they played to me.

But soon their trailing purple was not free

Of this world's dust, their lutes did silent grow,

And I myself grew faint and blind below

Their vanishing eyes. Then THOU didst come, to be

Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts

Their songs, their splendors (better, yet the same,

As river-water hallowed into fonts),

Met in thee, and from out thee overcame

My soul with satisfaction of all wants:

Because God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.

After their marriage, Ba grew stronger. Robert boasted about
her strength to anyone who would listen. She wrote a friend:

474 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

I have to tell him that he really must not go telling every-
one how his wife walked here with him or walked there
with him, as if a wife with two feet were a miracle in na-
ture.

Their home in Italy became a mecca for the literary: Dickens,
Thackeray, Hans Christian Andersen, Nathaniel Hawthorne,
Alfred Tennyson, Leigh Hunt, Isa Blagden, were among the
many who enjoyed the hospitality of the Brownings.

Robert and Elizabeth soon began writing again — each in-
spiring the other. One morning, as Robert stood at the window,
Ba slipped into the room, thrust a manuscript into his hand,
and was gone before he could turn to question her. Wondering,
he began to read aloud, but as he continued the words faded
into a whisper. He was seeing for the first time Elizabeth
Barrett's Sonnets, which told the story of the progress of her
love.

Guess now who holds thee — 'Death!' I said. But there
The silver answer rang: 'Not Death, but Love!'

He turned to the next piece of paper, and saw there "Re-
jection":

I will not soil thy purple with my dust,
Nor breathe my poison on my Venice-glass,
Nor give thee any love — which were unjust.
Beloved, I only love thee! Let it pass.

Another page, and there, at last, "Submission":

Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright
Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light
Leaps in the flame from cedar plank or weed;

love's courage 475

And love is fire. And when I say at need

I love thee — Mark — I love thee! — in thy sight

I stand transfigured, glorified aright,

With conscience of the new rays that proceed

Out of my face toward thine.

Soon his eyes came across heart-satisfying lines of "Avowel":

Men could not part us with their worldly jars,
Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend;
Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars, —
And heaven being rolled between us at the end,
We should but vow the faster for the stars.

His exaltation was highest in her expression of "Eternal
Love":

I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life: and if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

Completing the manuscript, he rushed to Ba to tell her of
his joy and pride. When he found her, neither could speak a
word. These were the poems Ba had begun after his first letter,
and which she had promised he might someday read. She had
written them without thought of publication, but as Browning
said later:

I dared not reserve to myself the finest sonnets written in
any language since Shakespeare.

The title, Sonnets from the Portuguese, was suggested by
Robert, who, because of her dark coloring, frequently called
her "my little Portuguese."

Once he had written:

476 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Dearest, I believed in your glorious genius and knew it for
a true star from the moment I saw it; long before I had
the blesssing of knowing it was my star, with my fortune
and futurity in it.

He expressed this thought in a poem, "My Star":

All I know of a certain star

Is, it can throw (like the angled spar)

Now a dart of red, now a dart of blue

Till my friends have said they would fain see, too

My star that dartles the red and the blue!

Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:

They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.

What matter to me if their star is a world:

Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.

Perhaps his greatest tribute to her was written many years
after her death, "Prospice" (see page 203).

THE GETTYSBURG ADDRESS

Ab rah a 7n Lincoln

[Delivered at the Dedication of the National
Cemeteiy, November 19, 1S63]

Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on
this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated
to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that
nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long
endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have
come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place
for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live.
It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

DOVER BEACH 477

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate — we cannot con-
secrate— we cannot hallow — this ground. The brave men, living
and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above
our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note
nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget
what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated
here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have
thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedi-
cated to the great task remaining before us — that from these
honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which
they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly
resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this
nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom; and that
government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall
not perish from the earth.

DOVER BEACH

Matthew Arnold

The sea is calm tonight.

The tide is full, the moon lies fair

Upon the straits; — on the French coast the light

Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.

Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!

Only, from the long line of spray

Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,

Listen! you hear the grating roar

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,

At their return, up the high strand,

Begin, and cease, and then again begin,

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring

The eternal note of sadness in.

478 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Sophocles long ago

Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow

Of human misery; we

Find also in the sound a thought,

Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.

But now I only hear

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,

Retreating, to the breath

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear

And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

SUMMER STORM

James Russell Lowell

Untremulous in the river clear,
Toward the sky's image, hangs the imaged bridge;

So still the air that I can hear
The slender clarion of the unseen midge;

Out of the stillness, with a gathering creep,
Like rising wind in leaves, which now decreases,
Now lulls, now swells, and all the while increases,

SUMMER STORM 479

The huddling trample of a drove of sheep
Tilts the loose planks, and then as gradually ceases

In dust on the other side; life's emblem deep,
A confused noise between two silences,
Finding at last in dust precarious peace.
On the wide marsh the purple-blossomed grasses

Soak up the sunshine; sleeps the brimming tide,
Save when the wedge-shaped wake in silence passes

Of some slow water-rat, whose sinuous glide
Wavers the sedge's emerald shade from side to side;
But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge,

Climbs a great cloud edged with sun-whitened spray;
Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its verge,

And falling still it seems, and yet it climbs alway.

Suddenly all the sky is hid
As with the shutting of a lid,
One by one great drops are falling
Doubtful and slow,
Down the pane they are crookedly crawling,
And the wind breathes low;
Slowly the circles widen on the river,

Widen and mingle, one and all;
Here and there the slenderer flowers shiver,
Struck by an icy rain-drop's fall.

Now on the hills I hear the thunder mutter,

The wind is gathering in the west;
The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter,

Then droop to a fitful rest;
Up from the stream with sluggish flap

Struggles the gull and floats away;
Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder-clap, —

We shall not see the sun go down to-day:
Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh,

And tramples the grass with terrified feet,

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The startled river turns leaden and harsh.

You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat.

Look! look! that livid flash!
And instantly follows the rattling thunder,
As if some cloud-crag, split asunder,

Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash,
On the earth, which crouches in silence under;

And now a solid gray wall of rain
Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile;

For a breath's space I see the blue wood again,
And ere the next heart-beat, the wind-hurled pile,

That seemed but now a league aloof,

Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched roof;
Against the windows the storm comes dashing,
Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing,

The blue lightning flashes,

The rapid hail clashes,
The white waves are tumbling,

And, in one baffled roar,
Like the toothless sea mumbling

A rock-bristled shore,
The thunder is rumbling
And crashing and crumbling, —
Will silence return nevermore?

Hush! Still as death,
The tempest holds his breath
As from a sudden will;
The rain stops short, but from the eaves
You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves,
All is so bodingly still;
Again, now, now, again
Plashes the rain in heavy gouts,
The crinkled lightning
Seems ever brightening,

the singer's hills 481

And loud and long
Again the thunder shouts
His battle-song, —
One quivering flash,
One wilder ing crash,
Followed by silence dead and dull,
As if the cloud, let go,
Leapt bodily below
To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow,
And then a total lull.

Gone, gone, so soon!
No more my hall-crazed fancy there,
Can shape a giant in the air,
No more I see his streaming hair,
The writhing portent of his form; —
The pale and quiet moon
Makes her calm forehead bare,
And the last fragments of the storm,
Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea,
Silent and few, are drifting over me.

THE SINGER'S HILLS

Helen Hunt Jackson

He dwelt where level lands lay low and drear,
Long stretches of waste meadow pale and sere,
With dull seas languid tiding up and down,
Turning the lifeless sands from white to brown,-
Wide barren fields for miles and miles, until
The pale horizon walled them in, and still
No lifted peak, no slope, not even mound
To raise and cheer the weary eye was found.
From boyhood up and down these dismal lands,
And pacing to and fro the barren sands,
And always gazing, gazing seaward, went

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The Singer. Daily with the sad winds blent
His yearning voice.

"There must be hills," he said,
"I know they stand at sunset rosy red,
And purple in the dewy shadowed morn;
Great forest trees like babes are rocked and borne
Upon their breasts, and flowers like jewels shine
Around their feet, and gold and silver line
Their hidden chambers, and great cities rise
Stately where their protecting shadow lies,
And men grow brave and women are more fair
'Neath higher skies, and in the clearer air!"
One day thus longing, gazing, lo! in awe
Made calm by ecstasy, he sudden saw,
Far out to seaward, mountain peaks appear,
Slow rising from the water pale and clear.
Purple and azure, there they were, as he
Had faithful yearning visions they must be;
Purple and azure and bright rosy red,
Like flashing jewels, on the sea they shed
Their quenchless light.

Great tears ran down
The Singer's cheeks, and through the busy town,
And all across the dreary meadow lands,
And all along the dreary lifeless sands,
He called aloud, "Ho! tarry! tarry ye!
Behold those purple mountains in the sea!"
The people saw no mountains!

"He is mad,"
They careless said, and went their way and had
No farther thought of him.

And so, among
His fellows' noisy, idle, crowding throng,
The Singer walked, as strangers walk who speak
A foreign tongue and have no friend to seek.
And yet the silent joy which filled his face

the singer's hills 483

Sometimes their wonder stirred a little space,

And following his constant seaward look,

One wistful gaze they also seaward took.

One day the Singer was not seen. Men said

That as the early day was breaking red,

He rowed far out to sea, rowed swift and strong,

Toward the spot where he had gazed so long.

Then all the people shook their heads, and went

A little sadly, thinking he had spent

His life in vain, and sorry they no more

Should hear his sweet mad songs along their shore.

But when the sea with sunset hues was dyed,

A boat came slowly drifting with the tide,

Nor oar nor rudder set to turn or stay,

And on the crimson deck the Singer lay.

"Ah, he is dead," some cried. "No! he but sleeps,"

Said others, "Madman that he is, joy keeps

Sweet vigils with him now."

The light keel grazed
The sands; alert and swift the Singer raised
His head, and with red cheeks and eyes aflame
Leaped out, and shouted loud, and called by name
Each man, and breathlessly his story told.
"Lo, I have landed on the hills of gold!
See, these are flowers, and these are fruits, and these
Are boughs from oft the giant forest trees;
And these are jewels which lie loosely there,
And these are stuffs which beauteous maidens wear!"
And staggering he knelt upon the sands
As laying burdens down.

But empty hands
His fellows saw, and passed on smiling. Yet,
The ecstasy in which his face was set
Again smote on their hearts with sudden sense
Of half involuntary reverence.
And some said, whispering, "Alack, is he

484 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

The madman? Have ye never heard there be
Some spells which make men blind?

And thenceforth they
More closely watched the Singer day by day,
Till finally they said, "He is not mad.
There be such hills, and treasure to be had
For seeking there! We too without delay
Will sail."

And of the men who sailed that day,
Some found the purple mountains in the sea,
Landed, and roamed their treasure countries free,
And drifted back with brimming laden hands.
Walking along the lifeless silent sands,
The Singer, gazing ever seaward, knew,
Well knew the odors which the soft wind blew
Of all the fruits and flowers and boughs they bore.
Standing with hands stretched eager on the shore,
When they leaped out, he called, "Now God be praised,
Sweet comrades, were they then not fair?"

Amazed,
And with dull scorn, the other men who brought
No treasures, found no mountains, and saw nought
In these men's hands, beheld them kneeling low,
Lifting, shouting, and running to and fro
As men unlading argosies whose freight
Of gorgeous things bewildered by its weight.

Tireless the great years waxed; the great years waned;
Slowly the Singer's comrades grew and gained
Till they were goodly number.

No man's scorn
Could hurt or hinder them. No pity born
Of it could make them blush, or once make less
Their joy's estate; and as for loneliness
They knew it not.

Still rise the magic hills,

A NIGHT AMONG THE PINES 485

Purple and gold and red; the shore still thrills
With fragrance when the sunset winds begin
To blow and waft the subtle odors in
From treasure laden boats that drift, and bide
The hours and moments of the wave and tide,
Laden with fruits and boughs and flowers rare,
And jewels such as monarchs do not wear,
And costly stuffs which dazzle on the sight,
Stuffs wrought for purest virgin, bravest knight;
And men with cheeks all red, and eyes aflame,
And hearts that call to hearts by brothers' name,
Still leap out on the silent lifeless sands,
And staggering with over-burdened hands
Joyous lay down the treasures they have brought,
While smiling, pitying, the world sees nought!

A NIGHT AMONG THE PINES

Robert Louis Stevenson

Night is a dead monotonous period under a roof; but in the
open world it passes lightly, with its stars and dews and per-
fumes, and the hours are marked by changes in the face of
Nature. What seems a kind of temporal death to people choked
between walls and curtains, is only a light and living slumber
to the man who sleeps a-field. All night long he can hear Nature
breathing deeply and freely; even as she takes her rest, she
turns and smiles; and there is one stirring hour unknown to
those who dwell in houses, when a wrakeful influence goes abroad
over the sleeping hemisphere, and all the outdoor world are
on their feet. It is then that the cock first crows, not this time
to announce the dawn, but like a cheerful watchman speeding
the course of night. Cattle awake on the meadows; sheep break
their fast on dewy hillsides, and change to a new lair among
the ferns; and houseless men, who have lain down with the

486 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

fowls, open their dim eyes and behold the beauty of the night.

At what inaudible summons, at what gentle touch of Nature,
are all these sleepers thus recalled in the same hour to life? Do
the stars rain down an influence, or do we share some thrill of
mother earth below our resting bodies?

When that hour came to me among the pines, I wakened
thirsty. My tin was standing by me half full of water. I emptied
it at a draught; and feeling broad awake after this internal
cold aspersion, sat upright to make a cigarette. The stars were
clear, coloured, and jewel-like, but not frosty. A faint silvery
vapour stood for the Milky Way. All around me the black fir-
points stood upright and stock-still.

A faint wind, more like a moving coolness than a stream of
air, passed down the glade from time to time; so that even in
my great chamber the air was being renewed all night long.
I thought with horror of the inn. I have not often enjoved a
more serene possession of myself, nor felt more independent
of material aids. The outer world, from which we cower into
our houses, seemed after all a gentle habitable place; and night
after night a man's bed, it seemed, was laid and waiting for him
in the fields, where God keeps an open house.

Abridged.

THE LOTUS EATERS

Alfred Tennyson

There is sweet music here that softer falls

Than petals from blown roses on the grass,

Or night-dews on still waters between walls

Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,

Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;

Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.

Here are cool mosses deep,

THE LOTUS EATERS 48'

And thro' the moss the ivies creep,

And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,

And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,

And utterly consumed with sharp distress,

While all things else have rest from weariness?

All things have rest: why should we toil alone,

We only toil, who are the first of things,

And make perpetual moan,

Still from one sorrow to another, thrown;

Nor ever fold our wings,

And cease from wanderings,

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;

Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings,

"There is no joy but calm!"

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,

With half-shut eyes ever to seem

Falling asleep in a half-dream!

To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;

To hear each other's whisper 'd speech;

Eating the Lotus day by day,

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,

And tender curving lines of creamy spray;

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly

To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;

To muse and brood and live again in memory,

With those old faces of our infancy

Heap'd over with a mound of grass,

Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!

Abridged.

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SONGS

From William Tell x

ScJiiller

Fisher Boy [singing in his boat].

The clear smiling lake woo'd to bathe in its deep,
A boy on its green shore had laid him to sleep;
Then heard he a melody

Flowing and soft,
And sweet as when angels
Are singing aloft.
And as thrilling with pleasure he wakes from his rest,
The waters are murmuring over his breast;

And a voice from the deep cries,

"With me thou must go;
I charm the young shepherd,
I lure him below."

Herdsman [singing on the mountains].

Farewell, ye green meadows,

Farewell, sunny shore,
The herdsman must leave you,
The summer is o'er.
We go to the hills, but you'll see us again,

When the cuckoo is calling, and wood-notes are gay,
When flow'rets are blooming in dingle and plain,
And the brooks sparkle up in the sunshine of May.
Farewell, ye green meadows,
Farewell, sunny shore,
The herdsman must leave you,
The summer is o'er.

1 Act I, Scene i.

SHADOWS OF BIRDS 489

Chamois Hunter [appearing on the top of a cliff].

On the heights peals the thunder, and trembles the bridge;
The huntsman bounds on by the dizzying ridge.
Undaunted he hies him
O'er ice-covered wild,
Where leaf never budded,
Nor spring ever smiled;
And beneath him an ocean of mist, where his eye
No longer the dwellings of man can espy;

Through the parting clouds only

The earth can be seen,
Far down 'neath the vapor
The meadows of green.

SHADOWS OF BIRDS

Helen Hunt Jackson

In darkened air, alone with pain,
I lay. Like links of heavy chain
The minutes sounded, measuring day,
And slipping lifelessly away.
Sudden across my silent room
A shadow darker than its gloom
Swept swift; a shadow slim and small
Which poised and darted on the wall,
And vanished quickly as it came;
A shadow, yet it lit like name;
A shadow, yet I heard it sing,
And heard the rustle of its wing,
Till every pulse with joy was stirred;
It was the shadow of a bird!

Only the shadow! Yet it made
Full summer everywhere it strayed;
And every bird I ever knew

490 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Back and forth in the summer flew;

And breezes wafted over me

The scent of every flower and tree;

Till I forgot the pain and gloom

And silence of my darkened room.

