the augustan reprint society thomas sheridan a discourse being introductory to his course of lectures on elocution and the english language (1759) _introduction by_ g. p. mohrmann publication number 136 william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles 1969 general editors william e. conway, _william andrews clark memorial library_ george robert guffey, _university of california, los angeles_ maximillian e. novak, _university of california, los angeles_ associate editor david s. rodes, _university of california, los angeles_ advisory editors richard c. boys, _university of michigan_ james l. clifford, _columbia university_ ralph cohen, _university of virginia_ vinton a. dearing, _university of california, los angeles_ arthur friedman, _university of chicago_ louis a. landa, _princeton university_ earl miner, _university of california, los angeles_ samuel h. monk, _university of minnesota_ everett t. moore, _university of california, los angeles_ lawrence clark powell, _william andrews clark memorial library_ james sutherland, _university college, london_ h. t. swedenberg, jr., _university of california, los angeles_ robert vosper, _william andrews clark memorial library_ corresponding secretary edna c. davis, _william andrews clark memorial library_ editorial assistant mary kerbret, _william andrews clark memorial library_ introduction thomas sheridan (1718-1788) devoted his life to enterprises within the sphere of spoken english, and although he achieved more than common success in all his undertakings, it was his fate to have his reputation eclipsed by more famous contemporaries and eroded by the passage of time. on the stage, he was compared favorably with garrick, but his name lives in the theatre only through his son richard brinsley. a leading theorist of the elocutionary movement, his pronouncing dictionary ranks after the works of dr. johnson and john walker, and his entire contribution dimmed when the movement fell into disrepute.[1] sheridan attained his greatest renown through his writing and lecturing on elocution, and the fervor with which he pursued the study of tones, looks, and gestures in speaking animates _a discourse delivered in the theatre at oxford, in the senate-house at cambridge, and at spring-garden in london_. this lecture, "being introductory to his course of lectures on elocution and the english language," displays both the man and the elocutionary movement. throughout the work, sheridan exhibits his missionary zeal, his dedication to "a visionary hypothesis that dazzled his mind."[2] at the same time, he presents the basic principles of elocutionary theory and reveals the forces that made the movement a dominant pattern in english rhetoric. it is difficult to account for sheridan's millennial approach to elocution, but his absorption in language study is most understandable. his father, dr. thomas sheridan, was a minister and teacher, judged to be "a good classical scholar, and an excellent schoolmaster."[3] he supervised his son's early education, and sheridan was being pointed toward a career as school master. his exposure to, and interest in, english were reinforced by his godfather, dean swift, who was long an intimate of the elder sheridan. in later years, sheridan was eager to acknowledge that his attitudes had been profoundly influenced by those of swift. to some degree sheridan's dedication to language study is evidenced in his theatrical activities. as an undergraduate, he wrote a play that was later published; and almost immediately after taking his m.a. at trinity college, he made his professional acting debut in dublin. this was 1743, and forty years later he was taking part in attic entertainments, performances "consisting of recitation, singing, and music."[4] a selective chronology suggests his involvement with the stage: 1744, acting in london with garrick; 1750, acting and managing in dublin; 1760, acting in london; 1780, acting manager for his son at drury lane. successful as an actor, sheridan appears to have missed greatness because he could not overcome an inflexibility and obstinacy in personality; and the same characteristics helped to precipitate a number of squabbles and riots that marred his managerial efforts. however, much of his frustration in the theatre must be attributed to the more compelling attraction to the theory of delivery in speaking. the stage provided a practical outlet, but sheridan's fascination with elocutionary theory dominated and deflected the interest in theatre. that elocution was his primary concern is demonstrated in his major publications: _british education_, 1756; _lectures on elocution_, 1762; _a plan of education_, 1769; _lectures on the art of reading_, 1775; and _a general dictionary of the english language_, 1780. in all of these works the central argument remained unchanged after its initial statement in the complete title of _british education_.[5] there, sheridan suggested that a revival of the art of speaking would improve religion, morality, and constitutional government; would undergird a refining of the language; and would pave the way for ultimate perfection in all the arts. having posited this thesis in 1756, sheridan was reiterating it still in the material prefatory to his pronouncing dictionary in 1780, and he never rested with publication alone. as early as 1757 he lectured on the principles of education, and he first presented his course of lectures on elocution in 1758-59 at oxford and cambridge. over the years the course proved to be both popular and financially rewarding, and sheridan sometimes presented the lectures in order to relieve financial embarassment. nevertheless, his devotion to the cause was the crucial factor. his interest in language somehow became an almost blind devotion to spoken english, and through his course he could carry his message to influential audiences in england, ireland, and scotland; the edinburgh select society sponsored two series in 1761, and sheridan was lecturing on elocution as late as 1785. the _discourse_ typifies sheridan's simplistic interpretation and the evangelistic ardor with which he addressed his audiences. he was not content to fault an overemphasis in the study of latin, nor was he satisfied to argue that "the support of our establishments, both ecclesiastical and civil" rests upon public discussion. many in his audiences would have agreed, and few would have taken issue with the contention that the "art of elocution" needed further cultivation. but sheridan pressed on to insist that the written language, being an invention of man, "can have no natural power," and he argued that the "highest delights" of aesthetic pleasures must wait upon the perfection of spoken english. he even went so far as to suggest that the study of "grammar, rhetorick, and oratory" explained the outstanding artistic achievements of greece and rome. moreover, "other benefits to society" would add to "the glory of the nation" and to the "ornament of individuals, and of the state in general" through a loosing of silent tongues. sheridan dreamed that the study of elocution, with a voice "far sweeter than the syren's song," would so entrance young students that they would linger long in native academic groves, avoiding the baneful influence of travel abroad "at the most unfit and dangerous season of life." thus, individual and social perfection had to be predicated upon the study of spoken english, and sheridan implied that to slight this study was to offer an affront to the divine plan for earthly progress. this panacean outlook prompted hume to remark that "mr. sheridan's lectures are vastly too enthusiastic. he is to do every thing by oratory."[6] and it is not surprising that the critical, the johnsons and humes, should have been distressed by sheridan's enthusiasm, an enthusiasm that permitted him to posit such unlikely goals and to see himself as the sole authority on elocution. yet, for every negative reaction, the elocutionists enlisted countless believers. sheridan and other theorists capitalized upon a number of intellectual currents and social pressures of the era that centered attention upon delivery in speaking and that helped aggrandize this facet of rhetorical training. a number of forces can be isolated, but most relate to the classical inheritance, to the belief that tones, looks, and gestures constitute a natural language of the passions, and to the methodology of science.[7] the classical inheritance was important to the elocutionists because of the impetus given to all language study. sheridan did no more than echo a common complaint when he worried over the "many bad consequences" attending a neglect of the english language; countless writers addressed themselves to a determination of phonology and pronunciation in the attempt "to methodize" the language. furthermore, the example of ancient oratory spoke loudly to a people striving to perfect both the individual and social institutions. any educated man was expected to be able to express himself well in public, particularly if his vocation found him "in the pulpit, the senate-house, or at the bar." the pulpit was a favorite target, and critics regularly lamented the atrocious state of speaking "in the very service of the most high." the elocutionists and others appear to have been convinced that the doubt and scepticism of the age would be much relieved if only the preachers would learn to speak properly. theirs seemed the best of all possible religions, and it needed but a vitalization through adequate pulpit oratory to transcend anything accomplished by the popish devotees on the continent. certainly sheridan's references to the continent also reflect a strong overlay of nationalism, and the same spirit creeps into his worship of greece and rome; but he and the other elocutionists knew that they owed a profound debt to classical rhetorical theory. beyond supporting language study generally and beyond encouraging an interest in public speaking, ancient rhetoric justified a concentration on delivery. after centuries of a chameleon-like existence, the complete ciceronian rhetoric emerged in england just in time to meet a savage onslaught from the methods of science and the new epistemology.[8] eventually, rhetoricians such as campbell and blair were to successfully blend the old and the new, but the elocutionists found fertile ground in delivery alone. they began, as sheridan did, with the testimony of cicero and quintilian because _actio_, or _pronuntiatio_, was one of the five established canons of classical rhetoric. a favorite citation, though sheridan did not use it, was demosthenes' reputed response when asked to name the three most important parts of rhetoric: "actio, actio, actio." the endorsement of antiquity lent powerful support to the study of delivery, and this was the one canon that had not been subjected to regular exhaustive analyses throughout the rhetorical tradition. here was a topic ripe for further investigation, and by sheridan's day, the tones, looks, and gestures of delivery had achieved commonplace status in discussions of man's emotions. sheridan spoke as if this natural language of the passions were "hardly ever thought of," but the belief that tones, looks, and gestures were external signs of internal emotions was firmly established by the middle of the eighteenth century. the notion has received some attention throughout western thought, but most speculation appears to date from descartes' _les passions de l'ame_ in 1650. the increasing concern with mind-body problems encouraged inquiries into the nature and function of the natural language in all areas relating directly to man's emotion and its expression. the topics were as various as religion and physiognomy, but discussions of the natural language construct centered upon human communication, particularly in the arts. the construct became especially significant in analyses of painting and sculpture. examples of its impress can be seen in le brun's sketches of the passions,[9] in hogarth's having embraced "the commonly received opinion, that the face is the index of the mind,"[10] and in dryden's contention that "to express the passions which are seated in the heart, by outward signs, is one great precept of the painters." dryden added that "in poetry, the same passions and motions of the mind are to be expressed,"[11] and the natural language found its way into most discussions of tragedy and the epic. other examples of literary analysis in which the construct operated include steele's _prosodia rationalis_, say's _an essay on harmony, variety, and power of numbers_, and kames' _elements of criticism_. in sum, it was almost universally accepted that the creative artist was to observe and record the natural language of the passions. in sheridan's words, he was to perceive and delineate the "operations, affections, and energies, of the mind itself ... manifested and communicated in speech." the methodology of science was indirectly responsible for giving added support to this facet of elocutionary rationale. when british empiricism was pressed to the limit, considerable doubt and scepticism resulted; and the scottish common sense philosophy was, in large part, a counter response. the operation of the natural language became one of the first principles of common sense; and in their discussions of philosophy, aesthetics, and rhetoric, the scots argued for the study of elocution.[12] science contributed directly to the movement by providing the framework for analysis. without the empirical approach and the confidence in scientific methodology, theorists simply would not have attempted to isolate and describe the elements in the external signs of the emotions. science forced sheridan to think in terms of empirical observation and categorization, and science permitted him to call for "sure and sufficient rules" in order that "the art of speaking like that of writing ... be reduced to a system." it is even symptomatic that he should have referred to the design of the "great mechanist." almost as enthusiastic as sheridan, a number of other elocutionists expressed similar views and found their theories invigorated by the same forces. james burgh in the _art of speaking_ (1761), john walker in _elements of elocution_ (1781) and a number of other works, and gilbert austin in _chironomia_ (1806) were among the more influential elocutionary theorists. numerous other writers in both england and america participated in making the study of elocution an established part of the english rhetorical tradition. in america, the study gained acceptance at all levels of education, and the class in elocution became a standard course in colleges and universities. elocution centered upon oral reading and public speaking, and written composition came to be the exclusive province of the rhetoric class. the resultant distinctions between oral and written discourse played a significant role in the eventual development of separate departments of speech and english in american colleges and universities.[13] although speech departments grew out of elocutionary studies, elocution disappeared from the curriculum because of an association with an excessive emphasis upon performance as performance. reaction was compounded by a sophistication in psychology that made early theory seem naïve, but neither later excesses nor seeming naïvety should be permitted to distort the main thrust of the elocutionary movement. concentrating upon language in use, the elocutionists encouraged and anticipated analyses now being vigorously pursued in a range extending from linguistics to nonverbal communication. their contribution has for too long been ignored, and it is happily foreshadowed in thomas sheridan's enthusiastic _discourse_. university of california, davis notes to the introduction [footnote 1: see wallace a. bacon, "the elocutionary career of thomas sheridan (1718-1788)," _speech monographs_, xxxi (1964), 1-53.] [footnote 2: john watkins, _memoirs of the right honorable r. b. sheridan_, (london, 1817), i, 43.] [footnote 3: _ibid._, p. 39.] [footnote 4: _ibid._, pp. 145-146.] [footnote 5: _british education: or, the source of the disorders of great britain. being an essay towards proving, that the immorality, ignorance, and false taste, which so generally prevail, are the natural and necessary consequences of the present defective system of education. with an attempt to shew, that a revival of the art of speaking, and the study of our own language, might contribute, in a great measure, to the cure of those evils. in three parts. i. of the use of these studies to religion, and morality; as also, to the support of the british constitution. ii. their absolute necessity in order to refine, ascertain, and fix the english language. iii. their use in the cultivation of the imitative arts: shewing, that were the study of oratory made a necessary branch of the education of youth; poetry, musick, painting, and sculpture, might arrive at as high a pitch of perfection in england, as ever they did in athens or rome._] [footnote 6: james boswell, _private papers of james boswell_ (mt. vernon, new york, 1928-34), i, 129.] [footnote 7: see frederick w. haberman, "english sources of american elocution," _history of speech education in america_, ed. karl wallace (new york, 1954), pp. 105-126.] [footnote 8: see wilbur samuel howell, _logic and rhetoric in england, 1500-1700_ (princeton, 1956).] [footnote 9: charles le brun, _conférence de monsieur le brun sur l'expression generale & particulière_ (amsterdam, 1698).] [footnote 10: william hogarth, _analysis of beauty_, ed. joseph burke (oxford, 1955), p. 136.] [footnote 11: john dryden, "a parallel of poetry and painting," in _essays_, ed. w. p. ker (oxford, 1900), ii, 145.] [footnote 12: see g. p. mohrmann, "the language of nature and elocutionary theory," _quarterly journal of speech_, lii (1966), 116-124.] [footnote 13: see studies reported in _history of speech education in america_.] bibliographical note the text of this reprint of sheridan's _discourse_ is reproduced from a copy in the william andrews clark memorial library. a discourse delivered in the theatre at oxford, in the senate-house at cambridge, and at spring-garden in london. by thomas sheridan, m. a. being introductory to his course of lectures on elocution and the english language. ut enim hominis decus ingenium, fic ingenii ipsius lumen est eloquentia. cic. de orat. london: printed for a. millar, in the strand; j. rivington and j. fletcher, in pater-noster-row; j. dodsley, in pall-mall; and sold by j. wilkie, in st. paul's church yard. m.dcc.lix. to the two learned universities of oxford and cambridge, the following discourse (as a small token of gratitude for the candour with which they received, and the generosity with which they encouraged, his attempt towards improving elocution, and promoting the study of the english language) is, with all humility, and the most profound respect, inscribed, by their very faithful and devoted servant, thomas sheridan. a discourse delivered in the theatre at oxford, in the senate-house at cambridge, and at spring-garden in london. it has been a long time since all men, who have turned their thoughts to the subject, have been convinced, that the neglect of studying our own language, and the art of speaking it in public, has been attended with many bad consequences; and some of our most eminent writers have freely delivered their thoughts upon this head to the world. amongst the foremost of this number are milton, dryden, clarendon, locke, addison, berkley, and swift; besides multitudes of less note. but as they have only pointed out the evil, without examining into its source, or proposing an adequate remedy; as they have shewn the good consequences which would follow from the introduction of those studies, only in theory, without laying down any probable method, by which their speculations might be reduced to practice, their endeavours in this way, however laudable, have hitherto proved but of little benefit to mankind. any attempt, therefore, towards a practicable plan, whereby such studies may be introduced, will well deserve the attention of the best and wisest men; and, if it should meet with their approbation, will necessarily also obtain their encouragement and assistance. this consideration it was, which emboldened me to appear before this learned assembly; and though, when i reflect on the knowlege, wisdom, and nice discernment, of my hearers, i am filled with that awe and reverence which are due to so respectable a body, yet, as candour and humanity are the inseparable attendants on wisdom and knowlege (for as the brave are ever the most merciful, so are the wise the most indulgent), i can have no cause to fear the submitting my opinions to the decision of such judges as are here assembled. whatever shall appear to be founded in reason and truth cannot fail of producing its due effect in this region of true philosophy: and whatever errors or faults may be committed, as they cannot escape the penetration, so will they be corrected and amended by the skill and benevolence of such hearers. a point to be wished, not dreaded; as to an inquirer after truth, next to the being right, the thing most to be desired is the being set right. in either way, a person engaged in a new undertaking is sure to be a gainer, where honour, and certainty of success, will follow judicious approbation; where benefit, and the means of succeeding, will attend just censure. encouraged by these reflections, i shall therefore, without farther preface, enter upon my subject. that the english are the only civilized people, either of ancient or modern times, who neglected to cultivate their language, or to methodize it in such a way, as that the knowlege of it might be regularly acquired, is a proposition no less strange than true. that the english are the only free nation recorded in history, possessed of all the advantages of literature, who never studied the art of elocution, or founded any institutions, whereby, they who were most interested in the cultivation of that art; they whose professions necessarily called upon them to speak in public, might be instructed to acquit themselves properly on such occasions, and be enabled to deliver their sentiments with propriety and grace, is also a point as true as it is strange. these neglects are the more astonishing, because, upon examination, it will appear, that there neither is, nor ever was a nation upon earth, to the flourishing state of whose constitution and government, such studies were so absolutely necessary. since it must be obvious to the slightest enquirer, that the support of our establishments, both ecclesiastical and civil, in their due vigour, must in a great measure depend upon the powers of elocution in public debates, or other oratorial performances, displayed in the pulpit, the senate-house, or at the bar. but to leave the public interests out of the question; is it not amazing that these studies have never been established here, even upon selfish principles, which, in all other cases seldom fail of having their due force? since it can be shewn, that there never was a state wherein so many individuals were so necessarily and deeply concerned in the prosecution of those studies; or where it was the interest, as well as duty, of such numbers, to display the powers of oratory in their native language. there is not a single point, in which the study of oratory was necessary to the ancients, wherein it is not equally so to us; nor was there any incitement to the knowlege and practice of that art, whether of pleasure, profit, or honour, which with us is not of equal strength. we, as well as the ancients, have councils, senates, and assemblies of the people (by their representatives) whose deliberations and debates turn upon matters of as much moment, where oratory has fields as ample, in which it may exert all its various powers, and where the rewards and honours, attendant on eloquence are equal. "if we look into the history of england, for more than a century past, we shall find, that most persons have made their way to the head of affairs, and got into the highest employments, not on account of birth or fortune, but by being, what is commonly called, good speakers." nor is oratory less necessary to us at the bar, than it was to the ancients; nor are the rewards of profit, fame, and preferment, less attendant on it there; as has been experienced by all in that profession, who took pains to improve their talents in that way. but there is one point, a most momentous one, in which oratory is essentially necessary to us, but was not in the least so to the ancients. the article i mean, is of the utmost importance to us; it is the basis of our government, and pillar of our state. it is the vivifying principle, the soul of our constitution, without which, it cannot subsist; i mean religion. "as the religion of the ancients consisted chiefly of rites and ceremonies, it could derive no assistance from oratory; but there is not the smallest branch of ours which can be well executed, without skill in speaking; and the more important parts, calculated to answer the great ends, evidently require the whole oratorial powers." let it be observed, that in this profession alone, there are more persons employed throughout these realms, than there were citizens of athens, at any given period. since, therefore, we have so much stronger motives to the cultivation of this art, what can be the reason that even an attempt towards it has never hitherto been made? one would imagine, that in a country where the ancients are admired, revered, nay, almost adored, that we should certainly follow their example, and adopt all their wise institutions, so far at least as they coincided with the spirit of our government, and were of equal necessity to the well being of the state. but on the contrary, we seem to have made it a law, that we should sit down contented with seeing and admiring their excellence, but that we should never attempt to use the means, by which alone we might be enabled to rival them. if it were difficult to come at the knowlege of those means; if the method taken by the ancients, in educating their youth to qualify them for such great performances, had not been handed down to us; or if there were any thing in the method itself, which would be found impracticable in these times, there might be some excuse for not taking the same course. but on the contrary, when many of their most eminent writers have minutely described to us the precise course of education, passed through by all who were liberally trained; when they tell us, that both at athens and rome, one of the chief studies was that of their native language in each country; and that the art most assiduously sought after, and practised in both, was that of oratory: shall we be surprised that their languages were more polished and beautiful, and consequently that all works which depended upon the elegance and charms of language, should be more finished than those of a people, who never took any pains in that way? or that oratory, and all the arts dependant on it, or connected with it, together with all the benefits and advantages resulting from it, should appear in a more conspicuous light, in regions, where that art was cultivated with the utmost pains and labour, than in a country where it has been utterly neglected. is there any natural impediment in our way, is there any invincible obstacle to the pursuit of these studies, and to the attainment of these arts? have we not a language to study as well as they? and do we not, on many accounts, stand in more need of studying that language? have we not the same organs of speech, the same features, the same limbs, muscles, and nerves, that the ancients had? what want we then, but to apply ourselves to the regulation of these, and to study their true use in enforcing and adorning our sentiments, when delivered by speech, to rival or even excel them in their favourite art? how did the ancients attain this art? by study, and practice. would not the same means bring us to the same end? and have we not the advantage of all their lights to guide us in our enquiries? have we not the foundation of their experience to build upon, ready to our hands, whenever we are wise enough to set about raising the noble edifice? did the ancients possess any advantages over us from nature, either in point of intellectual faculties, or the animal oeconomy? with respect to the mental powers, it is undoubtedly clear, that we have carried our discoveries much farther than they did, both in the physical and moral world. and with respect to the bodily organs, true philosophy must deride any attempts, to shew that we are not framed exactly in the same manner. in all the _sciences_, to which we _have_ applied, we have far outdone them; and if they still excel us in many of the _arts_, it is either because we have wholly neglected their cultivation, or where we have made the attempt, we have taken a wrong course; and unwisely deserted the method pointed out by the ancients towards their attainment, and which, with them, had been always crowned with success. in short, the difference between the ancients and us, arises from one obvious cause. in the course of education, we have pursued most of the studies, which they did; but some we have wholly omitted. in all studies, which we followed in common with them, we have far excelled them: that they have excelled us in those which were peculiar to themselves, cannot be a matter of wonder. the chief points in which they differed from us, were the study of their native language, and oratory. and it can be indisputably shewn, that they possessed no advantage over us, but what arose, either immediately, or consequentially from their knowlege, skill, and practice; in grammar, rhetorick, and oratory. now, as we have excelled them far, in all the studies to which we _have_ applied, there can be no good reason assigned, that with a due degree of attention and pains, we might not surpass them in these also? on the contrary, i hope, on another occasion, to be able to prove, that from certain lights furnished by time, from peculiar advantages arising from our pure and holy religion, and from the nature of our admirable constitution, we might, with moderate pains, and in no long space of time, as far surpass them in those arts, and all that depend upon them, or have a connection with them, as we have already done in the sciences. but though, upon trial, we should not find ourselves able to surpass the ancients, let us not shamefully suffer ourselves to be outdone in those arts by the moderns. if the briton should own himself unequal to the contest with greeks and romans, let him not yield the palm to frenchmen also. if, in despair of victory, he should say like mnestheus in virgil, "non jam prima peto," let him add to his countrymen, "extremos pudeat rediisse!" believe me, there is no time to be lost. the italians, the french, and the spaniards, are far before you. their languages and authors are well known through europe, whilst yours have got admission only into the closets of a few. you have but to rouze yourselves from your lethargy, and to exert your native vigour, soon to outstrip them all. should you set about refining and ascertaining your language, with the same spirit of industry, which you have often exerted on less important occasions, the work will not be long accomplishing; and you will not only immediately raise your credit in the eyes of europe, but hand down to your posterity, one of the noblest legacies which it is in your power to bequeath. if the task should be accomplished, how will that posterity wonder, that their ancestors should have been for more than two centuries in possession of so rich a jewel, without once examining its value; and that, merely through a neglect of polishing, they should have suffered a diamond of the first water and magnitude, to be outshone by the cut glass, or pebbles, of their poorer, but more industrious neighbours. the true source of the neglect of these studies, will, upon examination, be found to be this; that from the first introduction of letters into this kingdom, the minds of all trained in the knowlege of them, have to this hour, from early institution, got a wrong biass with respect to language: in consequence of which, the universal attention of the natives of this country, has been turned from the natural, the more forcible, and more pleasing kind, to that which is artificial, weaker, and accompanied with no natural delight. i do not doubt, but that this proposition will excite no small surprise in my hearers; nor do i suppose, they will easily comprehend my meaning, till they recollect a distinction, which is hardly ever thought of, and yet, which ought often to be had in remembrance, that we have two kinds of language; one which is _spoken_, another which is _written_. or that there are two different methods used of communicating our ideas, one through the channel of the ear, the other through that of the eye. it is true, that as articulate sounds are by compact symbols of our ideas, and as written characters are by compact symbols of those articulate sounds, they may, at first view, seem calculated to accomplish one and the same end; and from habit, an opinion may be formed, that it is a matter of indifference which way the communication is made, as the end will be equally well answered by either. but, upon a nearer examination, it will appear that this opinion is ill founded, and that, in whatever country it prevails, so far as to affect the practice of the people, it must be attended with proportional bad consequences, both to individuals, and to society in general. in order to prove this, it will be necessary to shew, that the difference between these two kinds of language is not more in form, than in substance; in the means of their communication, than in their end: that they widely differ from each other, in the nature, degree, and extent of their power; that they have each their several offices and limits belonging to them, which they ought never to exceed; and that, where one encroaches on the province of the other, it can never equally well discharge its office. all these points will be made sufficiently clear, only by examining the nature and constitution, of these two kinds of language. first, as to that which is spoken. speech is the universal gift of god to all mankind. but as in his wise dispensations, in order to excite industry, and make reward the attendant on service, in the most excellent things of this life, he has only furnished the materials, and left it to man to find out, and make a right use of them; so has he laid down this just law, in regard to the great article of speech; which in all nations must prove either barbarous, discordant, and defective; or polished, harmonious, and copious, according to the culture or neglect of it. as the chief delight and improvement of a social, rational being, must arise from a communication of sentiments and affections, and all that passes in the mind of man; the powers of opening such a communication are furnished in a suitable degree, and with a liberal hand. in proportion to their acquisition of ideas, men will find no want of articulate sounds to be their symbols. in proportion to their progress in knowlege, they will find adequate powers in the organs of speech, to communicate that knowlege. in proportion to the exertion of the powers of the intellect, or the imagination, the various emotions of the mind, the different degrees of sensibility, and all the feelings of the heart; they will find, upon searching for them, that in the human frame there are tones, looks, and gestures of such efficacy, as not only to make all these obvious, but to transfuse all those operations, energies, and emotions into others: without which, indeed, the mere communication of ideas would be attended with but little delight. a wise nation will therefore, above all things, apply themselves to advance the powers of elocution, to as high a degree as possible; and they will find their labours well rewarded, not only by opening a source of one of the highest delights, which the nature of man is capable of feeling in this life, but also by the extraordinary benefits and advantages thence resulting to society, which cannot possibly be procured in any other way. "it has pleased the all-wise creator to annex to elocution, when in its perfect state, powers almost miraculous! and an energy nearly divine! he has given to it tones to charm the ear, and penetrate the heart: he has joined to it actions, and looks, to move the inmost soul. by that, attention is kept up without pain, and conviction carried to the mind with delight. persuasion is ever its attendant, and the passions own it for a master. great as is the force of its powers, so unbounded is their extent. all mankind are capable of its impressions, the ignorant as well as the wise, the illiterate as well as the learned." such is the nature, such the constitution, such the effects, of cultivated speech. let us now examine the properties of written language. "that is wholly the invention of man, a mere work of art, and therefore can contain no natural power. its use is to give stability to sound, and permanence to thought; to preserve words that otherwise might perish as they are spoke, and to arrest ideas that might vanish as they rise in the mind; to assist the memory in treasuring these up, and to convey knowlege at distance through the eye, where it could find no entrance by the ear. in short, it may be considered as a grand repository of the wisdom of ages, from which the greatest plenty of materials may be furnished, for the use of speech, and the best supplies given to the powers of elocution." here we may see, that these two kinds of language essentially differ from each other in their nature and use: and, from this view, we may plainly perceive the vast superiority which the former must have over the latter, in the main end aimed at by both, that of communicating all that passes in the mind of man; inasmuch as the former works by the whole force of natural, as well as artificial means; the latter, by artificial means only. in the one case, many hundreds may be made partakers at one and the same time, of instruction and delight; in the other, knowlege must be parceled out only to individuals. in the one, not only the sense of hearing may receive the highest gratification, from sounds the most pleasing, and congenial to the organs of man; but the sight also may be delighted with viewing the noblest work of the great mechanist put in motion, to answer the noblest ends: and, whilst the charmed ear easily admits the words of truth, the faithful eye, even of the illiterate, can read their credentials, in the legible hand of nature, visibly characterized in the countenance and gesture of the speaker. in the other, none of the senses are in the least gratified. the eye can have no pleasure in viewing a succession of crooked characters, however accurately formed; and the ear cannot be much concerned in silent reading. if any doubt remains about pre-eminence with regard to these two, the dispute may, at once, be settled in the same way that cicero determined the controversy between oratory and philosophy; "sin quærimus quid unum excellat ex omnibus, docto oratori palma danda est: quem si patiuntur eundem esse philosophum, sublata controversia est. sin eos disjungent, hoc erunt inferiores, quod in oratore perfecto, inest omnis illorum scientia, in philosophorum autem cognitione, non continuo est eloquentia." in like manner it may be said, in this case, that he who is master of speaking cannot, on that account, be retarded, though he may be much advanced thereby in knowlege of written language; whereas he who is master of the written language only, is by no means advanced thereby in the art of speaking. indeed, the one should be considered only as an handmaid to the other, and employed chiefly in such offices as she cannot do in her own person. but should any nation be so unfortunately circumstanced, as from habit, or institution, to bestow all their labour and pains upon cultivating the artificial language, the invention of man, to the utter neglect of that which is natural, and the gift of god, it must be allowed, that they are in a wrong course; and that they must necessarily lose some of the greatest blessings that can be enjoyed by rational, social beings, and which can flow from no other source but that of cultivated speech. whether this be not our case, is well worth considering; and the point may be settled by the establishment of a few facts. in order to this, let us take a view of the perfections, and imperfections, of each kind of language; see in which of them we take most pains to attain the one, and avoid the other; and, in consequence of such pains, which of them is at this day in the best state amongst us. the chief object of both, is the communication of ideas and emotions from mind to mind, but they use different mediums for this purpose. speech makes use of sound, and reaches the mind through the ear: writing makes use of characters, and conveys knowlege through the eye. the ideas that rise in the mind of the speaker, together with the operations, affections, and energies, of the mind itself, are manifested and communicated in speech, by articulate sounds, combined, or separated in various proportions; by rests of the voice in certain places; by accents, emphases, and tones. the same is attempted in writing, by different combinations of letters, according to stated rules, and by certain points, stops, and lines. but that it cannot be done with equal success in the latter case, is clear from this, that sound contains in itself a natural power over the human frame, in rousing the faculties of man, and exciting the affections, as is clearly proved by the force of music. by the loud trumpet, which our courage aids, we learn that sound, as well as sense, persuades. but written characters have, in themselves, no sort of virtue, nor the least influence on the mind of man: and the utmost extent of their artificial power can reach no farther, than that of exciting ideas of sounds, which belong to spoken words, for which those combinations of letters stand, and consequently cannot produce equal effects with the sounds themselves. to instruct our youth in the arts of reading and writing, there are many seminaries established every-where throughout this realm; and, accordingly, all of a liberal education are well versed in them. but who in these countries ever heard of a master for the improvement of articulation, for teaching the due proportion of sound and quantity of syllables in english, and for pointing out to his pupils, by precept and example, the right use of accents, emphases, and tones, when they read aloud, or speak in public? if this has never yet been done, surely it is a great omission, when we reflect of how much more importance the one art is than the other; how much more nice and subtle in its nature, which renders it more difficult to be acquired, and consequently demands more the benefit of instruction. accordingly, the bad fruits of this neglect are every day perceived. each man's experience will tell him, how few public readers, or speakers, he has heard acquit themselves well; and even of those few, those very few, who have acquired any name in that way, it would be found, upon a critical inquiry, that they have, for the most part, but a comparative excellence; and that their superiority over others arises from pre-eminence in the natural faculties of speech, and an happier construction of the organs, rather than any skill, or mastery, in the art of elocution. it is thus that, in countries where music is learned by the ear only, they who have the nicest ear, and most tuneable voices, will pass for the best singers, and, of course, be accounted excellent. but, when they come to be compared with those of another country, regularly trained in the art of music, it will soon be perceived, what amazing advantages such culture has given to the latter singers over the former; not only in point of musical skill, and variety of tones, but also in the vast improvement made in the singing instrument itself, with respect to all its powers of sweetness, strength, volubility, or expression, which have been gradually brought forward to their utmost perfection. could some of the orators of old arise from the dead, and be confronted with the best of these times, perhaps the difference would be still more striking. there cannot be a more flagrant proof of the preference given to the inferior species of language, over that of the nobler kind; nor, at the same time, one which will afford a more glaring instance of the uncontrolable power of fashion, however absurdly founded, than when we reflect, that it is reckoned a great disgrace for a gentleman to spell ill, though not to speak or read ill: and yet, if we were to weigh these defects in the true balance, and consider them only with respect to the bad consequences which follow from each, the former will appear to be scarce an object worthy of our attention, and the latter ought to excite universal indignation. a gentleman writes a letter to his friend, or upon business (the chief use which gentlemen in general make of writing); there are many words in it mis-spelt; this is a great scandal, and lessens him in the eyes of those who read it: and yet, where is the mighty matter in this! the unusual manner of placing letters in words, gives no pain to the organs of sight; the reader can soon correct any error; or, if he should be puzzled, he can take time to examine and make out the sense by the context; and then the end of the letter is answered. on the other hand, a man shall rise up in a public assembly, and, without the least mark of shame, deliver a discourse to many hundred auditors, in such disagreeable tones, and unharmonious cadences, as to disgust every ear; and with such improper and false use of emphasis, as to conceal or pervert the sense and all this without fear of any consequential disgrace, "quia defendit numerus." when we consider that this is often done on the most aweful occasions, in the very service of the most high! at times when words, delivered with due force and energy, might be productive of the noblest consequences to society, afford the highest delight to the auditory, and give honour and dignity to the person of the speaker, may we not justly cry out, o custom! thou art properly called second nature, with respect to the immensity of thy power; but thou usurpest her place, thou art her tyrant, thou tramplest her under foot, and with thy scepter of iron, thou swayest the powers of reason and truth at thy will! indeed, nothing but such an uncontrolable power, could possibly have made a civilized and enlightened people continue, for such a length of time, in a course so opposite to all the rules of common sense. for upon farther examination it will appear, that even the written language, to which they solely apply, can never reach the perfection whereof it is capable, nor answer its noblest purposes, without the previous cultivation of that which is spoken. when it is considered that articulate sounds or words are the types of ideas, and that written characters are the types of articulate sounds or words, it is evident that all the qualities of the latter must be circumscribed by the former, as the type cannot exceed its archetype. accordingly we find, that the charms of style, in the writers of all ages and countries, have arisen from the beauty of the language spoken in those countries; and the beauty of language arose not from chance, but culture; for it is not time, but care, that will bring a language to perfection. if time alone would do, those of the most barbarous nations in the world, ought to be superior to those of the most civilized, as they are infinitely more ancient. it was to the constant pains and labour, the study and application successively given by the choicest wits, and men of brightest parts in each age, to the improvement and establishment of their native tongues, that we owe those two glorious languages of greece and rome, which have justly been the wonder of the world, and which will last to the end of time. and is it not owing to the excellence of their languages, that the noble works of their writers have been preserved? had demosthenes written his orations in such a language as high dutch, or virgil his poems in such a one as irish or welsh, their names would not long have outlived themselves. that the state of all the more elegant and beautiful compositions, and the effects which they are capable of producing, must chiefly depend upon the art of speaking, may be clearly deduced from considering the nature and ends of such writings. by the art of writing, sentiments can be communicated, either through the eye only, or through the eye and ear together, to individuals; or through the ear only to numbers; the first of these, by silent reading, the other two, by reading aloud. in the first instance, ideas of things are excited by written words, as the symbols of words spoken; and by association, the idea of the sounds also which accompany those words. now at the best, supposing the ideas of the properest sounds, were always to be associated by the silent reader, the effect of any composition must be much weaker than if it were spoken, as far as ideas fall short of realities. but if, through ignorance in the art of speaking, or through vicious habits, he annexes the ideas of wrong sounds and tones to the words, it is impossible he can perceive the true force and beauty of the composition, so far at least as they depend upon sound and tone. to trace this custom, therefore, to its original, may not only be a matter of curiosity, but, by shewing the weakness of its foundation, tempt us to abolish it, and substitute a nobler one in its room. when our system of education was first established on the revival of literature, by means of the introduction of the languages of greece and rome, men's thoughts were wholly turned to books, and consequently to written language. the english, then poor and barbarous, was soon supplanted by the richer, and more polished latin. the service of the church was in latin, the laws in latin. the religious controversies which embroiled all europe, after the writings of luther and calvin had appeared, were all carried on in latin. men of the brightest parts throughout europe, were necessarily engaged in the closest application to that language, which became the universal vehicle of knowlege, in all works of genius and learning. no was its use confined to writing only, but it was also adopted into speech amongst the polite; it revived, in a manner, from its tomb, and once more became a living tongue. not, indeed, in its original beauty and strength; it might rather be considered as the ghost of the old roman, haunting different countries in different shapes. for as the true pronunciation of a dead language could not be known, each nation gave to it the sounds which belonged to their own; and consequently it differed as much in point of sound in the several countries where it was spoken, as the native tongues differed from each other in that respect. but as they all agreed in one uniform manner of writing it, for which they had models before them, in the works of the ancients, we need not wonder that the chief attention was given to the written language, in preference to that which was spoken, as they had sure rules to guide them in the one, and none at all in the other. latin words, upon paper, were universally intelligible to all nations, as they all agreed in the _orthography_, or true manner of writing them, though they were far from agreeing with respect to the _orthoepy_, or true manner of pronouncing them; in which the difference was so great, that the people of one country could scarce understand latin, or know it to be the same language, when pronounced by those of another. this will sufficiently account for the fashion which prevailed in those days universally, of applying their time chiefly to the acquisition of skill in letters, not sounds; in writing, not speaking; in words presented to the eye by the sure pen, not in those offered to the ear by the uncertain or erroneous tongue. afterwards, when some of the nations of europe wisely set about the cultivation of their native tongues, in proportion as they grew more perfect, the latin fell into disuse; till at last it was reduced to its former state of a dead language, and confined chiefly to books. but whilst the italians, french, and spaniards were vying with each other, in the improvements of their several tongues, by giving all manner of encouragement to so useful a work, by establishing several societies and academies for the purpose, from whose joint labours excellent grammars and dictionaries were produced; by the assistance of which, and the instruction of masters, not only natives, but foreigners might acquire the most accurate knowlege of those tongues with ease; the english alone remained in the old track, and never to this hour, either by public or private encouragement, have taken one step towards regulating or ascertaining theirs. and yet this seems to have been a point of much more moment to them, and to which they were in a more peculiar manner, and much earlier called upon to give their attention, as the church service, upon the reformation, was performed in their own tongue, which is not the case to this day in those countries, where latin still maintains that post. the refiners of those living languages justly gave great attention to sound and pronunciation, in the regulations which they established; the english, who from the nature of their constitution and public worship, had infinitely more occasion for the refinement and regulation of their tongue in that respect, left theirs wholly to chance. nor are we to wonder at this, when we consider that we have made no alteration in our institutions, with the alteration of times and circumstances. our establishments for training youth, pursue invariably the same plan, and inculcate only the same studies, which they did before the reformation, when latin was the universal language; nor has any change been made since the english came into general use. at that time there was no necessity to apply to the study of it; and the barbarous structure of its words could afford no inducement to try what might be done in it, by the power of sounds. accordingly those who taught english, were amongst the most ignorant of mankind. their whole business was only to teach pupils the letters, to spell, and read words, no matter with what kind of tones, so as they were well acquainted with the characters, in order to fit them for the latin school; where the learned languages only being the object of attention, their farther progress in english was neglected. is not this the case at this day? are not the rudiments of english now taught by low and ignorant masters, for wretched stipends, and for the same ends? is it afterwards any-where _regularly taught_? does not latin still continue to be the chief language taught in schools, in the same manner as when it was the chief language used on all the important occasions of life? only with this difference, that whilst it was in a manner a living tongue, by being used in conversation, more care was probably taken with regard to pronunciation, which at present is chiefly transferred to understanding and writing it correctly; and whoever has a mind to make himself master of those points, may have all the guidance of rules, and aid of preceptors: but with regard to the english, he is left to make his own way, as well as he can. this will serve as an explanation of many extraordinary phænomena in this country. such as, that there are numbers who understand latin well, who do not understand their native tongue. that there are many who can write latin elegantly, who are remarkably incorrect in their english style. and that there are many who can produce excellent compositions both in latin and english, who can neither read aloud, or repeat those very compositions with tolerable propriety, much less with grace. of these facts, i dare venture to say, there is not one of my hearers who cannot immediately suggest to himself sufficient instances. the natural consequence, indeed, of neglecting the art of elocution, is that of reducing a living language at best to the state of a dead one. for in just and true elocution alone, consists the life of language; that which is false or disagreeable, places it below its dead written state, by the uneasiness and disgust which it occasions. if language, when spoken, gives no pleasure, if it excites no emotions, it is in that case, for the mere purpose of information, far below that which is written; inasmuch as the reader of words can take his own time to make himself master of their meaning, and consider their force. but if public speaking in any country should in general rather give pain than pleasure, occasion satiety, instead of rouzing attention, and far from illustrating, should render the sentiments obscure, the people of that country will be necessitated to give their attention to written language; they must prefer the invention of man, to the gift of god; and the noblest ends, and highest delights which language can answer or afford, will be frustrated and lost. whether we are in that condition or not, let our army of writers, and scarcity of speakers declare. they who have seen in the clearest light the fatal consequences of this course, did not, at the same time, see the only method by which it might be changed. they did not know how impregnable are the bulwarks which surround the fortress of custom to all attacks by storm, though they may easily be reduced by sapping the foundations. and though the tyrant may be dethroned by reason; yet cannot reason supply his place. his scepter can be wielded only by one of his own race, and custom alone can succeed to custom. all that reason can do, is to preside at the election, and endeavour to fix the choice on the most worthy. till a new custom, therefore, shall have opened the way to skill in the art of speaking, so that it may be as easily and certainly attainable, by pursuing that road, as skill in the art of writing now is, by pursuing the others, the latter path must continue to be most frequented. and nothing can assist the new custom in its progress, but the same means that brought forward the old. the art of speaking, like that of writing, must be reduced to a system; it must have sure and sufficient rules to guide such as apply to the study of it; it must have masters to teach it, and to enforce the rules by examples. this alone can ensure success to the studious in that way; and till that be done, it cannot be expected that many will employ their time in laborious researches into an intricate, difficult, and obscure subject, without the least moral certainty of attaining their point, when a clear, obvious, and certain method lies open to them, of arriving at, what they imagine to be, the same end. but had they a like certainty of success in the one way, as in the other, there cannot be any doubt to which the preference would be given, not only on account of the superior advantages resulting from it, but also the superior pleasure which would attend their progress, and the delight which would crown the attainment of that art. how exquisite that must have been when eloquence was at its height, may be gathered from the testimony of cicero, who, in his brutus, does not scruple to affirm, "that neither the fruits nor glory which he derived from eloquence, gave him so much delight as the study and practice of the art itself." his words are, "dicendi autem me non tam fructus & gloria, quam studium ipsum exercitatioque delectat." the neglect, therefore, to this hour, of so useful, so necessary, so delightful an art, may well excite wonder and amazement. and, indeed, it is hardly possible, but that it should long ere this have got some footing amongst us, had not all, who have pointed out the defect, and proposed methods of supplying it, agreed in laying the blame at the wrong door, and consequently pointing to a wrong quarter for redress. thus the nation in general, influenced by their sentiments, has, from year to year, waited like the countryman, "---dum defluat amnis: at ille "labitur, & labetur in omne volubilis ævum." all writers on this subject have agreed in laying the fault on the schools and universities, and that the redress can only come from them. than which there cannot be any thing more unjust as to the charge, nor more ill-founded than the conclusion. thus the author of the spectator says----"we must bear with this false modesty in our young nobility and gentry, till they cease at oxford and cambridge to grow dumb in the study of eloquence." and one of the bishop of cloyne's queries is, "whether half the learning and study of these kingdoms is not useless, for want of a proper delivery and pronunciation being taught in our schools and colleges?" mr. locke bears hard upon the masters, for not instructing their pupils in english, as well as latin and greek, in the following passage. "to write and speak correctly, gives a grace, and gains a favourable attention to what one has to say: and since it is english that an english gentleman will have constant use of, that is the language he should chiefly cultivate, and wherein most care should be taken to polish and perfect his style. this i find universally neglected, nor no care taken any-where to improve young men in their own language, that they may thoroughly understand and be masters of it. if any one among us have a facility or purity more than ordinary in his mother tongue, it is owing to chance, or his genius, or any thing, rather than to his education, or any care of his teacher. to mind what english his pupil speaks or writes, is below the dignity of one bred up amongst greek and latin, though he have but little of them himself. these are the learned languages, fit only for learned men to meddle with, and teach; english is the language of the illiterate vulgar: though yet we see the polity of some of our neighbours hath not thought it beneath the public care to promote and reward the improvement of their own language. polishing and enriching their tongue, is no small business amongst them; it hath colleges and stipends appointed it; and there is raised amongst them a great ambition and emulation of writing correctly: and we see what they are come to by it, and how far they have spread one of the worst languages possibly in this part of the world, if we look upon it as it was in some few reigns backwards, whatever it be now. the great men among the romans were daily exercising themselves in their own tongue; and we find yet upon record the names of orators, who taught some of their emperors latin, though it were their mother tongue. 'tis plain the greeks were yet more nice in theirs: all other speech was barbarous to them but their own; and no foreign language appears to have been studied or valued amongst that learned and acute people; though it be past doubt that they borrowed their learning and philosophy from abroad." to this mr. locke adds, "i am not here speaking against greek and latin; i think they ought to be studied, and the latin at least understood well by every gentleman. but whatever foreign languages a young man meddles with, (and the more he knows, the better) that which he should critically study, and labour to get a facility, clearness, and elegancy to express himself in, should be his own; and to this purpose he should daily be exercised in it." to the same effect, have many other eminent authors written on this subject; but surely they must have been under the influence of strong prejudice, to charge men with neglect of points, which do not at all belong to their office; and with the omission of studies and arts, which they never profess to teach. a master of a grammar-school is to teach grammar, not oratory; he is to teach latin, and greek, not english. and this is what all masters of endowed schools are bound to do; and it is upon these terms, that all others receive their pay. but it may be said, that these studies might be added to the others, and taught at the same time. surely, they who say so, have not given themselves time to reflect on the nature of these studies, or the state of our established mode of education; else they would see that what they expect is an absolute impossibility. can any man communicate more knowlege than he is himself possessed of? can any man teach an art which he never learned? can any man instruct others in a language, in which he never was instructed? can either any art or language be regularly taught without a well digested system of rules? and if no such system has hitherto been formed, either with respect to the english language, or the art of speaking it, how shall any man set about teaching them? it will be said, that it is a shame for a master to be ignorant of these. but why more a shame for him, than any other gentleman who has been trained exactly in the same way? or why is more expected from him? because it would be of great benefit to his pupils. so it might, but if in his course of education, previous to his entering upon that employment, he has had no lights given him as to those points, is he likely to find much leisure in so laborious an office, to investigate the principles of an unpractised art, or the rules of an unstudied language? it is probable that he would make a greater progress in that way, than others of equal abilities, and equal advantages of education, who have dedicated whole lives of leisure to those studies, without ever arriving at the end proposed? but suppose he could teach them, how could he find time to do it? the low stipend which custom has established, as the pay to masters of grammar-schools, obliges most of them to take such numbers of scholars under their care, even to get a tolerable subsistence, that it is with the utmost difficulty they are at present able to prepare them for the university, in the usual time allotted for that purpose, by teaching only greek and latin; how is it then possible for them to think of introducing the study of new things, which would require nearly as much time and pains, as those which they are bound to teach, and which they cannot accomplish, without the utmost stretch of application? though, indeed, considering the salaries paid by parents to masters of grammar-schools, that they are near half of what they pay their grooms, and that they are at least a full fourth, if not a third, of what they pay to the dancing master or fencing master, the music or riding master, the teacher of french or italian, it must be allowed that they have a just right to expect that those two supernumerary studies should be thrown into the bargain. nor would it be at all surprising, if some parents should also expect of the master of a grammar-school, that he should teach their sons to dance, because he has legs, and can walk; as well as that he should teach them the art of speaking, because he has a tongue, and can talk. if no attention has been given to these points in the previous part of education, what reason have we to suppose that the evil can be remedied at the universities? the business of tutors and professors there, is to finish young gentlemen in such studies as they had begun at school, or to instruct them in such new arts and sciences, as they are obliged by their several establishments to teach. if the english language, and the art of speaking, be not in the number of those, what reason have we to expect that they should be taught? whoever discharges his duty, in what he professes to teach, will find but little leisure to attend to any thing else; or if a few should attempt it, they would upon trial find, that they could make so little progress in instructing others without the help of rules or principles, and they would meet such obstacles in their way, on account of inveterate bad habits contracted through early neglect, as would soon make them give up the voluntary and fruitless labour. the reason, therefore, that the belles lettres, and philosophy in all its branches, are the only things now taught in a course of liberal education, is obvious enough; because it is for those only that institutions and endowments have been made; by which means they have been reduced to systems, and are regularly taught; they who have been regularly instructed themselves, can teach others by the same rules; and they are induced to take upon them the office of instructing others, from the rewards and emoluments which attend it. from an opposite cause it is, that the english language and the art of speaking are not taught; because there are no institutions or establishments for the purpose; in consequence of which, they have not been reduced to systems, or taught by rule; and no one can regularly instruct another in what he has not regularly acquired himself; nor are there hitherto any rewards or emoluments annexed to such an office. that there has been no encouragement given, to this day, for the establishment and cultivation of two such important articles to all british subjects, can be accounted for on no other principle, but that of custom, founded upon the strongest prejudice. from the first time that a latin grammar is put into our hands, we are taught to believe, that a complete knowlege of latin and greek will of course give a complete knowlege of english; that reading the ancient writers upon oratory will furnish us with all the powers of elocution; that the same master who instructs pupils in the one, can also teach the other; and that, therefore, any particular establishments for those purposes would be unnecessary: and this prepossession has been so early in life, and with such force stamped upon us, that neither the experience of more than two centuries, nor daily demonstration to the contrary, are able to erase it. nor need we wonder, that the prejudice has been so universal, when we reflect that some of the most eminent men that these countries have produced were strongly tinctured with it: nay, when we find, in the passage before quoted, that the clear-sighted and candid mr. locke was so blinded by it, as not to see that, in the very instance mentioned by him, with regard to the french, he had attributed our deficiency to a wrong cause. for though he has laid the whole blame of the want of culture and improvement in the english tongue, on the masters of grammar-schools, yet he shews clearly, that the culture and improvement of the french took their rise from another source; where he says, 'we see the polity of some of our neighbours hath not thought it beneath the "public care to promote and reward the improvement of their own language." polishing and enriching their tongue is no small business amongst them; "it hath colleges and stipends appointed it;" and there is raised amongst them a great ambition and emulation of writing correctly.' was it not, therefore, more natural to impute the low state of english amongst us to the want of such institutions and encouragement, than to the neglect of masters who do not profess to teach it? and was it not more rational to expect the improvement of our tongue from the same methods which brought forward the french; from public encouragement, from colleges and stipends appointed it, than from one which never was found to answer, nay, which, in its own nature, never can answer the end? in like manner, in speaking of elocution, he has imputed our general deficiency in that point also, to the neglect of the masters of grammar-schools; though, at the same time, he clearly points out the only means by which knowlege in that art can be acquired, in these-words: 'this (speaking of elocution), as all other things of practice, is to be learned not by a few, or a great many rules given, but by exercise and application, according to good rules, or rather patterns, till habits are got, and a facility of doing it well.' now, if there be no such system of rules in being, with regard to english elocution, how can a master give his pupils practice according to good rules? or what pattern can he afford them, but in himself? and is such a model likely to be a perfect one? is it not probable, that masters of grammar-schools may have contracted bad habits in that respect, as well as any others trained in the same way? will the profession itself inspire them with propriety of pronunciation, proper management of the voice, and graceful gesture and deportment? it is time to put an end to such gross prejudice. after waiting for more than two centuries, to no purpose, in hopes that things would mend in one way, it is more than time that another course should be tried. the only method which can be followed with success, is obvious enough. when cicero gave a definition of elocution, he, at the same time, pointed out the means by which it is to be acquired. his words are these: "pronunciatio est vocis, et vultus, et gestus moderatio, cum venustate. hæc omnia tribus modis assequi poterimus, arte, imitatione, exercitatione[14]." here we see that art is placed first; and, indeed, without that guide our labour would be either fruitless, or productive of error. imitation alone can go no farther than to give us the manner of those whom we imitate; if that be bad, the imitation of it must be so too; but if it should be good upon the whole, and faulty only in part, it doth not follow that we shall acquire both in the same degree; on the contrary, it is generally the case, that the faulty part only, as being the most easily caught, is the consequence of imitation without art: and practice grounded upon such imitation, can only serve to confirm and rivet us in error. [footnote 14: "elocution is the proper and graceful management of the voice, the countenance and gesture in speaking. these we shall be able to acquire by three ways, art, imitation, practice."] since, therefore, nothing can be done without art, and all art is founded upon principles, and should be taught by rules, the first necessary step is, to trace the principles of elocution. those once discovered, to establish upon them a system of rules, peculiarly adapted to the genius of the english tongue, whereby the art of elocution may be as regularly acquired as any other art now is, and a knowlege of english, so far as regards elocution, methodically obtained. to shew that this is far from being impracticable, is one of the chief objects of the first course of lectures which i propose to give upon these subjects. in this course i shall endeavour to lay open the principles of elocution, and the peculiar constitution of the english language, with regard to the powers of sound and numbers, in a method, which should it prove to be as rational as it is new, will, i hope, give the author of these lectures no cause to repent of the time and pains which his researches into these abstruse subjects have cost him. he hopes also to see some good fruits immediately produced from this first course; and that not only the young, but the adult, who should not think these points below their attention, may, from the knowlege of those principles, and some general rules deduced from them, have sure lights to guide them in their future enquiries into those subjects, hitherto involved in the shades of darkness; or obscurely and falsely viewed through the mists of error. should his principles be allowed to be just, and his system so far meet with the sanction of men of learning and discernment, he will be encouraged to proceed from a general, to a more particular course; in which he hopes to give all necessary lights to assist, not only speculation, but practice; and by going up to the very first elements, point out a regular way by which children may be rightly trained in the art of speaking, and knowlege of their mother tongue, from the earliest rudiments; instead of being necessarily corrupted and led astray, by the false principles and rules which at present are laid down to them, from the moment the primer is put into their hands, and of the bad effects of which, few ever get the better during the remainder of their lives. should it be known in the world, that a design was set on foot at the universities, of introducing the study of the english language, and the art of speaking, upon a practicable plan, and in a systematic way, there would not be wanting all due encouragement to such an undertaking from many of their grateful offspring. what numbers of their illustrious sons, when they have entered into life, have had occasion to lament, that through the neglect of these necessary branches, the chief advantages of their education have been concealed from the world; and all their funds of knowlege, like the hoards of misers, shut up in their own breasts. how many well instructed minds, and honest hearts, furnished with the means, and most ardent inclination to serve their country, have sat still in silent indignation, where her interests were nearly concerned, for want of a practised tongue to disclose what passed in their minds? how many of our wisest members, in the great national council, has shame on that score, kept silent like mr. addison? and how many others, after a few attempts, have closed their lips for ever, from self-disappointment, in not finding their utterance correspond to their conceptions? the experience of what they have suffered on such occasions, will teach them to feel, and as far as in them lies, to prevent the sufferings of others in like circumstances. should, therefore, upon a candid examination, the proposed plan be judged practicable, there cannot be any doubt but that there would be many found sufficiently jealous of the honour of their country, to contribute to the support of such an establishment, as might wipe away that stain of barbarism which still rests upon this nation, of having left their language hitherto to the guidance of chance: and when it is considered, that no country ever produced so many instances of private benefactions for public service, particularly in the seminaries of learning, it is to be supposed, that, in case of future endowments, a due attention will be paid to that language which is now solely used on all public occasions throughout these realms, and whose improved state must add to the glory of the nation, as well as to that art, which, of all others, is most likely to contribute to the benefit and ornament of individuals, and of the state in general. here i cannot help observing, how necessary the introduction of these studies will be to the promoting, and rendering more effectual, the new institutions, which have been lately adopted by the wisdom of the university of oxford. and first, as to the vinerean endowment for the study of the law. it has been lately proved, by the strongest and clearest arguments, that not only they who intend to make that their profession, but that all gentlemen in general should acquire a competent knowlege in that branch; but more especially such as have reason to expect that they shall become members of the legislative body. would it not be a strong inducement to such noblemen or gentlemen to apply more closely to such a study, if, at the same time, they were practised and perfected in an art, which alone could enable them to display to advantage their superior knowlege in the constitution and laws of their country, to their own honour and credit, and support of that constitution, and those laws? and, with respect to lord clarendon's benefaction for the introduction of the bodily exercises, that institution may not of itself be found a sufficient inducement to prolong the stay of young gentlemen at the university beyond the usual time, or put an end to the custom of going upon their travels at the most unfit and dangerous season of life (which has proved the chief bane of our british youth), inasmuch as those exercises can also be acquired abroad; and, from caprice or fashion, perhaps, it will be thought too in a more perfect way. but should a critical inquiry into the genius and powers of their own tongue succeed to their knowlege of latin and greek; should they be regularly instructed and practised in the art of elocution, in all its various branches; in that case, the most necessary and ornamental of all accomplishments to british subjects could be had only in this country, and would of course detain them from all foreign academies or masters. the very delight which would accompany both the speculative and practical part of those studies, would hold them by the surest tie, that of inclination. should eloquence, that "regina rerum," establish her throne here, they would with pleasure pay her homage; they would listen to the voice of the charmer, far sweeter than the syren's song; nor would they quit the academic grove, till they were masters of the harmony which reigned there. possessed of that, how greedily would they hoard up knowlege of all kinds, which they might then be enabled to draw forth at will, and display to the utmost advantage! they would not, in that case, think of going into life, till they were well qualified to discharge whatever office they should enter upon. or such as chose to travel, might then do it with great benefit to themselves, and to their country. "we should not then need" (to make use of a passage in milton) "the monsieurs of paris to take our hopeful youth into their slight and prodigal custodies, and send them over back again transformed into mimics, apes, and kickshaws. but if they desire to see other countries at two or three-and-twenty years of age, not to learn principles, but to enlarge experience, and make wise observation, they will, by that time, be such as shall deserve the regard and honour of all men where they pass, and the society and friendship of those in all places, who are best, and most eminent. and, perhaps, then other nations will be glad to visit us for their breeding, or else to imitate us in their own country. or whether they be to speak in parliament or council, honour and attention would be waiting on their lips. there would then also appear in pulpits other visages, other gestures, and stuff otherwise wrought, than what we now sit under, oft-times to as great trial of our patience, as any other that they preach to us." as the motives to the study of elocution will, probably, be allowed to be sufficiently strong, it would be no small inducement to set about the work with vigour, if there were reason to believe, that the speedy accomplishment of the point would follow the attempt; and that we have just grounds for such an opinion, we may easily see, by considering the state of that art in the only country where we can exactly trace its rise and progress. we know that in rome, from the time that oratory was first regularly taught there as an art, it arrived to its maturity in a very short space; and if it can be shewn, that we enjoy great advantages over the romans in all the material points necessary to the perfection of that art, it is but reasonable to conclude, that its progress here might be still more rapid. as this matter has already been discussed in an essay, called,[15] british education, and as i shall have sufficient opportunities, in my course of lectures, to prove all that has been there advanced, it would be unnecessary, in this place, to expatiate upon this head. and as i fear that i have already exhausted your patience, i shall hasten to close, with the same exhortation to the revival of the art of elocution, which quintilian used to the romans, to engage them in the support of it, when in its declining state. after having invalidated several objections to the study of that art, he concludes thus: "ante omnia sufficit ad exhortationem studiorum, non cadere in rerum naturam, ut quicquid non est factum, ne fieri quidem possit: cum omnia quæ magna sunt atque admirabilia, tempus aliquod quo primum efficerentur, habuerint. verum etiam si quis summa desperet (quod cur faciat, cui ingenium, valetudo, facultas, præceptor, non deerunt?) tamen est (ut cicero ait) pulchrum in secundis tertiisque consistere. adde quod magnos modica quoque eloquentia parit fructus: ac si quis hæc studia utilitate sola metiatur, pene illi perfectæ par est. neque erat difficile, vel veteribus, vel novis exemplis palam facere; non aliunde majores honores, opes, amicitias, laudem præsentem, futuram, hominibus contigisse, si tamen dignum literis esset, ab opere pulcherrimo, (cujus tractatus, atque ipsa possessio, plenissimam studiis gratiam refert) hanc minorem exigere mercedem, more eorum qui à se non virtutes, sed voluptatem quæ fit ex virtutibus, peti dicunt. ipsam igitur orandi majestatem, qua nihil dii mortales melius homini dederunt, et qua remota muta sunt omnia, et luce præsenti et memoria posteritatis carent, toto animo petamus, nitamurque semper ad optima: quod facientes, aut evademus in summum, aut certe multos infra nos videbimus." [footnote 15: vide b. i. ch. xv. b. ii. ch. ix.] finis. notes to the text in the following notes, numbers refer to pages and lines in the present text. all translations from the latin are from loeb classical library editions. 6:1-8. thomas sheridan, _british education_ (london, 1756), p. 52. 6:24-7:7. _ibid._, p. 53. 12:4-6. _aeneid_, v, 194. trans. h. ruston fairclough. "no more do i seek the first place ... it were a shame to return last." 17:7-22. _british education_, p. 85. 17:26-18:15. _ibid._, pp. 85-86. 19:24-20:5. _de oratore_, iii.xxxv.143. trans. h. rackham. "but if on the contrary we are trying to find the one thing that stands top of the whole list, the prize must go to the orator who possesses the learning. and if they allow him also to be a philosopher, that is the end of the dispute; but if they keep the two separate, they will come off second best in this, that the consummate orator possesses all the knowledge of the philosophers, but the range of philosophers does not necessarily include eloquence." 37:22-24. _brutus_, vi. 23. 38:11-12. horace, _epistles_, i.ii.43. trans. h. ruston fairclough. "... waiting for the river to run out: yet on it glides, and on it will glide, rolling its flood forever." 38:20-23. richard steele, _spectator_, 484, 15 september 1712. 38:25-39:3. george berkeley, "the querist," in _works_, ed. a. a. luce and t. e. jessop (london, 1948), iv, query 203. 39:7-41:11. john locke, "some thoughts concerning education," in _works_ (london, 1823), ix, 181-182. 47:10-19. _ibid._, p. 182. 48:9-15. _ibid._, p. 179. sheridan indicates that locke is discussing elocution, but his topic is writing and speaking. 49:9-13. _rhetorica ad herennium_, i.ii.3. 56:14-57:3. john milton, "of education," _works_ (new york, 1931), iv, 290-291. 57:3-10. _ibid._, pp. 286-287. 58:17-59:23. _institutio oratoria_, xii.xi. 25-26, 29-30. trans. h. e. butler. "to which i reply that sufficient encouragement for study may be found in the fact, firstly, that nature does not forbid such achievement and it does not follow that, because a thing never has been done, it therefore never can be done, and secondly, that all great achievements have required time for their first accomplishment.... finally, whatever is best in its own sphere must at some previous time have been nonexistent. but even if a man despair of reaching supreme excellence (and why should he despair, if he have talents, health, capacity and teachers to aid him?), it is none the less a fine achievement, as cicero says, to win the rank of second or even third.... add to this the further consideration that even moderate eloquence is often productive of great results and, if such studies are to be measured solely by their utility, is almost equal to the perfect eloquence for which we seek. nor would it be difficult to produce either ancient or recent examples to show that there is no other source from which men have reaped such a harvest of wealth, honour, friendship and glory, both present and to come. but it would be a disgrace to learning to follow the fashion of those who say that they pursue not virtue, but only the pleasure derived from virtue, and to demand this meaner recompense from the noblest of all arts, whose practice and even whose possession is ample reward for all our labours. wherefore let us seek with all our hearts that true majesty of oratory, the fairest gift of god to man, without which all things are stricken dumb and robbed alike of present glory and the immortal record of posterity; and let us press forward to whatsoever is best, since, if we do this, we shall either reach the summit or at least see many others far beneath us." the augustan reprint society william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles publications in print [illustration] 1948-1949 16. henry nevil payne, _the fatal jealousie_ (1673). 18. anonymous, "of genius," in _the occasional paper_, vol. iii, no. 10 (1719), and aaron hill, preface to _the creation_ (1720). 1949-1950 19. susanna centlivre, _the busie body_ (1709). 20. lewis theobald, _preface to the works of shakespeare_ (1734). 22. samuel johnson, _the vanity of human wishes_ (1749), and two _rambler_ papers (1750). 23. john dryden, _his majesties declaration defended_ (1681). 1951-1952 31. thomas gray, _an elegy wrote in a country churchyard_ (1751), and _the eton college manuscript_. 1952-1953 41. bernard mandeville, _a letter to dion_ (1732). 1963-1964 104. thomas d'urfey, _wonders in the sun; or, the kingdom of the birds_ (1706). 1964-1965 110. john tutchin, _selected poems_ (1685-1700). 111. anonymous, _political justice_ (1736). 112. robert dodsley, _an essay on fable_ (1764). 113. t. r., _an essay concerning critical and curious learning_ (1698). 114. _two poems against pope_: leonard welsted, _one epistle to mr. a. pope_ (1730), and anonymous, _the blatant beast_ (1742). 1965-1966 115. daniel defoe and others, _accounts of the apparition of mrs. veal_. 116. charles macklin, _the covent garden theatre_ (1752). 117. sir george l'estrange, _citt and bumpkin_ (1680). 118. henry more, _enthusiasmus triumphatus_ (1662). 119. thomas traherne, _meditations on the six days of the creation_ (1717). 120. bernard mandeville, _aesop dress'd or a collection of fables_ (1704). 1966-1967 123. edmond malone, _cursory observations on the poems attributed to mr. thomas rowley_ (1782). 124. anonymous, _the female wits_ (1704). 125. anonymous, _the scribleriad_ (1742). lord hervey, _the difference between verbal and practical virtue_ (1742). 126. _le lutrin: an heroick poem, written originally in french by monsieur boileau: made english by n. o._ (1682). 1967-1968 127-128. charles macklin, _a will and no will, or a bone for the lawyers_ (1746). _the new play criticiz'd, or the plague of envy_ (1747). 129. lawrence echard, prefaces to _terence's comedies_ (1694) and _plautus's comedies_ (1694). 130. henry more, _democritus platonissans_ (1646). 131. john evelyn, _the history of sabatai sevi, the suppos'd messiah of the jews_ (1669). 132. walter harte, _an essay on satire, particularly on the dunciad_ (1730). publications of the first fifteen years of the society (numbers 1-90) are available in paperbound units of six issues at $16.00 per unit, from the kraus reprint company, 16 east 46th street, new york, n.y. 10017. publications in print are available at the regular membership rate of $5.00 yearly. prices of single issues may be obtained upon request. subsequent publications may be checked in the annual prospectus. william andrews clark memorial library: university of california, los angeles the augustan reprint society 2520 cimarron street, los angeles, california 90018 _general editors_: william e. conway, william andrews clark memorial library; george robert guffey, university of california, los angeles; maximillian e. novak, university of california, los angeles _corresponding secretary_: mrs. edna c. davis, william andrews clark memorial library the society's purpose is to publish rare restoration and eighteenth-century works (usually as facsimile reproductions). all income of the society is devoted to defraying costs of publication and mailing. correspondence concerning memberships in the united states and canada should be addressed to the corresponding secretary at the william andrews clark memorial library, 2520 cimarron street, los angeles, california. correspondence concerning editorial matters may be addressed to the general editors at the same address. manuscripts of introductions should conform to the recommendations of the mla _style sheet_. the membership fee is $5.00 a year in the united states and canada and £1.16.6 in great britain and europe. british and european prospective members should address b. h. blackwell, broad street, oxford, england. copies of back issues in print may be obtained from the corresponding secretary. publications of the first fifteen years of the society (numbers 1-90) are available in paperbound units of six issues at $16.00 per unit, from the kraus reprint company, 16 east 46th street, new york, n.y. 10017. make check or money order payable to the regents of the university of california regular publications for 1968-1969 133. john courtenay, _a poetical review of the literary and moral character of the late samuel johnson_ (1786). introduction by robert e. kelley. 134. john downes, _roscius anglicanus_ (1708). introduction by john loftis. 135. sir john hill, _hypochondriasis, a practical treatise on the nature and cure of that disorder call'd the hyp or hypo_ (1766). introduction by g. s. rousseau. 136. thomas sheridan, _discourse ... being introductory to his course of lectures on elocution and the english language_ (1759). introduction by g. p. mohrman. 137. arthur murphy, _the englishman from paris_ (1756). introduction by simon trefman. previously unpublished manuscript. 138. [catherine trotter], _olinda's adventures_ (1718). introduction by robert adams day. special publication for 1968-1969 _after the tempest._ introduction by george robert guffey. next in the continuing series of special publications by the society will be _after the tempest_, a volume including the dryden-davenant version of _the tempest_ (1670); the "operatic" _tempest_ (1674); thomas duffet's _mock-tempest_ (1675); and the "garrick" _tempest_ (1756), with an introduction by george robert guffey. already published in this series are: 1. john ogilby, _the fables of aesop paraphras'd in verse_ (1668), with an introduction by earl miner. 2. john gay, _fables_ (1727, 1738), with an introduction by vinton a. dearing. 3. elkanah settle, _the empress of morocco_ (1673) with five plates; _notes and observations on the empress of morocco_ (1674) by john dryden, john crowne and thomas shadwell; _notes and observations on the empress of morocco revised_ (1674) by elkanah settle; and _the empress of morocco. a farce_ (1674) by thomas duffet; with an introduction by maximillian e. novak. price to members of the society, $2.50 for the first copy of each title, and $3.25 for additional copies. price to non-members, $4.00. standing orders for this continuing series of special publications will be accepted. british and european orders should be addressed to b. h. blackwell, broad street, oxford, england. transcriber's note: the oe ligature has been expanded. punctuation has been standardised. spelling and grammar have been retained as in the original publication. transcriber's note: phonetic characters are represented by the following symbols: [xt] = any letter "x" with inferior inverted "t" [=x] = any letter "x" with superior macron [x=] = any letter "x" with inferior macron [=oo] = "oo" with superior macron [)x] = any letter "x" with superior breve [)oo] = "oo" with superior breve [.x] = any letter "x" with superior dot (semi-dieresis) [x.] = any letter "x" with inferior dot (semi-dieresis) [x:] = any letter "x" with inferior double-dot (dieresis) 1001 questions and answers on orthography and reading. by b.a. hathaway, _author of the "1001 question and answer book series._ the burrows brothers company, cleveland, ohio. * * * * * in the same series. 1001 questions and answers on u.s. history, (including the federal constitution and amendments.) 1001 questions and answers on geography. (embracing descriptive, physical, and mathematical geography.) 1001 questions and answers on grammar. (with copious illustrations, parsing and analysis.) 1001 questions and answers on arithmetic. (including nearly 300 test examples, with solutions.) 1001 questions and answers on the theory and practice of teaching. (the latest and most exhaustive book on this subject ever published.) 1001 questions and answers on physiology and hygiene. (containing a separate and exhaustive chapter on the physiological effects of alcohol and narcotics.) 1001 questions and answers on orthography and reading. 1001 questions and answers on general history. 1001 questions and answers on botany. 1001 questions and answers on test examples in arithmetic. extra cloth, price 50c. each. postage prepaid. any 6 assorted for $2.50, postpaid. any 8 assorted for $3.25, postpaid. the 10 assorted $4.00 postpaid. published by the burrows bros. company, cleveland, ohio. * * * * * entered according to act of congress, in the year 1888, by b.a. hathaway, in the office of the librarian of congress at washington, d.c. * * * * * prefatory note. _in presenting this, the seventh book of the "1001 question and answer series," we feel that a great want is partially met. it is evident, from the number of inquiries made for such a book, that the works devoted to the subject of orthography are very limited._ _we are also aware that the authors of the different grammars devote such a limited space to the subject of orthoepy and technical orthography, that both teacher and pupil turn away from the subject in disgust._ _in preparing this list of questions and answers we have consulted the best authority of the present day, and believe we have gone over the ground in such a way that it will meet the approval of all interested._ _the questions and answers on reading we trust will add to the interest of the book, and only hope that it will be received with as gracious a welcome and hearty approval as the rest of the series._ b.a.h. april, 1888. * * * * * contents. page. letters, 5 orthoepy, 13 substitutes, 17 definitions and words, 20 rules and terms, 25 numerical values of the letters, 32 capitals and italics, 35 abbreviations, 38 accent and punctuation, 40 diacritical marks, 44 prefixes and suffixes, 46 promiscuous questions, 56 reading and elocution, 60 miscellaneous exercises, 80 * * * * * letters. 1. _what is orthography?_ the science and art of the letters of a language. 2. _of what does orthography treat?_ the nature and power of letters, and correct spelling. 3. _from what is the word orthography derived?_ two greek words, signifying "to write right." 4. _what is a letter?_ a character used to represent an elementary sound, or combination of sounds. 5. _what is an alphabet of a language?_ a complete list of its letters. 6. _what is the origin of the word alphabet?_ it is derived from the first two letters of the greek alphabet: alpha and beta. 7. _where did the alphabet originate?_ the english comes from the greek, which was brought by cadmus from phoenicia, about the year 1490 b.c. 8. _what was the first alphabet ever used?_ the hebrew. 9 _how many letters were in the original alphabet?_ sixteen. 10. _where did the other letters originate?_ they have been added since the time of cadmus, as their use became necessary. 11. _what was the last letter added to the english alphabet?_ w. 12. _why was it called w?_ on account of it being composed of two u's, or a double u. 13. _how many letters in the english alphabet?_ twenty-six. 14. _how many in the latin alphabet?_ twenty-five. 15. _what is the difference between the latin alphabet and the english?_ the latin omits the letter w. 16. _what alphabet has the greatest number of letters?_ the chinese. 17. _how many letters in the chinese alphabet?_ over two hundred. 18. _what is a perfect alphabet?_ one which contains the same number of letters that it has elementary sounds. 19. _is the english a perfect alphabet?_ it is not. 20. _how many elementary sounds in the english language?_ about forty-three. 21. _what is an imperfect alphabet?_ one in which the number of sounds exceeds the number of letters. 22. _what is an equivocal alphabet?_ an imperfect one. 23. _what is an unequivocal alphabet?_ same as perfect. 24. _is the english alphabet equivocal or unequivocal?_ equivocal. 25. _what is a univocal alphabet?_ one that has a separate character for each elementary sound. 26. _what is an alphabetic language?_ a language in which the characters represent separate articulate sounds. 27. _what is a phonetic alphabet?_ one in which there is a separate character for each elementary sound. 28. _is there any phonetic alphabet of the english language?_ there have been several published, but they are not in general use. 29. _how many letters in the english phonetic alphabet?_ forty-three. 30. _what is the name of a letter?_ the appellation by which it is known. 31. _what is the difference between a letter and its name?_ the letter is the character, and the name is its appellation. 32. _what letters name themselves?_ the vowels a, e, i, o, and u. 33. _how are the letters divided?_ into vowels and consonants. 34. _what are vowels?_ those letters which represent only pure tones. 35. _name all the vowels._ a, e, i, o, u, and in some situations w and y. 36. _what is a consonant?_ a letter that represents an interruption of sound or breath. 37. _why called consonants?_ because they cannot be used alone in a word, but must be connected with a vowel. 38. _how many kinds of consonants are there?_ two; single letters and combinations. 39. _name the consonant letters._ b, c, d, f, g, h, j, k, l, m, n, p, q, r, s, t, v, w, x, y, and z. 40. _name the consonant combinations._ th, sh, ch, zh, wh, and ng. 41. _name the two orders of the consonants._ mutes and semi-vowels. 42. _what are mutes?_ those letters which admit of no escape of breath while the organs of speech are in contact. 43. _name the mutes._ b, d, k, p, t, and c and g hard. 44. _what other term is often applied to the mutes?_ close consonant. 45. _what are semi-vowels?_ those letters that admit of an escape of breath while the organs of speech are in contact. 46. _name the semi-vowels._ f, h, j, l, m, n, r, s, v, w, x, y, z, and c and g soft. 47. _are the combinations mutes or semi-vowels?_ they are all semi-vowels. 48. _what letters are called nasals?_ m, n, and ng. 49. _what other term is often applied to the semi-vowels?_ loose consonant. 50. _what letters are called liquids?_ l, m, n, and r. 51. _why are the liquids so called?_ because of their flowing sound, which readily unites with the sound of other letters. 52. _what are sibilants?_ letters which have a hissing sound; as, s and z. 53. _what letter is called the mute sibilant?_ the letter x. 54. _what letters represent no sound of their own?_ c, q, and x. 55. _what are these letters called?_ redundant letters. 56. _why are they so named?_ because they are not necessary for the completion of the alphabet. 57. _by what letters are the sounds of c represented?_ k and s. 58. _what letters represent the sound of q?_ kw. 59. _what letters represent the sound x?_ ks. 60. _what letters of themselves form words?_ a, i, and o. 61. _spell all of the consonants._ bee, cee, dee, eff, gee, aitch, jay, kay, ell, em, en, pee, kw, ar, ess, tee, vee, double-u, ex, wy, and zee.--_goold brown_. 62. _what letters are called the twins?_ q and u. 63. _why so called?_ because q is always followed by u in english spelling. 64. _is there any exception to this rule?_ the word leeclercq is sometimes given as an example, but in english it is spelled leeclerc. 65. _what is meant by style of letters?_ different type; as, roman, script, italics, etc. 66. _how many forms have letters?_ two. 67. _what are they?_ small letters and capitals. 68. _what are the natural divisions of consonants?_ subvocals and aspirates. 69. _what are subvocals?_ those consonants which produce an undertone of voice when their sounds are uttered. 70. _name the subvocals._ b, d, g hard; j and g soft; l, m, n, r, v, w, y, z, zh, and ng. 71. _what are aspirates?_ mere whispers made by the organs of speech and breath. 72. _name the aspirates._ c, f, h, k, p, q, s, t, x, ch, sh, and wh. 73. _what combination is both aspirate and subvocal?_ th. 74. _what are cognate letters?_ those which are produced by the same organs of speech in a similar position. 75. _give an example of a cognate letter._ d is a cognate of t. 76. _what are quiescent letters?_ those that are silent. 77. _how many uses have silent letters?_ five. 78. _what are they?_ to modify vowels; to modify consonants; to determine signification; to determine origin; and to distinguish words of like signification. 79. _what are explodents?_ those letters whose sound cannot be prolonged. 80. _name the explodents._ b, d, g, j, p, q, t, and k. 81. _what are the principle organs of speech?_ lips, teeth, tongue, and palate. 82. _what is meant by organical division of the consonants?_ pertaining to those particular organs used in their pronunciation. 83. _name the organical divisions._ labials, dentals, linguals, and palatals. 84. _what are labials?_ those letters whose sounds are modified by the lips. 85. _name them._ b, f, m, p, v, w, and wh. 86. _what are dentals?_ those letters whose sounds are modified by the teeth. 87. _name them._ j, s, z, ch, sh, zh, c and g soft. 88. _what are linguals?_ those letters whose sounds are modified by the tongue. 89. _name them._ d, l, n, r, t, y, and th. 90. _what are palatals?_ those letters whose sounds are modified by the palate. 91. _name them._ k, q, x, ng, c and g hard. 92. _what letters have no organical classification?_ h, and all the vowels. 93. _what is an aphthong?_ a silent letter or combination. 94. _how many kinds of aphthongs?_ three. 95. _what are they?_ vowels, consonants, and combinations. 96. _what letters are never silent?_ f, j, q, r, and x. 97. _in what words is v silent?_ sevennight and twelvemonth. 98. _in what word is z silent?_ rendezvous. 99. _what letters are never doubled?_ x and h. 100. _how many words contain all the vowels in regular order?_ two. 101. _what are they?_ abstemious and facetious. 102. _what is a diphthong?_ two vowels sounded together in the same syllable. 103. _name the diphthongs._ ou, ow, oi, and oy. 104. _how many sounds do they represent?_ two. 105. _what are the sounds called?_ diphthongal sounds. 106. _how many kinds of diphthongs are there?_ two. 107. _what are they?_ separable and inseparable. 108. _which ones are separable?_ oi and oy. 109. _what is an improper diphthong?_ the union of two vowels in a syllable, one of which is silent. 110. _by what other name are they known?_ digraph. 111. _how many digraphs are there?_ twenty-five. 112. _name them._ aa, ae, ai, ao, au, aw, ay, ea, ee, ei, eo, eu, ew, ey, ie, oa, oe, oi, oo, ou, ow, ua, ue, ui, and uy. 113. _what is a trigraph?_ a union of three vowels in one syllable, two of which are silent, or all three representing one sound. 114. _how many trigraphs are there?_ eight. 115. _name them._ awe, aye, eau, eou, eye, ieu, iew, and uoi. 116. _what is a tetragraph?_ union of four vowels in one syllable. 117. _how many tetragraphs are there?_ one. 118. _what is it?_ ueue in the word queue. 119. _may the terms digraph, etc., be used with the consonants?_ they may. 120. _give example of consonant digraph._ gh, in the word laugh. 121. _give example of consonant trigraph._ thr, in the word throw. 122. _give example of consonant tetragraph._ phth, in the word phthisic. 123. _what is a regular triphthong?_ a vowel trigraph in which all three of the vowels are sounded. 124. _give an example._ quoit. orthoepy. 1. _what is orthoepy?_ that science which treats of the elementary sounds and the pronunciation of words. 2. _what is phonology?_ the science of the elementary sounds uttered by the human voice in speech. 3. _what is an elementary sound?_ one that cannot be divided so as to be represented by two or more letters. 4. _what is sound?_ a sensation produced on the auditory nerve by the rapid vibratory motion of any elastic substance. 5. _what is the least number of vibrations that will produce an audible sound?_ sixteen per second. 6. _what is the greatest number that can be heard?_ about forty thousand per second. 7. _what is voice?_ sound produced by the vocal chords. 8. _what is an articulate sound?_ one made by the organs of speech and used in language. 9. _what is a vocal sound?_ one that is modified but not obstructed by the articulatory organs. 10. _what is a simple vocal sound?_ one made without any change in the position of the articulatory organs during its emission. 11. _what is a coalescent?_ an articulate sound that always precedes and unites with a vocal. 12. _what is a guttural sound?_ one that is modified by the soft palate. 13. _what are unarticulate sounds?_ the sounds of the vowels. 14. _how many elementary sounds do the vowels represent?_ fifteen. 15. _how many do the consonants represent?_ eighteen. 16. _how many do the combinations represent?_ seven. 17. _how many do the diphthongs represent?_ only one, as oi and oy only repeat sounds already represented by a and i. 18. _how many sounds has a?_ five. 19. _what are they?_ long, short, medial, flat, and broad. 20. _how many sounds has e?_ two. 21. _what are they?_ long and short. 22. _how many sounds has i?_ two. 23. _what are they?_ long and short. 24. _how many sounds has o?_ three. 25. _what are they?_ long, short, and slender. 26. _how many sounds has u?_ three. 27. _what are they?_ long, short, and medial. 28. _how many sounds has b?_ one; as heard in the word babe. 29. _how many sounds has c?_ none that may be properly called its own. 30. _how many sounds has d?_ one; as heard in the word did. 31. _how many sounds has f?_ one; as heard in the word flew. 32. _how many sounds has g?_ two; as heard in the words go and age. 33. _how many sounds has h?_ one; as heard in the word high. 34. _how many sounds has j?_ none of its own, but represents one; the sound of g. 35. _how many sounds has k?_ one; as heard in the word key. 36. _how many sounds has l?_ one; as heard in the word lily. 37. _how many sounds has m?_ one; as heard in the word money. 38. _how many sounds has n?_ one; as heard in the word nat. 39. _how many sounds has p?_ one; as heard in the word pie. 40. _how many sounds has r?_ one; as heard in the word roar. (rem.--some authors give r three sounds.) 41. _how many sounds has s?_ one; as heard in the word same. 42. _how many sounds has t?_ one; as heard in the word tight. 43. _how many sounds has v?_ one; as heard in the word view. 44. _how many sounds has w?_ one; as heard in the word we. 45. _how many sounds has x?_ none of its own, as it is a redundant letter. 46. _how many sounds has z?_ one; as heard in the word ooze. 47. _how many sounds has th?_ two; as heard in the words thigh and the. 48. _how many sounds has ch?_ one; as heard in the word church. 49. _how many sounds has sh?_ one; as heard in the word ash. 50. _how many sounds has zh?_ one obscurely; represented by _si_ in such words as fusion, _zi_ in glazier. 51. _how many sounds has wh?_ one; as heard in the word what. 52. _how many sounds has ng?_ one; as heard in the word sing. 53. _what are regular sounds?_ the long sounds of the letters. substitutes. 1. _what is a substitute?_ a letter representing a sound usually represented by another. 2. _what are equivalent letters?_ letters representing the same sound. 3. _what properties do substitutes assume?_ the properties of the letter whose sound it represents. 4. _how many substitutes has a long?_ four. 5. _what are they?_ _e_ in tete; _ei_ in feint; _ey_ in they; and _ao_ in gaol. 6. _how many substitutes has a middle?_ two. 7. _what are they?_ _e_ in there; and _ei_ in heir. 8. _how many substitutes has a broad?_ two. 9. _what are they?_ _o_ in cord; and _ou_ in sought. 10. _how many substitutes has e long?_ three. 11. _what are they?_ _i_ in marine; _ie_ in fiend; and _ay_ in quay. 12. _how many substitutes has e short?_ two. 13. _what are they?_ _a_ in says; and _u_ in bury. 14. _how many substitutes has i long?_ two. 15. _what are they?_ _y_ in chyme; and _oi_ in choir. 16. _how many substitutes has i short?_ six. 17. _what are they?_ _y_ in hymn; _e_ in england; _u_ in busy; _o_ in women; _ee_ in been; and _ai_ in captain. 18. _how many substitutes has o long?_ two. 19. _what are they?_ _eau_ in beau; and _ew_ in sew. 20. _how many substitutes has o short?_ one. 21. _what is it?_ _a_ in what. 22. _how many substitutes has u long?_ one. 23. _what is it?_ _ew_ in new. 24. _how many substitutes has u short?_ three. 25. _what are they?_ _e_ in her; _i_ in sir; and _o_ in son. 26. _how many substitutes has u medial?_ one. 27. _what is it?_ _o_ in wolf. 28. _how many substitutes has f?_ two. 29. _what are they?_ _gh_ in laugh; and _ph_ in philosophy. 30. _how many substitutes has j?_ three. 31. _what are they?_ _g_ in rage; _di_ in soldier; and _d_ in verdure. 32. _how many substitutes has s?_ two. 33. _what are they?_ _c_ soft, as in central; and _z_ in quartz. 34. _how many substitutes has t?_ one. 35. _what is it?_ _ed_ final, after any aspirate except t. 36. _how many substitutes has v?_ one. 37. _what is it?_ _f_ in of. 38. _how many substitutes has w?_ one. 39. _what is it?_ _u_ in quick. 40. _how many substitutes has x?_ one. 41. _what is it?_ _ks_ in exist. 42. _how many substitutes has y?_ one. 43. _what is it?_ _i_ in alien. 44. _how many substitutes has z?_ three. 45. _what are they?_ _s_ in was; _c_ in suffice; and _x_ in xebec. 46. _how many substitutes has ch?_ two. 47. _what are they?_ _ti_ in question; and _t_ in nature. 48. _how many substitutes has sh?_ six. 49. _what are they?_ _ce_ in ocean; _ci_ in social; _si_ in mansion; _ti_ in motion; _ch_ in chaise; and _s_ in sugar. 50. _how many substitutes has zh?_ four. 51. _what are they?_ _si_ in fusion; _zi_ in brazier; _z_ in azure; and _s_ in rasure. 52. _how many substitutes has ng?_ one. 53. _what is it?_ n generally before palate sounds; as, conquer, etc. 54. _what letters have no substitutes?_ b, d, g, h, l, m, n, p, and r. 55. _what combinations have no substitutes?_ th and wh. 56. _why is x never doubled?_ it already represents the sounds of k and s. 57. _what letter ends no english word?_ j. definitions and words. 1. _what is language?_ any method for the communication of thought and feeling. 2. _what is natural language?_ instinctive methods of communicating thought or feeling. 3. _what is artificial language?_ that which must be learned before it can be used. 4. _is the english language natural or artificial?_ artificial. 5. _how many kinds of artificial language?_ two. 6. _what are they._ spoken and written. 7. _what is spoken language?_ that produced by the vocal organs. 8. _what is written language?_ any method of communicating thought or feeling by the use of written or printed characters. 9. _what are the messengers of thought?_ sentences. 10. _what is a sentence?_ an assemblage of words conveying a thought. 11. _what is a word?_ a sign of an idea. 12. _what is lexicology?_ that science which treats of the meaning of words. 13. _what is etymology?_ that science which treats of the origin and derivation of words. 14. _what is orthogeny?_ that science which treats of the classification of words into parts of speech. 15. _what is syntax?_ that science which treats of the relation and connection of words in the construction of a sentence. 16. _what is prosody?_ that science which treats of punctuation and the laws of versification. 17. _of what is a word composed?_ a syllable or combination of syllables. 18. _what is a syllable?_ a letter or letters uttered by a single impulse of the voice. 19. _what is the essential part of a syllable?_ a vowel. 20. _can there be a syllable without it containing a vowel sound?_ there cannot. 21. _what is syllabication?_ that branch of etymology which treats of the division of words into syllables. 22. _how many methods of syllabication are there?_ two. 23. _what are they?_ english and american. 24. _what is the object of the english method?_ to separate words into their elementary parts without regard to pronunciation; as, a-tom. 25. _what is the object of the american method?_ to indicate the proper pronunciation by separating affixes from the roots. 26. _what is a word of one syllable called?_ a monosyllable. 27. _what is a word of two syllables called?_ a dissyllable. 28. _what is a word of three syllables called?_ a trisyllable. 29. _what is a word of more than three syllables called?_ a polysyllable. 30. _what is the ultimate syllable of a word?_ the last syllable. 31. _what is the penultimate syllable?_ next to the last syllable in a word. 32. _what is the antepenultimate syllable?_ the last syllable but two in a word. 33. _what is the preantepenultimate syllable?_ the last syllable but three in a word. 34. _what other way may the syllables be described?_ in their numerical order; as, first, second, etc. 35. _how many syllables can a word have?_ as many as it has vowels or diphthongs sounded. 36. _how many words in the english language?_ about one hundred and twenty thousand. 37. _how are words divided in reference to form?_ into simple and compound. 38. _how are they divided in reference to origin?_ into primitive and derivative. 39. _what is a simple word?_ one that is not composed of two or more whole words. 40. _what is a compound word?_ one that is composed of two or more distinct words. 41. _what is a primitive word?_ one in no way derived from another in the same language. 42. _what is a radical word?_ same as primitive. 43. _what is a derivative word?_ one formed by joining to a primitive some letter or letters to modify its meaning. 44. _what is analysis?_ separating a word or syllable into its elements or parts. 45. _what is synthesis?_ the process of combining elements to form syllables and words. 46. _what is the base of a compound word?_ that word representing the fundamental idea. 47. _what is the modifier in a compound word?_ that word which describes the other. 48. _what is the base of a derivative word?_ the primitive from which it is derived. 49. _what is the modifier in a derivative word?_ the affix. 50. _what is an affix?_ that part of a derivative word attached to the root. 51. _how many root words in the english language?_ over one thousand. 52. _what is a prefix?_ that part of a derivative word placed before the root. 53. _what is a postfix?_ that part of a derivative word placed after the root. 54. _what is a suffix?_ same as a postfix. 55. _what are affixes?_ prefixes and postfixes together are called affixes. 56. _how many kinds of derivatives are there?_ two. 57. _what are they?_ regular and irregular. 58. _what is a regular derivative?_ one that is formed by the addition of affixes without changing the letters in the primitive part (except final _e_ silent). 59. _what is an irregular derivative?_ one in which the letters of the primitive part are changed. 60. _in using affixes, what rule should be observed?_ the affix and root should be from the same language. 61. _is the same rule to be observed in forming compound words?_ it is. 62. _what is a mongrel compound word?_ one formed contrary to the rule. 63. _give an example._ cable-graph and cable-gram. 64. _what are barbarisms?_ same as mongrel. 65. _when use the hyphen in compound words?_ when they are not permanently compounded. 66. _what is an obsolete word?_ one gone out of date. rules and terms. 1. _what is spelling?_ a distinct expression of the letters or sounds of a word in their proper order. 2. _how many kinds of spelling?_ two. 3. _what are they?_ orthographic and phonic. 4. _what is orthographic spelling?_ an expression of the letters of a written or printed word in their proper order. 5. _what is phonic spelling?_ an expression of the elementary sounds of a word in their proper order, according to established usage. 6. _what is meant by good usage?_ the usage, or custom, of the best speakers and writers of the times. 7. _how do we know when we have spelled a word correctly?_ by reference to the dictionary? 8. _what is a lexicographer?_ an author of a dictionary. 9. _can we spell by rules?_ we cannot. 10. _why?_ because there are too many exceptions. 11. _what makes a rule in orthography?_ whenever a letter is silent, or usually so, a rule is formed. 12. _why is c placed before r in acre, massacre, etc.?_ to preserve the hard sound of c. 13. _what is the rule for digraphs?_ a digraph must have one vowel silent. 14. _give rule for e final._ e final is silent when another vowel precedes it in the same syllable. 15. _what effect does final e have on the preceding vowel?_ it usually preserves its long sound. 16. _when is b silent?_ before _t_, or after _m_, in the same syllable. 17. _when is c silent?_ before _k_ in the same syllable; also, before _z_, _l_, or _t_, in a few words. 18. _when is d silent?_ before _g_ in the same syllable. 19. _when is g silent?_ before _m_ or _n_ in the same syllable. 20. _when is h silent?_ after _g_ or _r_ in the same syllable; and _h_ final after a vowel is always silent; also, in a few words after _t_, and initial in a few words. 21. _when is l silent?_ after _a_ when followed by _f_, _m_, _k_, or _v_, except in the word valve; also, before _d_ in could, etc. 22. _when is m silent?_ before _n_ in a few words. 23. _when is n silent?_ final after _l_ or _m_. 24. _when is p silent?_ initial before _n_, _s_, or _t_. 25. _when is s silent?_ in a few irregular words; as, _isle_, _puisne_, _viscount_, _corps_, etc. 26. _when is t silent?_ before _ch_ in the same syllable; also, in _christmas_, _eclat_, _mortgage_, etc. 27. _when is v silent?_ in two words only--_sevennight_ and _twelvemonth_. 28. _when is w silent?_ before _r_ in the same syllable also, in _whoop_, _sword_, _two_, etc. 29. _when is gh silent?_ after _i_ in the same syllable; also, after _au_ and _ou_ in some words. 30. _when is ch silent?_ in a few words; as, _drachm_, _yacht_, etc. 31. _when is z silent?_ in one word only--_rendezvous_. 32. _what letters are never silent?_ f, j, q, and r. 33. _what is meant by antecedent part of a syllable?_ that part before the vowel. 34. _what is the consequent part of a syllable?_ that part which follows the vowel. 35. _how many words end in ceed?_ three. 36. _what are they?_ exceed, proceed, and succeed. 37. _how many of the english words are derived from the latin?_ about, three-fourths. 38. _what language is called "our mother tongue?"_ anglo-saxon. 39. _from what language do we get most of our scientific terms?_ the greek. 40. _how many english words begin with_ in _as a prefix?_ two hundred and fifty. 41. _how many begin with im?_ seventy-five. 42. _how many begin with un?_ about two thousand. 43. _were final e not silent, what would be the result?_ another syllable would be formed. 44. _when is final e dropped in spelling?_ before vowel terminations mostly. 45. _why is the final e retained in such words as changeable and traceable?_ to preserve the soft sound of the c or g. 46. _in the words fleeing, seeing, etc., why retain both es?_ to determine the proper meaning of the word. 47 _what is a figure of orthography?_ any departure from the ordinary spelling of a word. 48. _how many figures are there?_ two. 49 _what are they?_ archaism and mimesis. 50. _what is archaism?_ the spelling of a word according to ancient usage. 51. _what is mimesis?_ the spelling of a word in imitation of a false pronunciation. 52. _when is i used as a consonant?_ when followed by a vowel in the same syllable; as in alien, etc. 53. _when is y final changed to e?_ before the suffix ous; as in beauteous. 54. _when is y final changed to i?_ before the suffix ful; as in beautiful. 55. _what is a redundant prefix?_ one that does not change the signification of the root; as, _a_ in the word adry. 56. _when is ie changed to y?_ before the ending _ing_. 57. _when use the digraph ei in spelling?_ ei follows c soft, and begins words. 58. _when use ie in spelling?_ ie follows consonants (except c soft), and ends words. 59. _in changing the word hoe to hoeing, why retain the e?_ to preserve its signification. 60. _what is the origin of the suffix less?_ anglo-saxon. 61. _what is the origin of the word english?_ it is derived from the word angles. 62. _who were the angles?_ they were a tribe of people who came from the land of the low germans and settled in britain in the fifth century. 63. _what does the word england mean?_ "the land of the angles." 64. _why is our language sometimes called the "teutonic language"?_ because it is derived from the ancient germans, who were called teutons. 65. _what kind of words end in ize?_ verbs derived from the greek. 66. _what kind of words end in ise?_ most words derived from the french. 67. _why is the english called a composite language?_ because it is derived from so many different sources. 68. _does adding a single consonant to a word ever make an additional syllable?_ it does. 69. _give examples._ grade, grad-ed; confide, con-fi-ded. 70. _can a word be compound and derivative at the same time?_ it can; as, ball-player. 71. _how distinguish between an affix and a part of a compound word?_ if all the parts retain their literal signification they form a compound; if not, the part which loses its signification becomes an affix in a derivative. 72. _is the word outside compound or derivative?_ it is compound. 73. _is the word outrun compound or derivative?_ it is derivative. 74. _what is derivation?_ that branch of etymology which treats of the sources of the words of a language. 75. _how many kinds of derivation?_ two. 76. _what are they?_ paronymous and historical. 77. _what is paronymous derivation?_ that part of etymology which treats of present sources of english words. 78. _give examples of paronymous derivation._ kingdom, from king; manly, from man, etc. 79. _what is historical derivation?_ that part of etymology which treats of the foreign sources of the english language. 80. _give examples of historical derivation._ book, from boc; moon, from mona, etc. 81. _when use a, and when an, in a sentence?_ use a before all words beginning with a consonant sound, and use an before words beginning with a vowel sound, _h_ mute, or _h_ initial, if the accent is on any other syllable than the first. 82. _why do words in the english language become obsolete?_ because it is a living language. 83. _what is a new word?_ one that has recently come into use. 84. _name some new words._ outsider, intensify, repudiate, and idiom. 85. _what is meant by suspended animation of a word?_ a word that passes out of use for a while and then resumes its place in literature. 86. _give examples of suspended words._ the words reckless, abate, and abandon, fell into disuse in the seventeenth century, but have since been revived. 87. _what letters are called the pivots?_ y and w. 88. _why are they so called?_ because of their peculiar sounds in changing from vowels to consonants. 89. _what kind of new words should be avoided?_ any word formed contrary to the genius of the language. 90. _what is meant by idiom?_ a peculiar mode of expression. 91. _what is diction?_ diction treats of the selection and right use of words. 92. _when is our diction pure?_ when we use only such words as belong to the idiom of our language. 93. _what are synonyms?_ words having a similar signification. 94. _what is a synonymicon?_ a dictionary of synonymous words. 95. _what is meant by a reputable word?_ one that is used by educated people. 96. _what is an anacoluthic word?_ one that is unnecessary to the completion of a sentence. 97. _what is an idiomatic word?_ a word belonging to an individual language. 98. _what is an ideographical language?_ one in which the characters represent ideas rather than sounds. 99. _can there be a derivative word without an affix?_ there can; as, brought from bring. 100. _what is dactylology?_ the art of spelling words with the fingers. 101. _what is the pythagorean letter?_ y.--_am. cyclopedia_. 102. _why so called?_ because its greek original represents the sacred triad used to designate the diverging paths of virtue and vice. numerical values of the letters. 1. _what is meant by the numerical value of letters?_ its value as a numeral used in the notation of different languages. 2. _have all the letters numerical value?_ all except j, u, w, and y. 3. _what is the numerical value of a?_ 500. 4. _by whom used?_ the ancient european nations. 5. _what is the numerical value of b?_ 300. 6. _by whom used?_ the romans. 7. _what is the numerical value of c?_ 100 in the roman notation. 8. _what is the numerical value of d?_ 500 in the roman notation. 9. _what is the numerical value of e?_ 5. 10. _by whom used?_ the ancient greeks. 11. _what is the numerical value of f?_ 40 in some of the ancient notations; 80 in the arabian; and 10,000 in the armenian. 12. _what is the numerical value of g?_ 400. 13. _by whom used?_ the latins. 14. _what is the numerical value of h?_ 100 in the greek notation; and 200 in the latin. 15. _what is the numerical value of i?_ 1 in the roman notation; and 100 in some of the ancient notations. 16. _what is the numerical value of k?_ 20 in the greek notation; and 60 in the semitic. 17. _give the numerical values of l._ 50 in roman, and 30 in semitic notation. 18. _what are the numerical values of m?_ as a roman numeral, 1,000; greek and hebrew, 40. 19. _what is the value of n as a numeral?_ in the greek notation, 50; roman, 90; and by some other, 900. 20. _what is the numerical value of o?_ 70 in the greek; and 11 in the ancient latins. 21. _what is the numerical value of p?_ in the greek notation, 5; in the latin, 80; and in the roman, by some authors, 7, by one, 100, and by still another, 400. 22. _as a numeral, what is the value of q?_ 500. 23. _by whom used?_ several of the ancient nations of europe. 24. _what is the numerical value of r?_ 80 25. _by whom used?_ the ancient romans. 26. _what is the numerical value of s?_ 7 27. _by whom used?_ the ancients. 28. _give the values of t as a numeral._ 300 in the greek notation; in the latin, 160. 29. _what is the numerical value of v?_ 5 in the roman notation. 30. _what are the values of x as a numeral?_ in the roman, 10; in the greek, 60. 31. _what are the numerical values of z?_ 7 in the greek notation; and 2,000 in the roman. 32. _why have j, u, w, and y no numerical values?_ because they have been introduced into the alphabet since the science of arithmetical notation was invented. 33. _what effect does it have on the value of a letter to draw a line above it?_ in most cases it increases its value a thousand times. 34. _is a line ever drawn beneath a letter for the same purpose?_ in some instances it is. 35. _what effect does it have on a letter as a numeral to repeat it?_ repeats its value as often as it is repeated. capitals and italics. 1. _what is a capital letter?_ a large letter. 2. _what is an italic letter?_ a form of oblique letters derived from the italians. 3. _what is rule 1 for the use of capitals?_ title pages and headings of chapters should be entirely in capitals. 4. _give rule 2._ the first word of every book, tract, essay, letter, etc., should begin with a capital. 5. _give rule 3._ the first word of every sentence should begin with a capital. 6. _give rule 4._ clauses separately numbered should begin with a capital. 