Now, in the glorious open air,

I watch the birds fly here and there;

And wonder, as each swift wing cleaves

The sky, if some poor soul that grieves

In lonely, darkened, silent walls

Will catch the shadow as it falls!

BEWARE!

From the German
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I know a maiden fair to see,

Take care!
She can both false and friendly be,

Beware! Beware!

Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

She has two eyes, so soft and brown,

Take care!
She gives a side-glance and looks down,

Beware! Beware!

Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

And she has hair of a golden hue,

Take care!
And what she says it is not true,

Beware! Beware!

Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

WAKEN, LORDS AND LADIES GAY! 491

She has a bosom as white as snow,

Take care!
She knows how much it is best to show,

Beware! Beware!

Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

She gives thee a garland woven fair,

Take care!
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear,

Beware! Beware!

Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

WAKEN, LORDS AND LADIES GAY!

Sir Walter Scott

Waken, lords and ladies gay!

On the mountain dawns the day,

All the jolly chase is here,

With hawk and horse, and hunting-spear!

Hounds are in their couples yelling,

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling.

Merrily, merrily mingle they,

Waken, lords and ladies gay.

Waken, lords and ladies gay!

The mist has left the mountains gray,

Springlets in the dawn are streaming,

Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;

And foresters have busy been

To track the buck in thicket green;

Now we come to chant our lay,

Waken, lords and ladies gay!

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Louder, louder, chant the lay;

Waken, lords and ladies gay.

Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,

Run a course as well as we;

Time, stern huntsman, who can baulk,

Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk?

Think of this, and rise with day,

Gentle lords and ladies gay.

Waken, lords and ladies gay.

POEM OF JOYS 1

Walt Whitman

O the joy of my spirit! It is uncaged! It darts like lightning!
It is not enough to have this globe, or a certain time — I will
have thousands of globes, and all time.

O the joy of that vast elemental sympathy which only the human
Soul is capable of generating and emitting in steady and
limitless floods.

O the joy of increase, growth, recuperation,
The joy of soothing and pacifying — the joy of concord and
harmony.

O the joy of my Soul leaning poised on itself — receiving identity
through materials, and loving them — observing characters,
and absorbing them;

O my Soul, vibrated back to me, from them — from facts, sight,
hearing, touch, my phrenology, reason, articulation, com-
parison, memory, and the like;

O the real life of my senses and flesh, transcending my senses and
flesh;

1 From Leaves of Grass (Philadelphia: David McKay Company,
1900).

POEM OF JOYS 493

O my body, done with materials — my sight, done with my ma-
terial eyes;

O what is proved to me this day, beyond cavil, that it is not my
material eyes which finally see,

Nor my material body which finally loves, walks, laughs, shouts,
embraces, procreates.

O to realize space!

The plenteousness of all — that there are no bounds;

To emerge, and be of the sky — of the sun and moon, and the
flying clouds, as one with them.

O, while I live, to be the ruler of life — not a slave,

To meet life as a powerful conqueror,

No fumes — no ennui — no more complaints or scornful criti-
cisms.

O the joy of suffering!

To struggle against great odds! to meet enemies undaunted!
To be entirely alone with them! to find how much I can stand!
To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, death, face to

face!
To mount the scaffold! to advance to the muzzles of guns with

perfect nonchalance!
To be indeed a God!

O the joy of a manly self-hood!

Personality — to be servile to none — to defer to none — not to

any tyrant, known or unknown,
To walk with erect carriage, a step springy and elastic,
To look with calm gaze, or with a flashing eye,
To speak with a full and sonorous voice, out of a broad chest,
To confront with your personality all the other personalities

of the earth.

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POEM OF THE ROAD l

<

Walt Whitman

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.

Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,

I carry them, men and women — I carry them with me wherever

I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,

I am filled with them, and I will fill them in return.

You air that serves me with breath to speak!

You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them

shape!
You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable

showers!
You animals moving serenely over the earth!
You birds that wing yourselves through the air! you insects!
You sprouting growths from the farmers' fields! you stalks and

weeds by the fences!
You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides!
I think you are latent with curious existences — you are so dear

to me.

The earth expanding right hand and left hand,

The picture alive, every part in its best light,

The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where

it was not wanted,
The cheerful voice of the public road — the gay fresh sentiment

of the road.

1 From Leaves of Grass (Philadelphia: David McKay, 1900).

POEM OF THE ROAD 495

I think heroic deeds were all conceived in the open air,

I think I could stop here myself, and do miracles,

I think whatever I meet on the road I shall like, and whoever

beholds me shall like me,
I think whoever I see must be happy.

From this hour, freedom!

From this hour I ordain myself loosed of limits and imaginary

lines,
Going where I list — my own master, total and absolute,
Listening to others, and considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds

that would hold me.

*
I inhale great draughts of air,

The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south

are mine.

I am larger than I thought,

I did not know I held so much goodness.

All seems beautiful to me,

I can repeat over to men and women, You have done such good
to me, I would do the same to you.

I will recruit for myself and you as I go,
I will scatter myself among men and women as I go,
I will toss the new gladness and roughness among them;
Whoever denies me, it shall not trouble me,
Whoever accepts me, he or she shall be blessed, and shall
bless me.

Here is the test of wisdom,
Wisdom is not finally tested in schools,

Wisdom cannot be passed from one having it, to another not
having it,

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Wisdom is of the Soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own
proof,

Applies to all stages and objects and qualities, and is content,

Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and
the excellence of things;

Something there is in the float of the sight of things that pro-
vokes it out of the Soul.

Allons! Whoever you are, come travel with me!
Travelling with me, you find what never tires.

The earth never tires,

The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first — Nature is

rude and incomprehensible at first;
Be not discouraged — keep on — there are divine things, well

enveloped,
I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words

can tell.

Abridged

THE TIGER

William Blake

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoukler and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

othello's defence 497

What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

OTHELLO'S DEFENCE

From Othello x

William Shakespeare

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
* My very noble and approved good masters,
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her;
The very head and front of my offending,
Hath this extent, no more.

Rude am I in speech
And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace;
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broil or battle;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause,
On speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience

1 Act I, Scene iii.

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I will a round unvarnished tale deliver,
Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,
What conjuration, and what mighty magic
(For such proceedings I'm charged withal),
I won his daughter with.

Her father loved me; oft invited me;

Still questioned me the story of my life,

From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes

That I have pass'd.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,

To the very moment that he bade me tell it:

Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,

Of moving accidents, by flood and field;

Of hair-breadth 'scapes in the imminent deadly breach;

Of being taken by the insolent foe,

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,

And with it all my travel's history.

These things to hear,
Would Desdemona seriously incline;
But still the house affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse; which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour; and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not attentively.

I did consent.
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke,
That my youth suffered. My story being done,

MR. PICKWICK S SERVANT 499

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs;

She swore — in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange;

'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful;

She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished

That Heaven had made her such a man.

She thank'd me;
And bade me if I had a friend that loved her,
I should teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. On this hint, I spake;
She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd;
And I loved her, that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have used.

MR. PICKWICK ENGAGES A MAN SERVANT
From The Pickwick Papers

Charles Dickens

Mr. Pickwick's apartments in Goswell Street, although on a
limited scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable de-
scription, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of
his genius and observation. His sitting-room was the first floor
front, his bed-room the second floor front; and thus, whether
he were sitting at his desk in his parlor, or standing before the
dressing-glass in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity
of contemplating human nature in all the numerous phases it
exhibits, in that not more populous than popular thorough-
fare. His landlady, Mrs. Bardell — the relict and sole executrix
of a deceased customhouse officer — was a comely woman of
bustling manners and agreeable appearance, with a natural
genius for cooking, improved by study and long practice, into
an exquisite talent. There were no children, no servants, no
fowls. The only other inmates of the house were a large man
and a small boy; the first a lodger, the second a production of
Mrs. Bardell's. The large man was always home precisely at

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ten o'clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed him-
self into the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back
parlor; and the infantine sports and gymnastic exercises of
Master Bardell were exclusively confined to the neighboring
pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned through-
out the house; and in it Mr. Pickwick's will was law.

To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic
economy of the establishment, and conversant with the admi-
rable regulation of Mr. Pickwick's mind, his appearance and
behavior on this morning would have been most mysterious
and unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with hur-
ried steps, popped his head out of the window at intervals of
about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch,
and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience very
unusual with him. It was evident that something of great im-
portance was in contemplation, but what that something was,
not even Mrs. Bardell herself had been enabled to discover.

"Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable
female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of
the apartment —

"Sir," said Mrs. Bardell.

"Your little boy is a very long time gone."

"Why it's a good long way to the Borough, sir," remon-
strated Mrs. Bardell.

"Ah, very true, so it is," and Mr. Pickwick relapsed into si-
lence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting.

"Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a
few minutes.

"Sir," said Mrs. Bardell again.

"Do you think it a much greater expense to keep two peo-
ple, than to keep one?"

"La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, coloring up to the
very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of

mr. pickwick's servant 501

matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger; "La, Mr. Pick-
wick, what a question!"

"Well, but do you?"

"That depends — " said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster
very near to Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the
table — "That depends a good deal upon the person, you know,
Mr. Pickwick; and whether it's a saving and careful person,
sir."

"That's very true, but the person I have in my eye (here he
looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these quali-
ties; and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world,
and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bardell; which may be of
material use to me."

"La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to
her cap-border again.

"I do," said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont
in speaking of a subject which interested him, "I do, indeed;
and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my
mind."

"Dear me, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell.

"You'll think it very strange now, that I never consulted you
about this matter, and never even mentioned it, till I sent your
little boy out this morning — eh?"

Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long wor-
shipped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at
once, raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most ex-
travagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was
going to propose — a deliberate plan, too — sent her little boy to
the Borough, to get him out of the way — how thoughtful —
how considerate!

"Well, what do you think?" said Mr. Pickwick.

"Oh, Mr. Pickwick, you're very kind, sir," said Mrs. Bardell,
trembling with agitation.

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"It'll save you a good deal of trouble, won't it?" said Mr.
Pickwick.

"Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, sir, and, of
course, I should take more trouble to please you then, than
ever; but it is kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much con-
sideration for my loneliness."

"Ah, to be sure, I never thought of that. When I am in town,
you'll always have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so
you will."

"I'm sure I ought to be a very happy woman. Oh you kind
good playful dear," said Mrs. Bardell; and without more
ado, she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr.
Pickwick's neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of
sobs.

"Bless my soul," cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; — "Mrs.
Bardell — my good woman — dear me, what a situation — pray
consider — Mrs. Bardell, don't — if anybody should come — "

"Oh, let them come, I'll never leave you — dear, kind, good
soul;" and, with these words, Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter.

"Mercy upon me," said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently,
"I hear somebody coming up the stairs. "Don't, don't, there's
a good creature, don't." But entreaty and remonstrance were
alike unavailing; for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pick-
wick's arms; and before he could gain time to deposit her on
a chair, Master Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr.
Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass.

Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless and speechless. He stood
with his lovely burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the
countenances of his friends, without the slightest attempt at
recognition or explanation. They, in their turn, stared at him;
and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at everybody.

The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and
the perplexity so extreme, that they might have remained in

mr. pickwick's servant 503

exactly the same relative situations until the suspended anima-
tion of the lady was restored, had it not been for a most beau-
tiful and touching expression of filial affection on the part of
her youthful son. Clad in a tight suit of corduroy, spangled
with brass buttons of a very considerable size, he at first stood
at the door astounded and uncertain; but by degrees, the im-
pression that his mother must have suffered some personal
damage, pervaded his partially developed mind, and consider-
ing Mr. Pickwick as the aggressor, he set up an appalling and
semi-earthly kind of howling, and butting forward with his
head, commenced assailing that immortal gentleman about the
back and legs, with such blows and pinches as the strength of
his arm, and the violence of his excitement allowed.

"Take this little villain away," said the agonized Mr. Pick-
wick, "he's mad."

"What is the matter?" said the three tongue-tied Pickwick-
ians.

"I don't know," replied Mr. Pickwick, pettishly. "Take away
the boy" (here Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, scream-
ing and struggling, to the further end of the apartment). "Now,
help me lead this woman down stairs."

"Oh, I am better now," said Mrs. Bardell, faintly.

"Let me lead you down stairs," said the ever gallant Mr.
Tupman.

"Thank you, sir — thank you," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, hys-
terically. And down stairs she was led accordingly, accompanied
by her affectionate son.

"I cannot conceive — " said Mr. Pickwick when his friend re-
turned— "I cannot conceive what has been the matter with
that woman. I had merely announced to her my intention of
keeping a man servant, when she fell into the extraordinary
paroxysm in which you found her. Very extraordinary thing.
Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation."

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"Very," was the reply of his followers, as they coughed
slightly, and looked dubiously at each other.

This behavior was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked
their incredulity. They evidently suspected him.

"There is a man in the passage now," said Mr. Tupman.

"It's the man I spoke to you about," said Mr. Pickwick, "I
sent for him to the Borough this morning. Have the goodness
to call him up, Snodgrass."

Mr. Snodgrass did as he was desired; and Mr. Samuel Weller
forthwith presented himself.

"Oh — you remember me, I suppose?" said Mr. Pickwick.

"I should think so," replied Sam, with a patronizing wink.
"Queer start that 'ere, but he was one too many for you, warn't
he? Up to snuff and a pinch or two over — eh?"

"Never mind that matter now," said Mr. Pickwick hastily,
"I want to speak to you about something else. Sit down."

"Thank'ee, sir," said Sam. And down he sat without further
bidding, having previously deposited his old white hat on the
landing outside the door. "Ta'nt a werry good 'un to look at,"
said Sam, "but it's an astonishin' 'un to wear; and afore the
brim went, it was a werry handsome tile. How's ever it's lighter
without it, that's one thing, and every hole lets in some air,
that's another — wentilation gossamer I calls it." On the deliv-
ery of this sentiment, Mr. Weller smiled agreeably upon the
assembled Pickwickians.

"Now with regard to the matter on which I, with the con-
currence of these gentlemen, sent for you," said Mr. Pickwick.

"That's the pint, sir," interposed Sam; "out with it, as the
father said to the child, wen he swallowed a garden."

"We want to know, in the first place," said Mr. Pickwick,
"whether you have any reason to be discontented with your
present situation."

"Afore I answers that 'ere question, gen'lm'n," replied Mr.

MR. PICKWICK S SERVANT 505

Weller, "/ should like to know, in the first place, whether
you're a goin' to purwide me with a better."

A sunbeam of placid benevolence played on Mr. Pickwick's
features as he said, "I have half made up my mind to engage
you myself."

"Have you, though?" said Sam.

Mr. Pickwick nodded in the affirmative.

"Wages?" inquired Sam.

"Twelve pounds a year," replied Mr. Pickwick.

"Clothes?"

"Two suits."

"Work?"

"To attend upon me; and travel about with me and these
gentlemen here."

"Take the bill down," said Sam, emphatically, "I'm let to a
single gentleman, and the terms is agreed upon."

"You accept the situation?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.

"Cert'nly," replied Sam. "If the clothes fits me half as well as
the place, they'll do."

"You can get a character of course?" said Mr. Pickwick.

"Ask. the landlady o' the White Hart about that, sir," re-
plied Sam.

"Can you come this evening?"

"I'll get into the clothes this minute, if they're here," said
Sam with great alacrity.

"Call at eight this evening," said Mr. Pickwick; "and if the
inquiries are satisfactory, they shall be provided."

With the single exception of one amiable indiscretion, in
which an assistant housemaid had equally participated, the
history of Mr. Weller's conduct was so very blameless, that Mr.
Pickwick felt fully justified in closing the engagement that very
evening. With the promptness and energy which characterized
not only the public proceedings, Mr. Weller was furnished with

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a grey coat with the P.C. button, a black hat with a cokade to it, a
pink striped waistcoat, light breeches and gaiters, and a variety
of other necessaries, too numerous to recapitulate.

"Well," said that suddenly-transformed individual, as he
took his seat on the outside of the Eatanswill coach next morn-
ing; "I wonder whether I'm meant to be a footman, or a groom,
or a gamekeeper, or a seedsman. I looks like a sort of compo of
every one on 'em. Never mind; there's change of air, plenty to
see, and little to do; and all this suits my complaint uncom-
mon; so long life to the Pickwicks, says I!"

Abridged

MR. PICKWICK IS SUED FOR BREACH OF PROMISE
From The Pickwick Papers

Charles Dickens

Mr. Pickwick would in all probability have gone on for some
time, had not the entrance of Sam, with a letter, caused him
to break off in his eloquent discourse. He passed his handker-
chief across his forehead, took off his spectacles, wiped them,
and put them on again; and his voice had recovered its wonted
softness of tone when he said:

"What have you there, Sam?"

"Called at the Post-office just now, and found this here let-
ter, as had laid there for two days," replied Mr. Weller. "It's
sealed with a vafer, and directed in round hand."

"I don't know this hand," said Mr. Pickwick, opening the let-
ter. "Mercy on us! what's this? It must be a jest — it — it — can't
be true."

"What's the matter?" was the general inquiry.