7. _give rule 5._ the first word after an interrogation point should usually begin with a capital. 8. _give rule 6._ the first word of a clause, or sentence, given as an example, should begin with a capital. 9. _give rule 7._ in quoting a title of a book, each important word of the title should begin with a capital. 10. _give rule 8._ first word of a direct question should begin with a capital. 11. _give rule 9._ the first word of a direct quotation should begin with a capital. 12. _give rule 10._ all letters used as numerals should be written or printed in capitals. 13. _give rule 11._ the pronoun i should always be a capital. 14. _give rule 12._ the vocative particle o should always be a capital. 15. _give rule 13._ the first word of every line of poetry should begin with a capital. 16. _give one exception to rule 13._ in humorous poetry, when a word is divided at the end of a line, the detached syllable at the beginning of the next line should begin with a small letter. 17. _give rule 14._ all names and titles of the deity should begin with a capital. 18. _give rule 15._ all proper names should begin with a capital. 19. _give rule 16._ all words derived from proper nouns should begin with a capital. 20. _give rule 17._ titles of honor and distinction should begin with capitals. 21. _give rule 18._ the words father, mother, sister, brother, aunt, etc., when followed by a proper noun, should always begin with a capital. 22. _give rule 19._ all words referring to the bible should begin with a capital. 23. _give rule 20._ all proper adjectives should begin with a capital. 24. _give rule 21._ the names of famous events, historical eras, noted documents, etc., should begin with a capital. 25. _what establishes a rule for capitals?_ good usage, or custom. 26. _give rule 1 for the use of italics._ words for emphasis should be printed in italics. 27. _give rule 2._ names of books, poems, etc., are usually printed in italics. 28. _give rule 3._ words from foreign languages are printed in italics. 29. _give rule 4._ words in the bible supplied by the translators are printed in italics. 30. _how are written words marked that are to be printed in capitals?_ by underscoring the words with two lines. 31. _how are written words marked that are to be printed in italics?_ by underscoring the words with one line. 32. _when use the interjection o?_ the letter o is a vocative particle, and should always be used before nouns or pronouns in the absolute case by direct address.--[_ridpath._] 33. _when use oh?_ in all cases where it is not followed by nouns, or pronouns, in the vocative case.--[_ridpath._] abbreviations. 1. _what is an abbreviation?_ one or more of the letters of a word standing for the whole word. 2. _what is the signification of a.c.s.?_ american colonization society. 3. _give meaning a.b.c.f.m._ american board of commissioners for foreign missions. 4. _what is the signification aaa.?_ amalgamation. 5. _what is the signification of ang.-sax.?_ anglo-saxon. 6. _give signification of a.t._ arch-treasurer. 7. _what is the signification of c.a.s.?_ fellow of the connecticut academy. 8. _what is the signification of c.c.?_ county court, or county commissioner. 9. _what is the meaning of d.c.l.?_ doctor of civil law. 10. _what is the signification of d.m.?_ doctor of music. 11. _what is the signification of a.u.c.?_ in the year of the city. 12. _what is the meaning of f.e.s.?_ fellow of the entomological society. 13. _what is the signification of h.r.i.p.?_ here rests in peace. 14. _what is the signification of l.c.j.?_ lord chief justice. 15. _what is the signification of n.u.?_ name unknown. 16. _what is the signification of p.a.?_ participial adjective. 17. _what is the signification of p.v.?_ post village. 18. _what is the signification of qy.?_ query. 19. _what is the signification of ro.?_ righthand page. 20. _what is the signification s.c.l.?_ student of the civil law. 21. _what is the signification of s.r.i.?_ holy roman empire. 22. _what is the signification of s.j.c.?_ supreme judicial court. 23. _what is the signification of u.s.s.?_ united states ship. 24. _what does u.k. signify?_ united kingdom. 25. _what does v.r. signify?_ queen victoria. 26. _what does v.g. signify?_ for example. 27. _what does xt. signify?_ christ. 28. _what does xmas. signify?_ christmas. 29. _what is the signification of y.b.?_ year book. 30. _what is the signification of zoã¶l.?_ zoã¶logy. 31. _what does yt. signify?_ that. 32. _what is the signification of s.t.p.?_ doctor of divinity. accent and punctuation. 1. _why is a word divided into syllables?_ for the purpose of showing their proper pronunciation and etymological composition. 2. _what is accent?_ a greater stress of voice placed on one syllable of a word than the others. 3. _what kind of words have no accent?_ monosyllables. 4. _why?_ accent implies comparison, and there can be no comparison with one syllable. 5. _how many kinds of accent?_ common, emphatic, and discriminating. 6. _what is common accent?_ ordinary accent of spelling. 7. _how many kinds of common accent?_ two. 8. _what are they?_ primary and secondary. 9. _what is primary accent?_ the principal accent. 10. _what is secondary accent?_ the partial accent. 11. _what kind of accent is essential to every word of more than one syllable?_ primary. 12. _how close can primary and secondary accent come together?_ not closer than two syllables. 13. _how many primary accents can one word have?_ only one. 14. _how many secondary accents can a word have?_ two. 15. _in case of two secondary accents, where are they placed?_ on the first and third. 16. _in case of two secondary, where is the primary accent?_ on the last but two. 17. _do the primary and secondary ever change places?_ they do. 18. _in words of two syllables, where is the accent?_ usually on the first. 19. _in trisyllables, what syllable is accented?_ usually the first. 20. _are there any exceptions?_ there are. 21. _in polysyllables, where is the accent?_ on the antepenult usually. 22. _in all words ending in ation, where is the accent?_ on the syllable next to the last. 23. _what is emphatic accent?_ accent used for emphatic distinction. 24. _have monosyllables any accent?_ they have sometimes an emphatic, or poetic. 25. _what is discriminating accent?_ that used to determine parts of speech. 26, _give some examples._ au'gust, au-gust'; reb'el, re-bel'. 27, _what is punctuation?_ the use of certain characters to aid the reader in determining the thought of the writer. 28. _how many kinds of punctuation are there?_ four. 29. _what are they?_ rhetorical, etymological, for reference, and for the printer. 30. _what is rhetorical punctuation?_ that used for rhetorical effect. 31. _what is etymological punctuation?_ that used in orthography and orthoepy. 32. _what is reference punctuation?_ that used to refer the reader to the margin of the page. 33. _what is punctuation for the printer?_ that used by the writer to inform the printer the kind of type to use. 34. _what are the principal etymological points?_ apostrophe, caret, dieresis, macron, breve, tilde, grave accent, acute accent, circumflex accent, hyphen, and period. 35. _what is the use of the apostrophe?_ to indicate the omission of a letter, or letters, of a word. 36. _what letter is omitted in the word o'clock?_ the letter f. 37. _what is the use of the caret?_ to correct an error of omission. 38. _is the caret used in printed copy or manuscript?_ in manuscript. 39. _for what is the dieresis used?_ to separate two vowels which would otherwise form a diphthong. 40. _give an example of the use of the dieresis._ zoã¶logy, and diã«resis. 41. _what is the use of the macron?_ to mark the long quantity of syllables. 42. _what is a long syllable?_ one in which the vowel has the long sound. 43. _what is the use of the breve?_ to mark the short quantity of syllables. 44. _what is a short syllable?_ one in which the vowel has the short sound. 45. _what kind of a mark is the tilde?_ a spanish mark. 46. _how many uses has the tilde?_ two. 47. _what are they?_ placed over _n_ it gives the sound of _ny_ as, in caã±on. in english it indicates certain sounds of the vowels. 48. _how many accent marks are there?_ three. 49. _what are they?_ grave, acute, and circumflex. 50. _what is the use of the grave accent?_ to mark the falling inflection. 51. _what is the use of the acute accent?_ to mark the primary accent, and the rising inflection. 52. _what is the use of the circumflex?_ to mark the peculiar inflection of the voice in the pronunciation of a word. 53. _how many uses has the hyphen?_ three. 54. _what are they?_ to separate the parts of a compound word; to separate a word into syllables; and to divide a word at the end of a line. 55. _when should the hyphen be used in a compound word?_ when the word has not become permanently compounded. 56. _when use the dieresis instead of the hyphen?_ when the syllables are divided by the hyphen, there is no hyphen used between the vowels of the digraph. 57. _what is the use of the period?_ to denote an abbreviation. 58. _are there any other uses of the period?_ there are. 59. _where else is the period used?_ in rhetorical punctuation. 60. _name the points used in reference punctuation._ asterisk, obelisk, parallels, section, paragraph, and index. 61. _are these marks ever doubled?_ they are. 62. _are letters ever used for reference?_ they are. diacritical marks. 1. _what are diacritical marks?_ characters indicating the different sounds of letters. 2. _name the diacritical marks._ macron, breve, dieresis, semi-dieresis, caret, tilde, cedilla, and the inverted t. 3. _make the diacritical marks in the order named:_ (â¯); ([breve]); (â¨); (â·); ([caret]); (~); (â¸); ([t]). 4. _what does the macron indicate?_ over a vowel, its long sound; under e, the sound of a, long; across c, the sound of k; over g, the hard sound; across th, the subvocal sound, and over oo, the long sound. 5. _what are the uses of the breve?_ over vowels, it indicates their short sound, and over oo, its short sound. 6. _what does the dieresis indicate?_ over a, its italian sound; under a, its broad sound; over i, the sound of e, long; under u, when preceded by r, makes it equivalent to o, italian. 7. _what is the use of the semi-dieresis?_ over a, gives it the medium sound; under a, the sound of o, short; over o, the sound of u, short; under o, the sound; over g, the soft sound; and under u, the sound of italian o. 8. _where is the cedilla used?_ under c, to give it the sound of s. 9. _what is the use of the caret as a diacritical mark?_ over a, it indicates the flat sound; over e, the sound of a, flat; over u, the sound of e, in her. 10. _where is the tilde used?_ over n in spanish words it indicates that the sound of y immediately follows. it is also used over e in such words as her, and over i in sir, etc. 11. _what is the use of the inverted [t]?_ under s, it gives it the sound of z; under x, it gives the sound of gz. 12. _give some words illustrating the use of the macron._ m[=a]te, b[=e]am, f[=i]ne, b[=o]at, t[=u]be, r[=oo]d, [=g]o, and pr[e=]y. 13. _give words showing the use of the breve._ m[)a]t, s[)e]t, l[)o]t, t[)u]b, and f[)oo]t. 14. _illustrate the use of the dieresis._ cã¤r, polã¯ce, f[a:]lling, and tr[u:]e. 15. _give words showing the use of the semi-dieresis._ m[.a]sk, wh[a.]t, m[.o]ney, [.g]in, w[o.]lf, and b[u.]sh. 16. _illustrate the use of the caret._ fã¢ir, thãªre, sã»rge, and sometimes over o as in stã´rm. 17. _give words showing the use of the tilde._ m[~e]rge and caã±on. 18. _illustrate the use of the cedilla._ ã�ell and ã§haise. 19. _give some words showing the use of the inverted t._ wa[st] and e[xt]ist. 20. _are there any other names for the inverted t?_ it has been given different names by different authors. 21. _what are they?_ "the perpendicular," "suspended macron," etc. 22. _is the letter y ever marked by diacritical marks?_ it is, sometimes. 23. _what marks are used for y?_ macron and breve. 24. _give examples where y is marked with the macron._ sp[=y], sl[=y], st[=y], etc. 25. _give example where y is marked with the breve._ h[)y]mn. 26. _what mark is used to cancel silent letters?_ short bar, similar to the macron. prefixes and suffixes. 1. _what is the signification of a as a prefix?_ on, in, at, to, or towards. 2. _is a as a prefix ever redundant?_ it is. 3. _give examples._ adry and ameliorate. 4. _what does the prefix ab signify?_ from. 5. _what does ab signify?_ away from. 6. _what is the signification of ante?_ before. 7. _name all the prefixes meaning to._ ad, ac, af, ag, al, an, ap, ar, and at. 8. _what does anti signify?_ against. 9. _what does bis signify?_ twice. 10. _what other prefix means the same?_ dis, from the greek. 11. _what does be signify?_ upon. 12. _what does circum signify?_ around, as circumscribe. 13. _what is the meaning of cis?_ on this side, as cisalpine. 14. _what prefixes signify with?_ con, com, co, col, and cor. 15. _what prefixes signify against?_ contra and counter. 16. _what does di signify?_ two, as ditone. 17. _what prefixes signify out of, or from?_ e, and ex. 18. _what does dys signify?_ ill, or difficult, as dysentery and dyspepsia. 19. _what does enter signify?_ between or among. 20. _what does epi signify?_ on, as epitaph; during, as ephemeral. 21. _what prefix signifies equal?_ equi, as equidistant. 22. _what does extra signify?_ beyond, as extraordinary. 23. _what is the signification of eu?_ well, or agreeable, as euphony. 24. _what does gain signify?_ against, as gainsay. 25. _what is the signification of hex?_ six, as hexagon. 26. _what does hyper signify?_ over, as hypercriticism. 27. _what does hypo signify?_ under, or beneath, as hypotenuse and hypocrite. 28. _what prefixes signify not or in?_ in, im, il, and ir. 29. _what is the signification of inter?_ in the midst of, or between, as intellect and intermarry. 30. _what does intra signify?_ within, or on the inside of. 31. _what other prefix means the same as intra?_ intro. 32. _what is the signification of juxta?_ joined to, or next, as juxtaposition. 33. _what does mal signify?_ bad, as malpractice and maladministration. 34. _what is the signification of meta?_ in the middle, after, and with. 35. _what does mis signify?_ amiss, or wrong, as misapply and mishap. 36. _what is the signification of mono?_ one, as monotheistic. 37. _what prefixes signify many?_ multi and poly, as multiform and polysyllable. 38. _what does non signify?_ not, as nonsense, nonessential, etc. 39. _what other prefixes signify not?_ neg, as in negative, and ne, as in nefarious. 40. _what does ob signify?_ in the way of, as obstruct. 41. _what does oct signify?_ eight, as octagon. 42. _what does omni signify?_ all, or complete, as omnipresent. 43. _what is the signification of out?_ beyond, as outlaw, outbid, outbalance, etc. 44. _what does over signify?_ above, as overseer, overreach, etc. 45. _what does ovi signify?_ an egg, as oviform. 46. _what does para signify?_ beside, as parallel, paragraph, etc. 47. _what is the signification of pene?_ almost, as peninsula--almost an island. 48. _what does per signify?_ through, or by, as permit, perchance, etc. 49. _what does peri signify?_ around, as perimeter, periosteum. 50. _what does pleni signify?_ completeness, or full, as plenitude, etc. 51. _what does post signify?_ after, or backwards, as postfix, and postpone. 52. _what does pre signify?_ before, as prefer, prefix, etc. 53. _what is the signification of preter?_ beyond, as preternatural. 54. _what is the signification of pro?_ before, forth, and for. 55. _what does pros signify?_ to, as proselyte. 56. _what is the signification of proto?_ first, as protocol, protoplasm, etc. 57. _what does quad signify?_ four, as quadrangle, etc. 58. _what does re signify?_ back, or again, as react, recollect, etc. 59. _what prefixes signify right?_ rect and recti. 60. _what does retro signify?_ backwards, as retrospect and retrograde. 61. _what does se signify?_ by itself, as separate, seclude, etc. 62. _what prefixes signify half?_ semi, demi, and hemi, as semicircle, demitone, and hemisphere. 63. _what does sine signify?_ without, as sinecure. 64. _what does stereo signify?_ solid, as stereotype. 65. _what does sub signify?_ under, or inferior, as subterranean and subordinate. 66. _what does super signify?_ over, above, or beyond, as supernatural, etc. 67. _what does suf signify?_ less or after, as suffix, etc. 68. _what does supra signify?_ same as super. 69. _what does sur signify?_ more than, as surcharge. 70. _what prefixes signify together?_ syn, sy, syl, and sym, as in syntax, system, syllable, and symbol. 71. _what does trans signify?_ beyond, across, and again, as transalpine, transatlantic, and transform. 72. _what does tra signify?_ across, as traverse. 73. _what is the signification of tri?_ three, as trisyllable, triangle, etc. 74. _what does ultra signify?_ beyond, as ultramarine. 75. _what does un signify?_ not, as unhappy, unable, etc. 76. _what is the signification of under?_ below, as undercurrent, underrate, etc. 77. _what does ve signify?_ no or not, as vehement. 78. _what does vice signify?_ instead of, as vice-president. 79. _what does with signify?_ against or back, as withstand, withdraw. 80. _what other signification has with in some words?_ near, as within; together, as withal, etc. 81. _what suffixes signify "able to be"?_ able, ible, and ile, as curable, audible, and visible. 82. _what suffixes signify rank, or office?_ acy, ate, ric; dom, and ship, as in curacy, pontificate, bishopric, kingdom, and clerkship. 83. _what is the signification of age?_ act of, as marriage, passage, etc. 84. _has the suffix age any other signification?_ from the latin ago, it means collection. 85. _what does an signify?_ one who, or the person who acts, as equestrian, pedestrian, etc. 86. _what does ana signify?_ a collection of memorable sayings, as franklinana--the sayings of franklin. 87. _what does ant signify?_ being, and has the force of ing, as dominant, verdant, etc. 88. _what is the signification of the suffix art?_ one who, as braggart. 89. _what does ary signify?_ place where, or place which, as library, aviary, etc. 90. _what does ate signify?_ full of, or abundance, as desolate, passionate, etc. 91. _what is the signification of celli?_ little, as vermicelli, etc. 92. _what other suffixes also signify little?_ cle, cule, el, en, kin, let, ot, ling, ock, and ie. 93. _what does ene signify?_ belonging to, as terrene, etc. 94. _what is the signification of eous?_ full of, as beauteous, etc. 95. _what does ed signify?_ when added to a verb it signifies did, as played; but to a participle, was, as completed. 96. _what is the signification of er?_ more or often, as brighter, glimmer, etc. 97. _what does erly signify?_ direction of, as northerly. 98. _what does es signify?_ more than one, as foxes, etc. 99. _what does escent signify?_ growing or becoming, as convalescent. 100. _what does esque signify?_ belonging to, or like, as picturesque, etc. 101. _what does ess signify?_ feminine when added to nouns, as tigress. 102. _what does est signify?_ greatest or least, as largest, smallest, etc. 103. _what does head signify?_ state or nature, as godhead. 104. _what does ics signify?_ things relating to, as optics, etc. 105. _what does ides signify?_ resemblance, as alkaloides, etc. 106. _what is the signification of im?_ more than one, as cherubim. 107. _what does ina signify?_ feminine, as czarina. 108. _what does ing signify?_ continuing, as singing, etc. 109. _what is the signification of ior?_ more, as superior. 110. _what does ique signify?_ belonging to, as antique. 111. _what is the signification of ish?_ like, as boyish, girlish, etc. 112. _what does isk signify?_ little, as asterisk, etc. 113. _what does ite signify?_ that which, as appetite. 114. _what does ive signify?_ able to do, as adhesive, etc. 115. _what does ion signify?_ state or act, as location. 116. _what does ism signify?_ doctrine, as calvinism, etc. 117. _what does ix signify?_ feminine of nouns, as testatrix. 118. _what does kin signify?_ a son of, or little, as lambkin. 119. _what does kind signify?_ race, as mankind. 120. _what does less signify?_ without, as guiltless, breathless, etc. 121. _what does ling signify?_ young, as duckling, etc. 122. _what does ly signify?_ like, or in a manner, as manly, calmly, etc. 123. _what does most signify?_ greatest or furthest, as hindmost. 124. _what does ment signify?_ state or act, as settlement, judgment, etc. 125. _what does ness signify?_ the quality of, or state of, as whiteness, etc. 126. _what does ock signify?_ small or young, as hillock, bullock, etc. 127. _what does oid signify?_ likeness, as spheroid, etc. 128. _what does or signify?_ one who, as actor, director, etc. 129. _what does ory signify?_ having the quality of, as vibratory, etc. 130. _what does on signify?_ large, as million, etc. 131. _what does ous signify?_ having the quality of, as solicitous. 132. _what does ot signify?_ little, as idiot. 133. _what does re signify?_ same as _er_, as it is another form of it. 134. _what does red signify?_ those who, as kindred, etc. 135. _what is the signification of ress?_ feminine of nouns, as instructress. 136. _what does ric signify?_ office of, as bishopric. 137. _what does ry signify?_ place where, or things collectively. 138. _what does se signify?_ to make, as cleanse. 139. _what does san signify?_ the person who, as partisan, etc. 140. _what does ship signify?_ the condition, as professorship. 141. _what does some signify?_ full, as quarrelsome. 142. _what does ster signify?_ the person who, as teamster. 143. _what does teen signify?_ ten to be added, as fourteen. 144. _what is the signification of tude?_ the state of being, as similitude. 145. _what does ty signify?_ to multiply into, as seventy, forty, etc. 146. _what does ude signify?_ same as _tude_, the state of being. 147. _what does ule signify?_ little, as globule. 148. _what does ward signify?_ direction of, as eastward, etc. 149. _what does ways signify?_ manner, as crossways, lengthways, etc. 150. _what does the suffix y signify?_ plenty, as smoky; also abounding in, as wealthy. 151. _are there any exceptions to the meaning of the foregoing prefixes and postfixes?_ there are some, and therefore great judgment must be exercised in applying them to the analysis of words. 152. _what is meant by the term "good bye"?_ god be with you. 153. _what does the suffix ster signify?_ feminine, as spinster. promiscuous questions. 1. _is a the first letter of all written alphabets?_ all but one, the abyssinian. 2. _what number is a in the abyssinian alphabet?_ the thirteenth. 3. _is double a ever written together as a word?_ it is, as a proper noun. 4. _what is aa the name of?_ about forty small rivers in europe.--_cyclopedia._ 5. _is b the second letter of all alphabets?_ all except the ethiopic. 6. _what number is b in the ethiopic?_ ninth. 7. _give a word in which p has the sound of b._ cupboard. 8. _what letter is the sonorous counterpart of t?_ the letter d.--_cyclopedia._ 9. _give the periodic changes of the english language._ saxon, semi-saxon, old english, middle english, and modern english. 10. _give date of "saxon period."_ previous to 1150 a.d. 11. _give date of "semi-saxon period."_ 1150 to 1250. 12. _give date of "old english period."_ 1250 to 1350. 13. _give date of "middle english period."_ 1350 to 1550. 14. _give date of "modern english period."_ time since 1550. 15. _what constitutes a period in language?_ any great change in the literature of a people. 16. _what causes these changes?_ mostly national invasion. 17. _what is assimilation of consonants?_ when an aspirate and subvocal comes together, it is necessary to change the sound of one or the other, to make the combination pronounceable. 18. _what is meant by an element of speech?_ an indivisible portion of language. 19. _what is a sonant sound?_ one uttered with intonated or resonant breath. 20. _in changing the word traffic to trafficked, why supply the letter k?_ to preserve the proper sound of c. 21. _under what condition is a consonant never doubled at the end of a word?_ when immediately following a diphthong.--_webster._ 22. _when is c followed by k in spelling?_ words ending with the sound of k, and in which c follows the vowel. 23. _give some examples._ back, black, fleck, etc. 24. _are there any exceptions?_ there are, as sac, arc, etc. 25. _why is the word humbugged spelt with two g's?_ to prevent sounding the g like j. 26. _give some words spelled differently in the u.s. and in england._ woolen--woollen, honor--honour, etc. 27. _when do words, ending in double e, drop one e on taking an additional syllable?_ when the suffix begins with e. 28. _why?_ to prevent three e's coming together. 29. _does pluralizing a word ever change the accent?_ sometimes it does. 30. _give an example._ an'tipode--antip'odes. 31. _in such words as defense, which is correct, se or ce for the termination?_ se, because the s belongs to the words from which they are derived.--_webster._ 32. _should words of english origin end in ise or ize?_ ize; same as those from the greek. 33. _are there any exceptions to these rules?_ there are; as advertise, from english, etc. 34. _are the words ox, calf, sheep, and pig of french or saxon origin?_ saxon. 35. _from what language do the words beef, veal, mutton, and pork come?_ the norman-french. 36. _what is a lexicon?_ a dictionary. 37. _what is an irregular sound?_ sound of a redundant letter. 38. _how are words divided as regards specie?_ primitive and derivative. 39. _how may the meaning of a word be changed?_ by accent; as aug'ust, august'. 40. _what is an irregular derivative?_ one in which the letters of the root are changed in forming the derivative. 41. _what is pronunciation?_ the distinct utterance of the sounds of a word. 42. _what are the significant parts of a word?_ root, prefix, and suffix. 43. _how are words divided as to variety?_ italic, roman, old english, etc. 44. _name some compound word in which both parts retain their own accent._ writ'ing-mas'ter. 45. _name some word in which one part loses its accent._ gentle-manly. 46. _can all the vowels form syllables themselves?_ all except w. 47. _when has r a rough sound?_ when it begins a word. 48. _how are words distinguished?_ by their forms and uses. 49. _why do consonants ever unite?_ to form complex sounds: as rr in burr. 50. _from what language are most words derived that end in less?_ anglo-saxon. 51. _is z the last letter of all alphabets?_ all except the greek, and hebrew. 52. _what is its place in the greek alphabet?_ sixth. 53. _what is its place in the hebrew?_ seventh. 54. _what letter is the sonorous counterpart of s?_ the letter z.--_cyclopedia._ 55. _what is spelling of z in england?_ zed, and also izzard. 56. _what language has two letters representing the sound of z?_ the russian. 57. _when was the letter w first used?_ about the end of the seventh century. 58. _what changes the sound of a vowel from long to short?_ the absence of the accent. 59. _in what situation is gh always silent?_ after i in the same syllable. 60. _how many words of two syllables are changed from nouns to verbs by accent?_ about eighty. 61. _what word contains a consonant tetragraph?_ phthisic. 62. _what is philology?_ the science of language. 63. _when is ue final, silent?_ after g and q; as fatigue and oblique. 64. _what are the elements of spoken language?_ vocal and articulate sounds. 65. _what are hybrid words?_ mongrel compounds. 66. _what is terminology?_ a treatise on technicalities. reading and elocution. 1. _what is reading?_ silent perusal or distinct utterance of thought and feeling, as seen expressed in written language. 2. _how many kinds of reading are there?_ two. 3. _what are they?_ silent and audible. 4. _what is silent reading?_ the perusal of language without utterance. 5. _what is audible reading?_ the utterance of thought and feeling, as seen expressed in written language. 6. _what is elocution?_ the science and art of the delivery of composition. 7. _how many kinds of delivery are there?_ three. 8. _what are they?_ speaking, declamation, and oratory. 9. _what is speaking?_ the utterance of thought and feeling without reference to the written page. 10. _what is declamation?_ the delivery of another's composition. 11. _what is oratory?_ the delivery of one's own composition. 12. _how many kinds of oratory are there?_ two. 13. _what are they?_ prepared and extempore. 14. _what is prepared oratory?_ that which has been studied previous to delivery. 15. _what is extempore oratory?_ that which is accomplished simultaneously with the delivery. 16. _what is vocal culture?_ the training of the organs of speech for effective delivery. 17. _what should be the primary object in audible reading?_ to convey to the hearer the ideas and sentiments of the writer. 18. _in order to accomplish this, what should the reader do?_ endeavor to make the feelings and sentiments of the writer his own. 19. _what are some of the essential qualities of a good reader?_ to read slowly, observe the pauses, give proper inflections, read distinctly, and with expression. 20. _what is enunciation?_ the utterance of words. 21. _under how many divisions should the subject of reading be treated?_ six. 22. _what are they?_ articulation, inflection, accent, emphasis, the voice, and gesture. 23. _what is articulation?_ distinct utterance of the elementary sounds, and of the combinations. 24. _name four common faults in articulation._ omitting an unaccented vocal, dropping the final sound, sounding incorrectly an unaccented vowel, and omitting syllables. 25. _what is inflection?_ sliding of the voice upward or downward. 26. _how many kinds of inflection are there?_ two. 27. _what are they?_ rising and falling. 28. _what is the rising inflection?_ an upward slide of the voice. 29. _what is the falling inflection?_ a downward slide of the voice. 30. _are the rising and falling inflections both ever given to the same sound?_ they are. 31. _how is such inflection marked?_ by the circumflex. 32. _how many kinds of circumflex?_ two. 33. _what are they?_ rising and falling. 34. _what is the rising circumflex?_ the sliding of the voice downward and then upward on the same sound. 35. _what is the falling circumflex?_ the sliding of the voice upward and then downward on the same sound. 36. _what is a monotone?_ reading without sliding the voice either upward or downward. 37. _give rule 1 for falling inflection._ propositions which make complete sense require the falling inflection. 38. _does emphasis ever reverse this rule?_ it does sometimes. 39. _give rule 2._ emphasis generally requires the falling inflection. 40. _where the sense is dependent, what inflection is generally used?_ the rising. 41. _does emphasis ever affect this rule?_ relative emphasis sometimes reverses it. 42. _what kind of inflection should be used at the end of an interrogative sentence?_ falling, if it cannot be answered by yes or no. 43. _negative sentences require what kind of inflection?_ rising. 44. _does emphasis ever affect this rule?_ it does; often reversing it. 45. _imperative sentences have what inflection?_ usually the falling. 46. _what kind of words require opposite inflection?_ words or members expressing antithesis or contrast. 47. _what is a series?_ a number of particulars following one another in the same construction. 48. _how many kinds of series?_ two. 49. _what are they?_ commencing and concluding. 50. _what is a commencing series?_ one that commences a sentence. 51. _what is a concluding series?_ one that concludes a sentence. 52. _what inflection is given to the members of a commencing series?_ the rising. 53. _what inflection is given to the members of a concluding series?_ the falling. 54. _are there any exceptions to these rules?_ there are. 55. _what causes the exceptions?_ emphasis. 56. _what is a parenthesis in reading?_ a sentence, or clause, set off by curves from the context. 57. _how should the parenthesis be read?_ in a lower tone and more rapidly. 58. _what is the use of the circumflex?_ to express irony, or sarcasm. 59. _what meaning is always suggested by the circumflex?_ doubtful or double meaning. 60. _what is the use of the monotones?_ to produce an effect in grave and solemn subjects. 61. _what is accent in reading?_ increase of force on certain syllables of a word. 62. _give an example of emphatic accent._ this corrup'tion must put on in'terruption. 63. _what does pitch signify?_ the place in the musical scale on which an element is sounded. 64. _what is force?_ that property of the voice which relates to loudness of sound. 65. _how many different kinds of force?_ five. 66. _what are they?_ suppressed, subdued, ordinary, energetic, and vehement. 67. _to what does stress relate?_ different modes of applying force. 68. _how many kinds of stress?_ three. 69. _what are they?_ expulsive, explosive, and vanishing. 70. _what is meant by quantity?_ length of time the voice dwells on a word. 71. _what is quality?_ that property which relates to the kind of voice. 72. _what is movement?_ the degree of rapidity with which the voice moves from one word to another. 73. _how many kinds of movement?_ six. 74. _what are they?_ very slow, slow, moderate, lively, rapid, and very rapid. 75. _what does expression comprehend?_ the practical application of all the principles of reading and elocution. 76. _what is cadence?_ the natural dropping of the voice at the end of a sentence, denoting completeness of thought. 77. _what is a rhetorical pause?_ a suspension of the voice for rhetorical effect. 78. _what is emphasis?_ giving force and energy to certain words. 79. _how many kinds of emphasis?_ two. 80. _what are they?_ absolute and relative. 81. _what is absolute emphasis?_ emphasis made without any contrast with other words. 82. _what is relative emphasis?_ emphasis used where there is antithesis either expressed or implied. 83. _is a whole phrase ever made emphatic?_ it is often. 84. _for what purpose?_ to give it great force. 85. _what is the emphatic pause?_ pause made for emphasis. 86. _what is antithesis?_ two or more words opposed to each other in meaning. 87. _what is a climax?_ a series of particulars increasing in importance to the last. 88. _what is anti-climax?_ a series of particulars decreasing in importance to the last. 89. _what is meant by transition?_ any sudden change in reading. 90. _what is emphatic repetition?_ words repeated for emphasis. 91. _what is an interrogation?_ a statement, or assertion, put in the form of a question. 92. _what is an exclamation?_ a statement denoting strong emotions. 93. _what is personation?_ one person imitating the actions and manners of some other person or persons. 94. _how many kinds of style in reading?_ five. 95. _what are they?_ description, argument, narration, persuasion, exhortation. 96. _what should be characteristic of the descriptive style?_ the speaker should use the same manner that he would if he were actually describing the thing spoken of. 97. _what should be characteristic of the argumentative style?_ directness and earnestness. 98. _what should characterize the narrative?_ the reader should proceed as though relating his own experience. 99. _what the persuasive?_ those tones, looks, and gestures which bring conviction to the hearer. 100. _what should characterize the exhortative?_ the performer should appeal, beseech, and implore, as the case may require. 101. _what is the slur?_ the smooth gliding of the voice in parenthetic clauses, etc. 102. _how are emphatic words distinguished?_ by different styles of printing. 103. _how many kinds of letters are used to denote emphasis?_ three usually. 104. _what are they?_ italics, small capitals, and capitals. 105. _what is antithetic emphasis?_ same as relative. 106. _what is modulation?_ variation of the voice in speaking and reading. 107. _what is pure tone?_ a clear, flowing sound, with moderate pitch. 108. _what is the orotund?_ pure tone intensified. 109. _for what is it adapted?_ to express sublime and pathetic emotions. 110. _what is the aspirated tone?_ an expulsion of breath, the words being spoken in a whisper. 111. _what is the guttural quality?_ deep undertone. 112. _what does it express?_ hatred, contempt, loathing, etc. 113. _what is the trembling tone?_ a constant waver of the voice. 114. _what does it express?_ an intense degree of suppressed excitement, or personates old age. 115. _what are pauses?_ suspensions of the voice in reading or speaking. 116. _how many kinds of pauses are there?_ two. 117. _what are they?_ grammatical and rhetorical. 118. _what is suspensive quantity?_ prolongation of the voice at the end of a word without making an actual pause. 119. _what does quantity embrace?_ force and rate. 120. _what quality of voice is mostly used in speaking and reading?_ pure tone. 121. _what is meant by prose?_ all composition which is not written in verse. 122. _what are some of the varieties of prose?_ letters, essays, travels, history, and discourses. 123. _what is a letter as a variety of prose?_ a written communication addressed by the writer to some other person. 124. _what is an essay?_ a written discourse on some special subject. 125. _what are travels?_ records of journeys. 126. _what is history?_ a record of past events. 127. _what is a discourse?_ a performance read or spoken to an audience. 128. _should the voice agree in style with the different varieties of prose?_ it should, and the performer should endeavor to produce the exact sentiments of the writer. 129. _what is poetry?_ a discourse written in verse and metrical language. 130. _what is a verse?_ a single line of metrical language. 131. _is it correct to use the term verse in speaking of a division of prose?_ it is not. 132. _what should we call such division?_ paragraph or division. 133. _what is a stanza?_ a number of metrical lines, or verses, combined according to a regular system. 134. _how many kinds of metrical language?_ two. 135. _what are they?_ rhyme and blank verse. 136. _what is rhyme?_ that language in which the concluding syllables of the verses have a similarity of sound. 137. _how many kinds of rhyme?_ two. 138. _what are they?_ perfect and imperfect. 139. _what is a perfect rhyme?_ where the vowels have the same sound. 140. _what is an imperfect rhyme?_ where the vowels have a different sound. 141. _what is blank verse?_ a kind of metrical language in which there is no similarity of sound. 142. _what is the cã¦sura pause?_ a rhythmic pause occurring in a verse. 143. _how many rules should be observed in the use of the cã¦sura?_ three. 144. _give rule 1._ the pause should be near the middle of the verse. 145. _give rule 2._ it should never divide a word. 146. _give rule 3._ should not separate words from their modifiers, as adjectives from nouns, adverbs from verbs, etc. 147. _do all verses have the cã¦sura pause?_ they do if over three feet in length. 148. _what is meant by a foot in verse?_ a certain portion of a line divided according to accent. 149. _when melody comes in contact with accent, which should yield?_ accent. 150. _is there any other rhythmic pause than the cã¦sura?_ there is; the demi-cã¦sura is sometimes used. 151. _how many kinds of poetry are there?_ seven. 152. _what are they?_ epic, dramatic, lyric, elegiac, didactic, satiric and pastoral. 153. _what is an epic poem?_ a poetical recital of some great and heroic enterprise. 154. _are there many epic poems?_ there are not; most nations have one. 155. _name the three epics of greatest note._ homer's iliad, virgil's ã�neid, and milton's paradise lost. 156. _what language were these poems written in?_ the iliad in greek, ã�neid in latin, and paradise lost in english. 157. _what does the iliad describe or narrate?_ the downfall of troy, which was the most memorable event in the early history of the trojans and greeks. 158. _what does the ã�neid narrate?_ the perils and labors of ã�neas, who was the reputed founder of the roman race. 159. _what does paradise lost describe?_ the downfall of not only the human but of the angelic host. 160. _what is a dramatic poem?_ one similar in many respects to an epic. 161. _name some point of difference._ epic relates past events; the drama represents events as taking place at the present time. 162. _name the greatest dramatic writer of the english._ shakespeare. 163. _what is a drama called that is set to music?_ an opera. 164. _what is a melodrama?_ a dramatic poem some parts of which are spoken and some are sung. 165. _what is lyric poetry?_ it is the oldest kind of poetry, and was originally intended to be sung to the accompaniment of the lyre. 166. _what are sonnets?_ a kind of lyric poems. 167. _what is an elegy?_ a poem of a mournful kind, usually celebrating the virtues of some person deceased. 168. _what is an epitaph?_ a short elegy inscribed on a monument, or written in praise of any one. 169. _what is a pastoral poem?_ one that describes country life. 170. _what is a didactic poem?_ one the aim of which is to give instruction. 171. _what is meditative poetry?_ a kind of didactic poetry. 172. _name two noted didactic poems._ bryant's "thanatopsis," and campbell's "pleasures of hope." 173. _what is a satire?_ one that holds up the follies of men to ridicule. 174. _is a satire personal?_ it is not. 175. _what is a lampoon?_ a poem that attacks individuals. 176. _what is gesture?_ expression given to language by movements of the body, limbs, etc. 177. _what kind of gesture is most appropriate?_ that which is natural. 178. _what attitude should be used in reading and speaking?_ standing. 179. _which hand should hold the book?_ the left, if possible. 180. _should a reader keep his eyes on the book constantly?_ he should not; but cast the eyes away from the page as often as possible. 181. _should a gesture be made while the eyes are looking on the book?_ it should not. 182. _in what kind of language are gestures inappropriate?_ didactic or unimpassioned discourse. 183. _should a speaker begin to gesticulate as soon as he begins his discourse?_ very seldom, before he has entered fully into the discourse. 184. _how many positions are recognized for the hand when not used in gesticulating?_ three. 185. _what are they?_ hanging naturally at the side; resting upon the hip with the elbow thrown backward; and resting on your bosom. 186. _what are descriptive gestures?_ those used in describing objects. 187. _what are significant gestures?_ those which have special signification. 188. _name some significant gestures of the head._ it drops in grief and shame, and nods in assent; shakes in dissent, and leans forward in attention. 189. _name some significant gestures of the eyes._ raised in prayer, weep in sorrow, burn in anger, and are cast on vacancy in thought. 190. _name some of the passions of the mind._ love, anger, joy, sorrow, fear, and courage. 191. _what tone of voice should be used in the expression of love?_ soft, smooth, and languishing voice. 192. _what tone of voice should be used to express anger?_ strong, vehement, and elevated voice. 193. _where is the best place to practice elocution and reading?_ in the open air, or in a well ventilated room. 194. _should a reader or speaker pay strict attention to the rules of elocution?_ he should not, but study nature rather. 195. _what is the soul of oratory?_ emotion. 196. _what is meant by the compass of the voice?_ the range in which it can be properly controlled. 197. _how may the compass of the voice be increased?_ by continued practice on a very low and very high key. 198. _should a reader or speaker drink any liquid while exercising the voice?_ he should not, for it is injurious to the vocal chords. 199. _what effect does tobacco have on the voice?_ it enfeebles the nervous system and breathing organs, and makes the voice dry, harsh, and ungovernable. 200. _what effect do stimulants have on the voice?_ irritate and inflame the vocal organs, which results in hoarseness and produces too high a key, which terminates in a squeaking tone. 201. _in faulty articulation what sounds are usually mispronounced?_ the vowel sounds of the unaccented syllables. 202. _what consonants are often incorrectly dropped?_ the final consonants. 203. _how may distinct articulation be acquired?_ by continued practice of the elementary sounds. 204. _what are the most prominent elements of all words?_ the vowels. 205. _which sounds should be practiced first?_ the vowels; as they are the most easily uttered. 206. _can the sounds of the consonants be given alone?_ they can by practice. 207. _what is the source of the greatest defect in articulation?_ improper sounding of the consonants. 208. _what kind of inflection is generally given to words of great emphasis?_ the falling; unless the sentiment requires the rising. 209. _when is the inflection of a question changed from the falling to the rising?_ when it is repeated or made emphatic. 210. _in the introductory part of a sentence, where the sense is incomplete, what inflection is used?_ unless great emphasis is required, the rising should be used. 211. _the names of persons addressed in formal speech require what inflection?_ the falling should always be used in such cases. 212. _general statements require what inflection?_ the falling. 213. _for the sake of harmony, what principle should govern the reader?_ when a sentence ends with the falling inflection, the rising should precede it. 214. _when sentences commence with verbs, what inflection is required?_ mostly the rising. 215. _what is meant by an echo in reading?_ interrogative exclamations, where the question is repeated. 216. _give an example of echo._ what's the trouble? what's the trouble? trouble enough. 217. _what inflection should be given to members of sentences connected disjunctively?_ first member, the rising; second member, the falling. 218. _when several emphatic words or members come together, how should they be inflected?_ the most emphatic, the falling; and the others the rising. 219. _what is a simple series in reading?_ a series of particulars that is composed of single words. 220. _what is meant by a compound series?_ one that is composed of clauses is called compound. 221. _what determines accent?_ the usage of our best speakers and writers of the present. 222. _to whom does it belong to determine and record such usage?_ the lexicographers. 223. _are there any cases in which we can trace the reason for the accent?_ there are; in discriminating accent where it is used to determine the parts of speech. 224. _do we ever have two sets of antitheses in the same sentence?_ we do; as each member may contain an antithesis. 225. _give an example._ john was hurt; william escaped. 226. _how many sets of antitheses may be used in one sentence?_ often three; but seldom more. 227. _should there be any difference in the tone of voice used in reading verse and prose?_ there should be a difference. 228. _what different style ought to be used?_ the monotone and rising inflection are more frequently used in verse than in prose. 229. _what is the greatest difficulty met with in reading or declaiming poetic selections?_ in giving it that measured flow which distinguishes it from prose, without falling into a continued monotone. 230. _what is a good method to break up this habit?_ reduce the selection to prose, and deliver it in an earnest, conversational style. 231. _why should there be a short pause at the end of each line of poetry, even where the sense does not require it?_ in order that the measure of the poem may be more perceptible to the ear. 232. _what is it that constitutes the melody of a poem?_ the pauses and accents chiefly. 233. _what rule should govern the reader in the use of pauses and accents?_ use variety, and not make them too prominent. 234. _what tone of voice should be used in reading a simile in poetry?_ the simile should be read in a lower tone than the rest of the passage. 235. _what, with regard to the voice, is an important object to every speaker and reader?_ the important object is to have a full, even tone of voice. 236. _what key of the voice should be most diligently improved?_ the natural key, or that which is used most. 237. _what is meant by the natural key or pitch?_ that which is peculiar to the individual, and in which he can use most easily to himself, and most agreeably to others. 238. _how can the natural tone of voice be strengthened?_ by reading and speaking as loud as possible, without suffering the voice to rise into a higher key. 239. _what is the best method of strengthening the natural key?_ by speaking and reading strong, animated passages in a small room. 240. _how may low tones be acquired?_ by continued practice in a lower key than the natural. 241. _how may a high key be acquired?_ in the same manner as a low key; by pitching the voice first a little higher than the natural, and mastering that thoroughly, then still higher and higher. 242. _what is meant by rotundity of the voice?_ that peculiar form of tone which the romans called "ore rotundo," which signifies "round mouth." 243. _in what kind of sentences is the rotundity of the voice exemplified?_ in the hailing of vessels, and is used especially by sailors and officers. 244. _which is the most difficult: to raise the voice to a higher pitch, or to bring it to a lower?_ the lowering of the voice is more difficult, and requires great care and practice. 245. _what is a common fault with most public speakers?_ to run the voice into too high a key, and thus weary the hearers. 246. _what is a good rule by which to govern the voice?_ to start on a key lower than the natural, and thus avoid running too high. 247. _what are the principal styles of different reading selections?_ descriptive, narrative, senatorial, moral, didactic, dramatic, and amusing. 248. _what tone of voice should be used in reading a descriptive selection?_ the ordinary, natural tone, with a careful use of emphasis. 249. _what tone of voice is best adapted to the reading of a narration?_ the conversational tone, with as little reference to the printed page as possible. 250. _what style is the best adapted to senatorial reading?_ an imitative style and tone, being careful in the use of the emphatic pause. 251. _what tone is best adapted to the reading of moral and religious selections?_ low and moderate tone, expressing feeling and sentiment, being careful not to read too fast. 252. _what style is best adapted to didactic reading?_ that peculiar style which is best adapted to impart instruction, laying special stress on the important idea. 253. _what style and tone are best adapted to the reading of dramatic selections?_ a style and tone which are entirely imitative in character. 254. _what tone or character of voice is best suited to the rendering of amusing selections?_ that which will bring out the mirthful sentiment, to the exclusion of all rules for accent, emphasis, etc. 255. _should all persons use the same tones of voice and style in reading selections?_ they should not; as individuals are differently constituted, so they have different ways of expressing their ideas and sentiments. miscellaneous exercises. spelling alphabetically arranged. 1. abaissement. 2. abductor. 3. abelmoschus. 4. aberration. 5. abies. 6. ablepsy. 7. abnormal. 8. abouchement. 9. abscess. 10. abscission. 11. absinthium. 12. abstergent. 13. abominable. 14. aborigines. 15. abridgment. 16. absinthe. 17. abstemious. 18. abstrusely. 19. abysmal. 20. acacia. 21. academician. 22. acanthus. 23. acarpous. 24. acaulous. 25. accede. 26. accelerate. 27. accessible. 28. accessory. 29. accomplice. 30. accostable. 31. accoutre. 32. acephalous. 33. acerbity. 34. acescent. 35. acetify. 36. acetometer. 37. ache. 38. achievable. 39. achromatic. 40. acicular. 41. acolyte. 42. acoustic. 43. acquiesce. 44. acquittal. 45. acreage. 46. acrobat. 47. acropolis. 48. acrostic. 49. actualize. 50. aculeate. 51. baa. 52. bacchanal. 53. backsheesh. 54. baconian. 55. bagatelle. 56. balk. 57. bandelet. 58. barbican. 59. baryta. 60. barru. 61. basalt. 62. basic. 63. basilica. 64. basilisk. 65. bastile. 66. baccae. 67. caboodle. 68. cacoethes. 69. cacophony. 70. cadaverous. 71. cadenza. 72. caducus. 73. caduceus. 74. caique. 75. caisson. 76. cã¦cal. 77. calaboose. 78. calciferous. 79. caffeine. 80. calcined. 81. caldarium. 82. caligo. 83. calorimeter. 84. caltha. 85. calx. 86. catechu. 87. cellular. 88. chemosis. 89. chiastre. 90. chilblain. 91. chymification. 92. cilium. 93. clematis. 94. cochineal. 95. codeia. 96. contagious. 97. coronoid. 98. dacryoma. 99. dahline. 100. daphne. 101. datura. 102. deciduous. 103. decollation. 104. dactylology. 105. dahlia. 106. decumbent. 107. degmus. 108. dawdle. 109. dengue. 110. deltoid. 111. debut. 112. decastyle. 113. deliquium. 114. decennial. 115. dentatus. 116. dentagra. 117. demesne. 118. diaphysis. 119. diastole. 120. didym. 121. desuetude. 122. echinus. 123. echinops. 124. ecarte. 125. ebullition. 126. eclat. 127. edacious. 128. eclysis. 129. ecphlysis. 130. eider. 131. eke. 132. effete. 133. elysian. 134. egophony. 135. empiric. 136. empyrean. 137. encaustic. 138. enceinte. 139. elaine. 140. encore. 141. encyclical. 142. encysted. 143. elephas. 144. enmity. 145. ensconce. 146. facet. 147. facetious. 148. facial. 149. factitious. 150. falderals. 151. falsetto. 152. fantasia. 153. fascicle. 154. fauces. 155. fauna. 156. febrile. 157. felly. 158. felloe. 159. fuzz. 160. gala. 161. gamboge. 162. gamut. 163. ganoid. 164. gaol. 165. garrote. 166. gawk. 167. gelatine. 168. gelid. 169. gemini. 170. genial. 171. geode. 172. geognosy. 173. geodesy. 174. georama. 175. hegira. 176. heifer. 177. helix. 178. helve. 179. hernia. 180. hexahedron. 181. hexastyle. 182. hockle. 183. hone. 184. hookah. 185. horologe. 186. icarian. 187. ibis. 188. ibex. 189. ichor. 190. ichneumon. 191. ichthyolite. 192. ides 193. idiom. 194. idyl. 195. ignescent. 196. iguana. 197. ileum. 198. impede. 199. impennate. 200. indocile. 201. inebriate. 202. insidious. 203. jabber. 204. jacinth. 205. jackal. 206. jaconet. 207. jalap. 208. jaguar. 209. janitor. 210. jeer. 211. jejune. 212. jujube. 213. junket. 214. juno. 215. kale. 216. katydid. 217. kistvaen. 218. kyanize. 219. lac. 220. labyrinth. 221. lachrymal. 222. landwehr. 223. limbo. 224. llama. 225. loo. 226. mab. 227. macaw. 228. machinate. 229. madrigal. 230. magenta. 231. monolith. 232. nard. 233. naphtha. 234. nadir. 235. naiad. 236. niggard. 237. nympha. 238. obesity. 239. obloquy. 240. obverse. 241. occiput. 242. ochre. 243. pabulum. 244. palanquin. 245. paletot. 246. replevin. 247. resuscitate. 248. sabaoth. 249. sacerdotal. 250. sacrum. 251. sadducee. proper nouns to spell. 1. aaron. 2. abdiel. 3. abiezer. 4. adolphus. 5. albion. 6. alexander. 7. alonzo. 8. alpheus. 9. alvah. 10. alwin. 11. ammi. 12. amos. 13. andronicus. 14. antony. 15. apollos. 16. aristarchus. 17. artemas. 18. azariah. 19. augustus. 20. asher. 21. baldwin. 22. barnabas. 23. barnaby. 24. bartholomew. 25. basil. 26. benedict. 27. benoni. 28. barnard. 29. bertram. 30. brian. 31. bruno. 32. cã¦sar. 33. caleb. 34. calvin. 35. cephas. 36. clarence. 37. claudius. 38. clement. 39. cornelius. 40. crispus. 41. cyril. 42. cyrus. 43. daniel. 44. darius. 45. demetrius. 46. denis. 47. dionysius. 48. donald. 49. duncan. 50. ebenezer. 51. edgar. 52. edwin. 53. elbert. 54. eleazer. 55. elias. 56. elisha. 57. ellis. 58. elnathan. 59. eneas. 60. enoch. 61. enoz. 62. erasmus. 63. erie. 64. esau. 65. everard. 66. erwin. 67. fernando. 68. festus. 69. frederic. 70. gamaliel. 71. germanie. 72. gershon. 73. godfrey. 74. gregory. 75. guy. 76. hannibal. 77. heman. 78. hercules. 79. herbert. 80. hezekiah. 81. hillel. 82. homer. 83. hubert. 84. hugo. 85. immanuel. 86. ingram. 87. ivan. 88. jabez. 89. jairus. 90. japheth. 91. jason. 92. jeremy. 93. jerome. 94. jess. 95. joel. 96. jonah. 97. josiah. 98. jotham. 99. judah. 100. julius. 101. justus. 102. justun. 103. jonathan. 104. kennett. 105. marion. 106. philip. 107. philander. words to spell and define, arranged promiscuously. 1. sirup. 2. skyey. 3. proxy. 4. piquant. 5. pibroch. 6. monkery. 7. irascible. 8. conceit. 9. controllable. 10. coquet (verb). 11. coquette (noun). 12. cyclopedia. 13. fascine. 14. steelyard. 15. precious. 16. seize. 17. beeves. 18. civilize. 19. resuscitate. 20. heinous. 21. contemptible. 22. transitory. 23. conspiracy. 24. feminine. 25. petite. 26. police. 27. valise. 28. verdigris. 29. routine. 30. douche. 31. whorl. 32. truffle. 33. debut. 34. cã¦sura. 35. connoisseur. 36. sumac. 37. hymeneal. 38. keelson. 39. coterie. 40. recipe. 41. sapphire. 42. cognac. 43. restaurant. 44. homicide. 45. patricide. 46. fratricide. 47. regicide. 48. suicide. 49. matricide. 50. infanticide. words to be marked diacritically. 1. sice. 2. says. 3. phthisic. 4. ennui. 5. vignette. 6. cortege. 7. myrrh. 8. chamois. 9. sergeant. 10. boudoir. 11. hiccough. 12. bureau. 13. again. 14. discern. 15. bijou. 16. flambeau. 17. said. 18. croquet. 19. salon. 20. suave. 21. shew. 22. strew. 23. bouffe. 24. enough. 25. suffice. 26. squirrel. 27. busy. 28. cough. 29. buoy. 30. many. 31. pretty. 32. canon. 33. chapeau. 34. menage. 35. once. 36. cafe. 37. colonel. 38. cuirass. 39. gunwale. 40. dahlia. 41. soiree. 42. sapphire. 43. cognac. 44. sacrifice. 45. escritoire. 46. barege. 47. soldier. 48. fortune. 49. nephew. 50. lettuce. 51. entree. 52. regime. 53. physique. 54. protege. 55. sleuth. 56. blonde. 57. coiffure. 58. afghan. 59. glebe. 60. chenille. 61. chasseur 62. gyves. 63. guy. 64. banyan. 65. lapel. 66. kerchief. 67. gnostic. 68. corymb. 69. chevron. 70. eleve. 71. touch. 72. chintz. 73. meerschaum. 74. buhr-stone. 75. camphene. 76. cigar. 77. deleble. 78. polyglot. 79. diamond. 80. courier. 81. sorcery. 82. extirpate. 83. gaseous. 84. docible. 85. alias. 86. potpourri. 87. soprano. 88. apparel. 89. palaver. 90. anchovy. 91. hygiene. 92. alchemy. 93. ascendant. 94. syzygy. 95. barbecue. 96. proboscis. 97. carbine. 98. disown. 99. forbade. 100. farewell. 101. resource. 102. extol. 103. diverge. 104. contour. 105. bourgeois. 106. disarm. 107. whither. 108. water. 109. larynx. 110. soul. 111. crypt. 112. fleche. 113. weevil. 114. lacquer. 115. phenix. 116. roguish. 117. wheyey. 118. sachel. 119. rhymer. 120. psychic. 121. ptisan. 122. calker. 123. depot. 124. catarrh. 125. condemn. 126. bristle. 127. wriggle. 128. christen. 129. naphtha. 130. chalky. 131. gherkin. 132. fraught. 133. qualm. 134. vault. 135. knob. 136. papaw. 137. gauging. 138. cologne. 139. quadrille. 140. skyish. 141. sorghum. 142. survey. 143. victuals. 144. scissors. 145. gnomon. 146. ghastly. 147. phlegm. 148. gnarl. 149. gnash. 150. tertian. 151. phantom. 152. livre. 153. lyrist. 154. nuisance. 155. scheme. 156. chief. 157. siege. 158. keyed. 159. caucus. 160. college. 161. leather. 162. caught. 163. skein. 164. coerce. 165. policy. 166. legacy. 167. codicil. 168. domicile. 169. hypocrite. 170. tortoise. 171. mortise. 172. porridge. 173. eagle. 174. greasy. 175. pardon. 176. poleax. 177. deanery. 178. mechanics 179. dialogue. 180. inveigher. 181. solstitial. 182. official. 183. reprieve. 184. barter. 185. succeed. 186. accede. 187. salmon. 188. verger. 189. wooed. 190. sausage. 191. pigeon. 192. chloral. 193. balance. 194. silence. 195. fallible. 196. prelacy. 197. foretell. 198. going. 199. chyle. 200. fascinate. 201. secrecy. 202. vacillate. 203. paralyze. 204. advertise. 205. ecstasy. 206. exertion. 207. cynical. 208. article. 209. city. 210. busily. 211. guttural. 212. scholar. 213. sibyl. 214. abscess. 215. guinea. 216. voracity. words to be defined. 1. acts. 1. ax. 2. poll. 2. pole. 3. roe. 3. row. 4. gate 4. gait. 5. main. 5. mane. 6. bough. 6. bow. 7. hue. 7. hugh. 8. bear. 8. beech. 9. dear. 9. deer. 10. wright. 10. write. 11. right. 11. rite. 12. all. 12. awl. 13. bay. 13. bey. 14. ark. 14. arch. 15. colonel. 15. kernel. 16. ruff. 16. rough. 17. might. 17. mite. 18. rode. 18. road. 19. seen. 19. scene. 20. corps. 20. core. 21. mold. 21. mould. 22. great. 22. grate. 23. sun. 23. son. 24. break. 24. brake. 25. dough. 25. doe. 26. night. 26. knight. 27. sweet. 27. suite. 28. four. 28. fore. 29. bier. 29. beer. 30. beat. 30. beet. 31. currant. 31. current. 32. viol. 32. vile. 33. sent. 33. scent. 34. sear. 34. seer. 35. lane. 35. lain. 36. able. 36. abel. 37. knot. 37. not. 38. raise. 38. raze. 39. hoard. 39. horde. 40. lyre. 40. liar. 41. symbol. 41. cymbal. 42. hawk. 42. hough. 43. sine. 43. sign. 44. rain. 44. rein. 45. lo. 45. low. 46. hie. 46. high. 47. assent. 47. ascent. 48. lute. 48. loot. 49. lore. 49. lower. 50. sell. 50. cell. 51. sail. 51. sale. 52. lode. 52. load. 53. loan. 53. lone. 54. fete. 54. fate. 55. lien. 55. lean. 56. layer. 56. lair. 57. hay. 57. hey. 58. idle. 58. idyl. 59. hart. 59. heart. 60. bass. 60. base. 61. bale. 61. bail. 62. heel. 62. heal. 63. sight. 63. cite. 64. haul. 64. hall. 65. hale. 65. hail. 66. lac. 66. lack. 67. nay. 67. neigh. 68. altar. 68. alter. 69. day. 69. dey. 70. hair. 70. hare. 71. lye. 71. lie. 72. council. 72. counsel. 73. mean. 73. mien. 74. ate. 74. eight. 75. aught. 75. ought. 76. wrack. 76. rack. 77. reek. 77. wreak. 78. wreck. 78. reck. 79. rime. 79. rhyme. 80. ring. 80. wring. 81. wrote. 81. rote. 82. rest. 82. wrest. 83. hole. 83. whole. 84. leek. 84. leak. 85. wave. 85. waive. 86. week. 86. weak. 87. fort. 87. forte. 88. soul. 88. sole. 89. strait. 89. straight. 90. seed. 90. cede. 91. seen. 91. seine. 92. seize. 92. cease. 93. see. 93. sea. 94. cole. 94. coal. 95. bourne. 95. born. 96. bite. 96. bight. 97. floe. 97. flow. 98. bell. 98. belle. select reading. 1. the most skillful gauger i ever knew was a maligned cobbler, armed with a poniard, who drove a peddler's wagon, using a mullein stalk as an instrument of coercion to tyrannize over his pony shod with calks. he was a galilean sadducee, and he had a phthisicky catarrh, diphtheria, and the bilious intermittent erysipelas. 2. a certain sibyl, with the sobriquet of "gypsy," went into ecstasies of cachinnation at seeing him measure a bushel of peas and separate saccharine tomatoes from a heap of peeled potatoes, without dyeing or singeing the ignitible queue which he wore, or becoming paralyzed with hemorrhage. 3. lifting her eyes to the ceiling of the cupola of the capitol to conceal her unparalleled embarrassment, making him a rough courtesy, and not harrassing him with mystifying, rarefying, and stupefying innuendoes, she gave him a couch, a bouquet of lilies, mignonette, and fuchsias, a treatise on mnemonics, a copy of the apocrypha in hieroglyphics, daguerreotypes of mendelssohn and kosciusko, a kaleidoscope, a dram-phial of ipecacuanha, a teaspoonful of naphtha for deleble purposes, a ferrule, a clarionet, some licorice, a surcingle, a carnelian of symmetrical proportions, a chronometer with a movable balance-wheel, a box of dominoes, and a catechism. 4. the gauger, who was also a trafficking rectifier and a parishioner of mine, preferring a woolen surtout (his choice was referrible to a vacillating, occasionally occurring idiosyncrasy), wofully uttered this apothegm: "life is checkered; but schism, apostasy, heresy and villainy shall be punished." the sibyl apologizingly answered: "there is a ratable and allegeable difference between a conferrable ellipsis and a trisyllabic diã¦resis." we replied in trochees, not impugning her suspicion. select reading. 1. one enervating morning, just after the rise of the sun, a youth bearing the cognomen of galileo glided into his gondola over the legendary waters of the lethean thames. he was accompanied by his allies and coadjutors, the dolorous pepys and the erudite cholmondeley, the most combative aristocrat extant, and an epicurean who, for learned vagaries and revolting discrepancies of character, would take precedence of the most erudite of all areopagite literati. 2. these sacrilegious _dramatis personã¦_ were discussing in detail a suggestive and exhaustive address, delivered from the proscenium box of the calisthenic lyceum by a notable financier on obligatory hydropathy, as accessory to the irrevocable and irreparable doctrine of evolution, which had been vehemently panegyrized by a splenetic professor of acoustics, and simultaneously denounced by a complaisant opponent as an undemonstrated romance of the last decade, amenable to no reasoning, however allopathic, outside of its own lamentable environs. 3. these peremptory tripartite brethren arrived at greenwich, wishing to aggrandize themselves by indulging in exemplary relaxation, indicatory of implacable detestation of integral tergiversation and exoteric intrigue. they fraternized with a phrenological harlequin who was a connoisseur in mezzotint and falconry. the piquant person was heaping contumely and scathing raillery on an amateur in jugular recitative, who held that the pharaohs of asia were conversant with his theory that morphine and quinine were exorcists of bronchitis. 4. meanwhile, the leisurely augustine of cockburn drank from a tortoise-shell wassail cup to the health of an apotheosized recusant, who was his supererogatory patron, and an assistant recognizance in the immobile nomenclature of interstitial molecular phonics. the contents of the vase proving soporific, a stolid plebeian took from its cerements a heraldic violoncello, and, assisted by a plethoric diocesan from pall mall, who performed on a sonorous piano-forte, proceeded to wake the clangorous echoes of the empyrean. they bade the prolyx caucasian gentlemen not to misconstrue their inexorable demands, while they dined on acclimated anchovies and apricot truffles, and had for dessert a wiseacre's pharmacopoeia. thus the truculent pythagoreans had a novel repast fit for the gods. 5. on the subsidence of the feast they alternated between soft languors and isolated scenes of squalor, which followed a mechanist's reconnaissance of the imagery of uranus, the legend of whose incognito related to a poniard wound in the abdomen received while cutting a swath in the interests of telegraphy and posthumous photography. meantime an unctuous orthoepist applied a homeopathic restorative to the retina of an objurgatory spaniel (named daniel) and tried to perfect the construction of a behemoth which had got mired in pygmean slough, while listening to the elegiac soughing of the prehistoric wind. select reading. 1. geoffrey, surnamed winthrop, sat in the depot at chicago, waiting for his train and reading the tribune, when a squadron of street arabs (incomparable for squalor) thronged from a neighboring alley, uttering hideous cries, accompanied by inimitable gestures of heinous exultation, as they tortured a humble black-and-tan dog. 2. "you little blackguards!" cried winthrop, stepping outside and confronting them, adding the inquiry, "whose dog is that?" 3. "that audacious caucasian has the bravado to interfere with our clique," tauntingly shrieked the indisputable little ruffian, exhibiting combativeness. 4. "what will you take for him?" asked the lenient geoffrey, ignoring the venial tirade. 5. "twenty-seven cents," piquantly answered the ribald urchin, grabbing the crouching dog by the nape. 6. "you can buy licorice and share with the indecorous coadjutors of your condemnable cruelty," said winthrop, paying the price and taking the dog from the child. then catching up his valise and umbrella he hastened to his train. winthrop satisfied himself that his sleek protege was not wounded, and then cleaned the cement from the pretty collar, and read these words; "leicester. licensed, no. 1880." 7. hearing the pronunciation of his name, the docile canine expressed gratitude and pleasure, and then sank exhausted at his new patron's feet and slept. 8. among the other passengers was a magazine contributor, writing vagaries of indian literature, also two physicians, a somber, irrevocable, irrefragable allopathist, and a genial homeopathist, who made a specialty of bronchitis. two peremptory attorneys from the legislature of iowa were discussing the politics of the epoch and the details of national finance, while a wan, dolorous person, wearing concave glasses, alternately ate troches and almonds for a sedative, and sought condolence in a high, lamentable treble from a lethargic and somewhat deaf and enervate comrade not yet acclimated. 9. near three exemplary brethren (probably sinecurists) sat a group of humorous youths; and a jocose sailor (lately from asia) in a blouse waist and tarpaulin hat was amusing his patriotic, juvenile listeners by relating a series of the most extraordinary legends extant, suggested by the contents of the knapsack which he was calmly and leisurely arranging in a pyramidal form on a three-legged stool. above swung figured placards, with museum and lyceum advertisements, too verbose to be misconstrued. 10. a mature matron of medium height, and her comely daughter, soon entered the car, and took seats in front of winthrop (who recalled having seen them on tuesday, in february, in the parquet of a theater). the young lady had recently made her debut into society at a musical soiree at her aunt's. she had an exquisite bouquet of flowers that exhaled sweet perfume. she said to her parent, "mamma, shall we ever find my lost leicester?" 11. geoffrey immediately addressed her, saying, as he presented his card-"pardon my apparent intrusiveness; but, prithee, have you lost a pet dog?" 12. the explanation that he had been stolen was scarcely necessary, for leicester, just awakening, vehemently expressed his inexplicable joy by buoyantly vibrating between the two like the sounding lever used in telegraphy (for to neither of them would he show partiality), till, succumbing to ennui, he purported to take a recess, and sat on his haunches, complaisantly contemplating his friends. it was truly an interesting picture. 13. they reached their destination ere the sun was beneath the horizon. often during the summer winthrop gallantly rowed from the quay, with the naive and blithe beatrice in her jaunty yachting suit, but no coquetry shone from the depths of her azure eyes. little less, their jocund confidante and courier (and who was as sagacious as a spaniel), always attended them on these occasions, and whene'er they rambled through the woodland paths. while the band played strains from beethoven mendelssohn, bach and others, they promenaded the long corridors of the hotel. and one evening, as beatrice lighted the gas by the etagere in her charming boudoir in their suite of rooms, there glistened brilliantly a valuable solitaire diamond on her finger. 14. let us look into the future for the sequel to perfect this romance, and around a cheerful hearth we see again geoffrey and beatrice, who are paying due homage to their tiny friend leicester. select reading. 1. a sacrilegious son of belial, who suffered from bronchitis and diphtheria, and had taken much morphine and quinine, having exhausted his finances, in order to make good the deficit, resolved to ally himself to a complaisant, lenient, docile, young woman of the caucasian race. buying a calliope, a coral necklace, an illustrated magazine, and a falcon from asia, he took a suite of rooms, whose acoustic properties were excellent, and engaged a malay as his coadjutor. 2. being of an epicurean disposition, he threw the culinary department of his hotel into confusion by ordering for his dinner vermicelli soup, a bologna sausage, anchovies, calf's brains fried, and half a gooseberry pie. for the resulting dyspepsia he took acetic and tartaric acid, according to allopathy, and when his aunt, a fair matron of six decades, called, he was tyrannic and combative, and laughed like a brigand until she was obliged to succumb to his contumacy. 3. etiquette being thus annihilated, he became amenable to tenderer passions. he sent a letter, inviting his inamorata to a matinee, together with an eighteen-carat gold ring. she revolted at the idea of accompanying him, and sent a note full of piquant raillery, which led her suitor to procure a carbine and a sword, with some apparatus, and to declare that he would not forge hymeneal chains upon any one. 4. so proceeding to an isolated spot, without comrades, he severed his jugular vein, and discharged the carbine into his abdomen. when inquiry was made, he was found dead, and the coroner sat on the debris and did his exact duty, though it was no couch of eider he occupied. 5. had the misguided youth read ovid less often, and given precedence to hemans and ingelow, his fate might have been different. true, he might have hung on a greasy gallows like a highwayman, in squalor, and been the sport of canines for aye; while now, disarmed by death, he lies in a splendid mausoleum, far from the wharves and haunts of men, and can't accent his antepenults, and afford the greatest discrepancies extant in pronunciation. select reading--the blackboard and chalk. 1. learned sages may reason, the fluent may talk, but they ne'er can compute what we owe to the chalk. from the embryo mind of the infant of four, to the graduate, wise in collegiate lore; from the old district school-house to harvard's proud hall, the chalk rules with absolute sway over all. 2. go, enter the school-room of primary grade, and see how conspicuous the blackboard is made. the teacher makes letters and calls them by name, and says to the children, "now all do the same;" mere infants you see, scarcely able to walk, but none are too feeble to handle the chalk. 3. we visit the school of much higher pretension, the blackboard here claims undivided attention; the walls, dark as erebus, first greet the eye, before them bright misses and lads we espy; and the sound of the crayon's irregular tappings reminds us of spirits' mysterious rappings. 4. one has pictured a vessel, with streamers unfurled, another is making a map of the world; a third has a problem in fractions to solve, a fourth is explaining how planets revolve; while a young physiologist, skilled in the art, is sketching the muscles, the lungs, and the heart. 5. in the midst of this bustle the school-master stands, and, lo! he's a crayon in each of his hands; and the chalk in _his_ hand has a magical power: a teacher might reason and talk by the hour, but naught would avail all his reason and talk- the truth is made plain by the use of the chalk. 6. and the teacher of music the blackboard employs, the chalk must be used e'en in training the voice; be it rhythm or melody, accent or force, he always insists on the regular course; declaring the secret of musical skill is found in the blackboard, the chalk, and the drill. 7. see the chalk in the hand of the artist. behold what beauteous forms as by magic unfold! the store-house of nature he swiftly displays, till the dazzled beholder is lost in the maze; designs without number appear to the view, and show what the chalk and the blackboard can do. 8. o wise pestalozzi! we place on thy brow a coronet, bright and unfading; for thou a legacy rich hast bequeathed unto men: our _one_ feeble talent by thee is made _ten_; we prize thy rare gift, but we never may know how much to thy matchless invention we owe. 9. o chalk! what a powerful monarch thou art! in this age of reform how important thy part; those minds that are swaying the world unrestrained in childhood and youth in thy empire were trained. of the wonderful power of the press we may talk- it never can vie with the blackboard and chalk. 10. an engine so powerful, so mighty to aid, so simple in structure, so readily made, a helper so potent in training the young- 'tis meet that thy praise by the muse should be sung; for though sages may reason, and orators talk, they can ne'er make their mark without blackboard and chalk. * * * * * the burrows brothers company, cleveland, ohio. * * * * * christian science. its truths and its errors. by the rev. h. melville tenney. neatly bound in paper-cloth. price twenty-five cents. send for circulars giving testimonials. * * * * * shakespeare versus ingersoll. by j.g. hall. neatly bound in paper. price twenty-five cents. the cover is very odd and attractive. the contents of the book will be found of the utmost interest to all shakespearian scholars, as well as to all religious teachers. * * * * * avery's ancestral tablets. in stout manilla portfolio. price fifty cents. a collection of diagrams so arranged that any number of generations of the ancestors of any person may be recorded in a simple and connected form. additional sheets may be had separate at five cents each; or fifty cents a dozen, postage paid. * * * * * indexed map of ohio. the best! the cheapest! the latest! price ten cents. at the date of publication this is the most complete, the most accurate, the latest and the cheapest map of ohio in existence. * * * * * indexed map of cleveland. price ten cents. over fifteen thousand copies have been sold in the last two years of this map. this is a greater number than have been sold of any previous map, or maps in the last ten years. this fact alone speaks for its excellence, and the price is below any thought of criticism. * * * * * the game of solo-sixty. by junius. price twenty-five cents. edited from traditional sources. bound in white vellum paper, with a remarkably odd and neat cover design in five colors. _one of the most attractive souvenirs or dainty gifts of the year._ please send for a sample copy. one dealer has had one thousand copies, and many others very liberal quantities. * * * * * rusk's model selections. six numbers, paper, each fifteen cents. no. 1 contains a chapter on the principles of elocution, embracing the subject of elementary sounds, pitch, volume, quality, movement, accent, emphasis, articulation, gesture, etc. no. 4 is devoted to selections for the young. nos. 5 and 6 are just out, and have many fresh and attractive pieces. lithographed covers, about 150 pages, 12mo., in each number. * * * * * the morgan one piece adjustable book cover. patented may 15, 1888. this is the only perfect one piece adjustable book cover _ever made, and it is destined to work a_ revolution in book covering with adjustable covers. the latest! the best! made in the most workmanlike manner from very high grade manilla; warranted extra tough. size a, for books from 6 to 8 inches tall $2.50 per hun. size b, for books from 8 to 10 inches tall 3.00 " " size c, for books from 10 to 13 ins. (geographies) 5.00 " " samples mailed without charge to dealers and librarians. _liberal discounts to dealers._ the burrows brothers company cleveland, ohio. * * * * * publications of the burrows brothers company 23, 25, 27 euclid avenue, cleveland, o. [illustration] thousand and one questions and answers on u.s. history $0 50 geography 50 arithmetic 50 english grammar 50 physiology and hygiene 50 theory and practice of teaching 50 orthography (_recent_) 50 general history (_recent_) 50 botany (_new_) 50 test examples in arithmetic (_new_) 50 these question books are absolutely without a rival in preparing for examinations, for reviewing pupils in school, or for use as reference books. they can be sold in every family that has children to educate. the author is an experienced teacher. _any 6 assorted for $2.50 prepaid. any 8 assorted for $3.25 prepaid. the set of 10 assorted for $4.00 prepaid._ campbell's economic school register. copyrighted. in very attractive board covers, removable insides $0 75 fillers, manilla covers 35 this is the neatest and most excellently manufactured register in the country. its utility is not less apparent than its artistic merit. the block system, originated and copyrighted by prof. campbell, is most economical of time in keeping the record, and by the really wonderful condensation which it permits, is just as economical of money. one register, which will last an ordinary school two years, costs but 75 cents by mail, postpaid, and a renewing filler, lasting as much longer, costs less than half as much. words correctly spoken. by elroy m. avery, ph.d. retail price, 15 cents. bound in extra cloth, stamped in black and gold, printed with red line borders, wittily written, valuable to all who would speak their mother tongue with accuracy. popular synonyms. cloth, 32mo. price, 10 cents. by mail, 12 cents. twenty-five thousand words in ordinary use. accurate, cheap, elegant. elegantly stamped in ink and gold. the perfect progressive euchre score-marker. copyrighted. no sticky wafers. no mistakes. absolutely infallible. prices per set, postpaid: for 3, 4 or 5 tables $0 50 for 11 or 12 tables $1 00 6, 7 or 8 " 60 15 " 1 25 9 or 10 " 75 18 " 1 50 * * * * * the pocket gem pronouncing dictionary, by lilla m. tenney. on a new plan. the most useful pocket dictionary ever issued. in preparation, the work of years of study and research. most excellent in scholarship. most practical in all ways. most artistic in point of manufacture. beautifully bound from special artistic cover designs. beautifully printed at the celebrated university press of john wilson & sons, cambridge, mass. a spelling and pronouncing dictionary, rather than a defining one. it has over eleven thousand words, with the pronunciation indicated in a simple manner by a new system of diacritical marks, specially cast for this book. the new imperial, webster, stormonth, worcester and all other standard dictionaries have been constantly consulted and critically compared in its preparation. its object. while not underrating the primary importance of definition and philology in a work of reference, it is believed--nay, more than that--it is known that there is a positive demand for a book showing the correct pronunciation and spelling of every prominent word in the language, which book should be in a convenient portable form for the pocket, the writing-case, or the reading-table. this is the first time that any serious attempt has been made to satisfy this call. its trustworthiness. in this respect, recognizing that what was wished for was not originality, but confidence in the accuracy of the book; the labor, while almost endless, has been strictly confined to critical comparisons of authorities and the proper adjustment of differences of opinion. how we offer it for sale. on receipt of price, fifty cents, (and as compared with the prices of most other books it would be well worth $1.00,) we will forward it to any address in the united states for examination. if not satisfactory it may be returned, when the money will be refunded; provided, of course, it is received in good order and within reasonable time. publishing day. it will be published about august 1st, 1888. the great amount of labor involved in its preparation, as compared with its small size, requires this delay. marvelously complete, wonderfully compact, most useful small dictionary ever made. it is needed by every office man, every school teacher, every stenographer every tourist, every letter writer, every pupil, every literate, and certainly every illiterate person throughout the length and breadth of our entire land. the burrows brothers co. * * * * * william s. hicks, manufacturer of every description of gold pens, gold plated, silver plated and celluloid pencils and pen cases of superior quality and style of finish. known and sold in both hemispheres as standard goods for nearly a generation. the sole manufacturer of the sackett fountain pen. patented april 28, '85; sept. 28, '86. [illustration: pen ready for use.] [illustration: pen tip and feeding stem.] [illustration: pen section and holder in position for filling.] the latest and most perfect fountain pen ever made, and equal to any dipping pen. it will not soil fingers and pocket with ink, and can be filled without staining everything it touches. it will write until every drop of ink is exhausted, and no matter how often or seldom it is used it always responds at once. made in two lengths, 5 inches and 5â½ inches. branch office, 8 snow hill, london, eng. manufactory and office, 235 greenwich st., new york. * * * * * the "oxford" teachers' bibles. [illustration: "the gem of bibles."] of which the actual sale exceeds three-quarters of million copies. the additional matter that is contained in the "oxford" s.s. teachers' bibles has been carefully revised and enlarged, from time to time, by dr. stubbs, bishop of chester; dr. edwin palmer, archdeacon of oxford; dr. angus, and other eminent scholars. the scientific information was prepared under the supervision of professors rolleston, westwood, lawson, and earle--names of the highest authority in their several departments. there are six editions printed on the best rag-made printing paper, and five editions on the justly celebrated "oxford" india paper, which are extremely thin and light. these are bound in about eighty different styles, sizes, etc., at prices ranging from $1.25 to $16.00 each. rev. c.h. spurgeon says: "if you want to buy a new bible, and want the very best, write for a list of the oxford bibles for teachers." dr. parker says: "it is the most superb, complete, and useful edition of the holy scriptures in the english language i have ever seen." a descriptive list can be obtained through your bookseller, or direct from the publisher. thomas nelson & sons, oxford bible warehouse, 42 bleecker street, new york * * * * * writing papers of all finest grades made in the world are to be found in blair's keystone packets--climax, paragon, and good luck. send for samples. * * * * * [illustration: (blair's keystone stationery)] we were never in better shape to serve our friends with handsome and salable goods. we claim some reputation for originality. our competitors will concede that. we claim more reputation for good quality of our goods. all dealers will concede that. we claim most for an absolute guarantee on every article we make. this we concede to be one of our most attractive features--one that is almost unreasonable in its reasonableness. [illustration: (blair's signal series, useful stationery uniform price 5c each)] our signal series is a new line from 40 varieties of staple stationery, and everything retails at 5 cents each. ask your dealer for it. send for illustrated list. * * * * * for sale by all dealers. samples and papers and illustrated circulars sent to any address on receipt of two 3-cent stamps. j.c. blair, manufacturing stationer, huntingdon, pa. * * * * * phonography. * * * * * a brief and legible system of shorthand. * * * * * those unacquainted with phonography can not readily appreciate _the ease with which it may be mastered_, and the delight incidental to the unfolding of its principles. "_fascinating_" is the word used in describing it by every one who has studied the art. the _text-books_ have been so arranged and simplified that _self-instruction_ is a positive pleasure and recreation and _has been successfully accomplished in thousands of instances_. teachers should learn phonography, not only that they may be possessed of the enormous advantage of being able to write five times as fast as by the ordinary method, but that they may be able to teach the art. phonography is rapidly finding its way into the public schools, and the demand for teachers of the regular branches who can also teach phonography is now _far in advance of the supply_. the manual of phonography. [200th thousand.] by benn pitman and jerome b. howard. this work is designed for self-instruction in the phonographic art and is the proper book for the beginner. it contains a complete exposition of the system, from its simplest principles to the reporting style, arranged in alternate and opposite pages of explanation and phonographic exercises. every principle is copiously illustrated with engraved examples for reading, and exercises in the ordinary type for writing practice. a large number of pages of engraved reading matter are included in the book. boards, 80c.; extra cloth, $1.00. for sale by all booksellers, or sent post-paid by us on receipt of price. complete catalog of other aids to the study of phonography, free. * * * * * the phonographic magazine. edited by jerome b. howard. a twenty-four page monthly, each number of which contains eight pages (5â¾ x 8â½ in.) of finely engraved phonography, mostly in the brief reporting style, besides original and contributed articles of general phonographic interest. the magazine is a periodical complement to the series of text-books, and is the authentic organ of the benn pitman system of phonography. subscriptions may begin with any number. specimen copy free. price, per annum--invariably in advance--$1.50. address the phonographic institute, cincinnati, ohio. * * * * * whiting paper company, of holyoke, massachusetts, are now putting up the fashionable line of "whiting's standard" writing papers, in neat boxes, with envelopes. the most perfect production of the paper-maker's art. cream and azure, rough and smooth finish, all sizes. for sale by all fine stationers. evolution of expression by charles wesley emerson founder of emerson college of oratory, boston a compilation of selections illustrating the four stages of development in art as applied to oratory in four volumes, with key to each chapter thirty-third edition volume i--revised to my students whose need has been my inspiration and whose understanding my rich reward, these volumes are affectionately dedicated contents. introduction animation analysis smoothness volume forming the elements chapter i. the tea-kettle and the cricket charles dickens the pied piper of hamelin robert browning group of lyrics: pippa passes robert browning the snowdrop alfred tennyson the throstle alfred tennyson one morning, oh, so early jean ingelow freedom john ruskin a laughing chorus the cheerful locksmith charles dickens home thoughts from abroad robert browning lochinvar sir walter scott the polish war song james g. percival chapter ii. the village preacher oliver goldsmith to the daisy william wordsworth psalm xxiii david extract from eulogy on wendell phillips george william curtis the brook alfred tennyson old aunt mary's james whitcomb riley child verse: my shadow robert louis stevenson the swing robert louis stevenson the lamplighter robert louis stevenson waiting john burroughs chapter iii. the revenge alfred tennyson the ocean lord byron spartacus to the gladiators at capua rev. elijah kellogg tell to his native mountains, james sheridan knowles battle hymn karl theodor korner self-reliance ralph waldo emerson adams and jefferson daniel webster the defence of lucknow alfred tennyson sonnets: keats wordsworth milton elizabeth barrett browning is there for honest poverty robert burns chapter iv. hamlet to the players william shakespeare the boy and the angel robert browning speech and silence thomas carlyle the rich man and the poor man khemnitzer gathering of the fairies joseph rodman drake the song of the rain spectator hearty reading sidney smith ivry lord macaulay the daffodils william wordsworth cheerfulness j. h. friswell april in the hills archibald lampman introduction. teach me, then, to fashion worlds in little, making form, as god does, one with spirit,--be the priest who makes god into bread to feed the world. --richard hovey. the revised edition of the "evolution of expression" is issued in response to frequent requests from teachers and students for a formulation of those principles upon which natural methods in the teaching of expression are based. it is hoped that the brief explanatory text introducing each chapter may aid teacher and pupil to avoid arbitrary standards and haphazard efforts, substituting in their place, psychological law. growth in expression is not a matter of chance; the teacher who understands nature's laws and rests upon them, setting no limit to the potentialities of his pupil, waits not in vain for results. no printed text, however, can take the place of a discerning teacher. a knowledge of the philosophy of education in expression avails little without the ability to create the genial atmosphere conducive to the development of the student. the teacher is the gardener, his service--his full service--is to surround the young plant with favorable conditions of light and soil and atmosphere; then stand out of its way while it unfolds its full blossom and final fruitage. the tendency of modern education is towards the discovery and perfection of methods. the thought of leading educators is turned from the what to the how; to the development of systems of progressive steps through which the pupil may be led to a realization of himself. this trend is best shown in the multiplicity and excellence of recent pedagogical treatises and in the appearance of carefully graded and progressive text-books. the ancients believed that their heroes were born of gods and goddesses. they knew of no means by which the mind could be developed to the compass of greatness. the ancient theory to account for greatness was preternatural birth; the modern theory is evolution. to-day the interest of the child is awakened, his mind is aroused, and then led onward in regular steps. the study of all forms of art, so far as methods are concerned, should be progressive. for correct guidance in our search for the best methods, we must understand the order of the development of the human mind. a child, before he arrives at an age where he can be taught definitely, is simply a little palpitating mass of animation. soon he begins to show an attraction toward surrounding objects. next he begins to show a greater attraction for some things than for others. his hands clutch at and retain certain objects. he now enters the period of development where he makes selections, and thus is born the power of choice. objects which, at first, appeared to him as a mass now begin to stand out clearly one from another; to become more and more differentiated, while the child begins to separate and to compare. thus the brain of the child passes through the successive stages from simple animation to attraction, to selection or choice, to separation or analysis. this principle of evolution, operating along the same lines, is found in the race as in the individual. in all man's work he has but recorded his own life or evolution. all history, all religions, all governments, all forms of art bring their testimony to this truth, and in each the scholar may find these successive stages of development. in the age of phidias the art of sculpture reached its maturity. no race and no people have ever surpassed the consummate achievements of that period. but this perfection was the result of a process of evolution. there had been graduated steps, and those same steps must to-day be taken in the education of the artist. art had passed into its second period before authentic greek history began. the first stage was shown in that nation so justly called the "mother of arts and sciences." in egypt we find probably the first real manifestations of mind in art forms. they are colossal exhibitions of energy, such as the temple of thebes, seven hundred feet in length, statues seventy feet tall, monuments rearing their heads almost five hundred feet in air. "those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous of which the very ruins are tremendous." to assyria we turn in our search for the next step in the progress of art. here we find the artists making melodramatic efforts to attract the attention and fascinate the mind with weird and incongruous shapes of mongrel brutes and hydraheaded monsters. finding art at this point, the greeks, true to their race instinct, at once began to evolve from it higher forms. they soon awoke to the perception that beauty itself is the true principle of fascination. reducing their new theory to practise, the greek artists turned their attention to perfecting the details of the art they had borrowed. to works originally repellant from their very crudeness, they supplied finish and perfection of the parts. the ideal was still before them; the grotesque monsters might fascinate the beholder, but, however skilfully executed, however perfected in finish, the impression produced was but transitory, and failed to satisfy the craving of the soul beauty was found to be the only abiding source of satisfaction. as the conceptions of the past no longer satisfied the criterion which their own minds had embraced, the greek artists sought in nature herself for models of that beauty, which, when placed in art forms, should be a joy forever. the monsters of antiquity disappeared, and in their places, came attempts to faithfully copy nature. to be sure, some specimens of the art era from which the greeks had just emerged appeared at much later periods of their history; but these creations, as in the case of the centaur, were usually representations of what were believed to be historical facts, rather than fantastic creations designed by the artist to startle the beholder. the greek still gratified his passion for beauty of detail, while he was pursuing his new-born purpose of copying nature. it was not long before he found that nature, however skilfully copied, could be perfectly mirrored to the eye of the beholder only when presented as she appears to the mind of man. this discovery budded and blossomed into the consummate flower of true art, the fourth or suggestive era, which reached its acme in the work of phidias and his contemporaries. every creation was the expression of some state of mind. everything was made as it appeared to the eye of the poet, not as it might seem to the man of no sentiment. the impression of the poetic mind found its expression in art, and now the statues think, fear, hate, love. the same general laws which have governed the rise of sculpture, underlie the evolution of all forms of art. it is the purpose of the present writing to hint at, rather than to trace, the four stages of development in painting, music, and literature. to follow the steps of progress in painting is somewhat more difficult than to trace the evolution of sculpture or architecture, on account of the perishable nature of the materials. music has unfolded with the unfolding of the human mind, from the startling sounds of the savage,--exhibitions of pure energy,--through efforts at fascination by the medium of weird and unnatural combinations, and through attempts to reproduce natural sounds, ever upward till it breathes the very spirit of nature in a haydn or a beethoven. we may follow the growth of the english drama through the same process, from its dawning in the fantastic miracle plays with their paraphernalia of heaven and hell, of gods, devils, angels, and demons, to the creations' of "the thousand-souled shakespeare." in religion we see the same phases--from the worship of life itself, of natural phenomena, through the panorama of deities friendly and deities unfriendly, of gods many and of devils many, until the human mind grasps the conception of unity in deity, and bows in worship before an infinite being of love and providence. in the history of government is written the same tale of evolution, from manifestations of brute energy, seeking gratification in subjugation for its own sake,--from the government typified by the iron heel,--to the government which, seeking the education and protection of all the people becomes a school rather than a system of restraint. therefore the race, in its march from savagery to civilization, may be considered as one man, showing, first, animation; next, manifesting his objects of attraction; third, displaying his purposes; and finally putting forth his wisdom in obedience to the true, the beautiful, and the good. these principles of natural evolution have been applied by the writer to the study of oratory. the orator must illustrate in his art the same steps of progress which govern the growth of other arts. he may have developed the power of the painter, the sculptor, the musician, yet if he would unfold the art of the rhetorician, he must pass through the progressive gradations that have marked the education of his powers in other departments. in a single lifetime he may attain the highest art expression, yet he cannot escape the necessity of cultivating his powers by the same process of evolution which the race needed centuries to pass through. it remains for the teacher, therefore, to so arrange the methods of study as to enable the pupil to pursue the natural order of education. in all things he must stimulate and not repress normal growth. there is an old notion sometimes found among theoretical educators that the mind of a child is like a piece of paper upon which anything may be written; a mould of clay upon which any impression may be made; a block of stone in which the teacher, like the famous sculptor of old, sees, in his poetic vision, an angel, and then chips and hacks until that angel stands revealed. the theory is absurdly and dangerously fallacious. paper and clay are not living organisms; the orator is not the statue chiselled from the rough stone of human nature, or, if the teacher succeeds in so far perverting nature as to hack and trim a human organism into the semblance of a statue, the product of his work will stand forth a living illustration of the difference between the genuine and the spurious. the stone has no life. life must be breathed into it, and the sculptor may breathe into it such life as he chooses. the gardener, on the other hand, must obey the laws of the life of the plant he nurtures. he must so direct the forces of nature as to help its inherent tendencies. a certain line of growth is written in the structure of every species of plant. the plant may be hindered or perverted in its development; it may be killed, but it cannot be made to grow into the form of another plant. the progress of the human mind can be illustrated only by that which is vital, not by anything mechanical. mind reacts upon whatever is given to it according to the divine laws of its own organism. the human mind, like the plant, must exhibit vitality in abundance before it finds a higher and more complex manifestation. the unskilled teacher, instead of inviting out the young pupil along the line of his own organism, may, at the outset, paralyze the unfolding mind by ill-advised dictation. there can be no true teaching which does not involve growing, and growing in the way intended by nature. the teacher must be something more than a critic. the critic establishes criteria, protects the public, and, in a measure, educates the public taste. when he is able to teach others how to reach true criteria he becomes a teacher. until he can do this he has no place in the class room. it will be observed that the four volumes of the "evolution of expression" recognize the four general stages of man's development: volume i., representing the period when the individual is engrossed with subjects or objects as a whole, and his passion for life is expressed through rude energy, size--the colossal; volume ii., when he delights in so presenting the parts to which he has been attracted, as to make them effective in attracting the attention of others; volume iii., when his appreciation of the use or service of the parts carries him beyond the melodramatic to the realistic; and volume iv., in which his dawning perception of that higher service resulting from the truthful relationship of the parts leads him beyond realism to idealism, the suggestive. in choosing the selections for this and the accompanying volumes, the aim has been to preserve the natural oneness between the study of literature and that of expression, and to encourage the appreciation of this unity in the minds of teacher and student. it may be said that the greatest of the world's literature was written for the ear, not for the eye, and its noblest influence is felt only when it is adequately voiced by an intelligent and sympathetic reader. it is the object of these volumes to foster in the student a keener and deeper appreciation of the truth and beauty of great prose and verse, and at the same time to enrich his own and other lives by cultivating the power of expressing the glories which are opened to his vision. the arrangement of the selections is for the purpose of teaching the art of reading according to the steps of natural evolution hinted at in the foregoing pages, and in a way which experience has found most prolific in practical results. while no effort has been made to search for novelties, great care has been taken to secure selections which, while of pure literary merit, are especially adapted for drill in the several steps of progress in reading. the power developed in the student through carefully directed drill on these selections will enable him to illuminate whatever other literature he may care to interpret. the arrangement of the selections in small divisions or paragraphs has been made for convenience in the work of the class room. the "evolution of expression" does not offer art criteria by which the work of an orator is to be measured; it presents rather a system of education by which one may attain the plane of art in expression. the teacher or student who desires a formulation of laws which afford a standard of art criticism is referred to the four volumes of "the perfective laws of art," the text-book succeeding the "evolution of expression." the author wishes to express his sincere gratitude to george n. morang & co., to bobbs-merrill company, and to houghton, mifflin & co., for their courtesy in allowing him to reprint in this volume selections from their publications. the whole. the colossal period. the body is one and hath many members, and all the members of that one body, being many, are one body.--st. paul. 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! --browning. chapter i. animation. (note.--let the teacher and student remember that the headings of the chapters name effects rather than causes, signs rather than things signified. they are not, therefore, objects of thought for the student while practising; they are finger points for the teacher; the criteria by which he measures his pupil's development.) reading is a communication of thought; a transference of ideas from one mind to other minds so as to influence their thinking in a definite manner. the process is distinctively communicative, involving two parties, speaker and audience, equally indispensable. as well might the student of manual training attempt his work without materials, to paint without paper or canvas, carve without wood or stone, model without clay, as the student of expression to read or speak without an audience. for this reason in all his private practice as well as class drill, the student should hold in mind an audience to whom he directs his attention. the office of the teacher is to hold constantly before the pupil these two mental concepts, his thought and his audience, or his thought in relation to his audience. the pupil must be taught to respond to the author's thought as to his own, and at the same time he must be inspired with the desire to give that thought to others. in his endeavor to awaken other minds his own will be quickened. this mental quickening reports itself in animation of voice and manner. herein is illustrated a fundamental law of development; what we earnestly attempt to do for another that we actually do for ourselves. the constant endeavor of the teacher, therefore, must be to inspire the pupil to serve his audience through truth, the truth of his discourse. his attempt to gain the attention of his hearers and to concentrate their minds on this truth will secure such concentration of his own mind as will stimulate his interest, and interest is always vital. let no one mistake loudness for animation. a whisper may be more vital, more animated than a shout. the slightest quiver of a muscle may reveal greater intensity of thought than the most violent gesticulation. yet since freedom and abandon of the agents of expression are necessary to their perfect service, let the teacher invite that freedom and abandon without fear of sacrificing good taste. he is not to be regarded as an artist yet; nor is it now profitable to measure him by the criteria of art. let the form of his expression be as crude as it may, only let it be born of the thought. the student is learning to think on his feet; and the act of mental concentration upon his author's thought in relation to his audience is not at first a simple task. do not hurry him in his development. remember that expression to be truthful, must be spontaneous. the teacher needs only to hold the right objects of thought before the pupil's mind, then stand aside and let him grow in nature's own way. no thought of the how should be allowed to enter the student's mind while he is speaking, it is only the what that concerns him. form is born of spirit; the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life. the requirement of the present chapter is met when the student is able to fix the attention of those who listen upon the central idea or theme of the selection. the whole or unit of thought should be held before the pupil's mind, and by him, before the mind of the audience, attention not yet being directed specifically to parts. analysis. the basis of intelligent vocal interpretation of literature is careful analysis. one cannot express shades of meaning that are not in the mind; until one clearly perceives the motives and relationships of the selection, he cannot reflect them to others. too much cannot be said upon the importance of thorough thought and study of a selection previous to any effort toward expression. it is needless to explain that one cannot give what he does not possess; and it is equally self-evident that one gains by giving. long and thoughtful quiescent concentration should precede the concentration of mind while speaking. the author's words are like a gold mine which must be searched by thorough digging for the nuggets of thought beneath. the pupil must live with his author, see through his eyes, think with his intellect, feel with his heart, and choose with his will, picturing to himself every scene, putting himself in the place of every character described. like every organism every true work of art has organic unity; it represents a unit of thought, the whole, made up of essential parts. each part is a part of the whole, because in its own way it reflects the whole. the perfect unity of an organism or of a work of art results from the service rendered by each part to every other part. here, then, is the logical order of analysis: first, the whole or unit of thought; second, the parts; third, the service, or the use of the parts; fourth, the relationship of the parts which is the highest service and results in revelation. in determining this higher service we are reconstructing our whole from the unit of the selection to the revelation of truth resulting from the relationship of parts; the analysis must culminate in synthesis, else it would defeat its purpose. the end of literature, as in other forms of art, is revelation. the end of analysis is to lead to the perception of this revelation. in the earlier stages of development the pupil's attention should not be directed toward minute analysis. at this period his mind is engrossed with the principal thought or unit of the composition,--the dominant theme which is developed in every organic literary composition. let his mind rest upon this until he lives in the spirit of the theme through a passion for reflecting it to others. inasmuch as an attempt to define always limits, it is a question how far it will be profitable to formulate definite statements of the whole, parts, etc. written expression, as well as oral, is individual. each pupil may have a different formulation. inasmuch, however, as every author is possessed by a definite purpose, we may suggest, for the guidance of the student, a tentative analysis of a selection which may aid him in reflecting its truth to an audience. it is hoped that this brief study of one selection from each chapter may be acceptable as a working basis, a hint of the logical method of procedure rather than an arbitrary model. the elaboration of these principles is without limit and must be left to the teacher. it is the purpose here to give only simple statements intended to be suggestive rather than final. example: "the cheerful locksmith." (page 46.) the unit, or whole for working basis: the character of the cheerful locksmith. the parts: (a) the sound he makes. paragraphs 1, 2, 3, 7. (6) his personal appearance. paragraph 4. (c) the appearance of objects around him. paragraphs 5, 6. the service of the parts: (a) serves the whole by engaging the interest at once in the cheerful locksmith, whom it introduces, and whose nature it reflects. (b) serves by presenting a definite picture of him, radiating cheer. (c) serves by revealing further his cheerful personality through its effect upon surrounding objects. the relationship of the parts: (a) foreshadows (b) and (c). (b) fulfils the expectation awakened in (a) and helps to prepare the mind for (c). (c) is a natural outgrowth from (a) and (b). synthesis: the revelation of truth through these relationships gives us a "new whole" which maybe stated thus: the spirit of cheerfulness, radiating from the locksmith's personality and expressed through his work, is reflected by all around him. the above analysis is suggested as a guide for study. a tentative analysis of each selection might be offered here; but it is better that the student develop his own powers of discrimination by doing this preliminary work himself, directed, as far as necessary, by the teacher. however, it is not essential that a formal analysis of every selection be made; indeed, as has been already implied, minute analysis may even defeat the end of these opening chapters. the question of formal analysis may be left to the discretion of the teacher, who must determine how far it serves his purpose in each individual instance. the criterion of chapter i. does not demand an interpretation based upon the complete analysis given above, which is intended as an illustration of all analysis; if all the relationships suggested above be reflected through an oral reading of "the cheerful locksmith," the reader has attained the steps of development embodied in volume iv. however, in drill on the selections in volume i., the teacher should never think of limiting the pupil to the significance of that volume; every student should be encouraged to reflect as much of the truth, literal and suggestive, as his degree of discernment and of freedom will allow. the immediate aim of drill on "the cheerful locksmith" should be a hearty response to the spirit of the whole, however much beyond that may be achieved. the student must be inspired by an ardent desire to awaken the interest of his audience in "the cheerful locksmith," as does one who through introductory remarks presents the "speaker of the evening." it is to be thoughtfully noted that all the selections in this and the three succeeding chapters have been chosen for their easy adaptability to use in the first natural period of art-expression, the colossal period. they are selections with an easily distinguishable theme. throughout these chapters the mind of the student should be engaged with the motif of the selection as it first catches the mind. nothing in later study can make up for the loss of the first glow, the undefined answering response to the animating spirit of a writer's message. his differentiated meanings, his elaborations of theme for the purpose of increased force, intensity or suggestion are but useless lumber to a mind that has not throbbed in sympathy, scarce knowing why. it is just here that almost all teaching in both literature and its expression fails; there is not enough browsing--knee-deep, waistdeep,--for the pure joy of it. chapter ii. smoothness. at first, the student may find it difficult to concentrate the minds of his hearers upon his theme steadily and continuously. his ability to do this may come spasmodically. this irregular mental activity reports itself in unevenness of delivery; life appears in gleams not in steady shining. but with continued effort to concentrate other minds upon his subject, this unevenness gives place to ease in delivery, to smoothness of voice. continuity of thought impels smoothness of expression. when a thought is held steadily in the mind of the pupil, together with a dominating purpose to communicate that thought to others, the tones of his voice become evenly sustained and smooth. smoothness may be said to result from a sense of oneness with the audience. so long as there is a gulf between the speaker and audience, there is conscious and apparent effort in the address. it is a growing love, a vital sympathy with the audience that manifests itself in smoothness. this second step grows in natural sequence out of the first. out of the abundance of life comes sweetness. in all the successive steps of the pupil's evolution, he is constantly to add, never to discard or lay aside any power previously gained. rather than outgrow it, he will grow in it. all that he will outgrow will be his faults, his mannerisms, his limitations. as he gains freedom, transcending limitations, his mannerisms will fall away from him; he need never be made conscious that he has had them. analysis. example, "the village preacher." the unit, or working whole: a village preacher who radiates the spirit of love. the student's endeavor must be to reflect continuously the overflowing love of the preacher's nature, which blessed all with whom he came in contact. the audience should feel the presence of the great-hearted man throughout the reading of the entire selection, even when he is not described. for instance, he may be foreshadowed in the introduction. chapter iii. volume. out of the effort toward continued concentration is born the perception of values. dwelling upon the thought and striving to hold it steadily in the minds of those who listen, the pupil begins to perceive its greater value, and to realize that the expression of this value will aid him in holding the attention of his audience. his will becomes more definitely aroused. feeling his new power, he should be inspired to direct it definitely toward his hearers. this new element of will directed through the perception of value expresses itself in the added quality called volume of voice. here, as everywhere, the discernment of the teacher must be relied upon to detect the difference between true and mechanical expression. failure on the part of the pupil to perceive what is desired may lead him to offer, as a counterfeit of volume, force or loudness. volume of voice, free from both, is the expression of the growing appreciation of values. analysis. example: "spartacus to the gladiators." the unit, or whole: the personality of spartacus revealed through his effort to inspire his fellows with the spirit of liberty. the theme which spartacus presents is of universal value--the spirit of liberty, dear to all mankind. this value must be realized by the student, who must make the effort of spartacus his own effort, throughout the entire selection. the value of the theme must be behind every spoken word, felt, if not uttered. chapter iv. forming the elements. the life manifested in the three previous chapters now begins to take more definite thought form. the intellect seeing more clearly, appeals to the intellects of those who listen that they may think with greater sharpness and distinctness the thoughts presented. by aiming to present these thoughts so as to be clearly understood, distinctness and precision of utterance are gained. the elements of speech become more perfectly and beautifully chiseled. thus keener thinking and greater care in presentation serve in forming the elements and perfecting the articulation, which need not be made a matter of mechanical drill. careless enunciation, which so mars the beauty of a speaker's discourse, is usually due to careless thinking. clear speaking comes from clear thinking. exceptional cases of long confirmed bad habits, faultily trained ears, or defects in the vocal apparatus, sometimes make technical drill to meet individual cases, a necessary supplement to the persistent practice in earnest revelation of thought. but in ordinary cases the speaker's endeavor to impress his hearers with the parts which make up his discourse will result, in due time, in accurate, distinct articulation. with continued practice this perfection of speech will become habitual. spirit moulds form; this law cannot be overemphasized. in this new stage of the pupil's development, as always, the desired result proceeds as an effect from an inner psychological cause; it is a natural and spontaneous outgrowth, rather than a dull and lifeless form. analysis. example: "the song of the rain." unit, or whole: the beneficence of rain after a drought. here the student should hold the attention of the audience upon the distinct features of the picture presented. he should make his hearers see and enjoy the rain and appreciate the response of nature and of people to its refreshing influence. chapter i animation. the tea-kettle and the cricket. 1. it appeared as if there were a sort of match, or trial of skill, you must understand, between the kettle and the cricket. and this is what led to it, and how it came about. 2. the kettle was aggravating and obstinate. it wouldn't allow itself to be adjusted on the top bar; it wouldn't hear of accommodating itself kindly to the knobs of coal; it would lean forward with a drunken air, and dribble--a very idiot of a kettle --on the hearth. it was quarrelsome, and hissed and sputtered morosely at the fire. 3. to sum up all, the lid, resisting mrs. peerybingle's fingers, first of all turned topsy-turvy, and then, with an ingenious pertinacity deserving of a better cause, dived sideways in, down to the very bottom of the kettle; and the hull of the royal george has never made half of the monstrous resistance in coming out of the water which the lid of the kettle employed against mrs. peerybingle before she got it up again. 4. it looked sullen and pig-headed enough, even then, carrying its handle with an air of defiance, and cocking its spout pertly and mockingly at mrs. peerybingle, as if it said, "i won't boil. nothing shall induce me!" 5. but mrs. peerybingle, with restored good-humor, dusted her chubby little hands against each other, and sat down before the kettle laughing. meantime the jolly blaze uprose and fell, flashing and gleaming on the little haymaker at the top of the dutch clock, until one might have thought he stood stock still before the moorish palace, and nothing was in motion but the flame. 6. now it was, observe, that the kettle began to spend the evening. now it was that the kettle, growing mellow and musical, began to have irrepressible gurglings in the throat, and to indulge in short vocal snorts, which it checked in the bud, as if it hadn't quite made up its mind yet to be good company. now it was that, after two or three such vain attempts to stifle its convivial sentiments, it threw off all moroseness, all reserve, and burst into a stream of song so cozy and hilarious as never maudlin nightingale yet formed the least idea of. 7. so plain, too! bless you, you might have understood it like a book; better than some books you and i could name, perhaps. with its warm breath gushing forth in a light cloud, which merrily and gracefully ascended a few feet, then hung about the chimney corner, as its own domestic heaven, it trolled its song with that strong energy of cheerfulness that its iron body hummed and stirred upon the fire; and the lid itself, the recently rebellious lid--such is the influence of a bright example--performed a sort of jig, and clattered like a deaf and dumb young cymbal that had never known the use of its twin brother. 8. that this song of the kettle's was a song of invitation and welcome to somebody out of doors, to somebody at that moment coming on towards the snug, small home and the crisp fire, there is no doubt whatever. mrs. peerybingle knew it perfectly, as she sat musing before the hearth. 9. "it's a dark night," sang the kettle, "and the rotten leaves are lying by the way, and above all is mist and darkness, and below all is mire and clay, and there's only one relief in all the sad and murky air; and i don't know that it is one, for its nothing but a glare of deep and angry crimson, where the sun and wind together set a brand upon the clouds, for being guilty of such weather; and the widest open country is a long, dull streak of black; and there's hoar-frost on the finger-post, and thaw upon the track; and the ice isn't water, and the water isn't free; and you couldn't say that anything is what it ought to be; but he's coming, coming, coming!--" 10. and here, if you like, the cricket did chime in with chirrup, chirrup, chirrup of such magnitude, by way of chorus, with a voice so astoundingly disproportionate to its size, as compared with the kettle (size, you couldn't see it!)--that if it had then and there burst itself, like an overcharged gun, if it had fallen a victim on the spot, and chirruped its little body into fifty pieces, it would have seemed a natural and inevitable consequence, for which it had expressly labored. 11. the kettle had had the last of its solo performances. it persevered with undiminished ardor; but the cricket took first fiddle, and kept it. good heaven, how it chirped! its shrill, sharp, piercing voice resounded through the house, and seemed to twinkle in the outer darkness like a star. 12. there was an indescribable little thrill and tremble in it, at its loudest, which suggested its being carried off its legs, and made to leap again, by its own intense enthusiasm. yet they went very well together, the cricket and the kettle. the burden of the song was still the same; and louder, louder, louder still they sang it in their emulation. 13. there was all the excitement of a race about it. chirp, chirp, chirp! cricket a mile ahead. hum, hum, hum--m--m! kettle making play in the distance, like a great top. chirp, chirp, chirp! cricket round the corner. hum, hum, hum-m-m! kettle sticking to him in his own way; no idea of giving in. chirp, chirp, chirp, cricket fresher than ever. hum, hum, hum-m-m! kettle slow and steady. chirp, chirp, chirp! cricket going in to finish him. hum, hum, hum-m-m! kettle not to be finished. 14. until at last they got so jumbled together, in the hurryscurry, helter-skelter of the match, that whether the kettle chirped and the cricket hummed, or the cricket chirped and the kettle hummed, or they both chirped and both hummed, it would have taken a clearer head than yours or mine to have decided with certainty. 15. of this there is no doubt; that the kettle and the cricket, at one and the same moment, and by some power of amalgamation best known to themselves, sent each his fireside song of comfort streaming into a ray of the candle that shone out through the window, and a long way down the lane. and this light, bursting on a certain person, who, on the instant, approached towards it through the gloom, expressed the whole thing to him literally in a twinkling, and cried, "welcome home, old fellow! welcome home, my boy!" this end attained, the kettle, being dead beat, boiled over, and was taken off the fire. charles dickens. the pied piper of hamelin. i. hamelin town's in brunswick, by famous hanover city; the river weser, deep and wide, 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. ii. 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 cook's 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. iii. at last the people in a body to the town hall came flocking; "tis 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!" iv. 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; 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 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? anything like the sound of a rat makes my heart go pit-a-pat." v. "come in," the mayor cried, looking bigger; and in did come the strangest figure; his queer long coat from heels 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 or kin; and nobody could enough admire the tall man and his quaint attire. vi. quoth one, "it's as my great-grand-sire, starting up at the trump of doom's tone, had walked this way from his painted tomb-stone." he advanced to the council-table: and, "please your honors," said he, "i'm able, 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. vii. "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; yet," said he, "poor piper as i am, in tartary i freed the cham last june from his huge swarm 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. viii. into the street the piper stept, smiling first a little smile, as if he knew what magic slept in his quiet pipe the while; and ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, 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, 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. ix. you should have heard the hamelin people ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "go," cried the mayor, "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, "first, if you please, my thousand guilders." a thousand guilders; the mayor looked blue and so did the corporation, too. x. "beside," quoth the mayor, with a knowing wink, "our business was done at the river brink; we saw with our eyes the vermin sink, and what's dead can't come to life, i think. a thousand guilders? come, take fifty." the piper's face fell, and he cried, "no trifling. folks who put me in a passion may find me pipe to another fashion." xi. once more he stepped into the street and to his lips again laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane; and ere he blew three notes there was a rustling that seemed like 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 barnyard 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. xii. when, lo! as they reached the mountain's side, a wondrous portal opened wide, as if a cavern were 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. alas, alas for hamelin! xiii. there came into many a burgher's pate a text which says that heaven's gate opens to the rich at as easy rate as the needle's eye takes the 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 soon they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, and piper and dancers were gone forever. xiv. and the better in memory to fix the place of the children's last retreat, they called it the pied piper's street-where any one playing on pipe or tabor was sure for the future to lose his labor. and 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. robert browning. group of lyrics. pippa passes. the year's at the spring, and day's at the morn; morning's at seven; the hill-side'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. robert browning. the snowdrop. many, many welcomes february fair-maid, ever as of old time, solitary firstling, coming in the cold time, prophet of the gay time, prophet of the may time, prophet of the roses, many, many welcomes february fair-maid! alfred tennyson. the throstle. i. "summer is coming, summer is coming. i know it, i know it, i know it. light again, leaf again, life again, love again," yes, my wild little poet. ii. sing the new year in under the blue. last year you sang it as gladly. "new, new, new, new!" is it then so new that you should carol so madly? iii. "love again, song again, nest again, young again," never a prophet so crazy! and hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, see, there is hardly a daisy. iv. "here again, here, here, here, happy year o warble unchidden, unbidden! summer is coming, is coming, my dear, and all the winters are hidden. alfred tennyson one morning, oh! so early! i. one morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, all the birds were singing blithely, as if never they would cease; 'twas a thrush sang in my garden, "hear the story, hear the story!" and the lark sang, "give us glory!" and the dove said, "give us peace!" ii. then i listened, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, to that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my dear, the dove; when the nightingale came after, "give us fame to sweeten duty!" when the wren sang, "give us beauty!" she made answer, "give us love!" iii. sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my beloved, my beloved; now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon the year's increase, and my prayer goes up, "oh, give us, crowned in youth with marriage glory, give for all our life's dear story, give us love, and give us peace!" jean ingelow. freedom. 