"Nobody dead, is there?" said Wardle, alarmed at the horror
in Mr. Pickwick's countenance.

Mr. Pickwick made no reply, but, pushing the letter across

MR. PICKWICK IS SUED 507

the table, and desiring Mr. Tupman to read it aloud, fell back
in his chair with a look of vacant astonishment quite alarming
to behold.

Mr. Tupman, with a trembling voice, read the letter.

Freeman's Court, Cornhill,
August 28th, 1830.
Bardell against Pickwick.
Sir,

Having been instructed by Mrs. Martha Bardell to com-
mence an action against you for a breach of promise of mar-
riage, for which the plaintiff lays her damages at fifteen hun-
dred pounds, we beg to inform you that a writ has been issued
against you in this suit in the Court of Common Pleas; and
request to know, by return of post, the name of your attorney
in London, who will accept service thereof.

We are, Sir,

Your obedient servants,

Dodson and Fogg.
Mr. Samuel Pickwick.

There was something so impressive in the mute astonishment
with which each man regarded his neighbor, and every man re-
garded Mr. Pickwick, that all seemed afraid to speak. The si-
lence was at length broken by Mr. Tupman.

"Dodson and Fogg," he repeated mechanically.

"Bardell and Pickwick," said Mr. Snodgrass, musing.

"Peace of mind and happiness of confiding females," mur-
mured Mr. Winkle, and with an air of abstraction.

"It's a conspiracy," said Mr. Pickwick at length recovering
the power of speech; "a base conspiracy between these two
grasping attorneys, Dodson and Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would
never do it; — she hasn't the heart to do it; — she hasn't the case
to do it. Ridiculous — ridiculous."

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"Of her heart," said Wardle, with a smile, "you should cer-
tainly be the best judge. I don't wish to discourage you, but I
should certainly say that, of her case, Dodson and Fogg are far
better judges than any of us can be."

"It's a vile attempt to extort money," said Mr. Pickwick.

"I hope it is," said Wardle, with a short, dry cough.

"Who ever heard me address her in any way but that in
which a lodger would address his landlady?" continued Mr.
Pickwick, with great vehemence. "Who ever saw me with her?
Not even my friends here — "

"Except on one occasion," said Mr. Tupman.

Mr. Pickwick changed color.

"Ah," said Mr. Wardle, "well, that's important. There was
nothing suspicious then, I suppose?"

Mr. Tupman glanced timidly at his leader. "Why," said he,
"there was nothing suspicious; but — I don't know how it hap-
pened, mind — she certainly was reclining in his arms."

"Gracious powers!" ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as the recollec-
tion of the scene in question struck forcibly upon him; "what a
dreadful instance of the force of circumstances! So she was — so
she was."

"And our friend was soothing her anguish," said Mr. Winkle,
rather maliciously.

"So I was," said Mr. Pickwick. "I won't deny it. So I was."

"Hallo!" said Wardle; "for a case in which there's nothing
suspicious, this looks rather queer — eh, Pickwick? Ah, sly dog
— sly dog!" and he laughed till the glasses on the side-board
rang again.

"What a dreadful conjunction of appearances!" exclaimed
Mr. Pickwick, resting his chin upon his hands. "Winkle — Tup-
man— I beg your pardon for the observations I made just now.
We are all the victims of circumstances, and I the greatest."
With this apology Mr. Pickwick buried his head in his hands,
and ruminated; while Wardle measured out a regular circle of

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 509

nods and winks, addressed to the other members of the com-
pany.

"I'll have it explained, though," said Mr. Pickwick, raising
his head and hammering the table. "I'll see this Dodson and
Fogg! I'll go to London tomorrow."

"Not tomorrow," said Wardle; "you're too lame."

"Well, then, next day."

"Next day is the first of September, and you're pledged to
ride out with us, as far as Sir Geoffrey Manning's grounds, at
all events, and to meet us at lunch, if you don't take the field."

"Well, then, the day after," said Mr. Pickwick; "Thursday. —
Sam!"

"Sir," replied Mr. Weler.

"Take two places outside to London, on Thursday morning,
for yourself and me."

"Werry well, sir."

Mr. Weller left the room, and departed slowly on his errand
with his hands in his pockets, and his eyes fixed on the ground.

"Rum feller, the hemperor," said Mr. Weller, as he walked
slowly up the street. "Think o' his making up to that 'ere Mrs.
Bardell — vith a little boy, too! Always the vay vith these here
old 'uns, hows'ever, as is such steady goers to look at. I didn't
think he'd ha' done it, though — I didn't think he'd ha' done it!"
Moralizing in this strain, Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps
towards the booking-office.

Abridged

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN

Robert Browning

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,

By famous Hanover city;

The river Weser, deep and wide,

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Washes its wall on the southern side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.

Rats!

They fought the dogs and killed the cats,

And bit the babies in the cradles,

And ate the cheeses out of the vats,

And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,

Split open the kegs of salted sprats,

Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,

And even spoiled the women's chats

By drowning their speaking

With shrieking and squeaking

In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body

To the Town Hall came flocking:

" 'T is clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy;

And as for our Corporation — shocking

To think we buy gowns lined with ermine

For dolts that can't or won't determine

What's best to rid us of our vermin!

You hope, because you're old and obese,

To find in the furry civic robe ease?

Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking

To find the remedy we're lacking,

Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!"

At this the Mayor and Corporation

Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sat in council;

At length the Mayor broke silence:

"For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell,

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 51 1

I wish I were a mile hence!

It's easy to bid one rack one's brain —

I'm sure my poor head aches again,

I've scratched it so, and all in vain.

Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!"

Just as he said this, what should hap

At the chamber-door but a gentle tap?

"Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?"

(With the Corporation as he sat,

Looking little though wondrous fat;

Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister

Than a too-long-opened oyster,

Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous

For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)

"Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?

Anything like the sound of a rat

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

"Come in!" — the Mayor cried, looking bigger:

And in did come the strangest figure!

His queer long coat from heel to head

Was half of yellow and half of red,

And he himself was tall and thin,

With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,

And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,

No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,

But lips where smiles went out and in;

There was no guessing his kith and kin:

And nobody could enough admire

The tall man and his quaint attire.

Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire,

Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone,

Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

He advanced to the council-table;

And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able,

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By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm.
The mole and toad and newt and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper."
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
"Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats:
And as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?"
"One? fifty thousand!" — was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stept,

Smiling first a little smile,

As if he knew what magic slept

In his quiet pipe the while;

Then, like a musical adept,

To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,

And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,

Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;

And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 513

You heard as if an army muttered;

And the muttering grew to a grumbling;

And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;

And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,

Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,

Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,

Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,

Families by tens and dozens,

Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives —

Followed the Piper for their lives.

From street to street he piped advancing,

And step for step they followed dancing,

Until they came to the river Weser,

Wherein all plunged and perished!

— Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,

Swam across and lived to carry

(As he, the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat-land home his commentary:
Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press's gripe,
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks:
And it seemed as if a voice

(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out, 'Oh rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!"
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone

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Glorious scarce an inch before me,

Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!'

— I found the Weser rolling o'er me."

You should have heard the Hamelin people

Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.

"Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles,

Poke out the nests and block up the holes!

Consult with carpenters and builders,

And leave in our town not even a trace

Of the rats!" — when suddenly, up the face

Of the Piper perked in the market-place

With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;

So did the Corporation too.

For council dinners made rare havoc

With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;

And half the money would replenish

Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.

To pay this sum to a wandering fellow

With a gypsy coat of red and yellow!

"Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,

"Our business was done at the river's brink;

We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,

And, what's dead can't come to life, I think,

So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink

From the duty of giving you something for drink,

And a matter of money to put in your poke;

But as for the guilders, what we spoke

Of them, as you very well know, was in joke,

Beside, our losses have made us thrifty,

A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"

The Piper's face fell, and he cried,
"No trifling! I can't wait, beside!

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 515

I've promised to visit by dinner time

Bagdat, and accept the prime

Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in,

For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen,

Of a nest of scorpions no survivor:

With him I proved no bargain-driver,

With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!

And folks who put me in a passion

May find me pipe after another fashion."

"How?" cried the Mayor, "D'ye think I brook

Being worse treated than a Cook?

Insulted by a lazy ribald

With idle pipe and vesture piebald?

You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,

Blow your pipe there till you burst!"

Once more he stept into the street,

And to his lips again

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;

And ere he blew three notes (such sweet

Soft notes as yet musician's cunning

Never gave the enraptured air)

There was a rustling that seemed li-ke a bustling

Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling;

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,

Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,

And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,

Out came the children running.

All the little boys and girls,

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,

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Unable to move a step, or cry

To the children merrily skipping by,

— Could only follow with the eye

That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.

But how the Mayor was on the rack,

And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,

As the Piper turned from the High Street

To where the Weser rolled its waters

Right in the way of their sons and daughters!

However, he turned from South to West,

And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,

And after him the children pressed;

Great was the joy in every breast.

"He never can cross that mighty top!

He's forced to let the piping drop.

And we shall see our children stop."

When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side,

A wondrous portal opened wide,

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;

And the piper advanced and the children followed,

And when all were in to the very last,

The door in the mountain-side shut fast.

Did I say all? No! One was lame,

And could not dance the whole of the way;

And in after years, if you would blame

His sadness, he was used to say, —

"It's dull in our town since my playmates left!

I can't forget that I'm bereft

Of all the pleasant sights they see,

Which the Piper also promised me.

For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,

Joining the town and just at hand,

Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew

And flowers put forth a fairer hue,

And everything was strange and new;

The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 517

And their dogs outran our fallow deer,

And honey-bees had lost their stings,

And horses were born with eagle's wings:

And just as I became assured

My lame foot would be speedily cured,

The music stopped and I stood still,

And found myself outside the hill,

Left alone against my will,

To go now limping as before,

And never hear of that country more!"

Alas, alas for Hamelin!

There came into many a burgher's pate

A text which says that heaven's gate

Opes to rich at as easy rate

As the needle's eye takes a camel in!

The Mayor sent East, West, North and South

To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,

Wherever it was men's lot to find him,

Silver and gold to his heart's content,

If he'd only return the way he went

And bring the children behind him.

But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor,

And Piper and dancers were gone forever,

They made a decree that lawyers never

Should think their records dated duly

If, after the day of the month and year,

These words did not as well appear,

"And so long after what happened here

On the Twenty-second of July,

Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:"

And the better in memory to fix

The place of the children's last retreat,

They called it, The Pied Piper's Street —

Where anyone playing on pipe or tabor

Was sure for the future to lose his labor.

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Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern

To shock with mirth a street so solemn

But opposite the place of the cavern

They wrote the story on a column.

And on the great church-window painted

The same, to make the world acquainted

How their children were stolen away,

And there it stands to this very day.

And I must not omit to say

That in Transylvania there's a tribe

Of alien people who ascribe

The outlandish ways and dress

On which their neighbors lay such stress,

To their fathers and mothers having risen

Out of some subterraneous prison

Into which they were trepanned

Long time ago in a mighty band

Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,

But how or why, they don't understand.

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers

Of scores out with all men — especially pipers!

And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,

If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

EACH AND ALL

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown,

Of thee from the hill-top looking down;

The heifer that lows in the upland farm,

Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm;

The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,

Deems not that great Napoleon

Stops his horse, and lists with delight,

EACH AND ALL 519

Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;

Nor knowest thou what argument

Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.

All are needed by each one;

Nothing is fair or good alone.

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder-bough;
I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
He sings the song, but it pleases not now,
For I did not bring home the river and sky; —
He sang to my ear, — they sang to my eye.

The delicate shells lay on the shore;

The bubbles of the latest wave

Fresh pearls to their enamel gave;

And the bellowing of the savage sea

Greeted their safe escape to me.

I wiped away the weeds and foam,

I fetched my sea-born treasures home;

But the poor, unsightly, noisome things

Had left their beauty on the shore,

With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar.

The lover watched his graceful maid,

As 'mid the virgin train she strayed,

Nor knew her beauty's best attire

Was woven still by the snow-white choir.

At last she came to his hermitage,

Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage; —

The gay enchantment was undone,

A gentle wife, but fairy none.

Then I said, "I covet truth;

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat;

I leave it behind with the games of youth."

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As I spoke, beneath my feet

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,

Running over the club-moss burrs;

I inhaled the violet's breath;

Around me stood the oaks and firs;

Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;

Over me soared the eternal sky,

Full of light and of deity;

Again I saw, again I heard,

The rolling river, the morning bird; —

Beauty through my senses stole;

I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

HOW THE KING LOST HIS CROWN

John T. Trowbridge

The King's men, when he had slain the boar,
Strung him aloft on the fisher's oar,
And, two behind, and two before,
In triumph bore him along the shore.
"An oar!" says the King; " 'tis a trifle! why
Did the fisher frown and the good wife sigh?"
"A trifle, sire!" was the Fool's reply;
"Then frown or laugh who will: for I,
Who laugh at all and am only a clown,
Will never more laugh at trifles!"

A runner next day leaped down the sand,
And launched a skiff from the fisher's strand;
For he cried, "An army invades the land!
The passes are seized on cither hand!
And I must carry my message straight
Across the lake to the castle gate!"
The castle he neared, but the waves were great,
The fanged rocks foamed like jaws of Fate;

HOW THE KING LOST HIS CROWN 521

And lacking an oar the boat went down.
The Furies laugh at trifles.

The swimmer against the waves began
To strive, as a valiant swimmer can.
"Methinks," said the Fool, " 'twere no bad plan
If succor were sent to the drowning man!"
To succor a perilled pawn instead,
The monarch moving his rook ahead —
Bowed over the chessmen, white and red —
Gave "check" — then looked on the lake and said,
"The boat is lost, the man will drown!"
O King, beware of trifles!

To the lords and mirthful dames the bard
Was trolling his latest song; the guard
Were casting dice in the castle yard;
And the captains all were drinking hard,
Then came the chief of the halberdiers,
And told to the King's astounded ears:
"An army on every side appears!
An army with banners and bows and spears!
They have gained the wall and surprised the town!'
Our fates are woven of trifles!

The red usurper reached the throne;
The tidings over the realm were blown;
And, flying to alien lands alone
With a trusty few, the King made moan,
But long and loudly laughed the clown:
"We broke the oar and the boat went down,
And so the messenger chanced to drown;
The messenger lost, we lost the town;
And the loss of the town has cost a crown;
And all these things are trifles!"

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THE PATRIOT

Robert Browning

It was roses, roses, all the way,

With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,

The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.

The air broke into a mist with bells,

The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.

Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels —
But give me your sun from yonder skies!"

They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun

To give it my loving friends to keep!

Naught man could do, have I left undone:
And you see my harvest, what I reap

This very day, now a year is run.

There's nobody on the house-tops now —
Just a palsied few at the windows set;

For the best of the sight is, all allow,

At the Shambles' Gate — or, better yet,

By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.

I go in the rain, and more than needs,
A rope cuts both my wrists behind;

And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they fling, whoever has a mind,

Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.

Thus I entered, and thus I go!

In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.
"Paid by the world, what dost thou owe

Me?" — God might question; now instead,
'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

WHEN THE TIDE COMES IN 523

WHEN THE TIDE COMES IN

Helen Hunt Jackson

When the tide comes in,
At once the shore and sea begin
Together to be glad.
What the tide has brought
No man has asked, no man has sought:

What other tides have had
The deep sand hides away;
The last bit of the wrecks they wrought
Was burned up yesterday.

When the tide goes out,
The shore looks dark and sad with doubt.

The landmarks are all lost.

For the tide to turn
Men patient wait, men restless yearn.

Sweet channels they have crossed,

In boats that rocked with glee,
Stretch now bare stony roads that burn

And lead away from sea.

When the tide comes in
In heart, at once the hearts begin

Together to be glad.

What the tide has brought
They do not care, they have not sought.

All joy they ever had

The new joy multiplies;
All pain by which it may be bought

Seems paltry sacrifice.

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When the tide goes out,
The hearts are wrung with fear and doubt;

All trace of joy seems lost.

Will the tide return?
In restless questioning they yearn,
With hands unclasped, uncrossed.

They weep, on separate ways.

Ah! darling, shall we ever learn

Love's tidal hours and days?

LINCOLN'S ANNUAL MESSAGE TO CONGRESS,
DECEMBER 3, 1861

It is not needed nor fitting here that a general argument be
made in favor of popular institutions; but there is one point,
with its connections, not so hackneyed as most others, to which
I ask a brief attention. It is the effort to place capital on an
equal footing with, if not above, labor, in the structure of
government. It is assumed that labor is available only in
connection with capital; that nobody labors unless somebody
else, owning capital, somehow by the use of it induces him
to labor. This assumed, it is next considered whether it is
best that capital shall hire laborers, and thus induce them to
work by their own consent, or buy them, and drive them to it
without their consent. Having proceeded thus far, it is natu-
rally concluded that all laborers are either hired laborers or
what we call slaves. And, further, it is assumed that whoever
is once a hired laborer is fixed in that condition for life.

Now, there is no such relation between capital and labor as
assumed, nor is there any such thing as a free man being fixed
for life in the condition of a hired laborer. Both of these as-
sumptions are false, and all inferences from them are ground-
less.

Labor is prior to, and independent of, capital. Capital is

Lincoln's message to congress 525

only the fruit of labor, and could never have existed if labor
had not first existed. Labor is the superior of capital, and
deserves much the higher consideration. Capital has its rights,
which are as worthy of protection as any other rights. Nor is
it denied that there is, and probably always will be, a relation
between labor and capital producing mutual benefits. The
error is in assuming that the whole labor of the community
exists within that relation. A few men own capital, and that
few avoid labor themselves, and with their capital hire or buy
another few to labor for them. A large majority belong to
neither class — neither work for others nor have others work-
ing for them. In most of the Southern states a majority of the
whole people, of all colors, are neither slaves nor masters;
while in the Northern a large majority are neither hirers nor
hired. Men with their families — wives, sons, and daughters —
work for themselves, on their farms, in their houses, and in
their shops, taking the whole product to themselves, and ask-
ing no favors of capital on the one hand, nor of hired laborers
or slaves on the other. It is not forgotten that a considerable
number of persons mingle their own labor with capital — that
is, they labor with their own hands and also buy or hire others
to labor for them; but this is only a mixed and not a distinct
class. No principle stated is disturbed by the existence of this
mixed class.

Again, as has already been said, there is not, of necessity,
any such thing as the free hired laborer being fixed to that
condition for life. Many independent men everywhere in these
states, a few years back in their lives, were hired laborers. The
prudent, penniless beginner in the world labors for wages
awhile, saves a surplus with which to buy tools or land for
himself, then labors on his own account another while, and
at length hires another beginner to help him. This is the
just and generous and prosperous system which opens the way

526 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

to all — gives hope to all, and consequent energy and progress
and improvement of condition to all. No men living are more
worthy to be trusted than those who toil up from poverty —
none less inclined to take or touch aught which they have not
honestly earned. Let them beware of surrendering a political
power which they already possess, and which, if surrendered,
will surely be used to close the door of advancement against
such as they, and to fix new disabilities and burdens upon
them, till all of liberty shall be lost.

THE PRESENT CRISIS

James Russell Lowell

When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's

aching breast
Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west,
And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him

climb
To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime
Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time.

Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instantaneous

throe,
When the travail of the Ages wrings earth's systems to and fro;
At the birth of each new Era, with a recognizing start,
Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips apart,
And glad Truth's yet mightier man-child leaps beneath the

Future's heart.

For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along,
Round the earth's electric circle, the swift flash of right or

wrong;
Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Humanity's vast frame

THE PRESENT CRISIS 527

Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy or

shame; —
In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim.

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,
In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;
Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom

or blight,
Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the

right,
And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that

light.

Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments see,
That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through Oblivion's

sea:
Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry
Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's

chaff must fly;
Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath

passed by.

Careless seems the great Avenger; history's pages but record
One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the

Word;
Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne, —
Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim un

known,
Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own.

Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her wretched

crust,
Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be

just;

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Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands

aside,
Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified,
And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied.

Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes, — they were souls that

stood alone,
While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious

stone,
Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline
To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine,
By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme

design.

For Humanity sweeps onward: where to-day the martyr stands,
On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands;
Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots

burn,
While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return
To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden urn.

'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves

Of a legendary virtue carved upon our father's graves,

Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a

crime; —
Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men be-
hind their time?
Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that makes Plymouth
Rock sublime?

They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to

our sires,
Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar-fires;
Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to

slay,

GIVE ME THE SUN 529

From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps

away
To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day?

New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good

uncouth;
They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast

of Truth;
Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires; we ourselves must Pilgrims

be,
Launch our Mayflower and steer boldly through the desperate

winter sea,
Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood-rusted

key.

Abridged.

GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN *

Walt Whitman

Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling,

Give me juicy autumnal fruit ripe and red from the orchard,

Give me a field where the unmowed grass grows,

Give me an arbor, give me the trellised grape,

Give me fresh corn and wheat, give me serene-moving animals

teaching content,
Give me nights perfectly quiet as on high plateaus west of the

Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars,
Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where

I can walk undisturbed,
Give me for marriage a sweet-breathed woman of whom I

should never tire,
Give me a perfect child, give me, away aside from the noise of

the world, a rural domestic life,
Give me to warble spontaneous songs recluse by myself, for

my own ears only,

1 From Leaves of Grass (Philadelphia: David McKay Company,
1900).

530 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Give me soltitude, give me Nature, give me again O Nature
your primal sanities!

These demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless excite-
ment, and racked by the war-strife)
These to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries from my

heart,
While yet incessantly asking still I adhere to my city
Day upon day and year upon year, O city, walking your streets,
Where you hold me enchained a certain time refusing to

give me up,
Yet giving to make me glutted, enriched of soul, you give me

forever faces;
(O I see what I ought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries,
I see my own soul trampling down what it asked for.)

Keep your splendid silent sun,

Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods,

Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your cornfields

and orchards,
Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields where the Ninth-month

bees hum;
Give me faces and streets — give me these phantoms incessant

and endless along the trottoirs!
Give me interminable eyes — give me women — give me com-
rades and lovers by the thousand!
Let me see new ones every day — let me hold new ones by the

hand every day!
Give me such shows — give me the streets of Manhattan!
Give mc Broadway, with the soldiers marching — give me the

sound of the trumpets and drums!
(The soldiers in companies or regiments — some starting away

flushed and reckless,
Some, their time up, returning with thinned ranks, young,

yet very old, worn, marching, noticing nothing;)
Give me the shores and wharves heavy-fringed with black ships!

ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 531

O such for me! O an intense life, full to repletion and varied!

The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me!

The saloon of the steamer! The crowded excursion for me!
The torchlight procession!

The dense brigade bound for the war, with high-piled military
wagons following;

People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pag-
eants,

Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating
drums as now,

The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets
(even the sight of the wounded),

Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus!

Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.

ODE

ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS
OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

William Wordsworth

There was a time when meadow, grove and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem
Appareled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore; —
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose,
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night

532 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday; —
Thou child of joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd-
boy!

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call

Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;

My heart is at your festival,

My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all.

Oh evil day! if I were sullen

While earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,

And the children are culling
On every side,

In a thousand valleys far and wide,

ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 533

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm: —

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!

— But there's a tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have, looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:

The pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows

He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And even with something of a mother's mind,

And no unworthy aim,

The homely nurse doth all she can

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To make her foster-child, her inmate man,

Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the child among his new-born blisses,
A six years' darling of a pigmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;

A wedding or a festival,

A mourning or a funeral,
And this hath now his heart,

And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;

But it will not be long

Ere this be thrown aside,

And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'
With all the persons, down to palsied age,
That life brings with her in her equipage;

As if his whole vocation

Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

Thy soul's immensity;
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, rcad'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, —

Mighty prophet! Seer blest!

On whom those truths do rest,

ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 535

Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy immortality
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
A presence which is not to be put by;
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

Oh joy! that in our embers

Is something that doth live,

That nature yet remembers

What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: —

Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise;

But for those obstinate questionings

Of sense and outward things,

Fallings from us, vanishings;

Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:

But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,

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Are yet a master light of all our seeing;

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal silence: truths that wake,

To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,

Nor man nor boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence in a season of calm weather

Though inland far we be,
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea

Which brought us hither,

Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!

And let the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound!
We in thought will join your throng,

Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day

Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind;

In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be;

In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

SELF-RELIANCE 537

And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,

Forebode not any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the brooks which down their channels fret,

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;

The innocent brightness of a new-born day

Is lovely yet;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

SELF-RELIANCE

Ralph Waldo Emerson

To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true
for you in your private heart, is true for all men- — that is
genius. Speak your latent conviction and it shall be the uni-
versal sense; for always the inmost becomes the outmost, — and
our first thought is rendered back to us by the trumpets of
the Last Judgment. Familiar as the voice of the mind is to
each, the highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato, and Milton,
is that they set at naught books and traditions, and spoke not
what men, but what they thought. A man should learn to
detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his
mind from within, more than the lustre of the firmament of
bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his thought,
because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our own

538 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

rejected thoughts: they come back to us with a certain alienated
majesty. Great works of art have no more affecting lesson for
us than this. They teach us to abide by our spontaneous im-
pression with good-humored inflexibility then most when the
whole cry of voices is on the other side. Else, to-morrow a
stranger will say with masterly good sense precisely what we
have thought and felt all the time, and we shall be forced
to take with shame our own opinion from another.

There is a time in every man's education when he arrives
at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is
suicide; that he must take himself for better, for worse, as his
portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no
kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his
toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to
till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and
none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he
know until he has tried. Not for nothing one face, one char-
acter, one fact makes much impression on him, and another
none. It is not without preestablished harmony, this sculpture
in the memory. The eye was placed where one ray should fall,
that it might testify of that particular ray. . . . We but half
express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine idea which
each of us represents. It may be safely trusted as proportionate
and of good issues, so it be faithfully imparted, but God will
not have His work made manifest by cowards. ... A man is
relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his work and
done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise, shall
give him no peace. It is a deliverance which does not deliver.
In the attempt his genius deserts him; no muse befriends; no
invention, no hope.

Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept
the place the divine Providence has found for you; the society
of your contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men

the lover's resolution 539

have always done so and confided themselves childlike to the
genius of their age, betraying their perception that the Eternal
was stirring at their heart, working through their hands, pre-
dominating in all their being.

And we are now men, and must accept in the highest mind
the same transcendent destiny; and not pinched in a corner,
not cowards fleeing before a revolution, but redeemers and
benefactors, pious aspirants to be noble clay. Under the Al-
mighty effort let us advance on Chaos and the Dark.

THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION

George Wither

Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair:
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May!
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?

Should my heart be grieved or pined,

'Cause I see a woman kind?

Or a well disposed nature

Joined with a lovely feature?

Be she meeker, kinder than

Turtle dove, or pelican!
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well deserving known,

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Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her, name of best!
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool, and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think 'What, with them, they would do
That, without them, dare to woo!'
And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair!
If she love me (this believe!)
I will die, ere she shall grieve!
If she slight me, when I woo,
I can scorn, and let her go!
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?

THE FINALITIES OF EXPRESSION1

Hamilton Wright Mabie

Socrates seems to most of us an eminently wholesome char-
acter, incapable of corrupting the youth, although adjudged
guilty of that grave oflence, and altogether a man to be trusted
and honoured. And the tradition of Xantippe adds our sym-
pathy to our faith. But Carlyle evidently distrusted Socrates,
for he says of him, reproachfully, that he was "terribly at ease

1 From My Study Fire, by Hamilton Wright Mabie. Reprinted by
permission of the publishers, Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc.

THE FINALITIES OF EXPRESSION 541

in Zion." It is quite certain that neither within Zion nor out-
side its walls was Carlyle at ease. No sweating smith ever
groaned more at his task than did this greatest of modern
English literary artists. He fairly grovelled in toil, bemoaning
himself and smiting his fellow-man in sheer anguish of spirit;
producing his masterpieces to an accompaniment of passionate
but unprofane curses on the conditions under which, and
the task upon which, he worked. This, however, was the
artisan, not the artist, side of the great writer; it was the toil-
worn, unrelenting Scotch conscience astride his art and rid-
ing it at times as Tarn o' Shanter spurred his gray mare, Meg,
on the ride to Kirk Alloway. Socrates, on the other hand, is
always at ease and in repose. His touch on the highest themes
is strong and sure, but light almost as air. There seems to be
no effort about his morality, no self-consciousness in his piety,
no strain in his philosophy. The man and his words are in
perfect harmony, and both seem to be a natural flowering and
fulfilment of the higher possibilities of life. Uncouth as he
was in person, there was a strange and compelling beauty in
this unconventional teacher; for the expression both of his
character and of his thought was wholly in the field of art.
He was an artist just as truly as Phidias or Pericles or Plato;
one, that is, who gave the world not the processes but the
results of labour; for grace, as George Macdonald somewhere
says, is the result of forgotten toil. Socrates had his struggles,
but what the world saw and heard was the final and harmoni-
ous achievement; it heard the finished speech, not the orator
declaiming on the beach with pebbles in his mouth; it saw the
completed picture, not the artist struggling with those obdurate
patches of colour about which Hamerton tells us. When the
supreme moment and experience came, Socrates was calm amid
his weeping friends, and died with the quiet assurance of one
to whom death was so entirely incidental that any special

542 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

agitation would seem to exaggerate its importance; and exag-
geration is intolerable in art.

This bit of vital illustration may suggest a deeper view of art
than that which we habitually take, and a view which may make
us for a moment conscious of the loss which modern life sus-
tains in having lost so largely the art spirit. Men degenerate
without a strong grasp on morality, but they grow deformed
and unhappy without art. For art is as truly the final expres-
sion of perfect character as of perfect thought, and beauty
is as much a quality of divinity as righteousness. When good-
ness gets beyond self-consciousness, when the love of man
for God becomes as genuine and simple and instinctive as the
love of a child for its father, both goodness and love become
beautiful. Beauty is the final form of all pure activities, and
truth and righteousness do not reach their perfect stage until
they take on beauty. Struggle is heroic, and our imaginations
are deeply moved by it, but struggle is only a means to an
end, and to rest in it and glorify it is to exalt the process above
the consummation. We need beauty just as truly as we need
truth, for it is as much a part of our lives. A beautiful char-
acter, like a beautiful poem or statue, becomes a type or stand-
ard; it brings the ideal within our vision, and, while it fills
us with a divine discontent, satisfies and consoles us. The finali-
ties of character and of art restore our vision of the ends of
life, and, by disclosing the surpassing and thrilling beauty
of the final achievement, reconcile us to the toil and anguish
which go before it. The men and women are few who would
not gladly die if they might do one worthy thing perfectly.

The conscience of most English-speaking people has been
trained in the direction of morality, but not in the direction
of beauty. We hold ourselves with painful solicitude from all
contact with that which corrupts or defiles, but we are abso-
lutely unscrupulous when it comes to colour and form and

THE FINALITIES OF EXPRESSION 543

proportion. We are studious not to offend the moral sense,
but we do not hesitate to abuse the aesthetic sense. We fret at
political corruption, and at long intervals we give ourselves
the trouble of getting rid of it; but we put up public build-
ings which may well make higher intelligences than ours
shudder at such an uncovering of our deformity. We insist
on decent compliance with the law, but we ruthlessly despoil a
beautiful landscape and stain a fair sky, as if these acts were not
flagrant violations of the order of the universe. The truth is, our
consciences are like our tastes; they are only half trained. They
operate directly and powerfully on one side of our lives, and on
the other they are dumb and inactive.

An intelligent conscience insists on a whole life no less than
on a clean one; it exacts obedience, not to one set of laws, but
to law; it makes us as uncomfortable in the presence of a neg-
lected opportunity as in the presence of a misused one. It is not
surprising that men are restless under present conditions; there
is a squalor in many manufacturing and mining countries which
eats into the soul, — an ugliness that hurts the eye and makes the
heart ache. Blue sky and green grass cry out at such profanation,
and it is not strange that the soul of the man who daily faces that
hideous deformity of God's fair world grows savage and that
he becomes a lawbreaker like his employer. For lawbreaking
is contagious, and he who violates the wholesome beauty of
the world lets loose a spirit which will not discriminate be-
tween general and particular property, between the landscape
and the private estates which compose it. The culprit who
defaces a picture in a public gallery meets with condign pun-
ishment, but the man who defaces a lovely bit of nature, a
living picture set in the frame of a golden day, goes unwhipped
of justice; for we are as yet only partly educated, and civiliza-
tion ends abruptly in more than one direction.

The absence of the corrective spirit of art is seen in the

544 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

obtrusivencss of much of our morality and religion; we formu-
late and methodise so much that ought to be spontaneous and
free. The natural key is never out of harmony with the purest
strains of which the soul is capable, but we distrust it to such
an extent that much of the expression of religious life is in
an unnatural key. We are afraid of simple goodness, and are
never satisfied until we have cramped it into some conventional
form and substituted for the pure inspiration a well-contrived
system of mechanism; for the Psalms we are always substituting
the Catechism, and in all possible ways translating the deep
and beautiful poetry of the spiritual life into the hard prose
of ecclesiasticism and dogmatism. The perfect harmony of the
life and truth of the divinest character known to men teaches
a lesson which we have yet to learn. If the words of Christ and
those of any catechism are set in contrast, the difference be-
tween the crudity of provisional statements and the divine
perfection of the finalities of truth and life is at once apparent.
We have learned in part the lesson of morality, but we have
yet to learn the lesson of beauty. We have not learned it be-
cause in our moral education we have stopped short of perfec-
tion; for the purest and highest morality becomes a noble
form of art.

WORK AND CONTEMPLATION

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The woman singeth at her spinning-wheel
A pleasant chant, ballad or barcarole;
She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,
Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel
Is full, and artfully her fingers feel
With quick adjustment, provident control,
The lines — too subtly twisted to unroll —

THE PRAIRIES 545

Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal
To the dear Christian church — that we may do
Our Father's business in these temples mirk,
Thus, swift and steadfast; thus, intent and strong;
While thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue
Some high, calm, spheric tune, and prove our work
The better for the sweetness of our song.