1. no quality of art has been more powerful in its influence on public mind; none is more frequently the subject of popular praise, or the end of vulgar effort, than what we call "freedom." it is necessary to determine the justice or injustice of this popular praise. 2. try to draw a circle with the "free" hand, and with a single line. you cannot do it if your hand trembles, nor if it hesitates, nor if it is unmanageable, nor if it is in the common sense of the word "free." so far from being free, it must be under a control as absolute and accurate as if it were fastened to an inflexible bar of steel. and yet it must move, under this necessary control, with perfect, untormented serenity of ease. 3. i believe we can nowhere find a better type of a perfectly free creature than in the common house-fly. nor free only, but brave; and irreverent to a degree which i think no human republican could by any philosophy exalt himself to. there is no courtesy in him; he does not care whether it is king or clown whom he teases; and in every step of his swift mechanical march, and in every pause of his resolute observation, there is one and the same expression of perfect egotism, perfect independence and self-confidence, and conviction of the world's having been made for flies. 4. strike at him with your hand, and to him, the mechanical fact and external aspect of the matter is, what to you it would be if an acre of red clay, ten feet thick, tore itself up from the ground in one massive field, hovered over you in the air for a second, and came crashing down with an aim. that is the external aspect of it; the inner aspect, to his fly's mind, is of a quite natural and unimportant occurrence--one of the momentary conditions of his active life. he steps out of the way of your hand, and alights on the back of it. 5. you cannot terrify him, nor govern him, nor persuade him, nor convince him. he has his own positive opinion on all matters; not an unwise one, usually, for his own ends; and will ask no advice of yours. he has no work to do--no tyrannical instinct to obey. the earthworm has his digging; the bee her gathering and building; the spider her cunning network; the ant her treasury and accounts. all these are comparatively slaves, or people of vulgar business. 6. but your fly, free in the air, free in the chamber--a black incarnation of caprice, wandering, investigating, flitting, flirting, feasting at his will, with rich variety of choice in feast, from the heaped sweets in the grocer's window to those of the butcher's back yard, and from the galled place on your cabhorse's back, to the brown spot in the road, from which, as the hoof disturbs him, he rises with angry republican buzz--what freedom is like his? 7. indeed, the first point we have all to determine is not how free we are, but what kind of creatures we are. it is of small importance to any of us whether we get liberty; but of the greatest that we deserve it. whether we can win it, fate must determine; but that we will be worthy of it we may ourselves determine; and the sorrowfulest fate of all that we can suffer is to have it without deserving it. 8. i have hardly patience to hold my pen and go on writing, as i remember the infinite follies of modern thought in this matter, centered in the notion that liberty is good for a man, irrespectively of the use he is likely to make of it. folly unfathomable! unspeakable! you will send your child, will you, into a room where the table is loaded with sweet wine and fruit-some poisoned, some not?--you will say to him, "choose freely, my little child! it is so good for you to have freedom of choice; it forms your character--your individuality! if you take the wrong cup or the wrong berry, you will die before the day is over, but you will have acquired the dignity of a free child." 9. you think that puts the case too sharply? i tell you, lover of liberty, there is no choice offered to you, but it is similarly between life and death. there is no act, nor option of act, possible, but the wrong deed or option has poison in it which will stay in your veins thereafter forever. never more to all eternity can you be as you might have been had you not done that--chosen that. 10. you have "formed your character," forsooth! no; if you have chosen ill, you have de-formed it, and that forever! in some choices it had been better for you that a red-hot iron bar struck you aside, scarred and helpless, than that you had so chosen. "you will know better next time!" no. next time will never come. next time the choice will be in quite another aspect--between quite different things,--you, weaker than you were by the evil into which you have fallen; it, more doubtful than it was, by the increased dimness of your sight. no one ever gets wiser by doing wrong, nor stronger. you will get wiser and stronger only by doing right, whether forced or not; the prime, the one need is to do that, under whatever compulsion, until you can do it without compulsion. and then you are a man. 11. "what!" a wayward youth might perhaps answer, incredulously, "no one ever gets wiser by doing wrong? shall i not know the world best by trying the wrong of it, and repenting? have i not, even as it is, learned much by many of my errors?" indeed, the effort by which partially you recovered yourself was precious: that part of your thought by which you discerned the error was precious. what wisdom and strength you kept, and rightly used, are rewarded; and in the pain and the repentance, and in the acquaintance with the aspects of folly and sin, you have learned something; how much less than you would have learned in right paths can never be told, but that it is less is certain. 12. your liberty of choice has simply destroyed for you so much life and strength, never regainable. it is true, you now know the habits of swine, and the taste of husks; do you think your father could not have taught you to know better habits and pleasanter tastes, if you had stayed in his house; and that the knowledge you have lost would not have been more, as well as sweeter, than that you have gained? but "it so forms my individuality to be free!" your individuality was given you by god, and in your race, and if you have any to speak of, you will want no liberty. 13. in fine, the arguments for liberty may in general be summed in a few very simple forms, as follows: misguiding is mischievous: therefore guiding is. if the blind lead the blind, both fall into the ditch: therefore, nobody should lead anybody. lambs and fawns should be left free in the fields; much more bears and wolves. if a man's gun and shot are his own, he may fire in any direction he pleases. a fence across a road is inconvenient; much more one at the side of it. babes should not be swaddled with their hands bound down to their sides: therefore they should be thrown out to roll in the kennels naked. 14. none of these arguments are good, and the practical issues of them are worse. for there are certain eternal laws for human conduct which are quite clearly discernible by human reason. so far as these are discovered and obeyed, by whatever machinery or authority the obedience is procured, there follow life and strength. so far as they are disobeyed, by whatever good intention the disobedience is brought about, there follow ruin and sorrow. 15. the first duty of every man in the world is to find his true master, and, for his own good, submit to him; and to find his true inferior, and, for that inferior's good, conquer him. the punishment is sure, if we either refuse the reverence, or are too cowardly and indolent to enforce the compulsion. a base nation crucifies or poisons its wise men, and lets its fools rave and rot in its streets. a wise nation obeys the one, restrains the other, and cherishes all. john ruskin. a laughing chorus. i. oh, such a commotion under the ground when march called "ho, there! ho!" such spreading of rootlets far and wide, such whispering to and fro. and "are you ready?" the snowdrop asked; "'tis time to start, you know." "almost, my dear, "the scilla replied; "i'll follow as soon as you go." then, "ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came of laughter soft and low from the millions of flowers under the ground- yes--millions--beginning to grow. ii. "i'll promise my blossoms," the crocus said, "when i hear the bluebirds sing." and straight thereafter narcissus cried, "my silver and gold i'll bring." "and ere they are dulled," another spoke, "the hyacinth bells shall ring." and the violet only murmured, "i'm here," and sweet grew the air of spring. then, "ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came of laughter soft and low from the millions of flowers under the ground- yes--millions--beginning to grow. iii. oh, the pretty, brave things! through the coldest days, imprisoned in walls of brown, they never lost heart, though the blast shrieked loud, and the sleet and the hail came down, but patiently each wrought her beautiful dress, or fashioned her beautiful crown; and now they are coming to brighten the world, still shadowed by winter's frown; and well may they cheerily laugh, "ha! ha!" in a chorus soft and low, the millions of flowers hid under the ground- yes--millions--beginning to grow. yes--millions--beginning to grow. the cheerful locksmith. 1. from the workshop of the golden key there issued forth a tinkling sound, so merry and good-humored that it suggested the idea of some one working blithely, and made quite pleasant music. tink, tink, tink--clear as a silver bell, and audible at every pause of the streets' harsher noises, as though it said, "i don't care; nothing puts me out; i am resolved to be happy." 2. women scolded, children squalled, heavy carts went rumbling by, horrible cries proceeded from the lungs of hawkers; still it struck in again, no higher, no lower, no louder, no softer; not thrusting itself on people's notice a bit the more for having been outdone by louder sounds--tink, tink, tink, tink, tink. 3. it was a perfect embodiment of the still, small voice, free from all cold, hoarseness, huskiness, or unhealthiness of any kind. foot-passengers slackened their pace, and were disposed to linger near it; neighbors who had got up splenetic that morning, felt good-humor stealing on them as they heard it, and by degrees became quite sprightly; mothers danced their babies to its ringing;--still the same magical tink, tink, tink came gaily from the workshop of the golden key. 4. who but the locksmith could have made such music? a gleam of sun, shining through the unsashed window and checkering the dark workshop with a broad patch of light, fell full upon him, as though attracted by his sunny heart. there he stood working at his anvil, his face radiant with exercise and gladness, his sleeves turned up, his wig pushed off his shining forehead--the easiest, freest, happiest man in all the world. 5. beside him sat a sleek cat, purring and winking in the light, and falling every now and then into an idle doze, as from excess of comfort. the very locks that hung around had something jovial in their rust, and seemed like gouty gentlemen of hearty natures, disposed to joke on their infirmities. 6. there was nothing surly or severe in the whole scene. it seemed impossible that any of the innumerable keys could fit a churlish strong-box or a prison door. storehouses of good things, rooms where there were fires, books, gossip, and cheering laughter-these were their proper sphere of action. places of distrust, and cruelty, and restraint they would have quadruple-locked forever. 7. tink, tink, tink. no man who hammered on at a dull, monotonous duty could have brought such cheerful notes from steel and iron; none but a chirping, healthy, honest-hearted fellow, who made the best of everything and felt kindly towards everybody, could have done it for an instant. he might have been a coppersmith, and still been musical. if he had sat in a jolting wagon, full of rods of iron, it seemed as if he would have brought some harmony out of it. charles dickens. home thoughts, from abroad. 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 brush-wood 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 white-throat builds, and all the swallows! 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! and though the fields look rough with hoary dew, all will be gay when noontide wakes anew the buttercups, the little children's dower --far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! eobebt bkowning. lochinvar. i. oh, young lochinvar is come out of the west,-through all the wide border his steed was the best! and, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,-he rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. so faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, there never was knight like the young lochinvar. ii. he stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone; he swam the eske river where ford there was none. but, ere he alighted at netherby gate, the bride had consented, the gallant came late; for a laggard in love and a dastard in war was to wed the fair ellen of brave lochinvar. iii. so boldly he entered the netherby hall, 'mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (for the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), "oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, or to dance at our bridal, young lord lochinvar?" iv. "i long wooed your daughter--my suit you denied; love swells like the solway, but ebbs like its tide; and now am i come, with this lost love of mine, to lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. there are maidens in scotland more lovely by far that would gladly be bride to the young lochinvar." v. the bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up; he quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. she looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, with a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye. he took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar; "now tread we a measure?" said young lochinvar. vi. so stately his form, and so lovely her face, that never a hall such a galliard did grace; while her mother did fret and her father did fume, and the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, and the bride-maidens whispered, "'twere better by far to have matched our fair cousin with young lochinvar." vii. one touch to her hand and one word in her ear, when they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near; so light to the croup the fair lady he swung, so light to the saddle before her he sprung: "she is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and scar; they'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young lochinvar. viii. there was mounting'mong graemes of the netherby clan; forsters, fenwicks, and musgraves, they rode and they ran; there was racing and chasing on cannobie lee; but the lost bride of netherby ne'er did they see. so daring in love, and so dauntless in war, have ye e'er heard of gallant like young lochinvar? sir walter scott. polish war song. i. freedom calls you! quick, be ready,- rouse ye in the name of god,-onward, onward, strong and steady,- dash to earth the oppressor's rod. freedom calls, ye brave! rise and spurn the name of slave. ii. grasp the sword!--its edge is keen, seize the gun!--its ball is true: sweep your land from tyrant clean,- haste, and scour it through and through! onward, onward! freedom cries, rush to arms,--the tyrant flies. iii. by the souls of patriots gone, wake,--arise,--your fetters break, kosciusko bids you on,- sobieski cries awake! rise, and front the despot czar, rise, and dare the unequal war. iv. freedom calls you! quick, be ready,- think of what your sires have been, onward, onward! strong and steady, drive the tyrant to his den. on, and let the watchword be, country, home, and liberty! james g. percival. chapter ii. smoothness. the village preacher. i. sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, up yonder hill the village murmur rose; there, as i passed with careless steps and slow, the mingled notes came softened from below; the swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, the sober herd that lowed to meet their young; the noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, the playful children just let loose from school; the watchdog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, and the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,-these all in sweet confusion sought the shade, and filled each pause the nightingale had made. ii. 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, nor 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. iii. 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. iv. 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 his new-fledged offspring to the skies, he tried each art, reproved each dull delay, allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. v. 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. vi. 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. vii. 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. oliver goldsmith. to the daisy. i. with little here to do or see of things that in the great world be, sweet daisy! oft i talk to thee for thou art worthy, thou unassuming common-place of nature, with that homely face, and yet with something of a grace which love makes for thee! ii. oft on the dappled turf at ease i sit and play with similes, loose types of things through all degrees, thoughts of thy raising; and many a fond and idle name i give to thee, for praise or blame as is the humour of the game, while i am gazing. iii. a nun demure, of lowly port; or sprightly maiden, of love's court, in thy simplicity the sport of all temptations; a queen in crown of rubies drest; a starveling in a scanty vest; are all, as seems to suit thee best, thy appellations. iv. a little cyclops, with one eye staring to threaten and defy, that thought comes next--and instantly the freak is over, the shape will vanish, and behold! a silver shield with boss of gold that spreads itself, some faery bold in fight to cover. v. i see thee glittering from afar-and then thou art a pretty star, not quite so fair as many are in heaven above thee! yet like a star, with glittering crest, self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;-may peace come never to his nest who shall reprove thee! vi. sweet flower! for by that name at last when all my reveries are past i call thee, and to that cleave fast, sweet silent creature! that breath'st with me in sun and air, do thou, as thou art wont, repair my heart with gladness, and a share of thy meek nature! william wobdsworth. psalm xxiii. 1. the lord is my shepherd; i shall not want. he maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. 2. he restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. yea, though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death, i will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 3. thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runueth over. surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and i will dwell in the house of the lord forever. extract from eulogy on wendell phillips. 1. like other gently nurtured boston boys, phillips began the study of law; and, as it proceeded, doubtless the sirens sang to him, as to the noble youth of every country and time. if, musing over coke and blackstone, in the full consciousness of ample powers and of fortunate opportunities, he sometimes forecast the future, he doubtless saw himself succeeding fisher ames, and harrison gray otis, and daniel webster, rising from the bar to the legislature, from the legislature to the senate, from the senate-who knew whither?--the idol of society, the applauded orator, the brilliant champion of the elegant repose and the cultivated conservatism of massachusetts. 2. the delight of social ease, the refined enjoyment of taste in letters and art, opulent leisure, professional distinction, gratified ambition--all these came and whispered to the young student. and it is the force that can tranquilly put aside such blandishments with a smile, and accept alienation, outlawry, ignominy, and apparent defeat, if need be, no less than the courage which grapples with poverty and outward hardship and climbs over them to worldly prosperity, which is the test of the finest manhood. only he who fully knows the worth of what he renounces gains the true blessing of renunciation. 3. when he first spoke at faneuil hall some of the most renowned american orators were still in their prime. webster and clay were in the senate, choate at the bar, edward everett upon the academic platform. from all these orators phillips differed more than they differed from each other. behind webster, and everett, and clay there was always a great organized party or an entrenched conservatism of feeling and opinion. they spoke accepted views. they moved with masses of men, and were sure of the applause of party spirit, of political tradition, and of established institutions. phillips stood alone. 4. with no party behind him and appealing against established order and acknowledged tradition, his speech was necessarily a popular appeal for a strange and unwelcome cause, and the condition of its success was that it should both charm and rouse the hearer, while, under cover of the fascination, the orator unfolded his argument and urged his plea. this condition the genius of the orator instinctively perceived, and it determined the character of his discourse. 5. he faced his audience with a tranquil mien and a beaming aspect that was never dimmed. he spoke, and in the measured cadence of his quiet voice there was intense feeling, but no declamation, no passionate appeal, no superficial and feigned emotion. it was simple colloquy--a gentleman conversing. unconsciously and surely, the ear and heart were charmed. how was it done? ah! how did mozart do it, how raphael? the secret of the rose's sweetness, of the bird's ecstacy, of the sunset's glory--that is the secret of genius and of eloquence. 6. what was heard, what was seen, was the form of noble manhood, the courteous and self-possessed tone, the flow of modulated speech, sparkling with matchless richness of illustration, with apt illusion, and happy anecdote, and historic parallel, with wit and pitiless invective, with melodious pathos, with stinging satire, with crackling epigram and limpid humor, like the bright ripples that play around the sure and steady prow of the resistless ship. the divine energy of his conviction utterly possessed him, and his "pure and eloquent blood spoke in his cheek, and so distinctly wrought that one might almost say his body thought." 7. phillips cherished profound faith in the people, and because he cherished it he never flattered the mob, nor hung upon its neck, nor pandered to its passion, nor suffered its foaming hate or its exulting enthusiasm to touch the calm poise of his regnant soul. he moved in solitary majesty, and if from his smooth speech a lightning flash of satire or of scorn struck a cherished lie, or an honored character, or a dogma of the party creed, and the crowd burst into a furious tempest of dissent, he beat it into silence with uncompromising iteration. if it tried to drown his voice, he turned to the reporters, and over the raging tumult calmly said, "howl on, i speak to 30,000,000 here." 8. there was another power in his speech sharper than in the speech of any other american orator,--an unsparing invective. the abolition appeal was essentially iconoclastic, and the method of a reformer at close quarters with a mighty system of wrong cannot be measured by the standards of cool and polite debate. phillips did not shrink from the sternest denunciation, or ridicule or scorn, of those who seemed to him recreant to freedom and humanity. the idols of a purely conventional virtue he delighted to shatter, because no public enemy seemed to him more deadly than the american who made moral cowardice respectable. 9. he knew that his ruthless words closed to him homes of friendship and hearts of sympathy. he saw the amazement, he heard the condemnation; but, like the great apostle preaching christ, he knew only humanity and humanity crucified. tongue of the dumb, eyes of the blind, feet of the impotent, his voice alone, among the voices that were everywhere heard and heeded, was sent by god to challenge every word, or look, or deed that seemed to him possibly to palliate oppression or to comfort the oppressor. 10. i am not here to declare that the judgment of wendell phillips was always sound, nor his estimate of men always just, nor his policy always approved by the event. i am not here to eulogize the mortal, but the immortal. 11. the plain house in which he lived--severely plain, because the welfare of the suffering and the slave were preferred to book, and picture, and every fair device of art; the house to which the north star led the trembling fugitive, and which the unfortunate and the friendless knew--the radiant figure passing swiftly through these streets, plain as the house from which it came, regal with, a royalty beyond that of kings--the ceaseless charity untold--the strong, sustaining heart--the sacred domestic affection that must not here be named--the eloquence which, like the song of orpheus, will fade from living memory into a doubtful tale--the surrender of ambition, the consecration of a life hidden with god in sympathy with man--these, all these, will live among your immortal traditions, heroic even in your heroic story. 12. but not yours alone. as years go by, and only the large outlines of lofty american characters and careers remain, the wide republic will confess the benediction of a life like this, and gladly own that if with perfect faith, and hope assured, america would still stand and "bid the distant generations hail," the inspiration of her national life must be the sublime moral courage, the all-embracing humanity, the spotless integrity, the absolutely unselfish devotion of great powers to great public ends, which were the glory of wendell phillips. george william curtis. the brook. i. i come from haunts of coot and hern, i make a sudden sally, and sparkle out among the fern, to bicker down a valley. ii. by thirty hills i hurry down, or slip between the ridges; by twenty thorps, a little town, and half a hundred bridges. iii. i chatter over stony ways, in little sharps and trebles, i bubble into eddying bays, i babble on the pebbles. iv. 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. v. i chatter, chatter, as i flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. vi. i wind about, and in and out, with here a blossom sailing, and here and there a lusty trout, and here and there a grayling. vii. and here and there a foamy flake upon me as i travel, with many a silvery water-break above the golden gravel. viii. i steal by lawns and grassy plots, i slide by hazel covers, i move the sweet forget-me-nots that grow for happy lovers. ix. i slip, i slide, i gloom, i glance, among my skimming swallows; i make the netted sunbeam dance against my sandy shallows. x. i murmur, under moon and stars in brambly wildernesses, i linger by my shingly bars, i loiter round my cresses. xi. and out again i curve and flow to join the brimming river; for men may come and men may go, but i go on for ever. alfred tennyson. old aunt mary's. wasn't it pleasant, o, brother mine, in those old days of the lost sunshine of youth--when the saturday's chores were through, and the "sunday's wood" in the kitchen, too, and we went visiting, "me and you," out to old aunt mary's? it all comes back so clear to-day! though i am as bald as you are gray-out by the barn-lot, and down the lane, we patter along in the dust again, as light as the tips of the drops of the rain, out to old aunt mary's! we cross the pasture, and through the wood where the old gray snag of the poplar stood, where the hammering "red-heads" hopped awry, and the buzzard "raised" in the "clearing" sky, and lolled and circled, as we went by out to old aunt mary's. and then in the dust of the road again; and the teams we met, and the countrymen; and the long highway, with sunshine spread as thick as butter on country bread, our cares behind, and our hearts ahead out to old aunt mary's. why, i see her now in the open door, where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er the clapboard roof!--and her face--ah, me! wasn't it good for a boy to see out to old aunt mary's? and, o, my brother, so far away, this is to tell you she waits to-day to welcome us:--aunt mary fell asleep this morning, whispering, "tell the boys to come!" and all is well out to old aunt mary's. james whitcomb riley. child verse. my shadow. i have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, and what can be the use of him is more than i can see. he is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; and i see him jump before me, when i jump into my bed. the funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow-not at all like proper children which is always very slow; for he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, and he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all. he hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, and can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. he stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see; i'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! one morning very early, before the sun was up, i rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; but my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, had stayed at home behind me, and was fast asleep in bed. the swing. how do you like to go up in a swing, up in the air so blue? oh, i do think it the pleasantest thing ever a child can do! up in the air and over the wall, till i can see so wide, rivers and trees and cattle and all over the country side. till i look down on the garden green, down on the roof so brown-up in the air i go flying again, up in the air and down! the lamplighter. my tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky; it's time to take the window to see leerie going by; for every night at teatime and before you take your seat, with lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street. now tom would be a driver, and maria go to sea, and my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be; but i, when i am stronger and can choose what i'm to do, o leerie, i'll go round at night and light the lamps with you! for we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door, and leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more; and oh, before you hurry by with ladder and with light, o leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night! robert louis stevenson. waiting. serene, i fold my hands and wait, nor care for wind, or tide, or sea; i rave no more 'gainst time or fate, for lo! my own shall come to me. i stay my haste, i make delays, for what avails this eager pace? i stand amid the eternal ways, and what is mine shall know my face, asleep, awake, by night or day, the friends i seek are seeking me; no wind can drive my bark astray, nor change the tide of destiny. what matter if i stand alone? i wait with joy the coming years; my heart shall reap where it has sown, and garner up its fruit of tears. the waters know their own, and draw the brook that springs in yonder height; so flows the good with equal law unto the soul of pure delight. the stars come nightly to the sky; the tidal wave unto the sea; nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, can keep my own away from me. john burroughs. chapter iii. volume. the revenge. a ballad of the fleet. i. at flores in the azores sir richard grenville lay, and a pinnance, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away: "spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty three!" then sware lord thomas howard: "'fore god i am no coward; but i cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, and the half my men are sick. i must fly, but follow quick. we are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty three?" ii. then spake sir richard grenville: "i know you are no coward; you fly them for a moment to fight with them again. but i've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. i should count myself the coward if i left them, lord howard, to these inquisition dogs and the devildoms of spain." iii. so lord howard past away with five ships of war that day, till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; but sir richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land very carefully and slow, men of bideford in devon, and we laid them on the ballast down below; for we brought them all aboard, and they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to spain, to the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the lord. iv. he had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, and he sailed away from flores till the spaniard came in sight, with his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. "shall we fight or shall we fly? good sir richard, tell us now, for to fight is but to die! there'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set." and sir richard said again: "we be all good english men. let us bang these dogs of seville, the children of the devil, for i never turn'd my back upon don or devil yet." v. sir richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so the little revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, with her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; for half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, and the little revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between. vi. thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd, thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft running on and on, till delay'd by their mountain-like san philip that, of fifteen hundred tons, and up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. vii. and while now the great san philip hung above us like a cloud whence the thunderbolt will fall long and loud, four galleons drew away from the spanish fleet that day, and two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, and the battle-thunder broke from them all. viii. but anon the great san philip, she bethought herself and went having that within her womb that had left her ill content; and the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, for a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, and a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears when he leaps from the water to the land. ix. and the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, but never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle thunder and flame; ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame. for some were sunk and many were shattered, and so could fight us no more-god of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before? x. for he said "fight on! fight on!" tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; and it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, with a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, but a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, and himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, and he said "fight on! fight on!" xi. and the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, and the spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; but they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could sting, so they watch'd what the end would be. and we had not fought them in vain, but in perilous plight were we, seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, and half of the rest of us maim'd for life in the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; and the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, and the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; and the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; but sir richard cried in his english pride, "we have fought such a fight for a day and a night as may never be fought again! we have won great glory, my men! and a day less or more at sea or ashore, we die--does it matter when? sink me the ship, master gunner--sink her, split her in twain! fall into the hands of god, not into the hands of spain!" xii. and the gunner said "ay, ay," but the seaman made reply: "we have children, we have wives, and the lord hath spared our lives. we will make the spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; we shall live to fight again and to strike another blow." and the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. xiii. and the stately spanish men to their flagship bore him then, where they laid him by the mast, old sir richard caught at last, and they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; but he rose upon their decks, and he cried: "i have fought for queen and faith like a valiant man and true; i have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: with a joyful spirit i sir richard grenville die!" and he fell upon their decks, and he died. xiv. and they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, and had holden the power and glory of spain so cheap that he dared her with one little ship and his english few; was he devil or man? he was devil for aught they knew, but they sank his body with honor down into the deep, and they mann'd the revenge with a swarthier alien crew, and away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own; when a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, and the water began to heave and the weather to moan, and or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, and a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, and the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of spain, and the little revenge herself went down by the island crags to be lost evermore in the main. alfred tennyson. the ocean. i. there is a pleasure in the pathless woods, there is a rapture on the lonely shore; there is society, where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; i love not man the less, but nature more, from these our interviews in which i steal from all i may be, or have been before, to mingle with the universe, and feel what i can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. ii. roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean--roll! ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; man marks the earth with ruin--his control stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain the wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain a shadow of man's ravage, save his own, when for a moment like a drop of rain, he sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. iii. the armaments which thunderstrike the walls of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, and monarchs tremble in their capitals; the oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make their clay creator the vain title take of lord of thee, and arbiter of war,-these are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, they melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar alike the armada's pride, or spoils of trafalgar. iv. thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-assyria, greece, rome, carthage,--what are they? thy waters wasted them while they were free, and many a tyrant since; their shores obey the stranger, slave or savage; their decay has dried up realms to deserts;--not so thou, unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' playtime writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. v. thou glorious mirror, where the almighty's form glasses itself in tempests; in all time, calm or convulsed--in breeze, or gale, or storm, icing the pole, or in the torrid clime dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime-the image of eternity--the throne of the invisible; even from out thy slime the monsters of the deep are made; each zone obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. vi. and i have loved thee, ocean! and my joy of youthful sport was on thy breast to be borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy i wantoned with thy breakers--they to me were a delight; and if thy freshening sea made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear; for i was, as it were, a child of thee, and trusted to thy billows far and near, and laid my hand upon thy mane--as i do here. lord byron. spartacus to the gladiators at capua. 1. ye call me chief; and ye do well to call him chief who for twelve long years has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad empire of rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. if there be one among you who can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him stand forth and say it. if there be three of all your company dare face me on the bloody sand, let them come on. 2. and yet i was not always thus,--a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men. my ancestors came from old sparta, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of syrasella. my early life ran quiet as the brooks by which i sported; and when, at noon, i gathered the sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute, there was a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. we led our flocks to the same pasture, and partook together our rustic meal. 3. one evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of marathon and leuctra; and how, in ancient times, a little band of spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood a whole army. i did not then know what war was; but my cheeks burned, i know not why, and i clasped the knees of that venerable man, until my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. 4. that very night the romans landed on our coast. i saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof of the war horse--the bleeding body of my father flung amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling! today i killed a man in the arena; and, when i broke his helmet-clasps, behold! he was my friend! he knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died;--the same sweet smile upon his lips that i had marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph! 5. i told the praetor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and brave; and i begged that i might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. ay! upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, i begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of that piece of bleeding clay! and the praetor drew back as if i were pollution, and sternly said, "let the carrion rot! there are no noble men but romans." 6. and so, fellow gladiators, must you, and so must i, die like dogs! o rome! rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. ay! thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe;--to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl! and he shall pay thee back, until the yellow tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled! 7. ye stand here now like giants, as ye are! the strength of brass is in your toughened sinews; but to-morrow some roman adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood. hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? 'tis three days since he has tasted flesh; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours,--and a dainty meal for him ye will be! 8. if ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher's knife! if ye are men, follow me! strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, and then do bloody word, as did your sires at old thermopylae! is sparta dead? is the old grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower like a belabored hound beneath his master's lash? o comrades! warriors! thracians! if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves! if we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors! if we must die, let it be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle. rev. elijah kellogg. tell to his native mountains. i. ye crags and peaks, i'm with you once again! i hold to you the hands you first beheld, to show they still are free. methinks i hear a spirit in your echoes answer me, and bid your tenant welcome home again! ii. o sacred forms, how proud you look! how high you lift your heads into the sky! how huge you are! how mighty and how free! how do you look, for all your bared brows, more gorgeously majestical than kings whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine. iii. ye are the things that tower, that shine; whose smile makes glad--whose frown is terrible; whose forms, robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear of awe divine; whose subject never kneels in mockery, because it is your boast to keep him free! iv. ye guards of liberty, i'm with you once again! i call to you with all my voice! i hold my hands to you to show they still are free. i rush to you as though i could embrace you! v. the hour will soon be here. oh, when will liberty once more be here? scaling yonder peak, i saw an eagle wheeling near its brow, o'er the abyss his broad-expanded wings lay calm and motionless upon the air as if he floated there without their aid, by the sole act of his unlorded will, that buoyed him proudly up. vi. instinctively i bent my bow; yet kept he rounding still his airy circle, as in the delight of measuring the ample range beneath and round about; absorbed, he heeded not the death that threatened him. i could not shoot. 'twas liberty. i turned my bow aside, and let him soar away. james sheridan knowles. battle hymn. i. father of earth and heaven! i call thy name! round me the smoke and shout of battle roll; my eyes are dazzled with the rustling flame; father, sustain an untried soldier's soul! or life or death, whatever be the goal that crowns or closes round this struggling hour, thou knowest, if ever from my spirit stole one deeper prayer,'twas that no cloud might lower on my young fame! oh, hear, god of eternal power! ii. god! thou art merciful--the wintry storm, the cloud that pours the thunder from its womb, but show the sterner grandeur of thy form; the lightnings glancing through the midnight gloom, to faith's raised eye as calm, as lovely come, as splendors of the autumnal evening star, as roses shaken by the breeze's plume, when like cool incense comes the dewy air, and on the golden wave the sunset burns afar. iii. god! thou art mighty!--at thy footstool bound, lie gazing to thee chance, and life, and death; nor in the angel-circle flaming round, nor in the million worlds that blaze beneath is one that can withstand thy wrath's hot breath-woe in thy frown--in thy smile, victory! hear my last prayer--i ask no mortal wreath; let but these eyes my rescued country see, then take my spirit, all-omnipotent, to thee. iv. now for the fight--now for the cannon-peal- forward--through blood and toil, and cloud and fire! glorious the shout, the shock, the crash of steel, the volley's roll, the rocket's blasting spire; they shake--like broken waves their squares retire,-on, them, hussars!--now give them rein and heel; think of the orphaned child, the murdered sire:-earth cries for blood--in thunder on them wheel! this hour to europe's fate shall set the triumph seal. karl theodore korner. self-reliance. 1. 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 universal sense; for the inmost in due time 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. 2. 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 rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty. 3. great works of art have no more affecting lesson for us than this. they teach us to abide by our spontaneous impression 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. 4. 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. 5. not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, makes much impression on him, and another none. this sculpture in the memory is not without preestablished harmony. the eye was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray. 6. 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. 7. 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 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, predominating in all their being. 8. and we are now men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; and not minors and invalids pinched in a corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, but guides, redeemers and benefactors, pious aspirants to be noble clay under the almighty effort, let us advance on chaos and the dark. ralph waldo emerson. adams and jefferson. 1. adams and jefferson, i have said, are no more. as human beings, indeed, they are no more. they are no more, as in 1776, bold and fearless advocates of independence; no more, as on subsequent periods, the head of the government; no more, as we have recently seen them, aged and venerable objects of admiration and regard. they are no more. they are dead. 2. but how little is there of the great and good which can die? to their country they yet live, and live forever. they live in all that perpetuates the remembrance of men on earth; in the recorded proofs of their own great actions, in the offspring of their intellect, in the deep engraved lines of public gratitude, and in the respect and homage of mankind. they live in their example; and they live, emphatically, and will live, in the influence which their lives and efforts, their principles and opinions, now exercise, and will continue to exercise, on the affairs of men, not only in their own country, but throughout the civilized world. 3. a superior and commanding human intellect, a truly great man,-when heaven vouchsafes so rare a gift,--is not a temporary flame, burning bright for awhile, and then expiring, giving place to returning darkness. it is rather a spark of fervent heat, as well as radiant light, with power to enkindle the common mass of human mind; so that, when it glimmers in its own decay, and finally goes out in death, no night follows; but it leaves the world all light, all on fire, from the potent contact of its own spirit. 4. bacon died; but the human understanding, roused by the torch of his miraculous mind to a perception of the true philosophy and the just mode of inquiring after truth, has kept on its course successfully and gloriously. newton died; yet the courses of the spheres are still known, and they yet move on, in the orbits which he saw and described for them, in the infinity of space. 5. no two men now live--perhaps it may be doubted whether any two men have ever lived in one age,--who, more than those we now commemorate, have impressed their own sentiments, in regard to politics and government, on mankind; infused their own opinions more deeply into the opinions of others; or given a more lasting direction to the current of human thought. their work doth not perish with them. the tree which they assisted to plant will flourish, although they water it and protect it no longer; for it has struck its roots deep; it has sent them to the very center; no storm, not of force to burst the orb, can overturn it; its branches spread wide; they stretch their protecting arms broader and broader, and its top is destined to reach the heavens. 6. we are not deceived. there is no delusion here. no age will come, in which the american revolution will appear less than it is--one of the greatest events in human history. no age will come, in which in it will cease to be seen and felt, on either continent, that a mighty step, a great advance, not only in american affairs, but in human affairs, was made on the 4th of july, 1776. and no age will come, we trust, so ignorant, or so unjust, as not to see and acknowledge the efficient agency of these we now honor, in producing that momentous event. daniel webster. the defence of lucknow. i. banner of england, not for a season, o banner of britain, hast thou floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle cry! never with mightier glory than when we had reared thee on high, flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege at lucknow-shot through the staff or the halyard, but ever we raised thee anew, and ever upon the topmost roof our banner of england blew. ii. frail were the works that defended the hold that we held with our lives-women and children among us--god help them, our children and wives! hold it we might--and for fifteen days or for twenty at most. "never surrender, i charge you, but every man die at his post!" voice of the dead whom we loved, our lawrence the best of the brave; cold were his brows when we kissed him--we laid him that night in his grave. iii. "every man die at his post!" and there hailed on our houses and halls death from their rifle bullets, and death from their cannon balls, death in our innermost chamber, and death at our slight barricade, death while we stood with the musket, and death while we stoopt to the spade, death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for often there fell, striking the hospital wall, crashing through it, their shot and their shell, iv. death--for their spies were among us, their marksman were told of our best, so that the brute bullet broke through the brain that could think for the rest; bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would rain at our feet-fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled us round; death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth of a street, death from the heights of the mosque and the palace- and death in the ground! v. mine? yes, a mine! countermine! down, down! and creep through the hole, keep the revolver in hand! you can hear him--the murderous mole. quiet! ah! quiet--wait till the point of the pickaxe be through! click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again than before-now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is no more; and ever upon the topmost roof our banner of england blew. vi. ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it chanced on a day, soon as the blast of that underground thunder-clap echoed away, dark through the smoke and the sulphur, like so many fiends in their hell-cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell upon yell-fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemies fell. vii. what have they done? where is it? out yonder. guard the redan! storm at the water-gate, storm at the bailey-gate! storm, and it ran surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every side plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily drowned by the tide-so many thousands that if they be bold enough, who shall escape? kill or be killed, live or die, they shall know we are soldiers and men. viii. ready! take aim at their leaders--their masses are gapped with our grape-backward they reel like the wave, like the wave flinging forward again, flying and foiled at the last by the handful they could not subdue; and ever upon the topmost roof our banner of england blew. ix. handful of men as we were, we were english in heart and in limb, strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey, to endure, each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung but on him-still, could we watch at all points? we were every day fewer and fewer. x. there was a whisper among us, but only a whisper that passed-"children and wives--if the tigers leap into the folds unawares, every man die at his post--and the foe may outlive us at last, better to fall by the hands that they love, than to fall into theirs." xi. roar upon roar--in a moment two mines, by the enemy sprung, clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades. riflemen, true is your heart, but be sure that your hand be as true. sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed are your flank fusilades; twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which they had clung, twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them with hand grenades--, and ever upon the topmost roof our banner of england blew. xii. then on another wild morning another wild earthquake out-tore clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good paces or more. riflemen, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of the sun-one has leapt up on the breach, crying out, "follow me, follow me!" mark him--he falls! then another, and him, too, and down goes he. xiii. had they been bold enough then, who can tell but that the traitors had won? boardings, and raftings, and doors--an embrasure; make way for the gun! now, double charge it with grape! it is charged, and we fire, and they run. praise to our indian brothers, and let the dark face have his due. thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faithful and few, fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, and smote them, and slew-that ever upon the topmost roof our banner in india blew. xiv. hark! cannonade! fusilade! is it true that was told by the scout? outram and havelock breaking their way through the fell mutineers? surely, the pibroch of europe is ringing again in our ears! all on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout; havelock's glorious highlanders answer with conquering cheers. xv. forth from their holes and their hidings our women and children come out, blessing the wholesome white faces of havelock's good fusileers, kissing the war-hardened hand of the highlander wet with their tears. dance to the pibroch! saved! we are saved! is it you? is it you? saved by the valor of havelock, saved by the blessing of heaven! "hold it for fifteen days!" we have held it for eighty seven! and ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of england blew. alfred tennyson. sonnets. to one who has been long in city pent, 'tis very sweet to look into the fair and open face of heaven,--to breathe a prayer full in the smile of the blue firmament. who is more happy, when, with heart's content, fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair of wavy grass, and reads a debonair and gentle tale of love and languishment? returning home at evening, with an ear catching the notes of philomel,--an eye watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, he mourns that day so soon has glided by: e'en like the passage of an angel's tear that falls through the clear ether silently. j. keats. 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. william wordsworth. when i consider how my light is spent ere half my days in this dark world and wide, and that one talent which is death to hide, lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent to serve therewith my maker, and present my true account, lest he returning chide. doth god exact day labor, light deny'd, i fondly ask? but patience to prevent that murmur soon replies, god doth not need either man's work or his own gifts; who best bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, and post o'er land and ocean without rest; they also serve who only stand and wait. john milton. 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. 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. elizabeth barrett bbowning. is there, for honest poverty. i. is there, for honest poverty, that hangs his head, and a' that? the coward slave, we pass him by, we dare be poor for a' that! for a' that, and a' that, our toils obscure, and a' that; the rank is but the guinea-stamp, the man's the gowd for a' that. ii. what though on hamely fare we dine. wear hodden gray and a' that, gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, a man's a man, for a' that! for a' that, and a' that, their tinsel show, and a' that; the honest man, though e'er sae poor, is king o' men for a' that! iii. ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, wha struts, and stares, and a' that; though hundreds worship at his word, he's but a coof for a' that: for a' that, and a' that, his riband, star, and a' that; the man of independent mind, he looks and laughs at a' that! iv. a king can mak a belted knight, a marquis, duke, and a' that; but an honest man's aboon his might, guid faith he maunna fa' that! for a' that, and a' that, their dignities, and a' that, the pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, are higher rank than a' that. v. then let us pray that come it may-as come it will for a' that-that sense and worth, o'er a' the earth may bear the gree, and a' that; for a' that, and a' that, it's coming yet for a' that, that man to man, the warld o'er, shall brothers be for a' that. robert burns. chapter iv. forming the elements. hamlet to the players. 1. speak the speech, i pray you, as i pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, i had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. 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 your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness. 2. oh, it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwigpated 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 shows, and noise: i would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing termagant; it out-herods herod: pray you, avoid it. 3. be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. 4. now this, overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of which one, must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. oh, there be players, that i have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of christians, nor the gait of christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted, and bellowed, that i have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. william shakespeare. the boy and the angel. morning, evening, noon and night, "praise god!" sang theocrite. then to his poor trade he turned, whereby the daily meal was earned. hard he labored, long and well; o'er his work the boy's curls fell. but ever, at each period, he stopped and sang, "praise god!" ii. then back again his curls he threw, and cheerful turned to work anew. said blaise, the listening monk, "well done; i doubt not thou art heard, my son: as well as if thy voice to-day were praising god, the pope's great way. this easter day, the pope at rome praises god from peter's dome." iii. said theocrite, "would god that i might praise him, that great way, and die!" night passed, day shone, and theocrite was gone. with god a day endures alway, a thousand years are but a day. god said in heaven, "nor day nor night now brings the voice of my delight." iv. then gabriel, like a rainbow's birth, spread his wings and sank to earth; entered, in flesh, the empty cell, lived there, and played the craftsman well; and morning, evening, noon and night, praised god in place of theocrite. and from a boy, to youth he grew: the man put off the stripling's hue: v. the man matured and fell away into the season of decay: and ever o'er the trade he bent, and ever lived on earth content. (he did god's will; to him, all one if on the earth or in the sun.) god said, "a praise is in mine ear; there is no doubt in it, no fear: vi. "so sing old worlds, and so new worlds that from my footstool go. clearer loves sound other ways; i miss my little human praise." then forth sprang gabriel's wings, off fell the flesh disguise, remained the cell. 'twas easter day: he flew to rome, and paused above saint peter's dome. vii. in the tiring-room close by the great outer gallery, with his holy vestments dight, stood the new pope, theocrite; and all his past career came back upon him clear, since when, a boy, he plied his trade, till on his life the sickness weighed; viii. and in his cell, when death drew near, an angel in a dream brought cheer: and rising from the sickness drear, he grew a priest, and now stood here. to the east with praise he turned, and on his sight the angel burned. "i bore thee from thy craftsman's cell, and set thee here; i did not well, ix. "vainly i left my angel-sphere, vain was thy dream of many a year. thy voice's praise seemed weak: it dropped-creation's chorus stopped! go back and praise again the early way, while i remain. with that weak voice of our disdain, take up creation's pausing strain. x. "back to the cell and poor employ; resume the craftsman and the boy!" theocrite grew old at home; a new pope dwelt at peter's dome. one vanished as the other died: they sought god side by side. robert browning. speech and silence. 1. he who speaks honestly cares not, needs not care, though his words be preserved to remotest time. the dishonest speaker, not he only who purposely utters falsehoods, but he who does not purposely, and with sincere heart, utter truth, and truth alone; who babbles he knows not what, and has clapped no bridle on his tongue, but lets it run racket, ejecting chatter and futility--is among the most indisputable malefactors omitted, or inserted, in the criminal calendar. 2. to him that will well consider it, idle speaking is precisely the beginning of all hollowness, halfness, infidelity (want of faithfulness); it is the genial atmosphere in which rank weeds of every kind attain the mastery over noble fruits in man's life, and utterly choke them out: one of the most crying maladies of these days, and to be testified against, and in all ways to the uttermost withstood. 