From THE PRAIRIES

(1832)

William Cullen Byrant

These are the gardens of the Desert, these

The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful,

For which the speech of England has no name —

The Prairies. I behold them for the first,

And my heart swells while the dilated sight

Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo, they stretch

In airy undulations, far away,

As if the Ocean, in his gentlest swell,

Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed

And motionless forever. Motionless?

No, they are all unchained again: The clouds

Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath,

The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;

Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase

The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South,

Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers,

And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high,

Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not, ye have played

Among the palms of Mexico and vines

Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks

That from the fountains of Sonora glide

Into the calm Pacific: have ye fanned

A nobler or a lovelier scene than this?

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Man hath no part in all this glorious work:

The hand that built the firmament hath heaved

And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes

With herbage, planted them with island groves,

And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor

For this magnificent temple of the sky,

With flowers whose glory and whose multitude

Rival the constellations! The great heavens

Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love —

A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue,

Than that which bends above our Eastern hills.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

Charles Dickens

Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt what-
ever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the
clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner.
Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change
for anything he chose to put his hand to.

Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge knew he was dead. Of course he did. How could it
be otherwise? Scrooge and he had been partners for I do not
know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole
administrator, his sole assignee, residuary legatee, his sole
friend, his sole mourner.

Scrooge never painted out old Marley's name, however.
There it yet stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door,
— scrooge and marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and
Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge
Scrooge, and sometimes Marley. He answered to both names.
It was all the same to him.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, was

A CHRISTMAS CAROL 547

Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutch-
ing, covetous old sinner! External heat and cold had little in-
fluence on him. No warmth could warm, no cold could chill
him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow
was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open
to entreaty.

Nobody ever stopped him on the streets to say, with glad-
some looks, "My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you
come to see me?" No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle,
no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman
ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a
place, of Scrooge.

Once upon a time — of all the good days in the year, upon
a Christmas eve — old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house.
It was cold, bleak, biting, foggy weather; and the city clocks
had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already.

The door of Scrooge's counting-house was open, that he
might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell
beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very
small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it
looked like one coal. But he couldn't replenish it, for Scrooge
kept the coal-box in his room; and so surely as the clerk came
in with the shovel the master predicted that it would be neces-
sary for them to part. Wherefore the clerk put on his white
comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which
effort, not being a man of strong imagination, he failed.

"A merry Christmas, Uncle!" cried a cheerful voice. It was
the voice of Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so quickly
that this was the first intimation that Scrooge had of his ap-
proach.

"Bah! humbug!"

"Christmas a humbug, Uncle! You don't mean that I am
sure!"

518 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

"I do. Out upon merry Christmas! Keep Christmas in your
own way and let me keep it in mine."

"Keep it! But you don't keep it."

"Let me leave it alone, then. Much good may it do you! Much
good has it ever done you!"

"Don't be angry, Uncle. Come! Dine with us to-morrow."

Scrooge said that he would see him — yes, indeed, he did.
He went the whole length of the expression, and said that he
would see him in that extremity first.

"But why? why?"

"Why did you get married?"

"Because I fell in love."

"Because you fell in love. Good afternoon!"

"Nay, Uncle, but you never came to see me before that hap-
pened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now?"

"Good afternoon!"

"A merry Christmas, Uncle."

"Good afternoon!"

"And a Happy New Year!"

"Good afternoon!"

The hour of shutting up the counting-house had arrived.
With an ill-will Scrooge, dismounting from his stool, tacitly
admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the tank, who in-
stantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat.

"You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?"

"If quite convenient, sir."

"It's not convenient, and it's not fair. If I was to stop half
a crown for it, you'd think yourself mightily ill-used, I'll be
bound?"

"Yes, sir."

"And yet you don't think me ill-used, when I pay a day's
wages for no work."

A CHRISTMAS CAROL 549

"It's only once a year, sir!"

"A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-
fifth of December! But I suppose you must have the whole
day. Be here all the earlier next morning."

Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy
tavern; then went home to bed. He lived in chambers that had
once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy
suite of rooms. The building was old enough now, and dreary
enough; for nobody lived in it but Scrooge.

Scrooge put on his dressing-gown and slippers and his night-
cap and sat down before the very low fire to take his gruel.

As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened
to rest upon a bell, that hung in the room, and communicated,
for some purpose now forgotten, with a chamber in the highest
story of the building. It was with great astonishment, and with
a strange inexplicable dread, that, as he looked, he saw this
bell begin to ring. Soon it rang out loudly, and so did every
bell in the house.

This was succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below.
Then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below;
then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his
door.

It came on through the heavy door, and a spectre passed
into the room before his eyes. And upon its coming in the
dying flame leaped up, as though it cried out, "I know him!
Marley's ghost!"

"How now!" said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever. "What do
you want with me?"

"Much!" — Marley's voice, no doubt about it!

"Who are you?"

"Ask me who I was."

"Who were you, then?"

550 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

"In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley."

"Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me? Why do
spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?"

"It is required of every man, that the spirit within him
should walk abroad among his fellowmen, and travel far and
wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned
to do so after death. My spirit — mark me! — in life my spirit
never roved beyond the narrow limits of our money-changing
hole; and weary journeys lie before me!"

"Seven years dead. And traveling all the time? You travel
fast?"

"On the wings of the wind."

"You might have got over a great quantity of ground in
seven years."

"O blind man, blind man! Not to know that no space of
regret can make amends for one life's opportunities misused!
Yet I was like this man!"

"But you were always a good man of business, Jacob."

"Business! Mankind was my business. I am here to warn
you that you have yet a chance to escape my fate. A chance
and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer."

"You were always a good friend to me, thank'ee!"

"You will be haunted by three spirits."

"Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob? 1 — I
think I'd rather not."

"Without these visits you cannot hope to shun the path I
tread. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own
sake, you remember what has passed between us!"

It walked backward from him; and every step it took, the
window raised itself a little, so that when the apparition
reached it, it was wide open; and the spirit floated out upon
the air and disappeared.

When Scrooge awoke, it was so dark, that he could scarcely

A CHRISTMAS CAROL 551

distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of
his chamber, until suddenly the church clock tolled a deep,
dull, hollow, melancholy one.

Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the cur-
tains of the bed were drawn aside by a strange figure.

"Are you the spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?"

"I am!"

"Who and what are you?"

"I am the ghost of Christmas past."

"Long past?"

"No. Your past."

"What brings you here?"

"Your welfare. Rise and walk with me."

"I am a mortal and liable to fall."

"Bear but a touch of my hand there," said the Spirit, lay-
ing it upon his heart, "and you shall be upheld in more than
this."

As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and
stood in the busy thoroughfares of the city. It was made plain
enough by the dressing of the shops that here, too, it was
Christmas time.

The ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked
Scrooge if he knew it.

"Know it! I was apprenticed here!"

They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a Welsh wig,
Scrooge cried in great excitement, "Why, it's old Fezziwig!
Bless his heart, it's Fezziwig, alive again!"

Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock
which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands;
adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed all over himself,
from his shoes to his organ of benevolence; and called out in a
comfortable, oily, rich, fat jovial voice: "Yoho, there! Ebenezer!
Dick!"

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A living and moving picture of Scrooge's former self, a young
man, came briskly in, accompanied by his fellow-'prentice.

"Yoho, my boys!" said Fezziwig. "No more work to-night.
Christmas eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the
shutters up, before a man can say Jack Robinson! Clear away,
mv lads, and let's have lots of room here!"

Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared
away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute.
Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from
public life forevermore; the floor was swept and watered, the
lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the
warehouse was as snug and warm and dry and bright a ball-
room as you would desire to see upon a winter's night.

In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the
lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty
stomach aches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial
smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable.
In came the six young followers whose hearts they broke. In
came all the young men and women employed in the busi-
ness. In came the housemaid, with her cousin the baker. In
came the cook, with her brother's particular friend the milk-
man. In they all came one after another; some shyly, some
boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some
pulling; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they
all went, twenty couples at once; hands half round and back
again the other way; down the middle and up again; round
and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top
couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple
starting off again as soon as they got there; all top couples at
last, and not a bottom one to help them. When this result was
brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the
dance, cried out, "Well done!" and the fiddler plunged his hot

A CHRISTMAS CAROL 553

face into a pot of porter especially provided for that purpose.

There were more dances and there were forfeits, and more
dances, and there was cake, and there was a great piece of Cold
Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled, and there
were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. But the great effect of
the evening came when they struck up "Sir Roger de Cover-
ley." Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezzi-
wig. Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out
for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people
who were not to be trifled with; people who would dance, and
had no notion of walking.

But if they had been twice as many, — four times, — old Fezzi-
wig would have been a match for them and so would Mrs.
Fezziwig. As to her, she was worthy to be his partner in every
sense of the term. A positive light seemed to issue from Fezzi-
wig's calves. They shone in every part of the dance. You
couldn't have predicted, at any time, what would become
of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had
gone through the dance, — advance and retire, turn your part-
ner, bow and curtsey, corkscrew, thread the needle and back
again to your place, — Fezziwig "cut" so deftly, that he appeared
to wink with his legs.

When the clock struck eleven this domestic ball broke up.
Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations on either side of
the door, and, shaking hands with every person individually
as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas.
When everybody had retired but the two 'prentices, they did
the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and
the lads were left to their beds, which were under a counter
in the back shop.

"A small matter," said the ghost, "to make these silly folks
so full of gratitude. He has spent but a few pounds of youi

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mortal money; three or four, perhaps. Is that so much that
he deserves this praise?"

"It isn't that," said Scrooge, "it isn't that, Spirit. He has the
power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service
light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. Say that his power
lies in words and looks; in things so light and insignificant
that it is impossible to add and count them up: what then?
The happiness is as great as though it cost a fortune."

He felt the Spirit's glance, and stopped.

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing in particular. I should like to be able to say a word
or two to my clerk just now. That's all."

"My time grows short, quick!"

This was not addressed to Scrooge, or to anyone whom he
could see, for he immediately found himself in his own bed-
room. He had barely time to reel to bed before he sank into
a heavy sleep.

Scrooge awoke in his own bedroom. There was no doubt of
that. But it and his own adjoining sitting-room, into which he
shuffled in his slippers, were brilliant with a great light, and
in easy state upon a couch there sat a Giant glorious to see,
who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty's horn,
and who raised it high to shed its light on Scrooge as he came
peeping round the door.

"Come in — come in! and know me better, man. I am the
Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me!"

"Spirit, conduct me where you will. I went forth last night
on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson which is working now.
To-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it."

"Touch my robe!"

Scrooge did as he was told, and held it fast.

The room and its contents vanished instantly, and they
stood in the city streets upon a snowy Christmas morning.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL 555

Scrooge and the Ghost passed on, invisible, straight to
Scrooge's clerk; and on the threshold of the door the Spirit
smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the
sprinkling of the torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen
"bob" a week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen
copies of his Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas
Present blessed his four-roomed house!

Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, dressed out but poorly in a
twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and
make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth as-
sisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave
in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into
the saucepan of potatoes. Two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl,
came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had
smelt the goose, and known it for their own; and, basking in
luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, these young Cratchits
danced about the table.

"What has ever got your precious father?" said Mrs.
Cratchit. "And your brother, Tiny Tim! And Martha warn't
as late last Christmas Day by half an hour!"

"Here's Martha, mother! Hurrah, there's such a goose, Mar-
tha!"

"Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!"

"We'd a deal of work to finish up last night, and had to clear
away this morning, mother."

"Well, never mind, so long as you are come. Sit ye down be-
fore the fire, my dear, and have a warm, God bless ye!"

"No, no! There's father coming home from church," cried
the two young Cratchits. "Hide, Martha, hide!"

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father,
with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe,
hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned
up and brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his

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shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had
his limbs supported by an iron frame!

"Why, where's our Martha?"

"Not coming!"

"Not coming?"

"No!"

"Not coming upon Christmas Day!"

Martha did not like to see him disappointed, if it were only
a joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet
door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits
hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that
he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.

"And how did little Tim behave?" said Mrs. Cratchit.

"As good as gold, and better!"

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back
came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken.

And now all set to work with a will to get dinner ready.
Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy hissing hot; Master Peter mashed
the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened
up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; the two
young Cratchits set chairs for everybody. At last the dishes
were set on and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breath-
less pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carv-
ing knife, prepared to plunge it into the breast; but when
she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued
forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and
even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on
the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried, Hurrah!

There never was such a goose. Its tenderness and flavor, size
and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked
out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient
dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with
great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the

A CHRISTMAS CAROL 557

dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had
enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped
in sage and onions to the eyebrows. But now, the plates being
changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone,
— too nervous to bear witnesses, — to take the pudding up and
bring it in.

Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should
break in the turning out! Suppose somebody should have got
over the wall of the back yard, and stolen it, while they were
merry with the goose, — a supposition at which the two young
Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed.

Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the
copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A
smell like an eating-house and a pastry-cook's next door to
each other, with a laundress next door to that! That was the
pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered, — flushed but
smiling proudly, — with the pudding, like a speckled cannon
ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half a quartern of
ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into
the top.

O, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too,
that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs.
Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the
weight was off her mind she would confess she had had her
doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something
to say about it, but nobody thought it was at all a small pud-
ding for a large family. Any Cratchit would have blushed to
hint at such a thing.

At last the dinner was done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth
swept, and the fire made up. Then all the family drew around
the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle. Then Bob
proposed:

"A merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!"

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Which all the family re-echoed.

"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

Scrooge raised his head speedily on hearing his own name.

"Mr. Scrooge!" said Bob: "I'll give you Mr. Scrooge, the
Founder of the Feast!"

"The Founder of the Feast indeed!" cried Mrs. Cratchit,
reddening.

"My dear, the children! Christmas Day!"

"I'll drink his health for your sake and the day's, not for his.
Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a happy New Year!"

The mention of the name cast a dark shadow on the party,
which was not dispelled for full five minutes. After it had
passed away, they were ten times merrier than before, from
mere relief.

It was a great surprise to Scrooge, as this scene vanished, to
hear a hearty laugh. It was a much greater surprise to Scrooge
to recognize it as his own nephew's, and to find himself in a
bright, dry, gleaming room, with the Spirit standing smiling
at his side, and looking at the same nephew.

"He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live! He believed
it, too."

"More shame for him, Fred!" said Scrooge's niece, indig-
nantly.

"He's a comical old fellow, that's the truth; and not so pleas-
ant as he might be. However, his offences carry their own
punishment, and I have nothing to say against him. Who
suffers by his ill whims? Himself, always! He won't come and
dine with us. What's the consequence? He don't lose much
of a dinner."

"Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner!" said Scrooge's
niece. Everybody else said the same, and they must be allowed
to be competent judges, because they had just had dinner,
and were clustered round the fire by lamplight;

A CHRISTMAS CAROL 559

Then there was music, and after the music there were games,
and Scrooge's nephew proposed a game called Yes and No,
where Scrooge's nephew had to think of something, and the
rest must find out what, he answering to their questions only
yes or no, as the case was. The fire of questioning to which
he was exposed elicited from him that he was thinking of
an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage
animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and
talked sometimes, and lived in London, and walked about the
streets, and wasn't made a show of, and wasn't led by anybody,
and didn't live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a
market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a bull, or
a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every new
question put to him, this nephew burst into a fresh roar of
laughter, and was so inexpressibly tickled that he was obliged
to get up off the sofa and stamp. At last one cried out:

"I have found it! I know what it is, Fred! I know what it is."

"What is it?"

"It's your uncle Scro-o-o-ge!"

Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universal senti-
ment, though some objected that the reply to "Is it a bear?"
ought to have been "Yes."

Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of
heart that he would have drunk to the company in an inaudi-
ble speech. But the whole scene passed off in the breath of the
last word spoken by his nephew, and he and the Spirit were
again upon their travels.

Suddenly, as they stood together in an open place, the bell
struck twelve and Scrooge was alone. He saw the Ghost no
more.

As the last stroke of twelve ceased to vibrate, Scrooge beheld
a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming like a mist
along the ground towards him.

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"Lead on! lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is
precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Ghost of Christmas Yet
To Come!"

They scarcely seemed to enter the city; for the city rather
seemed to spring up about them. But there they were in the
heart of it; on 'Change, amongst the merchants.

The spirit stopped beside one little group of business men.
Scrooge advanced and listened.

"No," said a fat man, "I don't know much about it either
way. I only know he is dead."

"When did he die?"

"Last night, I believe."

"Why, what was the matter with him? I thought he'd never
die!"

"God knows," said the fat man with a yawn.

"What has he done with his money?"

"I haven't heard; company, perhaps. He hasn't left it to
me. That's all I know. By, by!"

They left this busy scene, and went into an obscure part of
town, to a low shop where iron, old rags, bottles were bought.
A gray-haired rascal of great age sat smoking his pipe.

Scrooge and the Phantom came into the presence of this
man just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop.
But she had scarcely entered, when another woman, similarly
laden, came in too; and she was closely followed by a man
in faded black.

They all three burst out laughing and the first to enter
cried: "Let the charwoman alone to be the first; let the
laundress alone to be the second; and let the undertaker's man
alone to be the third. Look here, old Joe, here's a chance! If
we haven't all three met here without meaning it!"