3. wise, of a wisdom far beyond our shallow depth, was that old precept, "watch thy tongue; out of it are the issues of life!" man is properly an incarnated word: the word that he speaks is the man himself. were eyes put into our head, that we might see, or that we might fancy, and plausibly pretend, we had seen? was the tongue suspended there, that it might tell truly what we had seen, and make man the soul's brother of man; or only that it might utter vain sounds, jargon, soul-confusing, and so divide man, as by enchanting walls of darkness, from union with man? 4. thou who wearest that cunning, heaven-made organ, a tongue, think well of this. speak not, i passionately entreat thee, till thy thought have silently matured itself, till thou have other than mad and mad-making noises to emit: hold thy tongue till some meaning lie behind, to set it wagging. 5. consider the significance of silence: it is boundless, never by meditating to be exhausted, unspeakably profitable to thee! cease that chaotic hubbub, wherein thy own soul runs to waste, to confused suicidal dislocation and stupor; out of silence comes thy strength. "speech is silvern, silence is golden; speech is human, silence is divine." 6. fool! thinkest thou that because no one stands near with parchment and blacklead to note thy jargon, it therefore dies and is harmless? nothing dies, nothing can die. no idlest word thou speakest but is a seed cast into time, and grows through all eternity! the recording angel, consider it well, is no fable, but the truest of truths: the paper tablets thou canst burn; of the "iron leaf" there is no burning. thomas carlyle. the rich man and the poor man. i. so goes the world;--if wealthy, you may call this friend, that brother;--friends and brothers all; though you are worthless--witless--never mind it: you may have been a stable-boy--what then? 'tis wealth, good sir, makes honorable men. you seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it. ii. but if you are poor, heaven help you! though your sire had royal blood within him, and though you possess the intellect of angels, too, 'tis all in vain;--the world will ne'er inquire on such a score:--why should it take the pains? 'tis easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains. iii. i once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever, witty and wise:--he paid a man a visit, and no one noticed him, and no one ever gave him a welcome. "strange!" cried i, "whence is it?" he walked on this side, then on that, he tried to introduce a social chat; now here, now there, in vain he tried; some formally and freezingly replied, and some said by their silence--"better stay at home." iv. a rich man burst the door; as croesus rich, i'm sure he could not pride himself upon his wit, and as for wisdom, he had none of it; he had what's better; he had wealth. what a confusion!--all stand up erect-these crowd around to ask him of his health; these bow in honest duty and respect; and these arrange a sofa or a chair, and these conduct him there. "allow me, sir, the honor;"--then a bow down to the earth--is't possible to show meet gratitude for such kind condescension? v. the poor man hung his head, and to himself he said, "this is indeed beyond my comprehension;" then looking round, one friendly face he found, and said, "pray tell me why is wealth preferred to wisdom?"--"that's a silly question, friend!" replied the other--"have you never heard, a man may lend his store of gold or silver ore, but wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?" khemnitzer. the gathering of the fairies. i. 'tis the middle watch of a summer's night-the earth is dark, but the heavens are bright; naught is seen in the vault on high but the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, and the flood which rolls its milky hue, a river of light on the welkin blue. the moon looks down on old cro'nest; she mellows the shades on his craggy breast; and seems his huge gray form to throw in a silver cone on the waves below. his sides are broken by spots of shade, by the walnut-bough and the cedar made, and through their clustering branches dark glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark, like starry twinkles that momently peak through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack. ii. the stars are on the moving stream, and fling, as its ripples gently flow, a burnished length of wavy beam in an eel-like, spiral line below; the winds are whist, and the owl is still, the bat in the shelvy rock is hid. and naught is heard on the lonely hill but the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill of the gauze-winged katy-did, and the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill, who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings, ever a note of wail and woe, till the morning spreads her rosy wings, and earth and sky in her glances glow. iii. 'tis the hour of fairy ban and spell;-the wood-tick has kept the minutes well; he has counted them all with click and stroke deep in the heart of the mountain-oak; and he has awakened the sentry elve who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, to bid him ring the hour of twelve, and call the fays to their revelry; twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell-'twas made of the white snail's pearly shell. "midnight comes, and all is well! hither, hither wing your way! 'tis the dawn of the fairy-day!" iv. they come from beds of lichen green, they creep from the mullein's velvet screen, some on the backs of beetles fly from the silver tops of moon-touched trees, where they swing in their cobweb hammocks high, and rocked about in the evening breeze; some from the hum-bird's downy nest-they had driven him out by elfin power, and, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, had slumbered there till the charmed hour; some had lain in the scoop of the rock, with glittering rising-stars inlaid; and some had opened the four-o'clock, and stole within its purple shade. and now they throng the moonlight glade, above--below--on every side, their little minim forms arrayed in the tricksy pomp of fairy pride. v. they come not now to print the lea, in freak and dance around the tree, or at the mushroom board to sup, and drink the dew from the buttercup;-a scene of sorrow waits them now. for an ouphe has broken his vestal vow; he has loved an earthly maid, and left for her his woodland shade; he has lain upon her lip of dew, and sunned him in her eyes of blue, fanned her cheek with his wing of air, played in the ringlets of her hair, and, nestling on her snowy breast, forgot the lily-king's behest,-for this the shadowy tribes of air to the elfin court must haste away!-and now they stand expectant there, to hear the doom of the culprit fay. vi. the throne was reared upon the grass, of spice-wood and of sassafras; on pillars of mottled tortoise-shell hung the burnished canopy, and o'er it gorgeous curtains fell of the tulip's crimson drapery. the monarch sat on his judgment-seat, on his brow the crown imperial shone, the prisoner fay was at his feet, and his peers were ranged around the throne. joseph rodman drake. the song of the rain. lo! the long, slender spears, bow they quiver and flash where the clouds send their cavalry down! rank and file by the million the rain-lancers dash over mountain and river and town: thick the battle-drops fall--but they drip not in blood; the trophy of war is the green fresh bud: oh, the rain, the plentiful rain! ii. the pastures lie baked, and the furrow is bare, the wells they yawn empty and dry; but a rushing of waters is heard in the air, and a rainbow leaps out in the sky. hark! the heavy drops pelting the sycamore leaves, how they wash tha wide pavement, and sweep from the eaves! oh, the rain, the plentiful rain! iii. see, the weaver throws wide his own swinging pane, the kind drops dance in on the floor; and his wife brings her flower-pots to drink the sweet rain on the step by her half-open door; at the tune on the skylight, far over his head, smiles their poor crippled lad on his hospital bed. oh, the rain, the plentiful rain! iv. and away, far from men, where high mountains tower, the little green mosses rejoice, and the bud-heated heather nods to the shower, and the hill-torrents lift up their voice: and the pools in the hollows mimic the fight of the rain, as their thousand points dart up in the light; oh, the rain, the plentiful rain! v. and deep in the fir-wood below, near the plain, a single thrush pipes full and sweet, how days of clear shining will come after rain, waving meadows, and thick growing wheat; so the voice of hope sings, at the heart of our fears, of the harvest that springs from a great nation's tears: oh, the rain, the plentiful rain! spectator. hearty reading. 1. curiosity is a passion very favorable to the love of study, and a passion very susceptible of increase by cultivation. sound travels so many feet in a second; and light travels so many feet in a second. nothing more probable: but you do not care how light and sound travel. very likely: but make yourself care; get up, shake yourself well, pretend to care, make believe to care, and very soon you will care, and care so much that you will sit for hours thinking about light and sound, and be extremely angry with any one who interrupts you in your pursuits; and tolerate no other conversation but about light and sound; and catch yourself plaguing everybody to death who approaches you, with the discussion of these subjects. 2. i am sure that a man ought to read as he would grasp a nettle: do it lightly, and you get molested; grasp it with all your strength, and you feel none of its asperities. there is nothing so horrible as languid study, when you sit looking at the clock, wishing the time was over, or that somebody would call on you and put you out of your misery. the only way to read with any efficacy is to read so heartily that dinner-time comes two hours before you expected it. 3. to sit with your livy before you, and hear the geese cackling that saved the capitol: and to see with your own eyes the carthaginian sutlers gathering up the rings of the roman knights after the battle of cannae, and heaping them into bushels; and to be so intimately present at the actions you are reading of that when anybody knocks at the door it will take you two or three seconds to determine whether you are in your own study, or in the plains of lombardy, looking at hannibal's weather-beaten face, and admiring the splendor of his single eye. 4. this is the only kind of study which is not tiresome; and almost the only kind which is not useless: this is the knowledge which gets into the system, and which a man carries about and uses like his limbs, without perceiving that it is extraneous, weighty, or inconvenient. sydney smith. ivry. i. now glory to the lord of hosts, from whom all glories are! and glory to our sovereign liege, king henry of navarre! now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, through the corn-fields green, and sunny vines, o pleasant land of france! and thou rochelle, our own rochelle, proud city of the waters, again let rapture light the eyes of all thy murmuring daughters; as thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy; for cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war! hurrah! hurrah! for ivry, and henry of navarre! ii. oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, we saw the army of the league drawn out in long array; with all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, and appenzel's stout infantry, and egmont's flemish spears, there rode the brood of false lorraine, the curses of our land; and dark mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; and, as we looked on them, we thought of seine's empurpled flood, and good coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; and we cried unto the living god, who rules the fate of war, to fight for his own holy name, and henry of navarre. iii. the king is come to marshal us, in all his armor dressed; and he has bound a snow white plume upon his gallant crest. he looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye, he looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, down all our line, a deafening shout, "god save our lord the king!" "and if my standard bearer fall, as fall full well he may-for never i saw promise yet of such a bloody fray-press where you see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war, and be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of navarre." iv. hurrah! the foes are moving. hark to the mingled din, of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. the fiery duke is pricking fast across saint-andre's plain, with all the hireling chivalry of guelders and almayne now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of france, charge for the golden lilies--upon them with the lance! a thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, a thousand knights are pressing close behind the snowwhite crest; and in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of navarre. v. now god be praised, the day is ours; mayenne hath turned his rein; d'aumale hath cried for quarter; the flemish count is slain; their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a biscay gale; the field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. and then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, remember saint bartholomew! was passed from man to man. but out spake gentle henry--"no frenchman is my foe; down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, as our sovereign lord, king henry, the soldier of navarre? vi. right well fought all the frenchmen who fought for france to-day; and many a lordly banner god gave them for a prey. but we of the religion have borne us best in fight; and the good lord of rosny hath ta'en the cornet white-our own true maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, the cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false lorraine, up with it high; unfurl it wide--that all the host may know how god hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church such woe. then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for henry of navarre. vii. ho! maidens of vienna! ho! matrons of lucerne-weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. ho! philip, send, for charity, thy mexican pistoles, that antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. ho! gallant nobles of the league, look that your arms be bright; ho! burghers of st. genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night; for our god hath crushed the tyrant, our god hath raised the slave, and mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. then glory to his holy name, for whom all glories are; and glory to our sovereign lord, king henry of navarre! lord macaulay the daffodils. i. 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. ii. continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the milky way, they stretch'd in never-ending line along the margin of the bay; ten thousand saw i at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance. iii. the waves beside them danced; but they out-did 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; iv. 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. wordsworth cheerfulness. 1. a cheerful man is pre-eminently a useful man. he knows that there is much misery, but that misery is not the rule of life. he sees that in every state people may be cheerful; the lambs skip, birds sing and fly joyously, puppies play, kittens are full of joy, the whole air is full of careering and rejoicing insects-that everywhere the good outbalances the bad, and that every evil that there is has its compensating balm. 2. then the brave man, as our german cousins say, possesses the world, whereas the melancholy man does not even possess his share of it. exercise, or continued employment of some kind, will make a man cheerful; but sitting at home, brooding and thinking, or doing little, will bring gloom. the reaction of this feeling is wonderful. it arises from a sense of duty done, and it also enables us to do our duty. 3. cheerful people live long in our memory. we remember joy more readily than sorrow, and always look back with tenderness on the brave and cheerful. we can all cultivate our tempers, and one of the employments of some poor mortals is to cultivate, cherish, and bring to perfection, a thoroughly bad one; but we may be certain that to do so is a very grave error and sin, which, like all others, brings its own punishment; though, unfortunately, it does not punish itself only. 4. addison says of cheerfulness, that it lightens sickness, poverty, affliction; converts ignorance into an amiable simplicity, and renders deformity itself agreeable; and he says no more than the truth. 5. "give us, therefore, oh! give us"--let us cry with carlyle-"the man who sings at his work! he will do more in the same time, --he will do it better,--he will persevere longer. one is scarcely sensible of fatigue whilst he marches to music. the very stars are said to make harmony as they revolve in their spheres. 6. "wondrous is the strength of cheerfulness, altogether past calculation its powers of endurance. efforts, to be permanently useful, must be uniformly joyous,--a spirit all sunshine, graceful from very gladness, beautiful because bright." 7. such a spirit is within everybody's reach. let us but get out into the light of things. the morbid man cries out that there is always enough wrong in the world to make a man miserable. conceded; but wrong is ever being righted; there is always enough that is good and right to make us joyful. 8. there is ever sunshine somewhere; and the brave man will go on his way rejoicing, content to look forward if under a cloud, not bating one jot of heart or hope if for a moment cast down: honoring his occupation, whatever it may be; rendering even rags respectable by the way he wears them; and not only being happy himself, but causing the happiness of others. j. h. friswell. "april in the hills." i. to-day the world is wide and fair with sunny fields of lucid air, and waters dancing everywhere; the snow is almost gone; the noon is builded high with light, and over heaven's liquid height, in steady fleets serene and white, the happy clouds go on. ii. the channels run, the bare earth steams, and every hollow rings and gleams with jetting falls and dashing streams; the rivers burst and fill; the fields are full of little lakes, and when the romping wind awakes the water ruffles blue and shakes, and the pines roar on the hill. iii. the crows go by, a noisy throng; about the meadows all day long the shore-lark drops his brittle song; and up tihe leafless tree the nut-hatch runs, and nods, and clings; the bluebird dips with flashing wings, the robin flutes, the sparrow sings, and the swallows float and flee. iv. i break the spirit's cloudy bands, a wanderer in enchanted lands, i feel the sun upon my hands; and far from care and strife the broad earth bids me forth, i rise with lifted brow and upward eyes. i bathe my spirit in blue skies, and taste the springs of life v. i feel the tumult of new birth; i waken with the wakening earth; i match the bluebird in her mirth; and wild with wind and sun, a treasurer of immortal days, i roam the glorious world with praise, the hillsides and the woodland ways, till the earth and i are one. archibald lampman. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see 34498-h.htm or 34498-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/34498/34498-h/34498-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/34498/34498-h.zip) [illustration: henry ward beecher] evolution of expression by charles wesley emerson founder of emerson college of oratory a compilation of selections illustrating the four stages of development in art as applied to oratory in four volumes, with key to each chapter twenty-eighth edition volume ii--revised [illustration: expression necessary to evolution.] boston: emerson college of oratory publishing department chickering hall, huntington avenue 1915 copyrighted by c. w. emerson 1905 the barta press boston contents page. slide 7 vital slide 8 slide in volume 9 forming pictures 10 _chapter i._ tact and talent _london atlas_ 13 shylock to antonio _william shakespeare_ 15 the cynic _h. w. beecher_ 16 good by, proud world _r. w. emerson_ 18 the destruction of sennacherib _lord byron_ 19 unwritten music _n. p. willis_ 20 laus mortis _frederic lawrence knowles_ 23 taxation of the colonies _edmund burke_ 24 my heart leaps up _william wordsworth_ 29 forest scene from as you like it _william shakespeare_ 30 _chapter ii._ the rising in 1776 _t. b. read_ 35 the tent-scene between brutus and cassius _william shakespeare_ 39 the forging of the anchor _s. ferguson_ 43 supposed speech of john adams _daniel webster_ 48 life and song _sidney lanier_ 53 gathering song of donald the black _sir walter scott_ 54 nutting _william wordsworth_ 55 the dodson family _george eliot_ 58 after the march kain _william wordsworth_ 66 _chapter iii._ first battles of the revolution _edward everett_ 67 the antiquity of freedom _w. c. byrant_ 70 national bankruptcy _mirabeau_ 73 the lantern bearers _robert louis stevenson_ 74 tarpeia _louise imogen guiney_ 78 the bells _e. a. poe_ 82 the temperance question _wendell phillips_ 86 sheridan's ride _t. b. read_ 89 to a pupil _walt whitman_ 92 _chapter iv._ the pickwickians on ice _charles dickens_ 93 the realm of fancy _j. keats_ 103 the battle of naseby _lord macaulay_ 106 the glories of morning _edward everett_ 109 the chambered nautilus _o. w. holmes_ 111 autumn _h. w. beecher_ 112 midsummer _j. t. trowbridge_ 116 the kitten and falling leaves _william wordsworth_ 118 summer storm _james russell lowell_ 121 jaques' seven ages of man _william shakespeare_ 125 the parts. the attractive or melodramatic period. love took up the harp of life and smote on all the chords with might, smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight. tennyson. the power to detach, and to magnify by detaching, is the essence of rhetoric in the hands of the orator and the poet. this rhetoric, or power to fix the momentary eminence of an object, so remarkable in burke, in byron, in carlyle--depends upon the depth of the artist's insight of that object he contemplates. emerson. for use of selections in this volume especial thanks are tendered houghton, mifflin & co., frederic lawrence knowles, horace traubel, secretary walt whitman fellowship, and j. t. trowbridge. chapter i. slide. thus far in the student's development, his mind has dealt chiefly with each subject as a _whole_. now he begins to find a new interest in showing his hearers that the discourse is made up of a series of definite _parts_. he takes delight in fixing their attention upon each part in succession. as in crossing a brook on stones, a person poises for a moment, first on one stone, then on another, so the speaker balances the minds of his hearers, first on one thought, then another, poising for a moment on each distinct point before leaving it for the next. the teacher should now lead the pupil to attract attention to separate parts as _wholes_. we are entering the melodramatic stage, where abandon to each part is as necessary as it was in the beginning to the spirit of the whole. the pupil must see the parts and give them to others at any cost. in the history of art this step is marked by the grotesque; the pupil should be encouraged to stand out the points of thought boldly, regardless of artistic effect. this step is of vital importance in all future development, and unless emphasized now, will require constant effort hereafter. sharp contrasts are brought strongly to bear in presenting vividly and distinctly separate points of thought. as the pupil earnestly strives to impress each point of thought, in all its new interest, his voice becomes more decidedly modulated, rising and falling in distinct intervals. thought of each part as a whole and by contrast, together with the desire to impart it, is reported in varied inflections which add a new charm to expression. through slides the voice of the speaker may be said to express the tune of the thought. analysis. example: "tact and talent." (page 13.) _unit, or whole:_ a comparison of tact and talent. _parts_: (_a_) the characteristics of tact. _sub-parts_: 1. tact is infinitely resourceful. paragraph 1, etc. 2. tact is the power which achieves results. paragraph 2, etc. (other "sub-parts" may be enumerated.) (_b_) the characteristics of talent. (a number of "sub-parts" are embodied.) the teacher should view the work of the pupil with special reference to the parts of this selection, leading him to impress these parts, or successive points of thought, upon his audience. the continued antithesis makes this selection a good one for the purpose; parts that are set in contrast easily engage the attention. chapter ii. vital slide. as the mind of the pupil separates each thought from the other main thoughts of the discourse, and holds it before the minds of his hearers, he finds it more and more attractive. his endeavor to interest others deepens his own interest, and the slides in his voice report this increased concentration, in increased vitality. the pupil seeing the spirit and life of the whole in each _vital part_, or part vital to the life of the unit, desires to make each part live as a whole in the minds of the listeners. he no longer touches it with uncertain stroke; the slide has become a vital slide. analysis. example: "the rising of 1776." (page 35.) _unit, or whole_: a pastor of early revolutionary times who makes his sunday sermon an appeal for freedom. _parts_: (_a_) the spirit of the times. stanza 1. (_b_) the church and the people. stanzas 2 and 3. (_c_) the pastor and his appeal. stanzas 4, 5, 6 and part of 9. (_d_) the effect of the appeal. stanzas 7, 8 and 9. let the student's earnest endeavor be to interest his audience in these essential parts. the words which especially reveal these vital parts of the selection will be given with no uncertain stroke. if the interest of both speaker and listener is fully aroused, the slide has become a vital one. remember always that the desired effect in the voice results from the mental concept; it is not developed mechanically, but grows out of thought. chapter iii. slide in volume. as the mind of the student continues to dwell upon the parts of the subject as separate and distinct wholes, there is gradually developed within him an appreciation of the value of each part. out of the effort to make each thought live in the minds of the hearers is born the desire to reveal the value of that thought. this desire is reported in the voice through slide in volume. the significance of the term volume has been explained in an earlier chapter. the valuable parts that the speaker presents are expressed through inflections that suggest breadth and freedom. each part is felt to have a value of its own, intellectual, moral, esthetic, or spiritual. freedom of will is expressed in the voice by slide in volume, for the speaker, convinced of the truth of his thought, is learning obedience to it, and obedience is always the way to freedom. it must be remembered that the intellect determines the value of the parts. it is true that the discernment is sharpened by the sensibility; but the feelings, unguided by the thought, may be misleading. feeling is dangerous unless controlled by thought. all sentiment must be directed to the audience "thought foremost"--the thought itself must induce the feeling. analysis. example: "the bells." (page 82.) _unit of thought_: varied bells, expressing varied emotion. _parts_: (_a_) the tinkling bells of merriment. stanza 1. (_b_) the mellow bells of love. stanza 2. (_c_) the clanging bells of terror. stanza 3. (_d_) the tolling bells of menace. stanza 4. this poem is well adapted to develop power in emphasizing parts: the several parts are very distinctly differentiated, as the student must reveal through the rendering. he should strive to reveal them as graphically as the author has set them forth. moreover, he should endeavor to make their value felt. in doing this, he will perceive the varying scale of values; some of the bells reflect great value, others less. chapter iv. forming pictures. the student's persistent endeavor to impress the successive parts of his theme upon the minds in his presence will eventually lead him to see those parts in picturesque groupings. as he flashes these pictures upon the mental vision of the audience, they become clearer to his own vision. his own power of imagery is in proportion to his ability to impart this power to others. herein lies one of the most helpful means of cultivating the imagination,--the eye of the intellect,--the basis of all sympathy. every effort to tell a story clearly so as to impress its details upon the minds of others, every attempt to picture a landscape, a meadow, a river, a sunset vividly to others, quickens and strengthens the pupil's own imaging power. his attempt to make his listeners put themselves in the place of another, see through the eyes and from the point of view of a wordsworth or shakespeare, quickens his own imagination, broadens his sympathies, and develops his intellect as nothing else can. "the man of imagination has lived all lives, has enjoyed all heavens, and felt the pang of every hell." the student must continue to watch for the effect of his words in other minds. he cannot afford to be introspective while speaking, for the mind cannot be in the creative and in the critical state at the same time. the pictures, then, must be formed in the minds of the hearers; they are the only canvas upon which he can hope to paint his picturesque parts. they are the mirror in which the pictures of his thought must be reflected, as the stars are mirrored in the waters of the lake. analysis. example: "the chambered nautilus." (page 111.) _unit, or whole_: the lesson of the chambered nautilus. _parts_: (_a_) the nautilus. stanzas 1, 2. (_b_) its method of growth. stanza 3. (_c_) its message to the soul. stanzas 4, 5. lead the pupil to present a clear picture of "the ship of pearl," of its own original environment and course of evolution, and of the beautiful figure which embodies the lesson. _chapter i._ slide. tact and talent. 1. talent is something, but tact is everything. talent is serious, sober, grave, and respectable; tact is all that, and more too. it is not a sixth sense, but it is the life of all the five. it is the open eye, the quick ear, the judging taste, the keen smell, and the lively touch; it is the interpreter of all riddles, the surmounter of all difficulties, the remover of all obstacles. it is useful in all places, and at all times; it is useful in solitude, for it shows a man his way into the world; it is useful in society, for it shows him his way through the world. 2. talent is power, tact is skill; talent is weight, tact is momentum; talent knows what to do, tact knows how to do it; talent makes a man respectable, tact will make him respected; talent is wealth, tact is ready money. 3. for all the practical purposes of life, tact carries it against talent, ten to one. take them to the theatre, and put them against each other on the stage, and talent shall produce you a tragedy that will scarcely live long enough to be condemned, while tact keeps the house in a roar, night after night, with its successful farces. there is no want of dramatic talent, there is no want of dramatic tact; but they are seldom together: so we have successful pieces which are not respectable, and respectable pieces which are not successful. 4. take them to the bar, and let them shake their learned curls at each other in legal rivalry. talent sees its way clearly, but tact is first at its journey's end. talent has many a compliment from the bench, but tact touches fees from attorneys and clients. talent speaks learnedly and logically, tact triumphantly. talent makes the world wonder that it gets on no faster, tact excites astonishment that it gets on so fast. and the secret is, that tact has no weight to carry; it makes no false steps; it hits the right nail on the head; it loses no time; it takes all hints; and, by keeping its eye on the weathercock, is ready to take advantage of every wind that blows. 5. take them into the church. talent has always something worth hearing, tact is sure of abundance of hearers; talent may obtain a good living, tact will make one; talent gets a good name, tact a great one; talent convinces, tact converts; talent is an honor to the profession, tact gains honor from the profession. 6. place them in the senate. talent has the ear of the house, but tact wins its heart, and has its votes; talent is fit for employment, but tact is fitted for it. tact has a knack of slipping into place with a sweet silence and glibness of movement, as a billiard ball insinuates itself into the pocket. it seems to know everything, without learning anything. it has served an invisible and extemporary apprenticeship; it wants no drilling; it never ranks in the awkward squad; it has no left hand, no deaf ear, no blind side. it puts on no looks of wondrous wisdom, it has no air of profundity, but plays with the details of place as dexterously as a well-taught hand flourishes over the keys of the pianoforte. it has all the air of commonplace, and all the force and power of genius. london atlas. shylock to antonio. signor antonio, many a time and oft in the rialto you have rated me about my moneys and my usances: still i have borne it with a patient shrug; for sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. you call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit upon my jewish gaberdine, and all for use of that which is mine own. well, then, it now appears, you need my help: go to, then; you come to me, and you say "shylock, we would have moneys." you say so; you that did void your rheum upon my beard, and foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur over your threshold; moneys is your suit. what should i say to you? should i not say- "hath a dog money? is it possible a cur can lend three thousand ducats?" or shall i bend low, and in a bondman's key, with bated breath and whispering humbleness, say this- "fair sir, you spit on me on wednesday last; you spurned me such a day; another time you called me dog; and for these courtesies i'll lend you thus much moneys!" shakespeare. the cynic. 1. the cynic is one who never sees a good quality in a man, and never fails to see a bad one. he is the human owl, vigilant in darkness and blind to light, mousing for vermin, and never seeing noble game. 2. the cynic puts all human actions into only two classes--openly bad and secretly bad. all virtue, and generosity, and disinterestedness, are merely the appearance of good, but selfish at the bottom. he holds that no man does a good thing except for profit. the effect of his conversation upon your feelings is to chill and sear them, to send you away sour and morose. 3. his criticisms and innuendoes fall indiscriminately upon every lovely thing like frost upon the flowers. if mr. a. is pronounced a religious man, he will reply: yes, on sundays. mr. b. has just joined the church: certainly, the elections are coming on. the minister of the gospel is called an example of diligence: it is his trade. such a man is generous: of other men's money. this man is obliging: to lull suspicion and cheat you. that man is upright, because he is green. 4. thus his eye strains out every good quality, and takes in only the bad. to him religion is hypocrisy, honesty a preparation for fraud, virtue only a want of opportunity, and undeniable purity, asceticism. the livelong day he will coolly sit with sneering lip, transfixing every character that is presented. 5. it is impossible to indulge in such habitual severity of opinion upon our fellow-men, without injuring the tenderness and delicacy of our own feelings. a man will be what his most cherished feelings are. if he encourage a noble generosity, every feeling will be enriched by it; if he nurse bitter and envenomed thoughts, his own spirit will absorb the poison, and he will crawl among men as a burnished adder, whose life is mischief, and whose errand is death. 6. he who hunts for flowers will find flowers; and he who loves weeds will find weeds. let it be remembered that no man, who is not himself morally diseased, will have a relish for disease in others. reject, then, the morbid ambition of the cynic, or cease to call yourself a man. h. w. beecher. good by, proud world. i. good by, proud world! i'm going home; thou'rt not my friend, and i'm not thine. long through the weary crowds i roam, a river-ark on the ocean brine. long i've been tossed like the driven foam and now, proud world, i'm going home. ii. good by to flattery's fawning face; to grandeur, with his wise grimace; to upstart wealth's averted eye; to supple office, low and high; to crowded halls, to court and street; to frozen hearts and hasting feet; to those who go and those who come; good by, proud world! i'm going home. iii. i am going to my own hearthstone, bosomed in yon green hills alone- a secret nook in a pleasant land, whose groves the frolic fairies planned,- where arches green, the livelong day, echo the blackbird's roundelay, and vulgar feet have never trod,- a spot that is sacred to thought and god. iv. o, when i am safe in my sylvan home, i tread on the pride of greece and rome; and when i am stretched beneath the pines where the evening star so holy shines, i laugh at the lore and the pride of man, at the sophist schools, and the learned clan; for what are they all, in their high conceit, when man in the bush with god may meet? ralph waldo emerson. the destruction of sennacherib. i. the assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, and his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; and the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea where the blue wave rolls nightly on deep galilee. ii. like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, that host with their banners at sunset were seen; like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, that host on the morrow lay withered and strewn. iii. for the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, and breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; and the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, and their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still. iv. and there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, but through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; and the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, and cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. v. and there lay the rider distorted and pale, with the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; and the tents were all silent, the banners alone, the lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. vi. and the widows of ashur are loud in their wail, and the idols are broke in the temple of baal; and the might of the gentile, unsmote by the sword, hath melted like snow in the glance of the lord! lord byron. unwritten music. 1. there is unwritten music. the world is full of it. i hear it every hour that i wake; and my waking sense is surpassed sometimes by my sleeping, though that is a mystery. there is no sound of simple nature that is not music. it is all god's work, and so harmony. you may mingle, and divide, and strengthen the passages of its great anthem; and it is still melody,--melody. 2. the low winds of summer blow over the waterfalls and the brooks, and bring their voices to your ear, as if their sweetness were linked by an accurate finger; yet the wind is but a fitful player; and you may go out when the tempest is up and hear the strong trees moaning as they lean before it, and the long grass hissing as it sweeps through, and its own solemn monotony over all; and the dripple of that same brook, and the waterfall's unaltered bass shall still reach you, in the intervals of its power, as much in harmony as before, and as much a part of its perfect and perpetual hymn. 3. there is no accident of nature's causing which can bring in discord. the loosened rock may fall into the abyss, and the overblown tree rush down through the branches of the wood, and the thunder peal awfully in the sky; and sudden and violent as their changes seem, their tumult goes up with the sound of wind and waters, and the exquisite ear of the musician can detect no jar. 4. i have read somewhere of a custom in the highlands, which, in connection with the principle it involves, is exceedingly beautiful. it is believed that, to the ear of the dying (which just before death becomes always exquisitely acute,) the perfect harmony of the voices of nature is so ravishing, as to make him forget his suffering, and die gently, as in a pleasant trance. and so, when the last moment approaches, they take him from the close shieling, and bear him out into the open sky, that he may hear the familiar rushing of the streams. i can believe that is not superstition. i do not think we know how exquisitely nature's many voices are attuned to harmony and to each other. 5. the old philosopher we read of might not have been dreaming when he discovered that the order of the sky was like a scroll of written music, and that two stars (which are said to have appeared centuries after his death, in the very places he mentioned) were wanting to complete the harmony. we know how wonderful are the phenomena of color, how strangely like consummate art the strongest dyes are blended in the plumage of birds, and in the cups of flowers; so that, to the practiced eye of the painter, the harmony is inimitably perfect. 6. it is natural to suppose every part of the universe equally perfect; and it is a glorious and elevating thought, that the stars of heaven are moving on continually to music, and that the sounds we daily listen to are but part of a melody that reaches to the very centre of god's illimitable spheres. n. p. willis. laus mortis. i. nay, why should i fear death, who gives us life and in exchange takes breath? he is like cordial spring that lifts above the soil each buried thing;-ii. like autumn, kind and brief the frost that chills the branches, frees the leaf. like winter's stormy hours, that spread their fleece of snow to save the flowers. iii. the loveliest of all things- life lends us only feet, death gives us wings! fearing no covert thrust, let me walk onward armed with valiant trust. iv. dreading no unseen knife, across death's threshold step from life to life! oh, all ye frightened folk, whether ye wear a crown or bear a yoke, v. laid in one equal bed, when once your coverlet of grass is spread, what daybreak need you fear? the love will rule you there which guides you here! vi. where life, the sower, stands, scattering the ages from his swinging hands, thou waitest, reaper lone, until the multitudinous grain hath grown. vii. scythe-bearer, when thy blade harvest my flesh, let me be unafraid! god's husbandman thou art! in his unwithering sheaves, oh, bind my heart. frederic lawrence knowles. taxation of the colonies. 1. sir: i agree with the honorable gentleman who spoke last, that this subject is not new to this house. very disagreeably to this house, very unfortunately to this nation, and to the peace and prosperity of this whole empire, no topic has been more familiar to us. for nine long years, session after session, we have been lashed round and round this miserable circle of occasional arguments and temporary expedients. 2. i am sure our heads must turn and our stomachs nauseate with them. we have had them in every shape. we have looked at them in every point of view. invention is exhausted; reason is fatigued; experience has given judgment; but obstinacy is not yet conquered. 3. the act of 1767, which grants this tea-duty, sets forth in its preamble, that it was expedient to raise a revenue in america for the support of the civil government there, as well as for purposes still more extensive. about two years after this act was passed, the ministry thought it expedient to repeal five of the duties, and to leave (for reasons best known to themselves) only the sixth standing. 4. but i hear it rung continually in my ears, now and formerly,--"the preamble! what will become of the preamble if you repeal this tax?" the clerk will be so good as to turn to this act, and to read this favorite preamble. 5. "whereas it is expedient that a revenue should be raised in your majesty's dominions in america, for making a more certain and adequate provision for defraying the charge of the administration of justice and support of civil government in such provinces where it shall be found necessary, and towards further defraying the expenses of defending, protecting, and securing the said dominions." 6. you have heard this pompous performance. now, where is the revenue which is to do all these mighty things? five-sixths repealed,--abandoned,--sunk,--gone,--lost forever. does the poor solitary tea-duty support the purposes of this preamble? is not the supply there stated as effectually abandoned as if the tea-duty had perished in the general wreck? here, mr. speaker, is a precious mockery:--a preamble without an act,--taxes granted in order to be repealed,--and the reason of the grant carefully kept up! this is raising a revenue in america! this is preserving dignity in england! 7. never did a people suffer so much for the empty words of a preamble. it must be given up. for on what principle does it stand? this famous revenue stands, at this hour, on all the debate, as a description of revenue not as yet known in all the comprehensive (but too comprehensive!) vocabulary of finance--a preambulary tax. it is, indeed, a tax of sophistry, a tax of pedantry, a tax of disputation, a tax of war and rebellion, a tax for anything but benefit to the imposers or satisfaction to the subject. 8. well! but whatever it is, gentlemen will force the colonists to take the teas. you will force them? has seven years' struggle been yet able to force them? oh, but it seems "we are in the right. the tax is trifling,--in effect rather an exoneration than an imposition; three-fourths of the duty formerly payable on teas exported to america is taken off,--the place of collection is only shifted; instead of the retention of a shilling from the drawback here, it is three-pence custom paid in america." 9. all this, sir, is very true. but this is the very folly and mischief of the act. incredible as it may seem, you know that you have deliberately thrown away a large duty, which you held secure and quiet in your hands, for the vain hope of getting one three-fourths less, through every hazard, through certain litigation, and possibly through war. 10. could anything be a subject of more just alarm to america, than to see you go out of the plain high-road of finance, and give up your most certain revenues and your clearest interest, merely for the sake of insulting the colonies? no man ever doubted that the commodity of tea could bear an imposition of three pence. but no commodity will bear three pence, or will bear a penny, when the general feelings of men are irritated, and two millions of people are resolved not to pay. 11. the feelings of the colonies were formerly the feelings of great britain. theirs were formerly the feelings of mr. hampden, when called upon for the payment of twenty shillings. would twenty shillings have ruined mr. hampden's fortune? no! but the payment of half twenty shillings, on the principle it was demanded, would have made him a slave. it is the weight of that preamble, of which you are so fond, and not the weight of the duty, that the americans are unable and unwilling to bear. 12. it is, then, sir, upon the principle of this measure, and nothing else, that we are at issue. it is a principle of political expediency. your act of 1767 asserts that it is expedient to raise a revenue in america; your act of 1769, which takes away that revenue, contradicts the act of 1767, and by something much stronger than words, asserts that it is not expedient. it is a reflection upon your wisdom to persist in a solemn parliamentary declaration of the expediency of any object, for which, at the same time, you make no provision. 13. and pray, sir, let not this circumstance escape you,--it is very material,--that the preamble of this act which we wish to repeal, is not declaratory of a right, as some gentlemen seem to argue it: it is only a recital of the expediency of a certain exercise of right supposed already to have been asserted; an exercise you are now contending for by ways and means which you confess, though they were obeyed, to be utterly insufficient for their purpose. you are, therefore, at this moment in the awkward situation of fighting for a phantom,--a quiddity,--a thing that wants not only a substance, but even a name,--for a thing which is neither abstract right nor profitable enjoyment. 14. they tell you, sir, that your dignity is tied to it. i know not how it happens, but this dignity of yours is a terrible incumbrance to you; for it has of late been ever at war with your interest, your equity, and every idea of your policy. show the thing you contend for to be reason, show it to be common sense, show it to be the means of attaining some useful end, and then i am content to allow it what dignity you please. but what dignity is derived from the perseverance in absurdity is more than ever i could discern. 15. the honorable gentleman has said well, that this subject does not stand as it did formerly. oh, certainly not! every hour you continue on this ill-chosen ground, your difficulties thicken around you; and therefore my conclusion is, remove from a bad position as quickly as you can. the disgrace, and the necessity of yielding, both of them, grow upon you every hour of your delay. edmund burke. my heart leaps up. my heart leaps up when i behold a rainbow in the sky: so was it when my life began, so is it now i am a man, so be it when i shall grow old or let me die! the child is father of the man: and i could wish my days to be bound each to each by natural piety. wordsworth. as you like it. act iii. scene ii. _ros._ [_aside to celia._] i will speak to him like a saucy lackey and under that habit play the knave with him. do you hear, forester? _orl._ very well: what would you? _ros._ i pray you, what is't o'clock? _orl._ you should ask me what time o' day: there's no clock in the forest. _ros._ then there is no true lover in the forest; else sighing every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of time as well as a clock. _orl._ and why not the swift foot of time? had not that been as proper? _ros._ by no means, sir: time travels in divers paces with divers persons. i'll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal, who time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal. _orl._ i prithee, who doth he trot withal? _ros._ marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemniz'd; if the interim be but a se'nnight, time's pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years. _orl._ who ambles time withal? _ros._ with a priest that lacks latin and a rich man that hath not the gout, for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other lives merrily because he feels no pain, the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury; these time ambles withal. _orl._ who doth he galop withal? _ros._ with a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there. _orl._ who stays it still withal? _ros._ with lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how time moves. _orl._ where dwell you, pretty youth? _ros._ with this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat. _orl._ are you native of this place? _ros._ as the cony that you see dwell where she is kindled. _orl._ your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so remov'd a dwelling. _ros._ i have been told so of many: but indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. i have heard him read many lectures against it, and i thank god i am not a woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy offences as he hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal. _orl._ can you remember any of the principal evils laid to the charge of women? _ros._ there were none principal; they were all like one another as half-pence are, every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it. _orl._ i prithee, recount some of them. _ros._ no, i will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. there is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants with carving rosalind on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies on brambles, all, forsooth, deifying the name of rosalind: if i could meet that fancy-monger, i would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him. _orl._ i am he that is so love-shak'd: i pray you, tell me your remedy. _ros._ there is none of my uncle's marks upon you: he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes, i am sure, you are not prisoner. _orl._ what were his marks? _ros._ a lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye, and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not; but i pardon you for that, for simply your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue: then your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbutton'd, your shoe unti'd and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation; but you are no such man; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other. _orl._ fair youth, i would i could make thee believe i love. _ros._ me believe it? you may as soon make her that you love believe it; which, i warrant, she is apter to do than to confess she does: that is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. but, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein rosalind is so admired? _orl._ i swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of rosalind, i am that he, that unfortunate he. _ros._ but are you so much in love as your rhymes speak? _orl._ neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. _ros._ love is merely a madness; and, i tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. yet i profess curing it by counsel. _orl._ did you ever cure any so? _ros._ yes, one; and in this manner. he was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and i set him every day to woo me: at which time would i, being but a moonish youth, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles, for every passion something and for no passion truly any thing, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that i drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic. and thus i cur'd him; and this way will i take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't. _orl._ i would not be cured, youth. _ros._ i would cure you, if you would but call me rosalind, and come every day to my cote and woo me. _orl._ now, by the faith of my love, i will: tell me where it is. _ros._ go with me to it, and i'll show it you: and by the way you shall tell me where in the forest you live. will you go? _orl._ with all my heart, good youth. _ros._ nay, you must call me rosalind. come, sister, will you go? _chapter ii._ vital slide. the rising in 1776. i. out of the north the wild news came, far flashing on its wings of flame, swift as the boreal light which flies at midnight through the startled skies. and there was tumult in the air, the fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, and through the wide land everywhere the answering tread of hurrying feet; while the first oath of freedom's gun came on the blast from lexington; and concord, roused, no longer tame, forgot her old baptismal name, made bare her patriot arm of power, and swelled the discord of the hour. ii. within its shade of elm and oak the church of berkley manor stood; there sunday found the rural folk, and some esteemed of gentle blood. in vain their feet with loitering tread passed 'mid the graves where rank is naught; all could not read the lesson taught in that republic of the dead. iii. how sweet the hour of sabbath talk, the vale with peace and sunshine full where all the happy people walk, decked in their homespun flax and wool! where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom, and every maid with simple art, wears on her breast, like her own heart, a bud whose depths are all perfume; while every garment's gentle stir is breathing rose and lavender. iv. the pastor came; his snowy locks hallowed his brow of thought and care; and calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks, he led into the house of prayer. the pastor rose; the prayer was strong; the psalm was warrior david's song; the text, a few short words of might,- "the lord of hosts shall arm the right!" v. he spoke of wrongs too long endured, of sacred rights to be secured; then from his patriot tongue of flame the startling words for freedom came. the stirring sentences he spake, compelled the heart to glow or quake, and, rising on his theme's broad wing, and grasping in his nervous hand the imaginary battle-brand, in face of death he dared to fling defiance to a tyrant king. vi. even as he spoke, his frame, renewed in eloquence of attitude, rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher; then swept his kindling glance of fire from startled pew to breathless choir; when suddenly his mantle wide his hands impatient flung aside. and, lo! he met their wondering eyes complete in all a warrior's guise. vii. a moment there was awful pause,- when berkley cried, "cease, traitor! cease! god's temple is the house of peace!" the other shouted, "nay, not so, when god is with our righteous cause; his holiest places then are ours, his temples are our forts and towers, that frown upon the tyrant foe; in this, the dawn of freedom's day, there is a time to fight and pray!" viii. and now before the open door- the warrior priest had ordered so- the enlisting trumpet's sudden roar rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, its long reverberating blow, so loud and clear, it seemed the ear of dusty death must wake and hear. and there the startling drum and fife fired the living with fiercer life; while overhead, with wild increase, forgetting its ancient toll of peace, the great bell swung as ne'er before: it seemed as it would never cease; and every word its ardor flung from off its jubilant iron tongue was, "war! war! war!" ix. "who dares"--this was the patriot's cry, as striding from the desk he came,- "come out with me, in freedom's name for her to live, for her to die?" a hundred hands flung up reply, a hundred voices answered "i!" t. b. read. the tent-scene between brutus and cassius. cassius. that you have wronged me doth appear in this: you have condemned and noted lucius pella, for taking bribes here of the sardians; wherein, my letters (praying on his side, because i knew the man) were slighted off. brutus. you wronged yourself, to write in such a case. cas. at such a time as this, it is not meet that every nice offence should bear its comment. bru. let me tell you, cassius, you yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm; to sell and mart your offices for gold, to undeservers. cas. i an itching palm? you know that you are brutus that speak this, or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. bru. the name of cassius honors this corruption, and chastisement doth therefore hide its head. cas. chastisement? bru. remember march, the ides of march remember! did not great julius bleed for justice's sake? what villain touched his body, that did stab, and not for justice?--what! shall one of us, that struck the foremost man of all this world, but for supporting robbers;--shall we now contaminate our fingers with base bribes? and sell the mighty space of our large honors for so much trash as may be grasped thus? i had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, than such a roman. cas. brutus, bay not me: i'll not endure it. you forget yourself, to hedge me in: i am a soldier, i, older in practice, abler than yourself to make conditions. bru. go to; you're not, cassius. cas. i am. bru. i say you are not. cas. urge me no more: i shall forget myself: have mind upon your health: tempt me no further. bru. away, slight man! cas. is't possible! bru. hear me, for i will speak. must i give way and room to your rash choler? shall i be frighted when a madman stares? cas. must i endure all this? bru. all this? ay, more! fret till your proud heart break. go, show your slaves how choleric you are, and make your bondmen tremble. must i budge? must i observe you? must i stand and crouch under your testy humor? you shall digest the venom of your spleen, though it do split you: for, from this day forth, i'll use you for my mirth; yea, for my laughter, when you are waspish. cas. is it come to this? bru. you say you are a better soldier; let it appear so; make your vaunting true, and it shall please me well. for mine own part, i shall be glad to learn of noble men. cas. you wrong me every way; you wrong me, brutus; i said an elder soldier, not a better. did i say better? bru. if you did i care not. cas. when cã¦sar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. bru. peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him! cas. i durst not? bru. no. cas. what! durst not tempt him? bru. for your life you durst not. cas. do not presume too much upon my love; i may do that i shall be sorry for. bru. you have done that which you should be sorry for. there is no terror, cassius, in your threats! for i am armed so strong in honesty, that they pass by me as the idle wind, which i respect not. i did send to you for certain sums of gold, which you denied me:- for i can raise no money by vile means: i had rather coin my heart, and drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring from the hard hands of peasants their vile trash by any indirection. i did send to you for gold to pay my legions; which you denied me. was that done like cassius? should i have answered caius cassius so? when marcus brutus grows so covetous, to lock such rascal counters from his friends, be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts; dash him to pieces! cas. i denied you not. bru. you did. cas. i did not: he was but a fool that brought my answer back.--brutus hath rived my heart, a friend should bear a friend's infirmities; but brutus makes mine greater than they are. bru. i do not, till you practice them on me. cas. you love me not. bru. i do not like your faults. cas. a friendly eye could never see such faults. bru. a flatterer's would not, though they do appear as huge as high olympus. cas. come, antony, and young octavius, come! revenge yourselves alone on cassius: for cassius is a-weary of the world- hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; checked like a bondman; all his faults observed, set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote, to cast into my teeth. o, i could weep my spirit from my eyes!--there is my dagger, and here my naked breast; within, a heart dearer than plutus' mine, richer than gold: if that thou be'st a roman, take it forth: i, that denied thee gold, will give my heart. strike, as thou didst at cã¦sar; for i know, then thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better than ever thou lovedst cassius. bru. sheath your dagger; be angry when you will, it shall have scope: do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. o cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, that carries anger, as the flint bears fire; who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, and straight is cold again. cas. hath cassius lived to be but mirth and laughter to his brutus, when grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him? bru. when i spoke that, i was ill-tempered too. cas. do you confess so much? give me your hand bru. and my heart, too. cas. o brutus! bru. what's the matter? cas. have you not love enough to bear with me, when that rash humor which my mother gave me, makes me forgetful? bru. yes, cassius; and from henceforth, when you are over-earnest with your brutus, he'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. shakespeare. the forging of the anchor. i. come, see the dolphin's anchor forged; 'tis at a white heat now; the bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow the little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound; and fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, all clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare; some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. ii. the windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below, and red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe; it rises, roars, rends all outright--o vulcan, what a glow! 'tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright; the high sun shines not so: the high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show; iii. the roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid row of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe; as, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow sinks on the anvil--all about the faces fiery grow- "hurrah!" they shout--"leap out!