"What have you got to sell?"

"What odds then! what odds, Mrs. Dilber?" said the other

A CHRISTMAS CAROL 501

woman. "Every person has a right to take care of himself. He
always did! Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like
these? Not a dead man, I suppose."

"No, indeed, ma'am."

"If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, a wicked old
screw, why wasn't he natural in his life-time? If he had been,
he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck
with Death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone
by himself."

"It's the truest word that ever was spoke, it's a judgment
on him."

"Open that bundle, Joe, and let me know the value of it."

Joe went down on his knees for the greater convenience of
opening the bundle, and dragged out a large and heavy roll
of some dark stuff.

"What do you call this? Bed-curtains!"

"Ah! Bed-curtains! Don't drop that oil upon the blankets,
now."

"His blankets?"

"Whose else do you think? He isn't likely to take cold with-
out 'em, I dare say."

Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror.

"Spirit, I see, I see. The case of this unhappy man might
be my own. My life ends that way, now. Merciful Heaven,
what is this!"

The scene changed, and now he almost touched a bare, un-
curtained bed. On it, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was
the body of this plundered, unknown man.

"Spirit, let me see some tenderness connected with death, or
this dark chamber, Spirit, will be forever present to me."

The Ghost conducted him to poor Bob Cratchit's house, —
the dwelling he had visited before, — and found the mother
and children seated around the fire.

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Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as still
as statues in one coiner, and sat looking up at Peter, who had
a book before him. The mother and her daughters were en-
gaged in needlework. But surely they were very quiet!

4 'And he took a child and set him in the midst of them.' "

Where had Scrooge heard those words? He had not dreamed
them. The boy must have read them out, as he and the Spirit
crossed the threshold. Why did he not go on?

The mother laid her work upon the table and put her hand
up to her face.

"The color hurts my eyes," she said.

The color? Ah, poor Tiny Tim!

"I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes
home for the world. It must be near his time."

"Past it rather," Peter answered, shutting up his book. "But
I think he has walked a little slower than he used, these last
few evenings."

"I have known him walk with — I have known him walk with
Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed."

"And so have I, often!"

"But he was very light to carry, and his father loved him so
that it was no trouble — no trouble. And there is your father
at the door."

She hurried out to meet him; and little Bob and his com-
forter— he had need of it, poor fellow — came in. His tea was
ready for him on the hob, and they all tried who should help
him to it most. Then the two young Cratchits got upon his
knees and laid each child a little cheek against his face, as if
they said, "Don't mind it, father. Don't be grieved!"

Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all
the family. He looked at the work upon the table, and praised
the industry and speed of Mrs. Cratchit and the girls. They
would be done long before Sunday.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL 563

"Sunday! You went to-day, then, Robert?"

"Yes, my dear, I wish you could have gone. It would have
done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll see it
often. I promised him I would walk there on a Sunday. My
little child!"

He broke down all at once.

"Spectre," said Scrooge, "something informs me that our
parting moment is at hand. I know it, but I do not know how.
Tell me what man that was, with the covered face, whom we
saw lying dead?"

The Ghost of Chrismas Yet To Come conveyed him to a
dismal, wretched, ruinous churchyard.

The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to
One.

Scrooge crept toward it, trembling as he went; and, follow-
ing the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his
own name, — ebenezer scrooge.

"Am I that man who lay upon the bed? No, Spirit! O no, no!
Spirit! hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the
man I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me
this if I am past all hope? Assure me that 1 yet may change
these shadows you have shown me by an altered life. O tell me
I may sponge away the writing on this stone!"

Holding up his hands in one last prayer to have his fate
reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and dress.
It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost. Yes,
and the bedpost was his own, the room was his own. Best and
happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make
amends in! The church bells were ringing out the lustiest peals
he had ever heard. Running to the window, he opened it, and
put his head out. No fog, no mist, no night; clear, bright, stir-
ring, golden day.

"What's to-day?" cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy

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in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about
him.

"Eh?"

"What's to-day, my fine fellow?"

"To-day! Why, Christmas Day!"

"It's Christmas Day! I haven't missed it. Hallo, my fine fel-
low!"

"Hallo!"

"Do you know the poulterer's, in the next street but one, at
the corner?"

"I should hope I did."

"An intelligent boy! A remarkable boy! Do you know
whether they have sold the prize turkey that was hanging up
there? Not the little prize turkey, — the big one?"

"What, the one as big as me?"

"What a delightful boy! It's a pleasure to talk to him. Yes,
my buck!"

"It's hanging there now."

"Is it? Go and buy it, and tell 'em to bring it here, that I
may give them the direction where to take it. Come back with
the man and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in
less than five minutes and I'll give you half a crown!"

The boy was off like a shot.

"I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's! He sha'n't know who sends it.
It's twice the size of Tiny Tim!"

The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady
one; but write it he did, somehow, and went down stairs to
open the street door, ready for the coming of the turkey.

It was a turkey! He never could have stood upon his legs,
that bird. He would have snapped 'em short off in a minute,
like sticks of sealing wax.

Scrooge dressed himself "all in his best," and at last got out
into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth,

A CHRISTMAS CAROL 565

and walking with his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded
every one with a delighted smile. He looked so irresistibly
pleasant that three or four good-humored fellows said, "Good
morning, sir! A merry Christmas to you!" And Scrooge said
often afterwards, that, of all the blithe sounds he had ever
heard, those were the blithest in his ears.

In the afternoon he turned his steps towards his nephew's
house. He passed the door a dozen times before he had the
courage to go up and knock. But he made a dash and did it.

"Is your master at home, my dear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where is he, my love?"

"He's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress."

"He knows me and I'll step right in there, my dear. — Fred!"

"Why, bless my soul, who's that?"

"It's I, your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you
let me in?"

Let him in! It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. Noth-
ing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same. So did
every one else. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful
unanimity, won-derful happiness!

But he was early at the office the next morning. O, he
was early there. If he could only be there first and catch Bob
Cratchit coming late! That was the thing he had set his heart
upon.

And he did it. The clock struck nine. No Bob. A quarter
past. No Bob. Bob was full eighteen minutes and a half be-
hind the time. Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he
might see him come in. Bob's hat was off before he opened the
door, his comforter too. He was on his stool in a jiffy, driving
away with his pen, as if he were trying to overtake Nine
O'clock.

"Hallo!" growled Scrooge, in his accustomed voice, as near

566 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

as he could feign it. "What do you mean by coming here at
this time of the day?"

"I am sorry, sir, I am behind my time."

"You are? Yes. I think you are. Step this way, if you please."

"It's only once a year, sir. It shall not be repeated. I was
making rather merry yesterday, sir."

"Now, I'll tell you what, my friend. I am not going to stand
this sort of thing any longer. And therefore," Scrooge con-
tinued, leaping from his stool and giving Bob such a dig in the
waistcoat that he staggered back into the tank again, — "and
therefore I am about to raise your salary!"

Bob trembled.

"A merry Christmas, Bob! A merry Christmas, Bob, my
good fellow, merrier than I have given you for many a year!
I'll raise your salary, and endeavor to assist your struggling
family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon,
over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob! Make up the
fires, and buy a second coal-scuttle before you dot another i,
Bob Cratchit!"

Scrooge was better than his word. He did all and infinitely
more; and to Tiny Tim who did not die, he became a second
father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as
good a man as the good old city knew, or any other good old
city, town, or borough in the good old world. Some people
laughed to see the alteration in him; but his own heart
laughed, and that was quite enough for him.

It was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christ-
mas well if any man alive possessed the knowledge.

May that be truly said of us. and all of us! And so, as Tiny
Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One!

Abridged.

THE END OF THE PLAY 567

THE END OF THE PLAY

William Makepeace Thackeray

The play is done — the curtain drops,

Slow falling to the prompter's bell;
A moment yet the actor stops,

And looks around, to say farewell.
It is an irksome word and task;

And when he's laughed and said his say,
He shows, as he removes the mask,

A face that's anything but gay.

One word, ere yet the evening ends:

Let's close it with a parting rhyme,
And pledge a hand to all young friends,

As fits the merry Christmas time;
On life's wide scene you, too, have parts,

That fate ere long shall bid you play;
Good-night! — with honest gentle hearts

A kindly greeting go alway!

Good-night! — I'd say the griefs, the joys,

Just hinted in this mimic page,
The triumphs and defeats of boys,

Are but repeated in our age;
I'd say your woes were not less keen,

Your hopes more vain, than those of men,
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen

At forty-five played o'er again.

I'd say we suffer and we strive

Not less nor more as men than boys,
With grizzled beards at forty-five,

As erst at twelve in corduroys,
And if, in time of sacred youth,

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We learned at home to love and pray,
Pray heaven that early love and truth
May never wholly pass away.

And in the world, as in the school,

I'd say how fate may change and shift,
The prize be sometimes with the fool,

The race not always to the swift;
The strong may yield, the good may fall,

The great man be a vulgar clown
The knave be lifted over all,

The kind cast pitilessly down.

Who knows the inscrutable design?

Blessed be he who took and gave!
Why should your mother, Charles, not mim ,

Be weeping at her darling's grave?
We bow to heaven that willed it so,

That darkly rules the face of all,
That sends the respite or the blow,

That's free to give or to recall.

This crowns his feast with wine and wit —

Who brought him to that mirth and state?
His betters, see, below him sit,

Or hunger hopeless at the gate.
Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel

To spurn the rags of Lazarus?
Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel,

Confessing heaven that ruled it thus.

So each shall mourn, in life's advance,

Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed,

Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance,
And longing passion unfulfilled.

Amen! — whatever fate be sent,

THE END OF THE PLAY 569

Pray God the heart may kindly glow,
Although the head with cares be bent,
And whitened with the winter snow.

Come wealth or want, come good or ill,

Let young and old accept their part,
And bow before the awful will,

And bear it with an honest heart.
Who misses or who wins the prize —

Go, lose or conquer as you can;
But if you fail, or if you rise,

Be each, pray God, a gentleman.

A gentleman, or old or young!

(Bear kindly with my humble lays;)
The sacred chorus first was sung

Upon the first of Christmas days;
The shepherds heard it overhead —

The joyful angels raised it then:
Glory to heaven on high, it said,

And peace on earth to gentle men!

My song, save this, is little worth;

I lay the weary pen aside,
And wish you health, and love, and mirth,

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.
As fits the holy Christmas birth,

Be this, good friends, our carol still:
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth,

To men of gentle will.

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ODE TO THE WEST WIND

Percy Bysshe Shelley

O, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O, thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odors plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O, hear!

ii

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge

Of the horizon to the zenith's height

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

ODE TO THE WEST WIND 57 J

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulcher,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere

Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!

in

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Besides a pumice isle in Baiae's Bay.
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IV

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O, uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

572 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,

As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed

Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! Lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O, wind,

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT

Robert Burns

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hings his head, an' a' that?

a man's a man for a' that 573

The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,

Our toils obscure, an' a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp;
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hodden-gray, an' a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,

Their tinsel show, an' a' that,

The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that.

You see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,

His riband, star, an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, an a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,

Their dignities, an' that,
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,

574 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

From THE RUBAlYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM

Edward Fitzgerald

Why, if the Soul can fling the dust aside,
And naked on the air of Heaven ride,

Wer't not a shame — wer't not a shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?

'Tis but a tent where takes his one-day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another guest.

And fear not lest existence closing your

Account, and mine, should know the like no more;

The Eternal Saki from that bowl has poured
Millions of bubbles like us, and will pour.

When you and I behind the veil are past,

Oh, but the long, long while the world shall last,

Which of our coming and departure heeds
As the Seven Seas should heed a pebble-cast.

A moment's halt — a momentary taste
Of Being from the well amid the waste —

And lo! — the phantom caravan has reached
The Nothing it set out from — Oh, make haste!

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit

BY THE WAY 575

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

Yet ah, that Spring should vanish with the rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!

The nightingale that in the branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

Would but the desert of the fountain yield
One glimpse — if dimly, yet indeed, revealed,

To which the fainting traveler might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field!

Would but some winged Angel ere too late
Arrest the yet unfolded roll of fate,

And make the stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister, or quite obliterate!

Ah, Love! could you and I with him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits — and then
Re-mold it nearer to the heart's desire!

BY THE WAY1

Hamilton Wright Mabie

How much of what is best and pleasantest in life comes to us
by the way! The artist forms great plans and sets about great
achievements, but when he comes to the hour of realization he
discovers that the personal reward has come mainly by the way.
The applause of which he dreamed, the fame for which he
hoped, bring small satisfaction; the joy of the work was largely
in the doing of it, and was taken in the long days of toil and the

1 From My Study Fire, by Hamilton Wright Mabie. Reprinted by
permission of the publishers, Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc.

576 SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

brief times of rest which were part of the great undertaking.
To the man or woman who looks forward from the heights of
youth life seems to be an artistic whole, which can be com-
pletely shaped by the will, and wrought out with perfection of
detail in the repose and silence of the workshop. In that glow-
ing time the career of a great man appears to be so symmetrical,
so rounded, so complete, that it seems to be a veritable work of
art, thought out and executed without hindrance, and with the
co-operation of all the great forces. Nights of rest and days of
work, uninterrupted and cumulative, with bursts of applause
widening and deepening as the years go by, with fame adding
note after note to her hymn of praise, — is not this the dream
of young ambition as it surveys the field from the place of
preparation? .

The ideal is not an ignoble one, but it falls far short of the
great reality in range and effort. There is an artistic harmony
in a great life; but it is not a conscious beauty deliberately
evoked by a free hand bent only on the illustration of its skill;
it is a beauty born of pain, self-sacrifice, and arduous surrender
to the stern conditions of success. A bit of fancy lightly inspires
the singer, and as lightly borrows the wings of verse; a great
vision of the imagination demands years and agonies. A bit of
verse, such as serves for the small currency of poetry, runs off
the pen on a convenient scrap of paper; a great poem involves
a deep movement of human life, — something vast, profound,
mysterious. A great life is a work of art of that noble order in
which a man surrenders himself to the creative impulse, and
becomes the instrument of a mightier thought and passion
than he consciously originates. There is a deep sense in which
we make our careers, but there is a deeper sense in which our
careers are made for us. The greater the man the greater the
influences that play upon him and centre in him; it is more a
question of what he shall receive than of what he shall do.

BY THE WAY 577

His life-work is wrought out in no well-appointed atelier,
barred against intrusion, enfolded in silence; the task must be
accomplished in the great arena of the world, jostled by crowds,
beaten upon by storms, broken in upon by all manner of in-
terruptions. The artist does not stand apart from his work,
surveying its progress from hour to hour, and with a skilful
hand bringing his thought in ever clearer view; for the work
is done, not by, but within him; his aspiring soul, passionate
heart, and eager mind are the substance upon which the tools
of the graver work. Death and care, disease and poverty, do
not wait afar off, awed by greatness and enthralled by genius;
the door is always open to them, and they are often familiar
companions. The work of a great life is always accomplished
with toil, self-sacrifice, and with incessant intrusions from with-
out; it is often accomplished amid bitter sorrows and under the
pressure of relentless misfortune.

Yet these things, that break in upon the artistic mood and
play havoc with the artistic poise, make the life-work immeas-
urably nobler and richer; the reality differs from the ideal of
youth in being vaster, and therefore more difficult and painful
of attainment. The easy achievement, always well in hand, and
executed in the quiet of reposeful hours, gives place to the
sublime accomplishment wrought out amid the uproar of the
world and under the pressure of the sorrow and anguish which
are a part of every human lot. The toil is intense, prolonged,
and painful because it is to be imperishable; there is a divine
element in it, and the work takes on a form of immortality.
The little time which falls to the artist here is inadequate to
the greatness of his task; the applause, small or great, which
accompanies his toil is but a momentary and imperfect recog-
nition of what has been done with strength and beauty. It is
pleasant when men see what one has done, but the real satis-
faction is the consciousness that something worthy of being

578

SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION

seen has been accomplished. The rewards of great living are
not external things, withheld until the crowning hour of suc-
cess arrives; they come by the way, — in the consciousness of
growing power and worth, of duties nobly met, and work
thoroughly done. To the true artist, working always in hu-
mility and sincerity, all life is a reward, and every day brings
a deeper satisfaction. Joy and peace are by the way.

Appendix A

SYLLABUS FOR A COLLEGE COURSE
IN INTERPRETATIVE READING

Shared experience is the greatest of human goods.

John Dewey

Genuinely to share at one's best level is to be what
the physicians call healthy, the economists secure, the
educators understanding, and the psychiatrists mature.1

Jerome Nathanson

Objectives This course is planned to help the student to develop:

1. The ability to interpret the meaning of literature and to com-
municate it to an audience.

2. Understanding of basic principles of art and their application to
the oral interpretation of literature.

3. Creative thinking through vicariously experiencing literature.

4. Habits of intelligent and appreciative listening.

5. The ability to evaluate his own work and that of his classmates; to
give and to take constructive criticism.

6. Freedom and balance through emotional awareness and control.

7. A basis for more effective living through:

(a) habits of reading for erudition, adjustment, and enjoyment.

(6) skills for vocational effectiveness in a business or profession.