--leap out!" bang, bang, the sledges go. iv. leap out, leap out, my masters! leap out and lay on load! let's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and broad for a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, i bode, and i see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road; the low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured from stem to stern, sea after sea, the main-mast by the board; v. the bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains; but courage still, brave mariners, the bower yet remains, and not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky-high. then moves his head, as though he said, "fear nothing--here am i!" vi. swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time, your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime; but while ye swing your sledges, sing, and let the burden be, the anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we. vii. strike in, strike in; the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped; our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery, rich array, for a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, for the yeo-heave-o, and the heave away, and the sighing seaman's cheer. viii. in livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last, a shapely one he is and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. a trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou had'st life like me, what pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep-green sea! ix. o deep-sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? the hoary monster's palaces! methinks what joy 'twere now to go plump, plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, and feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails! then deep in tanglewoods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn, and send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn; to leave the subtle sworder-fish, of bony blade forlorn, and for the ghastly grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn. x. o broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine? the dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line; and night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play; but, shamer of our little sports, forgive the name i gave; a fisher's joy is to destroy--thine office is to save. xi. o lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band, slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend, with sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient friend; o couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, thine iron side would swell with pride, thou'dst leap within the sea! xii. give honor to their memories, who left the pleasant strand to shed their blood so freely for the love of fatherland- who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave so freely for a restless bed amid the tossing wave- o, though our anchor may not be all i have fondly sung, honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among! s. ferguson. supposed speech of john adams. 1. sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, i give my hand and my heart to this vote. it is true, indeed, that in the beginning we aimed not at independence. but there's a divinity which shapes our ends. the injustice of england has driven us to arms; and, blinded to her own interest for our good, she has obstinately persisted, till independence is now within our grasp. we have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours. why, then, should we defer the declaration? 2. is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with england, which shall leave either safety to the country and its liberties, or safety to his own life and his own honor? are not you, sir, who sit in that chair, is not he, our venerable colleague near you, are you not both already the prescribed and predestined objects of punishment and of vengeance? cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the power of england remains, but outlaws? 3. if we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on or give up the war? do we mean to submit to the measures of parliament, boston port bill, and all? do we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust? 4. i know we do not mean to submit. we never shall submit. do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting before god, of our sacred honor to washington, when, putting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every extremity, with our fortunes and our lives? 5. i know there is not a man here, who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground. for myself, having, twelve months ago, in this place, moved you that george washington be appointed commander of the forces raised, or to be raised, for the defence of american liberty, may my right hand forget her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if i hesitate or waver in the support i give him. 6. the war, then, must go on. we must fight it through. and if the war must go on, why put off longer the declaration of independence? that measure will strengthen us. it will give us character abroad. the nations will then treat with us, which they never can do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects in arms against our sovereign. nay, i maintain that england herself will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of independence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct towards us has been a course of injustice and oppression. 7. her pride will be less wounded by submitting to that course of things which now predestinates our independence, than by yielding the points in controversy to her rebellious subjects. the former she would regard as the result of fortune; the latter she would feel as her own deep disgrace. why then, why then, sir, do we not as soon as possible change this from a civil to a national war? and since we must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory, if we gain the victory? 8. if we fail, it can be no worse for us. but we shall not fail. the cause will raise up armies; the cause will create navies. the people, the people, if we are true to them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously through this struggle. i care not how fickle other people have been found. i know the people of these colonies, and i know that resistance to british aggression is deep and settled in their hearts, and cannot be eradicated. every colony, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if we but take the lead. 9. sir, the declaration will inspire the people with increased courage. instead of a long and bloody war for the restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immunities held under a british king, set before them the glorious object of entire independence and it will breathe into them anew the breath of life. 10. read this declaration at the head of the army; every sword will be drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn vow uttered, to maintain it, or to perish on the bed of honor. publish it from the pulpit; religion will approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling round it, resolved to stand with it, or fall with it. send it to the public halls; proclaim it there; let them hear it who heard the first roar of the enemy's cannon; let them see it who saw their brothers and their sons fall on the field of bunker hill, and in the streets of lexington and concord, and the very walls will cry out in its support. 11. sir, i know the uncertainty of human affairs, but i see, i see clearly through this day's business. you and i, indeed, may rue it. we may not live to the time when this declaration shall be made good. we may die; die colonists; die slaves; die, it may be, ignominiously, and on the scaffold. be it so. be it so. if it be the pleasure of heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. but while i do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and that a free country. 12. but whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured that this declaration will stand. it may cost treasure and it may cost blood; but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both. through the thick gloom of the present, i see the brightness of the future as the sun in heaven. we shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. when we are in our graves, our children will honor it. they will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, and illuminations. on its annual return, they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, and of joy. 13. sir, before god, i believe the hour is come. my judgment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. all that i have, and all that i am, and all that i hope in this life, i am now ready here to stake upon it; and i leave off as i began, that, live or die, survive or perish, i am for the declaration. it is my living sentiment, and by the blessing of god it shall be my dying sentiment,--independence now, and independence forever! daniel webster. life and song. i. if life were caught by a clarionet, and a wild heart throbbing in the reed, should thrill its joy and trill its fret, and utter its heart in every deed, ii. then would this breathing clarionet type what the poet fain would be; for none o' the singers ever yet has wholly lived his minstrelsy; iii. or clearly sung his true, true thought; or utterly bodied forth his life, or out of life and song has wrought the perfect one of man and wife; iv. or lived and sung, that life and song might each express the other's all, careless if life or art were long since both were one, to stand or fall. v. so that the wonder struck the crowd, who shouted it about the land: his song was only living aloud, his work, a singing with his hand! sidney lanier. gathering song of donald the black. i. pibroch of donuil dhu pibroch of donuil wake thy wild voice anew, summon clan conuil. come away, come away, hark to the summons! come in your war-array, gentles and commons. ii. come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky; the war-pipe and pennon are at inverlocky. come every hill-plaid, and true heart that wears one, come every steel blade, and strong hand that bears one. iii. leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter; leave the corpse uninterr'd, the bride at the altar; leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges: come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes. iv. come as the winds come, when forests are rended, come as the waves come, when navies are stranded: faster come, faster come, faster and faster, chief, vassal, page and groom, tenant and master. v. fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather! wide waves the eagle plume blended with heather. cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set! pibroch of donuil dhu knell for the onset! sir walter scott. nutting. i. it seems a day (i speak of one from many singled out) one of those heavenly days that cannot die; when, in the eagerness of boyish hope, i left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth with a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, a nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps tow'rd some far-distant wood, a figure quaint, tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds which for that service had been husbanded, by exhortation of my frugal dame- motley accoutrement, of power to smile at thorns, and brakes, and brambles,--and, in truth, more ragged than need was! ii. o'er pathless rocks, through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets, forcing my way, i came to one dear nook unvisited, where not a broken bough drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign of devastation; but the hazels rose tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, a virgin scene!--a little while i stood, breathing with such suppression of the heart as joy delights in; and, with wise restraint voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed the banquet;--or beneath the trees i sate among the flowers, and with the flowers i played; a temper known to those, who, after long and weary expectation, have been blest with sudden happiness beyond all hope. iii. perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves the violets of five seasons re-appear and fade, unseen by any human eye; where fairy water-breaks do murmur on forever; and i saw the sparkling foam, and--with my cheek on one of those green stones that, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep- i heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, in that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, the heart luxuriates with indifferent things, wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, and on the vacant air. iv. then up i rose, and dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash and merciless ravage; and the shady nook of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, deformed and sullied, patiently gave up their quiet being: and, unless i now confound my present feelings with the past; ere from the mutilated bower i turned exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, i felt a sense of pain when i beheld the silent trees, and saw the intruding sky- then, dearest maiden, move along these shades in gentleness of heart; with gentle hand touch--for there is a spirit in the woods. william wordsworth. the dodson family. _from mill on the floss._ part i. 1. the dodsons were certainly a handsome family, and mrs. glegg was not the least handsome of the sisters. as she sat in mrs. tulliver's arm-chair, no impartial observer could have denied that for a woman of fifty she had a very comely face and figure. it is true she despised the advantages of costume, for though, as she often observed, no woman had better clothes, it was not her way to wear her new things out before her old ones. other women, if they liked, might have their best thread-lace in every wash; but when mrs. glegg died, it would be found that she had better lace laid by in the right-hand drawer of her wardrobe, in the spotted chamber, than ever mrs. wooll of st. ogg's had bought in her life, although mrs. wooll wore her lace before it was paid for. 2. so of her curled fronts: to look out on the week-day world from under a crisp and glossy front, would be to introduce a most dreamlike and unpleasant confusion between the sacred and the secular. occasionally, indeed, mrs. glegg wore one of her third-best fronts on a week-day visit, but not at a sister's house; especially not at mrs. tulliver's, who, since her marriage, had hurt her sisters' feelings greatly by wearing her own hair. but bessy was always weak! 3. so if mrs. glegg's front to-day was more fuzzy and lax than usual, she had a design under it: she intended the most pointed and cutting allusion to mrs. tulliver's bunches of blond curls, separated from each other by a due wave of smoothness on each side of the parting. mrs. tulliver had shed tears several times at sister glegg's unkindness on the subject of these unmatronly curls, but the consciousness of looking the handsomer for them, naturally administered support. 4. mrs. glegg chose to wear her bonnet in the house to-day--untied and tilted slightly, of course--a frequent practice of hers when she was on a visit, and happened to be in a severe humor: she didn't know what draughts there might be in strange houses. for the same reason she wore a small sable tippet, which reached just to her shoulders, and was very far from meeting across her well-formed chest, while her long neck was protected by a _chevaux-de-frise_ of miscellaneous frilling. one would need to be learned in the fashions of those times to know how far in the rear of them mrs. glegg's slate-colored silk gown must have been; but from certain constellations of small yellow spots upon it, and a mouldy odor about it suggestive of a damp clothes-chest, it was probable that it belonged to a stratum of garments just old enough to have come recently into wear. 5. mrs. glegg held her large gold watch in her hand with the many-doubled chain round her fingers, and observed to mrs. tulliver, who had just returned from a visit to the kitchen, that whatever it might be by other people's clocks and watches, it was gone half-past twelve by hers. 6. "i don't know what ails sister pullet," she continued. "it used to be the way in our family for one to be as early as another,--i'm sure it was so in my poor father's time,--and not for one sister to sit half an hour before the others came. but if the ways o' the family are altered, it shan't be _my_ fault--_i'll_ never be the one to come into a house when all the rest are going away. i wonder _at_ sister deane--she used to be more like me. but if you'll take my advice, bessy, you'll put the dinner forrard a bit, sooner than put it back, because folks are late as ought to ha' known better." 7. "oh dear, there's no fear but what they'll be all here in time, sister," said mrs. tulliver, in her mild-peevish tone. "the dinner won't be ready till half-past one. but if it's long for you to wait, let me fetch you a cheesecake and a glass o' wine." "well, bessy!" said mrs. glegg, with a bitter smile, and a scarcely perceptible toss of her head, "i should ha' thought you'd known your own sister better. i never _did_ eat between meals, and i'm not going to begin. not but what i hate that nonsense of having your dinner at half-past one, when you might have it at one. you was never brought up in that way, bessy." 8. "why, jane, what can i do? mr. tulliver doesn't like his dinner before two o'clock, but i put it half an hour earlier because o' you." "yes, yes, i know how it is with husbands--they're for putting everything off--they'll put the dinner off till after tea, if they've got wives as are weak enough to give in to such work; but it's a pity for you, bessy, as you haven't got more strength o' mind. it'll be well if your children don't suffer for it. and i hope you've not gone and got a great dinner for us. a boiled joint, as you could make broth of for the kitchen," mrs. glegg added, in a tone of emphatic protest, "and a plain pudding, with a spoonful o' sugar, and no spice, 'ud be far more becoming." 9. with sister glegg in this humor, there was a cheerful prospect for the day. mrs. tulliver never went the length of quarrelling with her, but this point of the dinner was a tender one, and not at all new, so that she could make the same answer she had often made before. "mr. tulliver says he always _will_ have a good dinner for his friends while he can pay for it," she said, "and he's a right to do as he likes in his own house, sister." 10. "well, bessy, _i_ can't leave your children enough out o' my savings, to keep 'em from ruin. and you mustn't look to having any o' mr. glegg's money, for it's well if i don't go first--he comes of a long-lived family; and if he was to die and leave me well for my life, he'd tie all the money up to go back to his own kin." 11. the sound of wheels while mrs. glegg was speaking was an interruption highly welcome to mrs. tulliver, who hastened out to receive sister pullet--it must be sister pullet, because the sound was that of a four-wheel. part ii. 1. sister pullet was in tears when the one-horse chaise stopped before mrs. tulliver's door, and it was apparently requisite that she should shed a few more before getting out, for though her husband and mrs. tulliver stood ready to support her, she sat still and shook her head sadly, as she looked through her tears at the vague distance. "why, whativer is the matter, sister?" said mrs. tulliver. 2. there was no reply but a further shake of the head, as mrs. pullet slowly rose and got down from the chaise, not without casting a glance at mr. pullet to see that he was guarding her handsome silk dress from injury. mr. pullet was a small man with a high nose, small twinkling eyes, and thin lips, in a fresh-looking suit of black and a white cravat, that seemed to have been tied very tight on some higher principle than that of mere personal ease. 3. it is a pathetic sight and a striking example of the complexity introduced into the emotions by a high state of civilization--the sight of a fashionably drest female in grief. perceiving that the tears are hurrying fast, she unpins her strings and throws them languidly backward--a touching gesture, indicative, even in the deepest gloom, of the hope in future dry moments when cap-strings will once more have a charm. 4. mrs. pullet brushed each doorpost with great nicety, about the latitude of her shoulders (at that period a woman was truly ridiculous to an instructed eye if she did not measure a yard and a half across the shoulders), and having done that, sent the muscles of her face in quest of fresh tears as she advanced into the parlor where mrs. glegg was seated. 5. "well, sister, you're late; what's the matter?" said mrs. glegg, rather sharply, as they shook hands. mrs. pullet sat down--lifting up her mantle carefully behind, before she answered-"she's gone. died the day before yesterday, an' her legs was as thick as my body," she added, with deep sadness, after a pause. "they'd tapped her no end o' times, and the water--they say you might ha' swum in it, if you'd liked." 6. "well, sophy, it's a mercy she's gone, then, whoever she may be," said mrs. glegg, with the promptitude and emphasis of a mind naturally clear and decided; "but i can't think who you're talking of, for my part." "but _i_ know," said mrs. pullet, sighing and shaking her head; "and there isn't another such a dropsy in the parish. _i_ know as its old mrs. sutton o' the twentylands." "well, she's no kin o' yours, nor much acquaintance as i've ever heared of," said mrs. glegg, who always cried just as much as was proper when anything happened to her own "kin," but not on other occasions. 7. "she said to me, when i went to see her last christmas, she said, 'mrs. pullet, if ever you have the dropsy, you'll think o' me.' she _did_ say so," added mrs. pullet, beginning to cry bitterly again; "those were her very words. and she's to be buried o' saturday, and pullet's bid to the funeral." "sophy," said mrs. glegg, unable any longer to contain her spirit of rational remonstrance--"sophy, i wonder _at_ you, fretting and injuring your health about people as don't belong to you. your poor father never did so, nor your aunt frances neither, nor any o' the family as i ever heard of. you couldn't fret no more than this, if we'd heared as our cousin abbott had died sudden without making his will." 8. mrs. pullet was silent, having to finish her crying, and rather flattered than indignant at being upbraided for crying too much. "ah!" she sighed, shaking her head at the idea that there were but few who could enter fully into her experiences. "sister, i may as well go and take my bonnet off now. did you see as the cap-box was put out?" she added, turning to her husband. mr. pullet, by an unaccountable lapse of memory, had forgotten it, and hastened out, with a stricken conscience, to remedy the omission. 9. "they'll bring it up-stairs, sister," said mrs. tulliver, wishing to go at once, for she was fond of going up-stairs with her sister pullet, and looking thoroughly at her cap before she put it on her head, and discussing millinery in general. this was part of bessy's weakness, that stirred mrs. glegg's sisterly compassion: bessy went far too well drest, considering. but when mrs. pullet was alone with mrs. tulliver up-stairs, the remarks were naturally to the disadvantage of mrs. glegg, and they agreed, in confidence, that there was no knowing what sort of fright sister jane would come out next. george eliot. after the march rain. i. the cock is crowing, the stream is flowing, the small birds twitter, the lake doth glitter, the green field sleeps in the sun; the oldest and youngest are at work with the strongest; the cattle are grazing, their heads never raising; there are forty feeding like one! ii. like an army defeated the snow hath retreated, and now doth fare ill on the top of the bare hill; the ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon: there's joy in the mountains; there's life in the fountains; small clouds are sailing, blue sky prevailing; the rain is over and gone! william wordsworth. _chapter iii._ slide in volume. first battles of the revolution. i. 1. we have cause for honest complacency, that when the distant citizen of our own republic, when the stranger from foreign lands, inquires for the spots where the noble blood of the revolution began to flow, where the first battle of that great and glorious contest was fought, he is guided through the villages of middlesex, to the plains of lexington and concord. it is a commemoration of our soil, to which ages, as they pass, will add dignity and interest; till the names of lexington and concord in the annals of freedom, will stand by the side of the most honorable names in roman or grecian story. 2. it was one of those great days, one of those elemental occasions in the world's affairs, when the people rise and act for themselves. some organization and preparation had been made; but from the nature of the case, with scarce any effect on the events of that day. 3. it may be doubted whether there was an efficient order given, the whole day, to any body of men as large as a regiment. it was the people, in their first capacity, as citizens and as freemen, starting from their beds at midnight, from their firesides and from their fields, to take their own cause into their own hands. 4. such a spectacle is the height of the moral sublime; when the want of everything is fully made up by the spirit of the cause, and the soul within stands in place of discipline, organization, and resources. in the prodigious efforts of a veteran army, beneath the dazzling splendor of their array, there is something revolting to the reflective mind. 5. the ranks are filled with the desperate, the mercenary, the depraved; an iron slavery, by the name of subordination, merges the free will of one hundred thousand men in the unqualified despotism of one; the humanity, mercy, and remorse, which scarce ever desert the individual bosom, are sounds without a meaning to that fearful, ravenous, irrational monster of prey, a mercenary army. it is hard to say who are most to be commiserated, the wretched people on whom it is let loose, or the still more wretched people whose substance has been sucked out to nourish it into strength and fury. 6. but in the efforts of the people,--of the people struggling for their rights, moving, not in organized, disciplined masses, but in their spontaneous action, man for man, and heart for heart,--there is something glorious. they can then move forward without orders, act together without combination, and brave the flaming lines of battle, without intrenchments to cover or walls to shield them. 7. no dissolute camp has worn off from the feelings of the youthful soldier the freshness of that home, where his mother and his sister sit waiting, with tearful eyes and aching hearts, to hear good news from the wars; no long service in the ranks of a conqueror has turned the veteran's heart into marble; their valor springs not from recklessness, from habit, from indifference to the preservation of a life knit by no pledges to the life of others. but in the strength and spirit of the cause alone they act, they contend, they bleed. in this they conquer. 8. the people always conquer. they always must conquer. armies may be defeated, kings may be overthrown, and new dynasties imposed, by foreign arms, on an ignorant and slavish race, that care not in what language the covenant of their subjection runs, nor in whose name the deed of their barter and sale is made out. but the people never invade; and, when they rise against the invader, are never subdued. 9. if they are driven from the plains, they fly to the mountains. steep rocks and everlasting hills are their castles; the tangled, pathless thicket their palisado, and god is their ally. now he overwhelms the hosts of their enemies beneath his drifting mountains of sand; now he buries them beneath a falling atmosphere of polar snows; he lets loose his tempests on their fleets; he puts a folly into their counsels, a madness into the hearts of their leaders; and never gave, and never will give, a final triumph over a virtuous and gallant people, resolved to be free. edward everett. the antiquity of freedom. i. here are old trees--tall oaks and gnarled pines- that stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up unsown, and die ungathered. ii. it is sweet to linger here, among the flitting birds and leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds that shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass, a fragrance from the cedars, thickly set with pale blue berries. in these peaceful shades- peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old- my thoughts go up the long, dim path of years, back to the earliest days of liberty. iii. o freedom, thou art not, as poets dream, a fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, and wavy tresses, gushing from the cap with which the roman master crowned his slave when he took off the gyves. a bearded man, armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow, glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred with tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs are strong with struggling. iv. power at thee has launched his bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; they could not quench the life thou hast from heaven. merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, and his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, have forged thy chain; yet while he deems thee bound, the links are shivered, and the prison walls fall outward; terribly thou springest forth, as springs the flame above a burning pile and shoutest to the nations, who return thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. v. thy birthright was not given by human hands; thou wert twin-born with man. in pleasant fields, while yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, to tend the quiet flock, and watch the stars, and teach the reed to utter simple airs. thou, by his side, amid the tangled wood, didst war upon the panther and the wolf, his only foes; and thou with him didst draw the earliest furrows on the mountain-side, soft with the deluge. vi. tyranny himself, thy enemy, although of reverend look, hoary with many years, and far obeyed, is later born than thou; and as he meets the grave defiance of thine elder eye, the usurper trembles in his fastnesses. vii. o, not yet mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by thy sword; nor yet, o freedom, close thy lids in slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps, and thou must watch and combat till the day of the new earth and heaven. viii. but wouldst thou rest awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, these old and friendly solitudes invite thy visit. they, while yet the forest trees were young upon the unviolated earth, and yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. william cullen bryant. national bankruptcy. from a speech before the national convention of france, 1789. 1. i hear much said of patriotism, appeals to patriotism, transports of patriotism. gentlemen, why prostitute this noble world? is it so very magnanimous to give up a part of your income in order to save your whole property? this is very simple arithmetic; and he that hesitates, deserves contempt rather than indignation. 2. yes, gentlemen, it is to your immediate self-interest, to your most familiar notions of prudence and policy that i now appeal. i say not to you now, as heretofore, beware how you give the world the first example of an assembled nation untrue to the public faith. 3. i ask you not, as heretofore, what right you have to freedom, or what means of maintaining it, if, at your first step in administration, you outdo in baseness all the old and corrupt governments. i tell you, that unless you prevent this catastrophe, you will all be involved in the general ruin; and that you are yourselves the persons most deeply interested in making the sacrifices which the government demands of you. 4. i exhort you, then, most earnestly, to vote these extraordinary supplies; and god grant they may prove sufficient! vote, then, i beseech you; for, even if you doubt the expediency of the means, you know perfectly well that the supplies are necessary, and that you are incapable of raising them in any other way. vote them at once, for the crisis does not admit of delay; and, if it occurs, we must be responsible for the consequences. 5. beware of asking for time. misfortune accords it never. while you are lingering, the evil day will come upon you. why, gentlemen, it is but a few days since, that upon occasion of some foolish bustle in the palais royal, some ridiculous insurrection that existed nowhere but in the heads of a few weak or designing individuals, we were told with emphasis, "catiline is at the gates of rome, and yet we deliberate." 6. we know, gentlemen, that this was all imagination. we are far from being at rome; nor is there any catiline at the gates of paris. but now are we threatened with a real danger; bankruptcy, national bankruptcy, is before you; it threatens to swallow up your persons, your property, your honor,--and yet you deliberate. mirabeau. the lantern bearers. 1. these boys congregated every autumn about a certain easterly fisher-village, where they tasted in a high degree the glory of existence. the place was created seemingly on purpose for the diversion of young gentlemen. a street or two of houses, mostly red and many of them tiled; a number of fine trees clustered about the manse and the kirkyard, and turning the chief street into a shady alley; many little gardens more than usually bright with flowers; nets a-drying, and fisher-wives scolding in the backward parts; a smell of fish, a genial smell of seaweed; whiffs of blowing sand at the street corners; shops with golf-balls and bottled lollipops; such, as well as memory serves me, were the ingredients of the town. 2. these, you are to conceive posted on a spit between two sandy bays, and sparsely flanked with villas--enough for the boys to lodge in with their subsidiary parents, not enough (not yet enough) to cocknify the scene; a haven in the rocks in front: in front of that, a file of gray islets; to the left, endless links and sand wreaths, a wilderness of hiding-holes, alive with popping rabbits and soaring gulls: to the right, a range of seaward crags, one rugged brow beyond another; the ruins of a mighty and ancient fortress on the brink of one; coves between--now charmed into sunshine quiet, now whistling with wind and clamorous with bursting surges; the dens and sheltered hollows redolent of thyme and southernwood, the air at the cliff's edge brisk and clean and pungent of the sea--in front of all, the bass rock, tilted seaward like a doubtful bather, the surf ringing it with white, the solan-geese hanging round its summit like a great and glittering smoke. 3. this choice piece of seaboard was sacred, besides, to the wrecker; and the bass, in the eye of fancy, still flew the colors of king james; and in the ear of fancy the arches of tantallon still rang with horse-shoe iron, and echoed to the commands of bell--the--cat. 4. ... but what my memory dwells upon the most was a sport peculiar to the place, and indeed to a week or so of our two months' holiday there. maybe it still flourishes in its native spot; for boys and their pastimes are swayed by periodic forces inscrutable to man; so that tops and marbles reappear in their due season, regular like the sun and moon; and the harmless art of knuckle-bones has seen the fall of the roman empire and the rise of the united states. 5. it may still flourish in its native spot, but nowhere else, i am persuaded; for i tried myself to introduce it on tweed-side, and was defeated lamentably; its charm being quite local, like a country wine that cannot be exported. 6. the idle manner of it was this: toward the end of september, when school-time was drawing near and the nights were already black, we would begin to sally from our respective villas, each equipped with a tin bull's-eye lantern. the thing was so well known that it had worn a rut in the commerce of great britain; and the grocers, about the due time, began to garnish their windows with our particular brand of luminary. we wore them buckled to the waist upon a cricket belt, and over them, such was the rigour of the game, a buttoned top-coat. they smelled noisomely of blistered tin; they never burned aright, though they would always burn our fingers; their use was naught; the pleasure of them merely fanciful; and yet a boy with a bull's-eye under his top-coat asked for nothing more. 7. the fishermen used lanterns about their boats, and it was from them, i suppose, that we had got the hint; but theirs were not bull's-eyes, nor did we ever play at being fishermen. the police carried them at their belts, and we had plainly copied them in that; yet we did not pretend to be policemen. burglars, indeed, we may have had some haunting thoughts of; and we had certainly an eye to past ages when lanterns were more common, and to certain story-books in which we had found them to figure very largely. but take it for all in all, the pleasure of the thing was substantive, and to be a boy with a bull's-eye under his top-coat was good enough for us. 8. when two of these asses met, there would be an anxious "have you got your lantern?" and a gratified "yes!" that was the shibboleth, and very needful too; for, as it was the rule to keep our glory contained, none could recognize a lantern bearer, unless (like the pole-cat) by the smell. four or five would sometimes climb into the belly of a ten-man lugger, with nothing but the thwarts above them--for the cabin was usually locked, or choose out some hollow of the links where the wind might whistle overhead. there the coats would be unbuttoned and the bull's-eyes discovered; and in the chequering glimmer, under the huge windy hall of the night, and cheered by a rich steam of toasting tinware, these fortunate young gentlemen would crouch together in the cold sands of the links or on the scaly bilges of the fishing-boat, and delight themselves with inappropriate talk. 9. woe is me that i may not give some specimens--some of their foresights of life, or deep inquiries into the rudiments of man and nature, these were so fiery and so innocent, they were so richly silly, so romantically young. but the talk at any rate was but a condiment; and these gatherings themselves only accidents in the career of the lantern bearer. the essence of this bliss was to walk by yourself in the black night; the slide shut, the top-coat buttoned; not a ray escaping, whether to conduct your footsteps or to make your glory public: a mere pillar of darkness in the dark; and all the while, deep down in the privacy of your fool's heart, to know you had a bull's-eye at your belt, and to exult and sing over the knowledge. robert louis stevenson. tarpeia. woe: lightly to part with one's soul as the sea with its foam! woe to tarpeia, tarpeia, daughter of rome! lo, now it was night, with the moon looking chill as she went: it was morn when the innocent stranger strayed into the tent. the hostile sabini were pleased, as one meshing a bird; she sang for them there in the ambush: they smiled as they heard. her sombre hair purpled in gleams, as she leaned to the light; all day she had idled and feasted, and now it was night. the chief sat apart, heavy-browed, brooding elbow on knee; the armlets he wore were thrice royal, and wondrous to see: exquisite artifice, work of barbaric design, frost's fixã¨d mimicry; orbic imaginings fine in sevenfold coils: and in orient glimmer from them, the variform voluble swinging of gem upon gem. and the glory thereof sent fever and fire to her eye. "i had never such trinkets!" she sighed,--like a lute was her sigh. "were they mine at the plea, were they mine for the token, all told, now the citadel sleeps, now my father the keeper is old," "if i go by the way that i know, and thou followest hard, if yet at the touch of tarpeia the gates be unbarred?" the chief trembled sharply for joy, then drew rein on his soul: "of all this arm beareth i swear i will cede thee the whole." and up from the nooks of the camp, with hoarse plaudit outdealt, the bearded sabini glanced hotly, and vowed as they knelt, bare-stretching the wrists that bore also the glowing great boon: "yea! surely as over us shineth the lurid low moon, "not alone of our lord, but of each of us take what he hath! too poor is the guerdon, if thou wilt but show us the path!" her nostril upraised, like a fawn's on the arrowy air, she sped, in a serpentine gleam to the precipice stair. they climbed in her traces, they closed on their evil swift star: she bent to the latches, and swung the huge portal ajar. repulsed where they passed her, half-tearful for wounded belief, "the bracelets!" she pleaded. then faced her, the leonine chief, and answered her: "even as i promised, maid-merchant, i do." down from his dark shoulder the baubles he sullenly drew. "this left arm shall nothing begrudge thee. accept. find it sweet. give, too, o my brothers!" the jewels he flung at her feet, the jewels hard heavy; she stooped to them, flushing with dread, but the shield he flung after: it clanged on her beautiful head. like the apennine bells when the villagers' warnings begin, athwart the first lull broke the ominous din upon din; with a "hail, benefactress!" upon her they heaped in their zeal death: agate and iron; death: chrysoprase, beryl and steel. 'neath the outcry of scorn, 'neath the sinewy tension and hurl, the moaning died slowly, and still they massed over the girl a mountain of shields! and the gemmy hight tangle in links, a torrent-like gush, pouring out on the grass from the chinks, pyramidal gold! the sumptuous monument won by the deed they had loved her for, doing, and loathed her for, done. such was the wage that they paid her, such the acclaim: all rome was aroused with the thunder that buried her shame. on surged the sabini to battle. o you that aspire! tarpeia the traitor had fill of her woman's desire. woe: lightly to part with one's soul as the sea with its foam! woe to tarpeia, tarpeia, daughter of rome! louise imogen guiney. the bells. i. hear the sledges with the bells- silver bells. what a world of merriment their melody foretells! how they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, in the icy air of night! while the stars that oversprinkle all the heavens, seem to twinkle with a crystalline delight, keeping, time, time, time, in a sort of runic rhyme, to the tintinnabulation that so musically wells from the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells- from the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. ii. hear the mellow wedding bells, golden bells! what a world of happiness their harmony foretells! through the balmy air of night how they ring out their delight! from the molten-golden notes, all in tune, what a liquid ditty floats to the turtle dove that listens, while she gloats on the moon! oh, from out the sounding cells, what a gush of euphony voluminously wells! how it swells, how it dwells on the future! how it tells of the rapture that impels to the swinging and the ringing of the bells, bells, bells, of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells- to the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! iii. hear the loud alarum bells- brazen bells! what a tale of terror now, their turbulency tells! in the startled air of night how they scream out their affright! too much horrified to speak, they can only shriek, shriek, out of tune, in a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire. in a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, leaping higher, higher, higher, with a desperate desire, and a resolute endeavor now--now to sit, or never, by the side of the pale-faced moon. oh, the bells, bells, bells! what a tale their terror tells of despair! how they clang, and clash, and roar! what a horror they outpour on the bosom of the palpitating air! yet the ear, it fully knows, by the twanging and the clanging, how the danger ebbs and flows; yet the ear distinctly tells, in the jangling and the wrangling, how the danger sinks and swells, by the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells- of the bells- of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells- in the clamor and the clangor of the bells! iv. hear the tolling of the bells- iron bells! what a world of solemn thought their monody compels in the silence of the night, how we shiver with affright with the melancholy menace of their tone! for every sound that floats from the rust within their throats is a groan. and the people--ah, the people- they that dwell up in the steeple, all alone, and who tolling, tolling, tolling, in that muffled monotone, feel a glory in so rolling on the human heart a stone- they are neither man nor woman- they are neither brute nor human- they are ghouls: and their king it is who tolls; and he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls a pã¦an from the bells! and his merry bosom swells with the pã¦an of the bells! and he dances, and he yells, keeping time, time, time, in a sort of runic rhyme, to the pã¦an of the bells- of the bells: keeping time, time, time, in a sort of runic rhyme, to the throbbing of the bells- of the bells, bells, bells- to the sobbing of the bells, keeping time, time, time, as he knells, knells, knells, in a happy runic rhyme, to the rolling of the bells- of the bells, bells, bells, to the tolling of the bells- of the bells, bells, bells, bells; bells, bells, bells- to the moaning and the groaning of the bells! e. a. poe. the temperance question. 1. some men look upon this temperance cause as a whining bigotry, narrow asceticism, or a vulgar sentimentality, fit for little minds, weak women, and weaker men. on the contrary, i regard it as second only to one or two others of the primary reforms of the age, and for this reason: every race has its peculiar temptation; every clime has its specific sin. 2. the tropics and tropical races are tempted to one form of sensuality; the colder and temperate regions, and our saxon blood, find their peculiar temptation in the stimulus of drink and food. in old times our heaven was a drunken revel. we relieve ourselves from the over-weariness of constant and exhausting toil by intoxication. science has brought a cheap means of drunkenness within the reach of every individual. 3. national prosperity and free institutions have put into the hands of almost every workman the means of being drunk for a week on the labor of two or three hours. with that blood and that temptation, we have adopted democratic institutions, where the law has no sanctions but the purpose and virtue of the masses. the statute book rests not on bayonets, as in europe, but on the hearts of the people. 4. a drunken people can never be the basis of a free government. it is the corner-stone neither of virtue, prosperity, nor progress. to us, therefore, the title-deeds of whose estates, and the safety of whose lives depend upon the tranquility of the streets, upon the virtue of the masses, the presence of any vice which brutalizes the average mass of mankind, and tends to make it more readily the tool of intriguing and corrupt leaders, is necessarily a stab at the very life of the nation. against such a vice is marshalled the temperance reformation. 5. that my sketch is no fancy picture every one of you knows. every one of you can glance back over your own path, and count many and many a one among those who started from the goal at your side, with equal energy and perhaps greater promise, who has found a drunkard's grave long before this. the brightness of the bar, the ornament of the pulpit, the hope and blessing and stay of many a family--you know, every one of you who has reached middle life, how often on your path you set up the warning, "fallen before the temptations of the street!" 6. hardly one house in this city, whether it be full and warm with all the luxury of wealth, or whether it find hard, cold maintenance by the most earnest economy; no matter which--hardly a house that does not count among sons or nephews some victim of this vice. the skeleton of this warning sits at every board. the whole world is kindred in this suffering. the country mother launches her boy with trembling upon the temptations of city life; the father trusts his daughter anxiously to the young man she has chosen, knowing what a wreck intoxication may make of the house-tree they set up. 7. alas! how often are their worst forebodings more than fulfilled! i have known a case--probably many of you recall some almost equal to it--where one worthy woman could count father, brother, husband, and son-in-law all drunkards--no man among her near kindred, except her son, who was not a victim of this vice. like all other appetites, this finds resolution weak when set against the constant presence of temptation. wendell phillips. sheridan's ride. i. up from the south at break of day, bringing to winchester fresh dismay, the affrighted air with a shudder bore, like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, the terrible grumble and rumble and roar, telling the battle was on once more, and sheridan--twenty miles away! ii. and wilder still those billows of war thundered along the horizon's bar; and louder yet into winchester rolled the roar of that red sea uncontrolled, making the blood of the listener cold, as he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, and sheridan--twenty miles away! iii. but there is a road from winchester town, a good, broad highway leading down; and there, through the flush of the morning light, a steed as black as the steeds of night, was seen to pass as with eagle flight- as if he knew the terrible need, he stretched away with the utmost speed; hills rose and fell--but his heart was gay, with sheridan fifteen miles away! iv. still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering south, the dust, like the smoke from the cannon's mouth, or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster, foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster; the heart of the steed and the heart of the master were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, impatient to be where the battlefield calls; every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, with sheridan only ten miles away! v. under his spurning feet the road like an arrowy alpine river flowed, and the landscape sped away behind like an ocean flying before the wind; and the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, swept on with his wild eyes full of fire. but lo! he is nearing his heart's desire- he is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, with sheridan only five miles away! vi. the first that the general saw were the groups of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; what was done--what to do--a glance told him both, then striking his spurs with a muttered oath, he dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzahs, and the wave of retreat checked its course there, because the sight of the master compelled it to pause. with foam and with dust the black charger was gray; by the flash of his eye, and his red nostril's play, he seemed to the whole great army to say, "i have brought you sheridan all the way from winchester down to save the day!" vii. hurrah, hurrah for sheridan! hurrah, hurrah for horse and man! and when their statues are placed on high, under the dome of the union sky- the american soldier's temple of fame,- there, with the glorious general's name, be it said in letters both bold and bright: "here is the steed that saved the day, by carrying sheridan into the fight from winchester--twenty miles away!" t. b. read. to a pupil. is reform needed? is it through you? the greater the reform needed, the greater the personality you need to accomplish it. you! do you not see how it would serve to have eyes, blood, complexion, clean and sweet? do you not see how it would serve to have such a body and soul that when you enter the crowd an atmosphere of desire and command enters with you, and every one is impressed with your personality? o the magnet! the flesh over and over! go dear friend, if need be give up all else and commence to-day to inure yourself to pluck, reality, self-esteem, definiteness, elevatedness, rest not till you rivet and publish yourself of your own personality. walt whitman. _chapter iv._ forming pictures. the pickwickians on ice. 1. "now," said wardle, after a substantial lunch, with the agreeable items of strong beer and cherry-brandy, had been done ample justice to, "what say you to an hour on the ice? we shall have plenty of time." "capital!" said mr. benjamin allen. "prime!" ejaculated mr. bob sawyer. "you skate, of course, winkle?" said wardle. 2. "ye--yes; oh, yes!" replied mr. winkle. "i--am rather out of practice." "oh, do skate, mr. winkle," said arabella. "i like to see it so much!" "oh, it is so graceful!" said another young lady. a third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was "swan-like." 3. "i should be very happy, i am sure," said mr. winkle, reddening; "but i have no skates." this objection was at once overruled. trundle had got a couple of pair, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more down-stairs; whereat mr. winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely uncomfortable. 4. 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 marvellous, 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 astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of mr. pickwick, mr. tupman, and the ladies; which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm when old wardle and benjamin allen, assisted by the aforesaid bob sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they called a reel. 5. all this time mr. winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting 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 hindoo. 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. 6. "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," replied mr. weller. "hold up, sir." this last observation of mr. weller's bore reference to a demonstration mr. winkle made, at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice. 7. "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. "now, winkle," cried mr. pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything the matter. "come; the ladies are all anxiety." "yes, yes," replied mr. winkle with a ghastly smile, "i'm coming." "just a-goin' to begin," said sam, endeavoring to disengage himself. "now, sir, start off." 8. "stop an instant, sam," gasped mr. winkle, clinging most affectionately to mr. weller. "i find i've got a couple of coats at home that i don't want, sam. you may have them, sam." "thankee, sir," replied mr. weller. "never mind touching your hat, sam," said mr. winkle hastily. "you needn't take your hand away to do that. i meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a christmas-box, sam. i'll give it to you this afternoon, sam." "you're wery good, sir," replied mr. weller. "just hold me at first, sam, will you?" said mr. winkle. "there, that's right. i shall soon get in the way of it, sam. not too fast, sam; not too fast!" 9. mr. winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by mr. weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like manner, when mr. pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank,-"sam!" "sir?" said mr. weller. "here! i want you." "let go, sir," said sam; "don't you hear the governor a-callin'? let go, sir." 10. with a violent effort mr. weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonized pickwickian; and, in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to the unhappy mr. winkle. with an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when mr. bob sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. mr. winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they fell heavily down. mr. pickwick ran to the spot. bob sawyer had risen to his feet; but mr. winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind in skates. he was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance. 11. "are you hurt?" inquired mr. benjamin allen with great anxiety. "not much," said mr. winkle, rubbing his back very hard. "i wish you would let me bleed you," said mr. benjamin allen with great eagerness. "no, thank you," replied mr. winkle hurriedly. "i really think you had better," said mr. allen. "thank you," replied mr. winkle, "i'd rather not." "what do you think, mr. pickwick?" inquired bob sawyer. 12. mr. pickwick was excited and indignant. he beckoned to mr. weller, and said in a stern voice, "take his skates off." "no; but really i had scarcely begun," remonstrated mr. winkle. "take his skates off," repeated mr. pickwick firmly. the command was not to be resisted. mr. winkle allowed sam to obey it in silence. "lift him up," said mr. pickwick. sam assisted him to rise. 13. mr. pickwick retired a few paces apart from the by-standers; and, beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words: "you're a humbug, sir." "a what?" said mr. winkle, starting. "a humbug, sir. i will speak plainer if you wish it. an imposter, sir." with these words mr. pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his friends. 14. while mr. pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just recorded, mr. weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavors cut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon in a very masterly and brilliant manner. sam weller, in particular, was displaying that beautiful feat of fancy sliding, which is currently denominated "knocking at the cobbler's door," and which is achieved by skimming over the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a twopenny postman's knock upon it with the other. it was a good long slide; and there was something in the motion which mr. pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, could not help envying. 15. "it looks a nice warm exercise, that, doesn't it?" he inquired of wardle, when that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath by reason of the indefatigable manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair of compasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice. "ah, it does, indeed," replied wardle. "do you slide?" "i used to do so on the gutters, when i was a boy," replied mr. pickwick. "try it now," said wardle. "oh, do please, mr. pickwick!" cried all the ladies. "i should be very happy to afford you any amusement," replied mr. pickwick; "but i haven't done such a thing these thirty years." 16. "pooh! pooh! nonsense!" said wardle, dragging off his skates with the impetuosity which characterized all his proceedings. "here! i'll keep you company; come along." and away went the good-tempered old fellow down the slide with a rapidity which came very close upon mr. weller, and beat the fat boy all to nothing. mr. pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves, and put them in his hat, took two or three short runs, balked himself as often, and at last took another run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts of all the spectators. 17. "keep the pot a-bilin', sir," said sam; and down went wardle again, and then mr. pickwick, and then sam, and then mr. winkle, and then mr. bob sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then mr. snodgrass, following closely upon each other's heels, and running after each other with as much eagerness as if all their future prospects in life depended on their expedition. 18. it was the most intensely interesting thing to observe the manner in which mr. pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch the torture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind gaining upon him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him gradually expend the painful force which he had put on at first, and turn slowly round on the slide, with his face towards the point from which he started; to contemplate the playful smile which mantled on his face when he had accomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which he turned round when he had done so, and ran after his predecessor, his black gaiters tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness and gladness through his spectacles. and when he was knocked down, (which happened upon the average every third round), it was the most invigorating sight that could possibly be imagined, to behold him gather up his hat, gloves, and handkerchief with a glowing countenance, and resume his station in the rank with an ardor and enthusiasm which nothing could abate. 19. the sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp, smart crack was heard. there was a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a shout from mr. tupman. a large mass of ice disappeared, the water bubbled up over it, and mr. pickwick's hat, gloves, and handkerchief were floating on the surface; and this was all of mr. pickwick that anybody could see. 20. dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance; the males turned pale, and the females fainted; mr. snodgrass and mr. winkle grasped each other by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader had gone down, with frenzied eagerness; while mr. tupman, by way of rendering the promptest assistance, and at the same time conveying to any person who might be within hearing the clearest possible notion of the catastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost speed, screaming "fire!" with all his might and main. 21. it was at this very moment, when old wardle and sam weller were approaching the hole with cautious steps and mr. benjamin allen was holding a hurried consultation with mr. bob sawyer on the advisability of bleeding the company generally, as an improving little bit of professional practice,--it was at this very moment that a face, head, and shoulders emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and spectacles of mr. pickwick. 22. "keep yourself up for an instant, for only one instant," bawled mr. snodgrass. "yes--do: let me implore you--for my sake," roared mr. winkle, deeply affected. the adjuration was rather unnecessary; the probability being, that, if mr. pickwick had not decided to keep himself up for anybody else's sake, it would have occurred to him that he might as well do so for his own. "do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?" said wardle. "yes--certainly," replied mr. pickwick, wringing the water from his head and face, and gasping for breath. "i fell upon my back. i couldn't get on my feet at first." 23. the clay upon so much of mr. pickwick's coat as was yet visible bore testimony to the accuracy of this statement; and, as the fears of the spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy's suddenly recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep, prodigies of valor were performed to get him out. after a vast quantity of splashing and cracking and struggling, mr. pickwick was at length fairly extricated from his unpleasant situation, and once more stood on dry land. 24. mr. pickwick was wrapped up, and started off for home, presenting the singular phenomenon of an elderly gentleman dripping wet, and without a hat, with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground without any clearly defined purpose, at the rate of six good english miles an hour. charles dickens. the realm of fancy. i. ever let the fancy roam; pleasure never is at home: at a touch sweet pleasure melteth, like to bubbles when rain pelteth; then let wingã©d fancy wander through the thought still spread beyond her: open wide the mind's cage-door, she'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. ii. o sweet fancy! let her loose; summer's joys are spoilt by use, and the enjoying of the spring fades as does its blossoming; autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, blushing through the mist and dew, cloys with tasting: what do then? sit thee by the ingle, when the sear faggot blazes bright, spirit of a winter's night; when the soundless earth is muffled, and the cakã©d snow is shuffled from the ploughboy's heavy shoon; when the night doth meet the noon in a dark conspiracy to banish even from her sky. iii. sit thee there, and send abroad, with a mind self-overaw'd, fancy, high-commission'd:--send her! she has vassals to attend her: she will bring, in spite of frost, beauties that the earth hath lost; she will bring thee, all together, all delights of summer weather; all the buds and bells of may, from dewy sward of thorny spray; all the heapã©d autumn's wealth, with a still, mysterious stealth: iv. she will mix these pleasures up like three fit wines in a cup, and thou shalt quaff it:--thou shalt hear distant harvest-carols clear; rustle of the reapã©d corn; sweet birds antheming the morn: and, in the same moment--hark! 'tis the early april lark, or the rooks, with busy caw, foraging for sticks and straw. v. thou shalt, at one glance, behold the daisy and the marigold; white-plumed lilies, and the first hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; shaded hyacinth, alway sapphire queen of the mid-may; and every leaf, and every flower pearlã©d with the self-same shower. vi. thou shalt see the field-mouse peep meagre from its cellã©d sleep; and the snake all winter-thin cast on sunny bank its skin; freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see hatching in the hawthorn-tree, when the hen-bird's wing doth rest quiet on her mossy nest; then the hurry and alarm when the bee-hive casts its swarm; acorns ripe down-pattering, while the autumn breezes sing. vii. oh, sweet fancy! let her loose; everything is spoilt by use: where's the cheek that doth not fade, too much gazed at? where's the maid whose lip mature is ever new? where's the eye, however blue, doth not weary? where's the face one would meet in every place? where's the voice, however soft, one would hear so very oft? at a touch sweet pleasure melteth like to bubbles when rain pelteth. viii. let then wingã©d fancy find thee a mistress to thy mind: dulcet-eyed as ceres' daughter, ere the god of torment taught her how to frown and how to chide; with a waist and with a side white as hebe's, when her zone slipt its golden clasp, and down fell her kirtle to her feet, while she held the goblet sweet, and jove grew languid.