(c) skills for worthy use of leisure time.
Introduction For adequate progress in interpretative reading the
student must work for both erudition and adjustment. Erudition may
be thought of as knowledge plus awareness, information plus under-
standing, learning so assimilated that it seems a part of one's natural
endowment.

Erudition in interpretative reading is developed through class ex-
periences, study of the textbook, observation, parallel reading, and
listening, and through appraising these experiences in written and
oral reports.

1 Jerome Nathanson, "John Dewey: American Radical," The Na-
tion, October 22, 1949. Vol. 169, p. 392.

579

580 APPENDIX

Adjustment in interpretative reading is adjustment to the total
speech situation. It is sometimes called skill, which according to the
dictionary is "the ability to use one's knowledge effectively."

Adjustment, or skill, is developed through practice guided by sound
principles. Some of this practice will take place during the class hour;
much of it should be outside of class in preparation for class experi-
ences. New ways should be mastered for personal enrichment as well
as for effective reading. One may feel foolish reading aloud to an
imaginary audience, yet sincere practice when one is alone can pay
big dividends. The student is fortunate who finds someone to listen
to his practice: a child, wife, husband, parent, or friend. Students in
one university found it rewarding to read to a blind lady who needed
companionship and intellectual stimulation.

Parallel Reading Freedom of choice in parallel reading and
freedom to make one's own selection for oral reading is desirable.
Parallel reading should clarify and extend understanding of the prin-
ciples of the textbook. General order for parallel reading:

I. Books which give understanding of and motivation to the study

of literature.
II. Books in oral interpretation, dramatic art, speech fundamentals,
voice and diction.

III. Books on aesthetics, philosophy of art, psychology, social science
and education.

IV. (a) Collections of literature for selection of material for class-
room oral reading.

(b) Background material for a complete understanding of selec-
tions.

Written Reports should be handed in periodically. These re-
ports may be an informal sharing of student response to parallel read-
ing, listening to readers on platform, phonograph, radio, or television.

Units for Class Work A unit may take a few days or several
weeks.

UNIT I: Introductory Lecture and Discission
Read and discuss, "Foreword," "To the Student," and Chapter I.

UNIT II: Imagery, Chapter II

1. Study (he principles and practice the examples.

2. Observe examples of sense perception in everyday experiences.
Prepare to tell class about experiences of various types of imagery.

APPENDIX 581

Supplementary: Read chapters on imagery from psychology, litera-
ture, dramatic art, etc.

Culmination of Unit: Select a piece of literature from the anthology
section of the textbook or from some other source. Analyze it for
imagery. Prepare to read it to the class, concentrating on the various
types of imagery. Work for successful experience in reading with
imagery as a technique of thinking. Observe use of imagery by class-
mates.

UNIT III: Bodily Action, Chapter III

1. Study and practice principles and techniques of bodily action.

2. Observe some person's actions that you may pantomime him.
Write:

(a) Name or descriptive title of person.

(b) General characteristics observed: build, posture, carriage.

(c) Mannerisms: Head movements, facial expression, hand ges-
tures, etc.

(d) Brief outline of pantomime giving details in narrative order.

3. Practice pantomime to retain general characteristics and communi-
cate incident through bodily action.

Supplementary: Read chapters on bodily action in other speech text-
books, psychology, dance, physical education, dramatic art, etc.

Culmination of Unit: Select a piece of literature and analyze it for
motor and organic imagery. Prepare to read it with abandon, sensing
actions. In the beginning do not be afraid of acting and overdoing as
a means to vital reading.

UNIT IV: Dramatic Timing, Chapter IV

1. Study pause, tempo and rhythm as elements of dramatic timing.

2. Practice reading examples in Chapter IV according to instructions.

3. Observe timing elements in everyday life: Prepare to tell class about
observations of pause and tempo as related to mood or situation,
rhythm of action, rhythm of character, etc.

4. Select passages of literature as illustrations of rhythm of action.
Read them with literal actions timing the actions to the words.

5. Practice choral reading, Chapter X.

Supplementary :

1. Listen to phonograph records and analyze elements of timing.

2. Read discussions of elements of timing in textbooks on speech,
oral interpretation, dramatic art, English literature, etc.

Culmination of Unit: Select a piece of literature and analyze it for
elements of timing, studying the uses of pause, the need of variety
in tempo, and the possible use of the five ways of finding and follow-

582 APPENDIX

ing the rhythm. Practice for class reading and observe how techniques
of timing aid in vicarious experience of literature.

UNIT V: Structure, Chapter V

1. Study and practice: build, topping, contrast, word emphasis as
elements of structure.

2. Draw diagrams of builds on paper, the blackboard, in the air as
you build practice material.

3. Study sonnets for structure. They are short and the whole may be
diagramed to show the relation of parts to the whole.

4. Practice builds and topping with another student, casting scene
from "The School for Scandal," observing builds and drops within
individual speeches and within portions shared by two characters.

5. Practice choral reading. See "Adding and Subtracting Voices,"
Chapter X.

6. State the central thought, or dominant unity of poems, scenes,
stories, or plays you have read.

Supplementary:

1. Listen to phonograph records and analyze variations in pitch pat-
terns.

2. Read discussions of elements of structure in books on literature,
speech, dramatic art, etc.

3. Listen to the radio and observe pitch patterns which are varied
and those which are monotonous. (A sports announcer describing
a football game builds and drops from eagerness to share vital
experiences.)

Culmination of Unit: Select a piece of literature and analyze it for
various types in structure, drawing diagrams of builds, octave drops,
etc. Underline key words. State in one sentence the central thought
or dominant unity. Practice bodily action and timing and observe
relation to structure. Concentration on imagery should help you in
your reading to give precedence to spirit over form. Do not worry,
however, if at first the reading is artificial; you should learn how to
avoid artificiality later; your next unit will deal with that problem.
This unit emphasizes the development of an oral form in accord
with the structure of the writing, and in accord with the life experi-
ence suggested.

UNIT VI: Illusion, Chapter VI

Study this chapter thoughtfully: Can you recall experiences which
illustrate the principles: crystalization, illusion of the first time, re-
straint with abandon, aesthetic distance?

1. Practice a piece of material you have read for class exercises and
capture, if you can, the "illusion of the first time." (Meditate on

APPENDIX 583

the statement of Antoine de Saint Exupery: "Illumination is vision:
granted suddenly to the spirit after long and gradual preparation."
You will be better able to practice the principles of illusion if you
review material read before than if you select new material for
this unit. A careful artist gives due attention to form, then, re-
works for spontaneity, for the illusion of the first time.)

Supplementary: Re-read Chapter I. Read books on aesthetics, the
philosophy of art, the study of literature, etc.

Culmination of Unit: Review the literature you used in the culmina-
tion of Units II, III, IV, and V. Practice to apply all techniques
studied thus far plus the principle of illusion.

UNIT VII: Voice, Chapter VII

1. Study and practice the principles applying all techniques studied
thus far. Motor imagery is fundamental to support of tones; organic
imagery is fundamental to tone color.

2. Practice choral reading, Chapter X.

Supplementary:

1. Listen to phonograph records and analyze diction and voice char-
acteristics: tone color, melody, etc.

2. Read chapters on voice in other speech textbooks. Analyze your
own needs and practice exercises designed to correct your particular
faults.

Culmination of Unit: Analyze a piece of literature for tone color,
inflection, diction, etc. Practice to read it to the class using all tech-
niques studied including "the illusion of the first time."

UNIT VIII: Backgrounds and Introductions, Chapter IX

1. Read Chapters IX and XI for ideas on selection and arrangement
of material.

2. Prepare a piece of literature for class reading.

(a) Study it carefully and read from whatever sources needed for
adequate background.

(b) Write a paper giving details of study for background.

(c) Select from this background that which is needed for audience
understanding and write an introduction to be given extemporane-
ously when selection is read to the class.

3. Select a scene from Shakespeare and adapt it for class reading.
Read the entire play as background from which ideas for introduc-
tion may be taken.

Culmination of Unit: Select several passages of literature which are
related in theme. Arrange them in an effective order. Write an intro-

584 APPENDIX

duction and write transitions between passages. Suggested themes:
peace, love, friendship, immortality, Thanksgiving, Mother's Day, etc.

UNIT IX: Interpretation of Meaning, Chapter IX

Note: It is obvious that you have been working on the interpretation
of meaning since Unit II when you used imagery as a technique of
thinking. You are now ready to consider some special problems in
interpreting the author's meaning.

1. Study the chapter and the selections for what you think they mean.
Look up obscure words in dictionaries and encyclopedias. Write
a paper answering these questions:

(a) Which of the two interpretations of the word glad (page 203)
do you accept, and why?

(b) What is Browning's answer to the question "Fear Death?" Study
the entire poem, "Prospice" for the answer.

(c) Write the story of "Meeting at Night" and "Parting at Morn-
ing." (There is a precept for effective speech preparation which
says, "Think yourself empty; then read yourself full" — think about
the author's meaning until you have emptied yourself of all ideas
concerning your judgment of his meaning, then read what others
have said about it.)

2. Analyze the other material in this chapter and practice for effec-
tive communication of meaning.

Culmination of Unit: Select a piece of literature which is challenging
because of its profundity. Analyze it for the author's meaning. Write
a paper giving details of your method of finding the meaning includ-
ing interpretations found in notes or commentaries.

UNIT X: Programs

Monotony can be avoided and student interest sustained by varied
programs posted on the bulletin board several weeks in advance.
For example:

Scene from Shakespeare (6 minutes) Mary Brown

Short Story (10 minutes) John Hughes

Great Poem (8 minutes) Adrian Hope

Theme Program (10 minutes) Agnes Allen

Rhythm (3 minutes) Oliver Walker

Scene from Modern Play (10 minutes) Marvin Black

Nonsense Poem (3 minutes) Horace Nolan

Poem of Choice (4 minutes) James Miller

Appendix B

SUGGESTED MATERIAL FOR
SUPPLEMENTARY READING 8c REFERENCE

Abney, Louise, Choral Speaking Arrangements for High Schools (Bos-
ton: Expression Company, 1937).

Anderson, Virgil A., Training the Speaking Voice (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1942).

Bates, Gladys, and Koy, Helena, Literature for Interpretation (Bos-
ton: Expression Company, 1939).

Boleslavski, Richard, Acting, The First Six Lessons (New York:
Theater Arts Inc., 1933).

Bosworth, Halliam, Technique of Dramatic Art (New York: The
Macmillan Company, 1937).

Brown, H. A., and Heltman, H. J., eds., Let's Read Together Poems,
(Evanston, Illinois: Row, Peterson and Company, 1949).

Butcher, Samuel H., Aristotle's Theory of Poetry and the Fine Arts
(New York: The Macmillan Company, 1920).

Clark, S. H., and Babcock, M. M., Interpretation of the Printed Page
(New York: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1941).

Crafton, Allen, and Royer, Jessica, Self Expression Through the
Spoken Word (New York: Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1928).

Compere, Moiree, Living Literature for Oral Interpretation (New
York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc., 1949).

Crocker, L. C, and Eich, L. M., Oral Reading (New York: Prentice-
Hall, Inc., 1947).

Crocker, C, Fields, V. A., and Broomall, W., Taking the Stage (New
York: Pitman Publishing Corporation, 1939).

Cunningham, C. C, Making Words Come Alive (Dubuque, Iowa:
William C. Brown Company, 1951).

Cunningham, C. C, Literature as a Fine Art (New York: Thomas Nel-
son and Sons, 1941).

Curry, S. S., Browning and the Dramatic Monologue (Boston: Expres-
sion Company, 1908).

Curry, S. S., The Province of Expression (Boston: Expression Com-
pany, 1891, 1917).

585

586 APPENDIX

Darrow, Anne, Phonetic Study in Folk Speech and Broken English
(Boston: Expression Company, 1937).

De Banke, Cecile, The Art of Choral Speaking (Boston: Baker's Plays,
1937).

Dewey, John, Art as Experience (New York: Minton, Balch and Com-
pany, 1935).

Dolman, John, Jr., The Art of Acting (New York: Harper and Broth-
ers, 1949).

Dolman, John, Jr., The Art of Play Production (New York: Harper
and Brothers, 1946).

Drew, Alfred, and Barry, Robinson, A Commentary on Prose and
Verse Speaking (Boston: Baker's Plays, 1933).

Dudley, Louise, The Study of Literature (Boston: Houghton Mifflin
Company, 1928).

Eastman, Max, The Enjoyment of Poetry (New York: Charles Scrib-
ner's Sons, 1918).

Enfield, Gertrude, Verse Choir Technique (Boston: Expression Com-
pany, 1937).

Fairbanks, Grant, Practical Voice Practice (New York: Harper and
Brothers, 1944).

Farma, William J., Prose, Poetry and Drama for Oral Interpretation,
1st, 2nd Series (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1930, 1936).

Flaccus, Louis W., The Spirit and Substance of Art (New York:
Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1938).

Fogerty, Elsie, The Speaking of English Verse (New York: E. P. Dut-
ton and Company, Inc., 1923).

Griggs, Edward H., The Philosophy of Art (New York: Orchard Hill
Press, 1937).

Grim, Harriet E., Practical Voice Training (New York: Appleton-
Century-Crofts, Inc., 1948).

Guggenheimer, R. H., Creative Vision in Artist and Audience (New
York: Harper and Brothers, 1950).

Gullan, Marjorie, The Speech Choir (New York: Harper and Broth-
ers, 1950).

Gullan, Marjorie, and Sansom, C, Poet Speaks, 4th Edition (London,
Methuen Company, 1951).

Hahn, Lomas, and Vandraegen, Basic Voice Training for Speech
(New York: McGraw-Hill Book Company, Inc., 1952).

Hamm, Agnes Curran, Choral Speaking Techniques (Milwaukee:
Tower Press, 1951).

H'Douhler, Margaret, Dance: A Creative Art Experience (New York:
Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc., 1940).

APPENDIX 587

Hicks, Helen G., The Reading Chorus (New York: Noble & Noble,

1939).
Herman, L. H., and Herman, M. S., Manual of Foreign Dialects (New

York: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1943).
Johnson, Gertrude E., Dialects for Oral Interpretation (New York:

Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc., 1922).
Johnson, Gertrude E., Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation

(New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc., 1930).
Johnson, Gertrude E., Studies in the Art of Interpretation (New York:

Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc., 1940).
Kaplan, M. A., Radio and Poetry (New York: Columbia University

Press, 1949).
Kenyon, J. S. and Knott, T. A., A Pronouncing Dictionary of Ameri-
can English (Springfield, Mass.: G. & C. Merriam Company, 1944).
Keppie, Elizabeth, The Teaching of Choric Speech (Boston: Expres-
sion Company, 1931).
Kerfoot, J. B., How to Read (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company,

1916).
Krapp, G. P., Pronunciation of Standard English in America (New

York: Oxford University Press, 1919).
Langfeld, Herbert S., The Aesthetic Attitude (New York: Harcourt

Brace and Company, Inc., 1920).
Lee, Charlotte, Oral Interpretation (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Com-
pany, 1952).
Lee, Harold Newton, Perception and Aesthetic Value (New York:

Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1938).
Lyman, R. L., The Mind at Work (New York: Scott, Foresman and

Company, 1924).
McLean, Margaret P., Good American Speech (New York: E. P. Dut-

ton and Company, Inc., 1952).
McLean, Margaret P., Oral Interpretation of Forms of Literature

(New York: E. P. Dutton and Company, Inc., 1942).
Morgan, Lucia G, Voice and Diction Drill Books for Students in

Speech (Dubuque, Iowa: William C. Brown Company, 1951).
Nichols, Wallace B., The Speaking of Poetry (Boston: Expression

Company, 1937)
Parrish, W. M., Reading Aloud (New York: Thomas Nelson & Sons,

1941).
Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur T., On the Art of Reading (Cambridge:

The Cambridge University Press, 1924).
Robinson, Marion P., and Thurston, Rozetta L., Poetry Arranged for

the Speaking Choir (Boston: Expression Company, 1936).
Robbs, Mary Margaret, Oral Interpretation of Literature (New York:

H. W. Wilson Company, 1941).

588 APPENDIX

Santayana, George, The Interpretation of Poetry (New York: Charles
Scribner's Sons, 1936).

Sarrett and Foster, Basic Principles of Speech (Boston: Houghton
Mifflin Company, 1946).

Selden, Samuel, First Steps in Acting (New York: Appleton-Century-
Crofts, Inc., 1947).

Smith, Charles A., What Can Literature Do for Me? (Garden City:
Doubleday, Page, and Company, 1924).

Stanislavski, Constantin, My Life in Art (Boston: Little, Brown &
Company, 1938).

Sutton, Vida R., Seeing and Hearing America (Boston: Expression
Company, 1936).

Swann, Mona, An Approach to Choral Speech (Boston, Expression
Company, 1934).

Tallcott, Rollo, The Art of Acting and Public Reading (Indian-
apolis: The Bobbs-Merrill Company, 1922).

Tassin, A., The Oral Study of Literature (New York: Alfred A. Knopf,
1929).

Torossin, Aram, A Guide to Aesthetics (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford Uni-
versity Press, 1937).

Van Dusen, C. R., Training the Voice for Speech (New York: McGraw-
Hill Book Company, Inc., 1952).

Walsh, Gertrude, Sing Your Way to Better Speech (New York: E. P.
Dutton and Company, Inc., 1947).

Woolbert, C. H., and Nelson, S. E., Art of Interpretative Speech
(New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc., 1934).

Young, Stark, Theatre Practice (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons,
1935).

INDEX

Authors' names are printed in Capitals and Small Capitals.

Titles are printed in italics.

Subject-matter is printed, in usual upper and lower case.

Abandon, 175

Abbott, Waldo (quoted), 286

Abnegation, 154

Abney, Louise (quoted), 257

Acting, vii, 222

Adams, George Matthew
(quoted), xiv

Adding and subtracting voices,
280

Addison, Joseph, 330

Aesthetic distance, 176

Afton Water, 93

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 118

Andersen, Hans Christian, 313

Annual Message to Congress, Lin-
coln's, 1861, 524

Antiphonal reading, 262

Appreciation, 228

Arnold, Matthew, 477

Arrangement of literature for
radio, 300

Art, 15

As You Like It (from), 113, 389

Attitudes, 17, 218

Auditory images, 37

Aunt Melissy on Boys, 409

Author's meaning, the, 202

Backgrounds, 234
Beaumont, Francis, 193
Beddoes, Thomas Lovell, 82
Bee and the Flower, The, 185

Beloved, my Beloved When I
Think, 462

Beware!, 490

Bible, 37, 79, 262, 385, 445

Black, Agnes Knox (quoted), 238

Blake, William, 496

Bodily Action, 46

Bonie Doon, 130

Bottomly, Gordon (quoted), 254

Break, Break, Break, 67

Bronte, Charlotte (quoted), 44

Brook, The (from), 102

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett,
53, 63, 266, 341, 447-475, 544

Browning, Robert, 52, 96, 109,
137, 147, 172, 203, 204, 205, 208,
223, 227, 447-476, 509, 522

Bryant, William Cullen, 545

Build, 136

Bulwer-Lytton, Edward, 36, 59

Burns, Robert, 93, 105, 130, 572

Butcher, Samuel Henry (quota-
tion), 24

By the Way, bib

Cadence, 103

Can It Be Right to Give, 457

Carlile, John S. (quoted), 285,

292
Carlton, Will, 354
Central thought, 165
Chambered Nautilus, The, 444

589

590

INDEX

Characters, Interpretation of, 71

Character angles, 72

Character rhythms, 114

Cheney, John Vance, 263

Child and Boatman, 115

Child's Dream of a Star, A, 352

Child's Laughter, A, 37

Choral reading, 254

Christmas Carol, A, 546

Cfiristmas Night in the Quarters
(from), 126

Clark, S. H. (quoted), 80

Clear and Cool, 261

Clemens, Samuel (Mark Twain),
73

Climax, 135

Comic sense, 88

Connotation, 28, 200

Consciousness of technique, 61

Contentment, 419

Contrast, 146

Core of Speech Training, vi

Corson, Hiram (quoted), 14

Crane, Frank (quoted), 231

Cravvshaw, W. H. (quoted), 249

Creative reading, 13

Crescendo and diminuendo, 139

Criticism, xiv

Crocker, Charlotte (quoted),
124

Crowell, Grace Noll (cited),
198

Crystallization, 169

Cunningham, Cornelius (quota-
tion), 100

Cyrano de Bergerac (from), 90,
112

Daudet, Alphonse, 307

David Copperfield, (scene from),

127
Day, 96
Daybreak, 406
De Banke, Cecile (quoted), 255

De Maupassant, Guy, 212
Defence of Poetry, The, 323
Delsarte (quoted), 134
Denotative meaning, 28
Destruction of Pompeii, The, 36
Diagrams, 137-140, 151-153
Dialect, 124-133
Diamond Necklace, The, 212
Dickens, Charles, 54, 127, 352.

401, 435, 499, 506, 546
Diction, 193

Directing choral reading, 258
Dissertation upon Roast Pig, A,

41
Dobie, J. Frank, 39
Dolman, John (quoted), 176
Dominant unity, 166
Dover Beach, All
Dramatic pause, 83
Dramatic timing, 77
Drifting, 422
Drinking So?ig, 277
Dryden, John, 278
Dudley, Louise (quoted), 31, 32
Dunlap, Knight (quoted), 30

Each and All, 518

Eagle, TJie, 1 13

Eastman, Max (quoted), 56

Echo, 160

Elementary School, The, ix

Eliot, George (quoted), 26

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 518,

537 r

Emotion, 55
Empathy, 62
Emphasis, 155, 157, 164
End of the Play, The, 567
Explorer, The (from), 139

Falstaff's Recruits, 369
Ferber, Edna. 42
Finalities of Expression, The, 540
First Time He Kissed Me, 467

INDEX

591

First Snow-Fail, The, 36
Fithian, George W. (quoted), 306
Fitzgerald, Edward, 574
Flexibility, 182
Fogerty, Elsie (quoted), 104
Fountain, The, 94
Freedom, Stanzas on, 326
From a Railway Carriage, 153
Frost, Robert (quoted), 112, 236
Fugitives, The, 350

Gettysburg Address, The, 476
Give Me the Splendid Silent Sun,

529
Goethe, 325

Go from Me, Yet I Feel, 458
Goldsmith, Oliver, 366
Grimm, Harriet (quoted), 250
Gustatory images, 41

Hamlet (from), 113, 136, 153, 173
Hampden, Walter (quoted), 171
Harp That Once Through Tara's

Halls, The, 82
Harris, Joel Chandler (quoted),

126
Harte, Bret, 81
Hayes, Roland (quoted), 51
Hedges, M. M. (quoted), 3
Helm, MacKinley (quoted), 51
Hero, The, 329
Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 419,

444
Holstein, Mark (quoted), 56
Home-Thoughts from Abroad

227
Hood, Thomas, 96, 163
House and the Brain, The (from),

59
Housman, A. E. (quoted), 56
Housman, Laurence, 375
How Do I Love Thee, 472
How Green Was My Valley,

(from), 43

How the King Lost His Crown,

520
How They Brought the Good

News from Ghent to Aix, 109
How Tom Sawyer Whitewashed

the Fence, 73
How We Fought the Fire, 354

/ Lived with Visions, 473
// Thou Must Love Me, 463
/ Remember, I Remember, 96
/ Thought Once How Theocritus,

455
/ Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,

34
/ Was Born An American, 185
Idylls of the King, The, 231
Illusion, 168

Illusion of the first time, 171
Imagination, 20, 30, 233
Indirection, 439
Individuality, 16
Inflection, 188

Ingelow, Jean, 115, 348, 383
Inscription, 138
Intellectual humor, 86
Interclausal relations, 207
Interpretation of meaning, 197
Introductions, 241

Jackson, Helen Hunt, 390, 413,

440, 481, 489, 523
Jane Eyre, (from), 44
Jaques' Seven Ages of Man, 113
Jesus and the Blind Man, 445
Journey for Margaret, (from), 38
Joys, Poem of, 492
Juliet's Dilemma, 220
Julius Caesar (from), 302

Keats, John, 61

Kerfoot, J. B. (quoted), 31, 234
King Henry IV (from), 369
King Henry VIII (from), 349

592

INDEX

King Lear's Defiance, 186
Kings Bow Their Heads, 117
Kingsley, Charles, 149, 261
Kipling, Rudyard, 139, 161
Kitchen Clock, The, 263

Lady Macbeth's Preparation, 205

L' Allegro, 95

Lamb, Charles, 41

Langfeld (quoted), 65

Language, 196

Language study, x

Lanier, Sidney, 407

Last Lesson, The, 307

Leap of Roushan Beg, The, 372

Lear, Edward, 388

Lecture Recital, The, 251, 447

Letters, Browning, 447-476

Lincoln, Abraham, 98, 476, 524

Line around, a, 277

List for choral reading, 282

Little Man and Little Soul, 162

Llewellyn, Richard (quoted),

43
Location, Sense of, 68
Longfellow, Henry Wads-
worth, 77, 107, 372, 391, 406,
490
Lo?igi?ig for Home, 383
Lotus Eaters, The (from), 59, 486
Love Among the Ruins, 147
Lover's Resolution, The, 539
Love's Courage, 447
Lowe, Robert Liddell, 1 1 7
Lowell, Amy (quoted), 99, 170
Lowell, James Russell, 36, 38,

94, 326," 424, 478, 526
Lyman, R. L. (quoted), 169
Lyrical Ballads, Preface, 208
Lytton, Edward, Bulwer-, 36, 59

Mabie, Hamilton Wright, 2, 174,
197, 236, 540, 575

Macbeth (from), 41, 205, 396
McGill, Earle (quoted), 289
MacLeish, Archibald (quoted),

240
Mallory, Louis A. (quoted), 166,

288
Man's a Man for A' That, A, 572
Masefield, John (quoted), 168,

246
Maugham, W. Somerset, 41
Meaning of Words, 200
Meeting at Night, 204
Melody, 187

Merlin and the Gleam, 414
Message to Congress, Lincoln s

Annual, 1861, 524
Meter, 158
Milton, John, 95
Mr. Pickwick Engages a Man

Servant, 499
Mr. Pickwick Is Sued for Breach

of Promise, 506
Modest Wit, A, 88
Moon and Sixpence, The (from),

41
Moore, Thomas, 82, 104, 162,

192, 408
Morris, Clara, 343
Motor sense, 49
Musical Instrument, A, 53
My Heart's in the Highlands, 105
My Last Duchess, 223
My Letters! All Dead Paper, 471
My Star, 476

Naaman and Geliazi, 385
New approach, a, xiii
New ideas versus old, 160
Nicholas Nickleby Leaving the

Yorkshire School, 401
Night Among the Pines, A, 485
Nijinsky, Romolo (quoted), 46, 66
Novel, the. 249

INDEX

593

O. Henry (Sidney Porter), 40, 112

Objective methods of finding the
rhythm, 102

Ode on Intimations of Immortal-
ity, 531

Ode to a Nightingale, (from), 61

Ode to the West Wind, 570

Off Stage, 69, 70, 71

On Stage, 69, 70, 71

Old Clock on the Stairs, The
(from), 107

Old Man Talking in His Sleep,
An, 117

Olfactory Images, 40

On the Life Of Man, 193

Open-mindedness, 230

Orator Puff, 192

Organic senses, 57

Originality, 21

Orpheus, 349

Othello (from), 84, 156, 497

Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rock-
ing, 359

Owl, The, 161

Owl and the Pussy Cat, The, 388

Ozy man dias, 35

Parrish, Wayland Maxfield
(quoted), 98, 218

Parting at Morning, 205

Patriot, The, 522

Pause, 78

Pause for comedy, 84

Peculiar Treasure, A (from), 42

Perdita Singing, To (from), 38

Perfect One, The, 375

Personal Values, vi

Peters, Ken (Kenneth Fagerlin)
(quoted), 293

Phelps, William Lyon (quoted),
xvi, 8, 9

Philippians 4:8, 79

Phillips, Arthur Edward (quo-
tation), 302

Pickup within the phrase, 80
Pickwick Papers (from), 54, 499,

506
Pickivickians on Ice, The, 54
Pied Piper of Hamelin, The, 509
Pip pa Passes (from), 96, 137
Pit and The Pendulum, The

(from), 44
Planes, 137
Poe, Edgar Allen, 44
Poem of Joys, 492
Poem of the Road, 494
Polarity, 150
Porter, Sidney (O. Henry), 40,

112
Posture, 49

Powers, Leland (quoted), 20
Prairies, The, 545
Present Crisis, The, 526
Princess, The (from), 260
Princess Porcelain, The, 343
Professional Reading, viii
Public Speaking, vii
Programs, 243
Projecting thought, 65
Pros pice, 203
Psalm XIX, 37
Psalm XXIV, 262
Punctuation, 189

Rabbi Ben Ezra (from), 208

Radio, xi, 285

Rarig, F. M. (quoted), 13

Read, Thomas Buchanan, 422

Reading club, radio, 293

Realf, Richard, 439

Recital plans, 246

Refrains, 265

Relief, 141

Relieving Guard, 81

Remember This One?, 307, 313

Report on radio experiment, 294

Reserve, 145

Restraint, 172

594

INDEX

Rhyme of the Duchess May, The,

266
Rhythm, 97

Road, Poem of The, 494
Romance of a Busy Broker, The,

(from), 40
Romeo and Juliet, 220, 382, 418
Rossetti, Christina Georgina,

75, 154
Rostand, Edmond, 90, 112
Rub a iy at of Omar Khayyam, The

(from), 574
Russell, Irwin, 126

Sailor Boy, A, 225

Sapir, Edward (quoted), 20

Sarett, Lew (quoted), 48

Saul (from), 52

Scansion, 103

Schiller, 488

School for Scandal, The (from),

142
Scope of interpretative reading,

23
Scott, Sir Walter, 491
Seabury, David (quoted), 45
Self-discipline, 22
Self -Reliance, 537
Sensation, 30

Set of Turquoise, The, 118
Seven Times Two, Romance, 348
Shadows of Birds, 489
Shakespeare, William, 84, 113,

136, 151, 153, 156, 173, 184, 186,

205, 220, 302, 349, 369, 382, 389,

396, 418, 497
Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 35, 323,

338, 350, 570
Sheridan, Richard Brinsley,

142, 277
Short story series, 307, 313
Sight images, 32
Silent reading, 26
Simon, Clarence (quoted), 57

Sincerity, the Soul of Eloquence,

325
Singer's Hills, The, 481
Skeleton in Armor, The, 391
Skipper Ireson's Ride, 379
Snow-Bound, 333
Snow Man, The, 313
Social Responsibility, x
Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 278
Song of Myself (from), 60
Sojig of Slaves in the Desert, 281
Song of the Shirt, The, 163
Songs (from William Tell), 488
Sonnets From the Portuguese,
455, 456, 457, 458, 462, 463, 467,
471,472, 473
Speech Correction, xi
Speech patterns, 151
Spinning, 390

Spinning-Wheel Song, The, 367
Splendour Falls, The, 260
Spring Song, 389
Stage-Coach, The, 435
Stanislavski, Constantine (quo-
tation), 20
Stanzas on Freedom, 326
Stevenson, Robert Louis, 105,

153, 485
Stress and meter, 158
Structure, 134
Subordination, 155
Suggest iveness, 210
Summer Storm, The, 478
Supplementary reading, Appen-
dix B, 585
Sweet and Low, 108
Swinburne, Algernon Charles,

37
Syllabus for a College Course, 579

Tactile images, 42
Talent, xvi

Taming of the Shrew, The (from),
151 '

INDEX

595

Tampa Robins, 407

Taylor, Sir Henry, 329

Technique in interpretative read-
ing, 17

Technique of angles, 72

Technique of thinking, 26

Tempo, 91

Tennyson, Alfred, 59, 67, 102,
108, 113, 130, 161, 185, 186,225,
231, 234, 260, 414, 486

Texan, In England, A (from), 39

Textbook, The, xii

Thackeray, William Make-
peace, 567

There Was a Child Went Forth,
328

Those Evening Bells, 104

Thou Hast Thy Calling to Some
Palace Floor, 457

Three part division, 278

Tiger, The, 496

Time I've Lost in Wooing, The,
408

Timeliness, 302

Timing, 77, 305

To a Skylark (Shelley), 338

To a Skylark (Wordsworth), 154

To Perdita, Singing, 38

To Sea! To Sea!, 82

To the Student, 3

To the Teacher, v

Tomorrow, 130

Tone color, 183

Tone copying, 190

Topping, 140

Trowbridge, James T., 409, 520

True Ballad of the King's Singer,
The, 440

Twain, Mark (Samuel Clemens),
73

Unison reading, 259
Unity and emphasis, 164
Universality, 301

Unlike Are We, O Princely Heart,

456
Up-Hill, 75

Village Preacher, The, 366
Vision of Sir Launfal, The, 424
Voice, 179
Voice Spoke Out of the Skies, A,

186
Voices, 191

Waken, Lords arid Ladies Gay,

491
Waller, John Francis, 367
Way to Sing, The, 413
We Must Be Free or Die, 327
Weaver, Andrew Thomas (quo-
tation), 27, 92, 182
Webster, Daniel, 185
Westminster Abbey, 330
What Can I Give Thee Back, 457
When in Disgrace with Fortune

and Men's Eyes, 184
When the Tide Comes in, 523
Whipple, James (quoted), 304
White, W. L. (quoted), 38
Whitman, Walt, 60, 179, 191,

196, 328, 359, 492, 494, 529
Whittier, John G., 281, 333, 379
Whole, the, xv, 19, 179
Wilie, Max (quoted), 301
William Tell (from), 488
Wind, The, 105
Wisdom Unapplied, 341
Wise, C. M. (quoted), 194
Wither, George, 539
Woolbert, Charles (quoted), 26
Wordsworth, William, 34, 154,

202, 208, 327, 531
Work and Contemplation, 544
World Is Too Much with Us,
The, 202

Year's at the Spring, The, 137
Young and Old, 149

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