--break the mesh of the fancy's silken leash; quickly break her prison-string, and such joys as these she'll bring. --let the wingã©d fancy roam, pleasure never is at home. j. keats. the battle of naseby. i. oh, wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the north, with your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red? and wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? and whence be the grapes of the wine-press which we tread? ii. oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, and crimson was the juice of the vintage that ye trod; for we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong, who sat in the high places, and slew the saints of god. iii. it was about the noon of a glorious day in june, that we saw their banner's dance, and their cuirasses shine: and the man of blood was there, with his long essenced hair, and astley, and sir marmaduke, and rupert of the rhine. iv. like a servant of the lord, with his bible and his sword, the general rode along us, to form us to the fight, when a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout, among the godless horsemen, upon the tyrant's right. v. and, hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore, the cry of battle rises along their charging line! for god! for the cause! for the church! for the laws! for charles, king of england, and rupert of the rhine! vi. the furious german comes, with his clarions and his drums, his bravoes of alsatia, and pages of whitehall; they are bursting on our flanks. grasp your pikes, close your ranks, for rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. vii. they are here! they rush on! we are broken! we are gone! our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. o lord, put forth thy might! o lord, defend the right! stand back to back, in god's name, and fight it to the last. viii. stout skippon hath a wound; the center hath given ground; hark! hark! what means this trampling of horsemen in our rear? whose banner do i see, boys? 'tis he, thank god! 'tis he, boys. bear up another minute: brave oliver is here. ix. their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes; our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the accurst, and at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. x. fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide their coward heads, predestined to rot on temple bar; and he--he turns, he flies:--shame on those cruel eyes that bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war. lord macaulay. the glories of morning. 1. i had occasion, a few weeks since, to take the early train from providence to boston; and for this purpose rose at two o'clock in the morning. everything around was wrapt in darkness and hushed in silence, broken only by what seemed at that hour the unearthly clank and rush of the train. it was a mild, serene, midsummer's night--the sky was without a cloud--the winds were whist. the moon, then in the last quarter, had just risen, and the stars shone with a spectral lustre but little affected by her presence. jupiter two hours high, was the herald of the day; the pleiades, just above the horizon, shed their sweet influence in the east; lyra sparkled near the zenith; the steady pointers, far beneath the pole, looked meekly up from the depths of the north to their sovereign. 2. such was the glorious spectacle as i entered the train. as we proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became more perceptible; the intense blue of the sky began to soften; the smaller stars, like little children, went first to rest; the sister-beams of the pleiades soon melted together; but the bright constellations of the west and north remained unchanged. steadily the wondrous transfiguration went on. hands of angels, hidden from mortal eyes, shifted the scenery of the heavens; the glories of night dissolved into the glories of dawn. 3. the blue sky now turned more softly gray; the great watch-stars shut up their holy eyes; the east began to kindle. faint streaks of purple soon blushed along the sky; the whole celestial concave was filled with the inflowing tides of the morning light, which came pouring down from above in one great ocean of radiance; till at length, as we reached the blue hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, and turned the dewy tear-drops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds. in a few seconds, the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of man, began his state. 4. i do not wonder at the superstition of the ancient magians, who in the morning of the world went up to the hill-tops of central asia, and, ignorant of the true god, adored the most glorious work of his hand. but i am filled with amazement, when i am told, that, in this enlightened age and in the heart of the christian world, there are persons who can witness this daily manifestation of the power and wisdom of the creator, and yet say in their hearts, "there is no god." edward everett. the chambered nautilus. i. this is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, sails the unshadowed main,- the venturous bark that flings on the sweet summer wind its purple wings in gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, and coral reefs lie bare, where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. ii. 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! iii. 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. iv. 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 borne 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: v. 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! o. w. holmes. autumn. 1. once more i am upon this serene hill-top! the air is very clear, very still, and very solemn or, rather, tenderly sad, in its serene brightness. it is not that moist spring air, full of the smell of wood, of the soil, and of the odor of vegetation, which warm winds bring to us from the south. 2. it is not that summer atmosphere, full of alternations of haze and fervent clearness, as if nature were calling into life every day some influence for its myriad children; sometimes in showers, and sometimes with coercive heat upon root and leaf; and, like a universal task-master, was driving up the hours to accomplish the labors of the year. 3. no! in these autumn days there is a sense of leisure and of meditation. the sun seems to look down upon the labors of its fiery hands with complacency. be satisfied, o seasonable sun! thou hast shaped an ample year, and art garnering up harvests which well may swell thy rejoicing heart with gracious gladness. 4. one who breaks off in summer, and returns in autumn to the hills, needs almost to come to a new acquaintance with the most familiar things. it is another world; or it is the old world a-masquerading; and you halt, like one scrutinizing a disguised friend, between the obvious dissemblance and the subtile likeness. 5. southward of our front door there stood two elms, leaning their branches toward each other, forming a glorious arch of green. now, in faint yellow, they grow attenuated and seem as if departing; they are losing their leaves and fading out of sight, as trees do in twilight. yonder, over against that young growth of birch and evergreen, stood, all summer long, a perfect maple-tree, rounded out on every side, thick with luxuriant foliage, and dark with greenness, save when the morning sun, streaming through it, sent transparency to its very heart. 6. now it is a tower of gorgeous red. so sober and solemn did it seem all summer, that i should think as soon to see a prophet dancing at a peasant's holiday, as it transfigured to such intense gayety! its fellows, too, the birches and the walnuts, burn from head to foot with fires that glow but never consume. 7. but these holiday hills! have the evening clouds, suffused with sunset, dropped down and become fixed into solid forms? have the rainbows that followed autumn storms faded upon the mountains and left their mantles there? yet, with all their brilliancy, how modest do they seem; how patient when bare, or burdened with winter; how cheerful when flushed with summer-green, and how modest when they lift up their wreathed and crowned heads in the resplendent days of autumn! 8. i stand alone upon the peaceful summit of this hill, and turn in every direction. the east is all a-glow; the blue north flushes all her hills with radiance; the west stands in burnished armor; the southern hills buckle the zone of the horizon together with emeralds and rubies, such as were never set in the fabled girdle of the gods! of gazing there cannot be enough. the hunger of the eye grows by feeding. 9. only the brotherhood of evergreens--the pine, the cedar, the spruce, and the hemlock--refuse to join this universal revel. they wear their sober green through autumn and winter, as if they were set to keep open the path of summer through the whole year, and girdle all seasons together with a clasp of endless green. 10. but in vain do they give solemn examples to the merry leaves which frolic with every breeze that runs sweet riot in the glowing shades. gay leaves will not be counselled, but will die bright and laughing. but both together--the transfigured leaves of deciduous trees and the calm unchangeableness of evergreens--how more beautiful are they than either alone! the solemn pine brings color to the cheek of the beeches, and the scarlet and golden maples rest gracefully upon the dark foliage of the million-fingered pine. 11. lifted far above all harm of fowler or impediment of mountain, wild fowl are steadily flying southward. the simple sight of them fills the imagination with pictures. they have all summer long called to each other from the reedy fens and wild oat-fields of the far north. summer is already extinguished there. 12. winter is following their track, and marching steadily toward us. the spent flowers, the seared leaves, the thinning tree-tops, the morning frost, have borne witness of a change on earth; and these caravans of the upper air confirm the tidings. summer is gone; winter is coming! 13. the wind has risen to-day. it is not one of those gusty, playful winds that frolic with the trees. it is a wind high up in air, that moves steadily, with a solemn sound, as if it were the spirit of summer journeying past us; and, impatient of delay, it does not stoop to the earth, but touches the tops of the trees, with a murmuring sound, sighing a sad farewell and passing on. 14. such days fill one with pleasant sadness. how sweet a pleasure is there in sadness! it is not sorrow; it is not despondency; it is not gloom! it is one of the moods of joy. at any rate i am very happy, and yet it is sober, and very sad happiness. it is the shadow of joy upon the soul! i can reason about these changes. i can cover over the dying leaves with imaginations as bright as their own hues; and, by christian faith, transfigure the whole scene with a blessed vision of joyous dying and glorious resurrection. 15. but what then? such thoughts glow like evening clouds, and not far beneath them are the evening twilights, into whose dusk they will soon melt away. and all communions, and all admirations, and all associations, celestial or terrene, come alike into a pensive sadness, that is even sweeter than our joy. it is the minor key of our thoughts. henry ward beecher. midsummer. i. around this lovely valley rise the purple hills of paradise. o, softly on yon banks of haze her rosy face the summer lays! becalmed along the azure sky, the argosies of cloudland lie, whose shores, with many a shining rift, far off their pearl-white peaks uplift. ii. through all the long midsummer day the meadow-sides are sweet with hay. i seek the coolest sheltered seat, just where the field and forest meet,- where grow the pine trees tall and bland, the ancient oaks austere and grand, and fringy roots and pebbles fret the ripples of the rivulet. iii. i watch the mowers, as they go through the tall grass a white-sleeved row. with even stroke their scythes they swing, in tune their merry whetstones ring. behind, the nimble youngsters run, and toss the thick swaths in the sun. the cattle graze, while, warm and still, slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, and bright, where summer breezes break, the green wheat crinkles like a lake. iv. the butterfly and humble bee come to the pleasant woods with me; quickly before me runs the quail, her chickens skulk behind the rail; high up the lone wood-pigeon sits, and the woodpecker pecks and flits, sweet woodland music sinks and swells, the brooklet rings its tinkling bells, the swarming insects drone and hum, the partridge beats his throbbing drum, the squirrel leaps among the boughs, and chatters in his leafy house, the oriole flashes by; and, look! into the mirror of the brook, where the vain bluebird trims his coat, two tiny feathers fall and float. v. as silently, as tenderly, the down of peace descends on me. o, this is peace! i have no need of friend to talk, of book to read. a dear companion here abides; close to my thrilling heart he hides; the holy silence is his voice: i lie and listen and rejoice. j. t. trowbridge the kitten and falling leaves. i. that way look, my infant, lo! what a pretty baby-show! see the kitten on the wall, sporting with the leaves that fall, withered leaves--one--two--and three- from the lofty elder-tree! ii. through the calm and frosty air of this morning bright and fair, eddying round and round they sink slowly, slowly: one might think, from the motions that are made, every little leaf conveyed sylph or faery hither tending,- to this lower world descending, each invisible and mute, in his wavering parachute. iii. --but the kitten, how she starts, crouches, stretches, paws, and darts! first at one, and then its fellow just as light and just as yellow; there are many now--now one- now they stop and there are none. what intenseness of desire in her upward eye of fire! iv. with a tiger-leap half-way now she meets the coming prey, lets it go as fast, and then has it in her power again: now she works with three or four, like an indian conjurer; quick as he in feats of art, far beyond in joy of heart. v. were her antics played in the eye of a thousand standers-by, clapping hands with shout and stare, what would little tabby care for the plaudits of the crowd? over happy to be proud, over wealthy in the treasure of her own exceeding pleasure! vi. such a light of gladness breaks, pretty kitten! from thy freaks,- spreads with such a living grace o'er my little dora's face; yes, the sight so stirs and charms thee, baby, laughing in my arms, that almost i could repine that your transports are not mine, that i do not wholly fare even as ye do, thoughtless pair! and i will have my careless season spite of melancholy reason, will walk through life in such a way that, when time brings on decay, now and then i may possess hours of perfect gladsomeness. vii. --pleased by any random toy; by a kitten's busy joy, or an infant's laughing eye sharing in the ecstasy; i would fare like that or this, find my wisdom in my bliss; keep the sprightly soul awake, and have faculties to take, even from things by sorrow wrought, matter for a jocund thought, spite of care, and spite of grief, to gambol with life's falling leaf. william wordsworth. summer storm. i. 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, 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. ii. 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 long green sedge's 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. iii. 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. iv. 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, the startled river turns leaden and harsh. you can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat. v. 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 never more? vi. 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, and loud and long again the thunder shouts his battle-song,- one quivering flash, one wildering 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. vii. gone, gone, so soon! no more my half-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. james russell lowell. jaques' seven ages of man. 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, 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. william shakespeare. publications by charles wesley emerson physical culture how to attain health, strength, grace, and beauty. bodily education without the use of apparatus. ã�sthetic and psycho-physical culture. thirty-eight beautiful illustrations prepared especially for this work. a handbook for student and teacher. price, postpaid, $1.50 psycho vox or, the emerson system of voice culture the voice as the natural reporter of the individual. the relation of the proper use of the voice to the nervous system and to health. exercises for securing freedom and proper direction of tone, and for establishing right habits in the use of the voice. price, postpaid, $1.50 philosophy of gesture or, expressive physical culture the psychological and physiological basis and teaching principles of the emerson system of expressive physical culture and responsive drill--value of art models, ã�sthetic laws of expression explained, with illustrations drawn from classic art. "educating the body to spontaneously express in a beautiful way the highest sentiments of the soul." price, postpaid, $1.50 the perfective laws of art in four volumes. a compilation of selections illustrating the sixteen perfective laws of art applied to oratory. this work is adapted to the use of all advanced students in expressive reading. price per volume, postpaid, 50 cents emerson college publishing dep't shipping house, millis, mass. * * * * * transcriber's note: spelling has been retained as in the original publication, including "cocknify" on page 75 and "wery" on page 96. changes have been made as follows: page 26 a tax of pendantry a tax of pedantry page 60 if its long for you to wait if it's long for you to wait _a companion to baker's reading club._ elocution simplified; with an appendix on lisping, stammering, stuttering, and other defects of speech. by walter k. fobes, graduate of boston university school of oratory. with an introduction by george m. baker, author of the reading-club series, etc. boston: lee and shepard, publishers. new york: charles t. dillingham. 1877. copyright. 1877, by walter k. fobes. this little book is dedicated to prof. lewis b. monroe, in testimony of appreciation of his many qualifications as a teacher of this art, and of the respect and affection with which he will ever be regarded by his friend and pupil, the author. preface. "why write this book?" say you. "because it is needed," say i. there is no "digest" of elocution that is both methodical and practical, and that is low in price, now in the market. this book is an epitome of the science of elocution, containing nothing that is not necessary for you to know, if you wish to make yourself a good reader or speaker. you who will thoroughly study and digest this book, and then put in practice what you here have learned, will have started on the road, the goal of which is oratory. contents. page preface 5 introduction 11 acknowledgment 15 method of study of elocution 15 part i. physical gymnastics 17 attitude 17 standing position 17 speaker's position 18 sitting position 18 changing position 18 poise of body 18 rising on toes 19 holding the book 19 note on attitude 19 chest expansion 19 active and passive chest 19 arms at side 19 fore-arm vertical 20 full-arm percussion 20 hand percussion 20 body movements 21 bend forward and back 21 bend right and left 21 turn right and left 21 neck movements 21 bend forward and back 21 bend right and left 21 turn right and left 21 note on physical gymnastics 21 part ii. vocal gymnastics 22 breathing 22 abdominal 22 costal 23 dorsal 23 puffing breath 23 puffing breath, with pause 23 puffing breath, breathe between 23 holding the breath 24 tone 24 glottis stroke 24 soft tones 25 swelling tones 25 pitch 25 learn scale 26 chant sentences 26 read sentences 26 inflection 26 major falling 26 major rising 27 major rising and falling 27 minor rising and falling 27 circumflex 27 monotone 27 quality 28 whisper 28 aspirated 28 pure 28 orotund 28 force 29 gentle 29 moderate 29 loud 29 stress 29 radical 29 median 29 terminal 30 thorough 30 compound 30 tremolo 30 movement 30 quick 30 moderate 30 slow 31 articulation 31 elementary sounds 31 vowels 31 consonants 32 summary of physical and vocal gymnastics 33 part iii. elocution 36 pleasant quality 36 articulation 38 syllables 38 words 38 accent 38 phrases 39 emphasis 39 sentences 39 fulness and power 42 inflection 44 major rising 45 major falling 45 minor rising 46 minor falling 47 circumflex 47 monotone 48 pitch 49 high 49 middle 50 low 51 very low 52 quality 52 whisper 53 aspirate 53 pure tone 54 orotund 55 movement 56 quick 56 moderate 57 slow 58 very slow 58 force 59 gentle 59 moderate 60 loud 61 very loud 61 stress 62 radical 63 median 63 terminal 64 thorough 65 compound 65 tremolo 66 transition 66 modulation 70 style 77 conversational 78 narrative 79 descriptive 79 didactic 80 public address 81 declamatory 82 dramatic 83 part iv. hints on elocution 85 defects of speech 93 introduction. rev. dr. hall of new york says, "there is one accomplishment in particular which i would earnestly recommend to you: cultivate assiduously the ability to read well. i stop to particularize this, because it is a thing so very much neglected, and because it is such an elegant and charming accomplishment. where one person is really interested by music, twenty are pleased by good reading. where one person is capable of becoming a skilful musician, twenty may become good readers. where there is one occasion suitable for the exercise of musical talent, there are twenty for that of good reading. "what a fascination there is in really good reading! what a power it gives one! in the hospital, in the chamber of the invalid, in the nursery, in the domestic and in the social circle, among chosen friends and companions, how it enables you to minister to the amusement, the comfort, the pleasure, of dear ones, as no other accomplishment can! no instrument of man's devising can reach the heart as does that most wonderful instrument, the human voice. it is god's special gift to his chosen creatures. fold it not away in a napkin. "did you ever notice what life and power the holy scriptures have when well read? have you ever heard of the wonderful effects produced by elizabeth fry on the criminals of newgate by simply reading to them the parable of the prodigal son? princes and peers of the realm, it is said, counted it a privilege to stand in the dismal corridors, among felons and murderers, merely to share with them the privilege of witnessing the marvellous pathos which genius, taste, and culture could infuse into that simple story." elocution trains the voice to obey the mind, and to rightly express thought and feeling. it is necessary to those who read or speak in public; to persons with defective speech; to those with nasal, shrill, throaty, or husky voices; to persons with diseased throat, or liability to it, arising from wrong use of voice. the practice of the art of elocution is as necessary to the reader or speaker as practice of the art of singing is to one who intends to become a public singer. any one attempting to sing for the public without previous practice would be justly hissed from the stage: and a like fate overtakes most speakers, who, without previous study of elocution, attempt to speak in public; that is, very few go to hear them. clergymen should learn to read impressively the bible, litany, hymns, and sermons: for as dr. holland says, "when a minister goes before an audience, it is reasonable to ask and expect that he shall be accomplished in the arts of expression; that he shall be a good writer and speaker. it makes little difference that he knows more than his audience, is better than his audience, has the true matter in him, if the art by which he conveys his thought is shabby. it ought not to be shabby, because it is not necessary that it should be. there are plenty of men who can develop the voice, and so instruct in the arts of oratory that no man need go into the pulpit unaccompanied by the power to impress upon the people all of wisdom that he carries." the same writer says of students. "multitudes of young men are poured out upon the country, year after year, to get their living by public speech, who cannot even read well. the art of public speech has been shamefully neglected in all our higher training-schools. it has been held subordinate to every thing else, when it is of prime importance. i believe more attention is now paid to the matter than formerly. the colleges are training their students better, and there is no danger that too much attention will be devoted to it. the only danger is, that the great majority will learn too late that the art of oratory demands as much study as any other of the higher arts; and that, without it, they must flounder along through life practically shorn of half the power that is in them, and shut out from a large success." teachers should learn elocution so as to teach in a pleasing, effective manner; and also to teach reading in schools, so that children may learn to read in an easy, agreeable way, and give thought to what they read; thus leading a child in all studies to get ideas from books, and not merely words without meaning. public speakers should, by study of elocution, learn the best manner of moving, persuading, and instructing their audiences; thus adding to their own popularity, and consequently widening their influence. lawyers, by practice of elocution, will find greater ease in speaking to witness or jury, and thus be greatly aided in their work. actors and public readers lose both time and money by a neglect of elocution, the practice of which is essential to success in their vocation. singers, by study of elocution, can best obtain that perfect articulation and elegant expression so necessary to the successful singer. all persons who have a taste for reading should study elocution, as reading aloud in the social or home circle is one of the most instructive, pleasing, and healthful pastimes in which we can indulge. defective speech, as lisping, stammering, stuttering, &c., can be entirely cured by a study and diligent practice of elocution. unpleasant voices, either shrill, nasal, throaty, husky, or with any other disagreeable quality, can be made agreeable by practice of elocution. to meet all these wants, this treatise has been prepared. embracing as it does a thorough exposition of the principles of elocution in an eminently practical form, adapted to the requirements of the student, the professional man, and the amateur, by a graduate of the boston school of oratory (acknowledged to be the best institute of elocution america has produced), himself a successful teacher and reader, it seems to present the whole science in a nutshell, so that he "who runs may read" in reality, if he but follow the instructions of this manual. here elocution is not only simplified, but, in this neat and cheap form, placed within the reach of all. george m. baker. acknowledgment. i would here acknowledge my indebtedness to prof. lewis b. monroe, dean of boston university school of oratory, for what i have learned of expression in elocution; to prof. a. graham bell of boston for valuable instruction in articulation and inflection; to prof. edward b. oliver of mendelssohn musical institute of boston for his most excellent instruction in tone. the method of study of this book is the result of the knowledge gained from these three superior instructors. the plan of part three will be found to be that of monroe's sixth reader. method of study of elocution. part first, a series of gymnastics to give strength and elasticity to the muscles used in speaking, to expand the chest, and to get a correct position of body, so that speaking may be without effort, and yet powerful. part second, a system of vocal exercises for daily practice, to train the voice, and get command of tone, quality, pitch, inflection, force, stress, articulation, and right manner of breathing. part third, the application of the vocal exercises to the reading of short extracts, showing the effect when thus applied, and showing the difference between the seven styles,--conversational, narrative, descriptive, didactic, public address, declamatory, and emotional or dramatic. there will be found references to select pieces in baker's "reading club and handy speaker," for practice in the different styles of reading. hoping this little book may be of benefit to many, it is sent forth to help those who love the art, but with no thought of recommending this book for self-instruction, and substituting it for the instruction to be gained from a good teacher of the art. if a good teacher is not to be had, use this book. walter k. fobes. cambridge, mass., october, 1877. elocution simplified. part one. physical gymnastics. goethe says, "all art must be preceded by a certain mechanical expertness." you find it so in the art of playing the piano: the fingers must be made nimble, and the wrists elastic, before any thing else can be well done. in the art of singing you have to exercise the voice in many ways to get command of it. so, in the art of elocution, it is necessary to practise the mechanics of physical and vocal culture, that you may be prepared to express properly your thought and feeling. you need first a healthy body, elastic and strong in muscles, and especially in those muscles used in the production of voice. for this latter purpose i will describe as clearly as i can monroe's system of gymnastics, and for the former recommend any other gymnastics that will give health, strength, and especially elasticity. attitude. 1. standing position.--hamlet, so shakespeare tells us, ends a letter to ophelia thus:- "whilst this machine is to him, hamlet." your body is the machine by means of whose working you express your mind and feelings. if you were to run a steam-engine, you would be very careful to place the machine in such a position, that it would do the most work with the least wear and tear. you must do the same with this machine, your body. to get a correct standing position, place yourself with back against a smooth wall in the room, with shoulders flat, your back as nearly straight as you can make it, and every part, from head to heel, touching the wall. this gives you an upright position, but feels uncomfortable, because the weight is too much on the heels. sway the whole body in its upright position forward, so that the weight will come mostly on the balls of the feet; and, in doing so, do not bend any part except at the ankles. you are now in a proper position for speaking. the head is erect, shoulders thrown back, chest expanded, back nearly straight, the weight of the body is about equal on ball and heel of the feet, and your poise of body as it would be naturally in the act of taking a step forward. this puts every part of your body in the best condition for easy speaking. 2. speaker's position.--this position should be assumed before an audience when some other position is not required for dramatic expression. it is the standing position, with the weight upon one foot, and the other advanced. let the advance foot be about a heel's distance from the middle of the foot behind, and form a right angle with it. 3. sitting position.--when you read in a sitting position, the body should be as in speaker's position, and feet also, the poise of body being forward. 4. change of position.--you sometimes wish to turn to address your audience at one side. to change gracefully from the speaker's position, turn the foot in advance on the ball, outward, until it becomes parallel with the foot behind; then take the weight on it, and turn the other foot till you have correct speaker's position. if, as you stood at first, facing the audience, your weight was on the right foot, you will find yourself facing to the right; if the weight was on left, you will face left. when facing the audience, to change the weight from one foot to the other, take one short step either forward or back. 5. poise of body.--to get steadiness of body, to keep a correct poise, and to prevent all unseemly swaying, when standing to read or speak, assume standing position, and, keeping feet flat on the floor, sway forward until the weight comes entirely on the ball of the feet. don't bend the body. then sway back to standing position. then sway backward, keeping feet flat on the floor and the body straight, until the weight is entirely on the heels; from that sway forward to position. 6. rise upon the toes.--for the same purpose as the above. assume standing position, and rise as high as possible on the toes very slowly; then sink slowly so as to come back to standing position. be very careful not to sway backward in coming down, and you will find yourself in the exact poise of standing position. also do the same from speaker's position, rising on one foot. 7. holding the book.--hold your book in the left hand, on one side of the body, so that your face will not be hid from the audience. the top of the book should be about even with the shoulder. many, in reading, hold the book in front of them; but that is not so pleasant to an audience, and leads to a stooping position, a contracted chest, and ill health. note.--all the foregoing exercises relate to position of body necessary for the most powerful, and at the same time the easiest, action of the vocal organs; also to the attitudes most pleasing to an audience when they look upon a reader or speaker. practise them until they become habits, and so unconsciously you will assume correct position when you stand. chest expansion. for purposes of speech, you need to use more breath than for ordinary breathing or conversation. you therefore need to make as much room as possible for good fresh air by exercise to expand the chest. elocution is beneficial to health for this reason. 1. active and passive chest.--your chest in its ordinary position is what, in elocution, is called passive chest. the active chest is that assumed in the standing position, where the chest is raised up slightly and expanded, with the shoulders drawn back. practise as an exercise the active and passive chest, alternating from one to the other without breathing, or moving the shoulders. the active chest must be kept in all the physical and vocal gymnastics, and at all time during speech. with practice it will soon become established as a habit; and your every-day attitude will be more erect as a consequence. 2. arms at side.--place your arms at the side, with elbows bent, so that from elbow to hand the arms are horizontal, and parallel with each other. draw the elbows back, clinch the fist with palms up, and make chest active, keeping the back straight. take a full breath, and hold it (see "breathing"); then carry the arms at full length in front of you, your hands open and as high up as the shoulders; then bring them back to the position you started from, with hands clinched, palms up, and pull back with all your strength, raising the chest slightly more; then give out the breath. after some practice you may do it twice upon one breath, being sure to keep the arms as close to the body as you can; for, if you spread your arms, you will strain the muscles. 3. fore-arm vertical.--assume standing position, and bend the arms, placing them vertically, and parallel with each other, at the side, with clinched hands as high as the shoulder; turn the fist out from the shoulder, raise the chest as much as you can, and, taking a full breath, hold it; bring the arms forward so as to touch the elbows together, if you can; then draw them back to first position, and pull downward and backward as hard as you can; then give out the breath. after some practice, do this twice on one breath, being sure to keep the arms and hands close to the body. 4. full-arm percussion.--in ordinary breathing, it is seldom you fill your lungs to their fullest capacity; and some of the air-cells are not filled, especially those at the extreme edges of the lungs. this and the following exercise are for the purpose of sending air into those portions of the lungs not ordinarily filled. assume standing position; take a full breath, and hold it; then strike with the right hand upon the top of the left chest a very quick and very elastic blow, striking with fingers, and swinging the arm freely from its position at the side; then strike with left hand on right chest in same manner; repeat with each hand, and then give out the breath. never strike with the flat palm or clinched fist, as that is very injurious and unhealthy. 5. hand percussion.--assume standing position, and place your hands on your chest, with elbows as high as the shoulders; make chest active; take a full breath, and retain it while you strike alternately eight light elastic blows with each hand; then give out the breath. body movements. the muscles of the waist are the front or abdominal, the side or costal, the back or dorsal muscles. these muscles are very important in speech; and upon the strength and elasticity of these, and the inner muscles acting in connection with them, depend the force and strength of your voice. three very simple movements are here given, which will give some measure of strength and elasticity to these muscles. 1. body bend forward and back.--from standing position bend forward, keeping the back straight, and bending only at the hip-joints; touch the floor with your hands, if you can; then assume upright position, and bend back as far as you can. 2. bend right and left.--from standing position, bend to right side as far as possible, bending only at the waist, and stretching the costal muscles; then assume upright position, and bend to left in same manner. 3. turn right and left.--from standing position turn the body on the waist, keeping the hips still, and twisting the waist-muscles, first to the right, then to the left. neck movements. the neck movements are necessary, because many of the disagreeable qualities of the voice are due to inelasticity of the muscles of the neck. the movements are in the same directions as for the body. 1. bend forward and back. 2. bend right and left. 3. turn right and left. it is not necessary to describe them at length: but, in bending right and left, be careful to keep the head from bending slightly backward or forward at the same time; and, in the turning of head, keep it erect. note.--this completes the physical gymnastics. practise them until the purpose for which they are intended has been accomplished, and afterwards occasionally, to keep what you have gained. take each exercise two or three times in succession. when thoroughly learned, this will not take more than five minutes. practise them five minutes at morning and night. part two. vocal gymnastics. you have no need to take any special exercise in walking for the ordinary purposes of life; but, if you wished to be a "walkist," you would need special practice to train and develop the muscles for that purpose. you may be a good singer, able to sing for your own amusement or that of your friends, without specially training the singing-voice; but, if you wished to sing in public, you would, if you were wise, train your singing-voice very carefully. as in these cases, so with the voice in speaking. for all ordinary purposes of speech, you need no special training of the speaking-voice; but when, as teacher, clergyman, lawyer, lecturer, actor, public reader, or in any other capacity, you are called upon to do more with the voice than others, you ought to train and develop your vocal powers. for this purpose, the following series of exercises are given for practice. breathing. as it is necessary that you should take in and give out more breath in speaking than at other times, you ought to be able to do this in a natural manner. if you will practise these breathing-exercises until they are easy for you, the breath in your reading or speaking will take care of itself. practise breathing in the open air, and take in and give out the breath through the nose without making the slightest sound in so doing. 1. abdominal breathing.--take standing position and active chest; place the fingers on the abdominal muscles, and the thumbs on the costal muscles; take a full breath, making the abdominal muscles start first, and move outward; then let the muscles sink in as the breath comes out. make as much movement of these muscles as you can, both in and out; and be sure you keep the shoulders from moving. pay particular attention to the movement of the abdominal muscles, letting all the rest (except the shoulders) move as may be easy to you. practise this way of breathing until you can do it easily; and, if it makes you dizzy, do not be alarmed, but wait till the dizziness is entirely gone before you try again. 2. costal breathing.--assume standing position with active chest; place the fingers on the costal muscles, and thumbs at the back; inhale a full breath, expanding as much as possible the costal muscles and ribs. in giving out the breath, make them sink in as much as possible. keep shoulders still in breathing in and out, and let all other muscles be free to move as they may. 3. dorsal breathing.--assume standing position with active chest; place the fingers at the back on dorsal muscles, and thumbs on the side; take a full breath, trying to expand the muscles under your fingers as much as you can. rightly done, the abdominal and costal muscles, and the ribs, will also expand; the chest, if not already active, will rise; the shoulders will remain quiet. in giving out the breath, let the chest be the last to sink. this is the way of breathing in every healthy man, woman, and child. any manner of dressing the body that hinders free and easy action of the abdominal, costal, and dorsal muscles, and the ribs, leads to ill health, because it interferes with the vital process of breathing; and ill health is fatal to success in any art. 4. puffing the breath.--assume standing position, with active chest; take a full breath, and, rounding the lips as if you were about to say the word "who," blow the breath out as you would in blowing out a light; inhale again, and repeat the puffing. 5. puff and pause.--puff the breath as before, three times, pausing about five or more seconds, holding the breath between the puffs. in holding the breath, let there be no pressure upon the lungs or throat, but control it by keeping the waist-muscles still. (see "holding breath.") 6. puff and breathe.--puff three times in the same way as before, breathing between the puffs, thus: place the fingers of one hand on the upper part of the chest, the fingers of the other hand on the abdominal muscles; keep the chest still, and make the abdominal muscles sink every time you puff out the breath, and expand, every time you take in breath, between the puffs. in this exercise breathe through both nose and mouth. by practice of these three ways of expelling breath you get command of it. 7. holding the breath.--when you hold your breath for a longer or shorter time, or try to control it for any purpose of speech, you should do so by means of the muscles spoken of in "dorsal breathing," as being the ones used in right manner of breathing. you must try to control the breath by keeping the waist-muscles still; and there should be no feeling of pressure or uneasiness on the lungs, or in the throat or mouth. "if at first you don't succeed, try, try again: time will bring you your reward: try, try again." get control of the waist-muscles so as to keep them still; and, while you hold them still, there is no possibility of the breath getting out. tone. a good tone in speech is as much to be desired as it is in song. some have it as a gift of nature; and all can acquire it, in a degree, by judicious practice. if you have an excellent voice, you can make it still more excellent by practice; and, if you have a poor voice, you can, by practice, make it full, pleasant, and effective, and excel that one who has a good voice, but makes no effort to improve it. the tone-exercises here given are designed to give command of tone, and develop purity and power. they should be practised five minutes at a time, at four different times of the day, and double that time if possible, in order to get the greatest amount of good from them. use any tones of your voice, high or low, without being at all particular about an exact musical pitch; though, if you can practise with an organ or piano, you will find it much more beneficial. 1. glottis stroke.--assume standing position with active chest; take full breath, and whisper forcibly the word "who" three times. repeat the same. now whisper "who" twice, and speak it aloud the third time; then whisper "who" once, and speak it aloud the second and third time; then speak "who" aloud three times. now speak "who" twice, and the third time say "_oo_" as those letters sound in the word _woo_; then say "who" once, and "_oo_" the second and third time; then "_oo_" three times. you should make both the whisper and vocal sound very short and sudden, without any feeling of contraction or effort in the throat or mouth. it should seem to you as if the sound came from the lips; and, while you are energetic in the exercise, it must be done with perfect ease. you have thus proceeded, from an easy, forcible whisper, to an easy, forcible sound, and have thus obtained what is called the "glottis stroke." after diligent practice on the above exercise, use any of the short vowels (see "articulation"); speaking each vowel three times very shortly, as you did the vowel-sound _oo_. 2. soft tones.--assume standing position with active chest, and take breath; prolong very softly _oo_ as long as your breath will let you, being careful not to force the sound to continue after you feel the slightest need of breath, and also not to change the position of the mouth from beginning to end of the sound. repeat three times. in this exercise you will probably hear the voice waver, and find it difficult to keep it very soft, and yet distinct. practice will overcome this, and the exercise will be found very beneficial. the ability to do it shows cultivation of voice. after some time, use also the long vowels. (see "articulation.") 3. swelling tones.--assume standing position with active chest, and take full breath; then begin the vowel _oo_ very softly, and gradually swell it to a full tone, and then as gradually diminish it to the gentlest sound. be careful, as in soft tone, as to breath, and position of mouth. after some practice, you should be able to continue on one breath, either the soft tone or swelling tone, twenty seconds; which is long enough for practical purposes. use same vowels as in soft tone. pitch. it is necessary to all expressive reading that there should be as much variation in pitch of voice--that is, as to high and low tones--as possible, and not overdo. the pleasantest quality of voice, without variation in pitch, is tiresome to the listener. to get command of pitch, you must practise till the high and low tones are as easy to make as the common conversational tones. if you can sing the musical scale of one octave in key of c, or b flat, you will find these exercises more beneficial than if you cannot sing. if you cannot sing, take a relatively high or low pitch, as your ear may guide you, and practise the chanting and reading of sentences as well as you can. 1. learn the musical scale.--sing the scale in music, using first the glottis stroke; that is, speak each very short as you go up and down the scale. then practise soft tone and swelling tone on each tone within compass of your voice. 2. chant sentences.--use one tone of voice, and take any sentence, prolonging the words without reference to the sense, without change of tone from beginning to end. when you use a high tone, make it light and clear; when you use a low tone, make it full, free, and forcible. chant on each tone separately within the compass of the voice. 3. read sentences.--use the same sentences as for chanting, and, beginning on each tone of the voice, speak it as you would in earnest conversation, in a way to give the meaning of it. you will see that if you begin with high pitch, although your voice varies in speaking, it will be a relatively high pitch through the whole sentence; and, if you begin low, it will be relatively low. with high pitch, make your voice light and clear; and with low pitch, full, free, and forcible. inflection. in inflection the voice slides up or down in pitch on a word, and by so doing impresses your meaning on the listener. inflections are infinite in number; but a few of them practised will be of benefit in getting command over them. when the voice slides up, it is called rising inflection; if down, a falling. if it slides both ways on the same word, it is called circumflex; and if it varies but little, and is very like a chant in song, it is called monotone. a major inflection gives an effect of strength; a minor, of feebleness. 1. major falling inflection.--a falling inflection is indicated by (`) over the accented syllable of an emphatic word. if you do not already know the difference between a rising and falling inflection, suppose i say to you, "the book is on the table," and you, not understanding what place i said, should ask, "where?" and i answer, "on the table." your question would be made with rising, and my answer with falling inflection. use any vowel-sounds, and practise the falling inflection as you would hear it on the word "table," avoiding all motion of head, arms, or body, and making it with much energy of voice, as if expressing strong determination. 2. major rising inflection.--this is indicated by a (â´) over the emphatic word. practise with any vowel-sounds the inflection as you would hear it on "where," as above, observing same directions as in major falling inflections. 3. major rising and falling inflections.--practise rising followed by falling, as ã³h, ã²h, ã¡h, ã h, a['w]e, a[`w]e, &c., using long and short vowels. then falling followed by rising, as ã²h, ã³h, ã h, ã¡h, a['w]e, a[`w]e, &c., using long and short vowels. use these as if asking a simple unimportant question, and giving a like answer; then a question and answer of earnestness; then of surprise; then of great astonishment. in so doing, your voice will range higher and lower in inflection than you otherwise would make it. do not let any of the inflections sound plaintive or feeble, but make them strong and decisive. 4. minor rising and falling inflections.--use the same exercises as under major rising and falling, just mentioned; with this difference, that you make them so as to sound week, feeble, plaintive, or sad. they should be practised that you may become familiar with their sound, and have them at command, so as to use them when needed for expression, and avoid them when not. 5. circumflex inflection.--this inflection is indicated by a mark ([**symbol like letter v][**symbol like letter v upside down]) or ([**symbol like the bottom half of a circle][**symbol like the top half of a circle]) because it is a combination of rising and falling inflection. the first is rising circumflex, because it ends with the rising; the second is falling circumflex, because it ends with falling inflection. it is used in expression of doubt, irony, sarcasm; as in "the merchant of venice," act 1, scene 3, shylock says to antonio, "hath a d[vo]g m[vo]ney? is it possible a cur can lend three thousand d[vu]cats?" you will see, if read to express shylock's irony and sarcasm, that the words would be inflected, as marked, with rising circumflex. practise these circumflex inflections with vowels as directed under major rising and falling inflections. the falling circumflex being the reverse of the rising, when once you are familiar with the rising, can be easily made. 6. monotone.--this comes as near to being one tone of voice as it can be, and at the same time keep its expressiveness as reading. it is not really, as its name might indicate, one tone, as that would be like chanting in singing; but it is variation of inflection within very small limit of range in pitch. it is best practised as song, however. prolong, on a low pitch, any of the long vowels, about five seconds. the mark for monotone is (-) placed over a word. quality. the quality of the voice is that which affects us agreeably or disagreeably; and we say it is gruff, or husky, or harsh, or pleasant, &c. four general and distinct qualities need to be practised until they are at command of the mind. 1. whisper.--whisper the long and short vowels very easily and quietly at first, without the slightest feeling of effort in throat or mouth, and perfectly free from hoarseness or murmuring. as soon as you can make a clear whisper heard across the room, whisper so as to be heard farther off, and so proceed gradually, day by day, until you can whisper, clearly and without effort, loud enough to be heard in a large hall. do not practise whispering more than three minutes at a time. 2. aspirate quality.--this is what, in general, is called undertone. it is a mixture of whisper and voice, and is what you would be likely to use when in company you speak to any one with a desire not to be overheard by others. practise with vowels as in whisper. 3. pure quality.--speak the long vowels in your conversational tone as pleasantly as you can, tossing the tone lightly, as if speaking to some one across a large hall. speak each vowel three times on one breath. practise them first speaking shortly, then with prolonging of each tone not over five seconds. 4. orotund quality.--this quality is seldom to be heard in uncultivated voices, but is much to be desired in a speaker. it can only be acquired slowly and with much practice. it will be easily recognized when heard, as it possesses a fulness and richness of tone very pleasing. it is not high, but seems low in pitch; and, although it does not sound loud, it seems to be effective, and reach a long distance. to acquire it, practise, as recommended in "pitch," the chanting and reading of sentences on the conversational and lower tones of the voice; also swelling tone under "tone," on low pitch, using long vowels, especially _oo_, oh, awe, ah. force. force is the degree of loudness or softness we may give to the voice. you should be able to speak gently without feebleness or weakness of voice, and so as to be distinctly heard in a large hall, and also to make the fullest and loudest voice without showing any effort to do so. 1. gentle force.--chant and read sentences, as under "pitch," with the gentlest force you can, and yet make it so as to seem to be clear and distinct. do this on every pitch you can, high or low. 2. moderate force.--read and chant as above on the middle and higher tones, with about the force of earnest conversation. 3. loud force.--read and chant as above, using only the middle and lower tones of the voice, making the loudest tones you can, without straining the throat. force of voice depends on the management of the muscles below the lungs; and you should have perfect freedom from all effort on the part of lungs, throat, or mouth, on any pitch, high, middle, or low. if any effort is perceptible to you, it will be a feeling of strength and power at the waist; and experience and practice must teach you how much or how little effort to make at that point. the loudest force, and at the same time the purest quality, is secured when it seems to make itself without the slightest feeling of effort on your part. stress. stress is the manner of applying force to a word or accented syllable. prof. l. b. monroe, in his book on vocal culture, enumerates six kinds. the marks he uses to represent them exhibit clearly to the eye what the voice is required to do. with radical, terminal, and compound stress, after facility is gained by use of stroke from the shoulder, omit it, and do them forcibly without movement of any part of the body. 1. radical stress.--so called, because the stress is on the beginning of the word, and marked thus (>). assume standing position with active chest, and take breath; touch the fingers to the shoulder, and strike forward and downward, stopping the hands half way, and clinching the fist very tightly; at the moment of stopping, speak the vowel "ah" very shortly. you will notice that the voice issues full, and seems to suddenly vanish in a manner well indicated by the mark above. use any vowels, long or short, with middle pitch of voice. practise afterward without any movement of the arms. 2. median stress.--so called, because the force is on the middle of the word, marked thus (<>). it is the same as swelling tone, but is much shorter. practise with long vowels on middle tones of voice, making three short swells on the same vowel in one breath. 3. terminal stress.--so called, because the force is on the end of the word, and marked thus (<). use the same movement as in radical stress; begin the sound softly when the hand leaves the shoulder, stopping it suddenly as the hands clinch. the voice seems to be jerked out. practise also without arm-movements, using the same vowels as in radical stress. 4. thorough stress.--so called, because the force is loud from beginning to end, and marked thus (=). prolong about ten seconds long vowels, with a loud full voice on middle pitch. 5. compound stress.--so called, because it is a union of radical and terminal stress, and marked (><). the force is on both beginning and end of the word, and may be made by striking twice in succession, continuing the voice from radical to terminal without pause of voice between the strokes. 6. tremolo stress.--this is a trembling of voice, and marked thus ([**symbol like a rippled line]). prolong long vowels, making the voice tremble while you do so. movement. movement is the degree of rapidity or slowness with which you speak the articulate sounds. the danger in fast movement is, that you will not articulate plainly; and in slow, that you will drawl. 1. quick movement.--use exercise of chanting and reading sentences, as under "pitch," using the middle tones of voice; and repeat the words with the utmost possible rapidity, with perfect articulation. in chanting, do not mind the sense; but, in reading, be particular to give the meaning of the sentence. 2. moderate movement.--use exercise as above about as fast as ordinary talking. 3. slow movement.--use exercise as above, with very slow movement of voice. in chanting, prolong each word about alike; in reading, give good expression, and you will see that the more important words usually take the longest time. articulation. articulation is the utterance of the elementary sounds, which, when combined, make language. you have been using the sounds that make up speech, in combination, every day; but it is a good practice to make each element separately. after you are able to make each sound distinctly, you will find you can make yourself understood in a large hall without using a loud voice. your jaw, lips, and tongue should move actively and easily. for this purpose use long vowels,--no. 1, no. 8, no. 14,--speaking them in quick succession, one after the other, making them distinct, and making the jaw and lips move as much as you can with ease. continue to the extent of your breath. then use the same with _p_, _b_, or _m_ before them; then with _t_, _d_, or _n_; then _k_, _g_, or _y_. continue this practice about five minutes at a time, until the jaw, lips, and tongue will move with perfect ease. elementary sounds. in the exercises here given, use the sound, not the name of the letters which represents the sound, and practise separately the sounds represented by the italic letters below. the only correct way to learn them is from the lips of a competent teacher; but you will do well, and improve, if you try the best you can in your way. vowels. _long._ | _short._ | _diphthongs._ | | 1. _e_ as in m_ee_t.| 2. _i_ as in _i_t. |8^1. _i_ as in p_i_e. 3^1. _a_ " " m_a_y. | 4. _e_ " " m_e_t. |11^1. _oi_ " " _oi_l. 5. _ai_ " " _ai_r. | 5. _a_ " " _a_t. |8^{14}._ou_ " " _ou_t. 6. _e_ " " h_e_r. | 7. _a_ " " cub_a_.|^{1}14. _u_ " " yo_u_. 8. _a_ " " _a_h. | 9. _u_ " " _u_p. | 10. _a_ " " _a_we. |11. _o_ " " _o_n. | 12^{14}._o_ " " _o_h. |13._oo_ " " f_oo_t.| 12. _o_ " " _o_re. | | 14. _oo_ " " w_oo_. | | glides.--1-14 of the vowels, and _r_ when it follows a vowel, are by prof. bell called "glides." consonants or articulations. _breath._ | _voice._ | _nasal._ |_place in mouth._ _p_ as in _p_ay. |_b_ as in _b_ay. |_m_ as in _m_ay. | lips. _wh_ " " _wh_y. |_w_ " " _w_ay. | | " _f_ " " _f_ie. |_v_ " " _v_ie. | | lips and teeth. _th_ " " _th_in.|_th_ " " _th_en. | | tongue " " _t_ " " _t_ie. |_d_ " " _d_ie. |_n_ " " _n_igh.| tip of tongue. _ch_ " " _ch_ew.|_j_ " " _j_ew. | | " " |_l_ " " _l_ay. | | " " |_r_ " " _r_ay. | | " " _s_ " " _s_ee. |_z_ " " _z_eal. | | " " _sh_ " " _sh_oe.|_zh_ " " a_z_ure.| | " " |_y_ " " _y_e. | | whole tongue. _k_ " " _k_ey. |_g_ " " _g_o. |_ng_ " " si_ng_.| back of " _h_ " " _h_e, _h_ay, _h_a, _h_o, is a whispered vowel, taking the position of the vowel following it. of the vowels, the numbers indicate positions of mouth; and, where numbers are alike, the positions are alike. each vowel-sound is made by unobstructed sounds issuing through a certain position of mouth. the position is unchanged with single vowels, and those have but one number. the position changes in double vowels and diphthongs; and those have two numbers,--one large, one small. as each number represents a position of mouth, you can easily see by comparing what sounds are made from combining others. the number in the largest size type of the two represents the position that is kept when the sound is prolonged: as in 8^1 prolong the 8 or _a_h, and make ^1 or _ee_ very short; and in ^{1}14 make ^1 very short, and prolong 14. the positions represented by the small figures are called "glides," because the position is hardly assumed before the sound is finished. diphthongs are sounds made by combining vowel-sounds, as 8^1 _a_h-_ee_. of the consonants, or, as well named by prof. bell, articulations,--because two parts of the mouth have to come together and separate in order to finish the element, thus obstructing the breath or voice,--those in line across the page with each other are alike in position of mouth; those in first column are made with breath only, passing out through the mouth; those in second column, with sound passing out through the mouth; those in third column are sound passing out through the nose. for instance, _p_, _b_, _m_, are in line with each other; and, if you will make the three sounds represented by those letters, you will see that the same position of mouth is assumed for each, and that _p_ is breath forced out of mouth, _b_ is sound out of mouth, _m_ is sound passing out of nose. practise these sounds of vowels and articulations until you can make them forcibly and easily, with elastic movement of jaw, tongue, and lips; and remember that force depends on the strength and good control of muscles below the lungs. then unite them by placing articulations before vowels, giving most force to the vowel, but make both clear and distinct. then use articulations both before and after the vowel, still giving the vowel the most force, but making the articulation that begins and ends equally distinct and clear. to arrange these for your practice in this small book would take too much space. you have above each element of the english language clearly shown, and can easily combine them as directed. summary of physical and vocal gymnastics. physical gymnastics. attitude. 1. standing position. 2. speaker's " 3. sitting position. 4. change " 5. poise. 6. rise on toes. 7. holding book. chest expansion. 1. active and passive chest. 2. arms at side. 3. fore-arm vertical. 4. percussion. full arm. 5. " hands on chest. body and neck movements. 1. body bend forward and back. 2. " " right and left. 3. " turn " " 4. neck bend forward and back. 5. " " right and left. 6. " turn " " vocal gymnastics. note.--_be sure and keep_ active chest _in all vocal exercises_. breathing. 1. abdominal. 2. costal. 3. dorsal. 4. puff. 5. puff--pause between. 6. " breathe " 7. holding breath. tone. note.--_in following exercises use first long, then short vowels._ 1. glottis stroke. who, whispered, followed by short vowels quickly spoken. 2. soft tones. use oo-oh-awe-ah first, then any other vowels. 3. swell tones. use vowels as in soft tones. pitch. 1. learn musical scale. practise tone exercise on each tone within compass of voice. 2. chant sentences on each tone. 3. read sentences, beginning on each tone. inflection. 1. major, fall from different pitches. 2. " rise " " 3. " " and fall from different pitches. 4. minor rise and fall. 5. circumflex, rise and fall. 6. monotone, different pitches. quality. 1. whisper. 2. aspirate. 3. pure. 4. orotund. force. note.--_use exercises under pitch, nos. 2 and 3, with different degrees of force._ 1. gentle. 2. moderate. 3. loud. stress. 1. radical. 2. median. 3. terminal. 4. thorough. 5. compound. 6. tremolo. movement. note.--_use exercises under pitch, nos. 2 and 3, with different rates of movement._ 1. quick. 2. moderate. 3. slow. articulation. note.--_use only sounds represented by italicized letters in the words and letters below._ 1. elementary sounds. 2. syllables. 3. words. 4. phrases. 5. sentences. long vowels. 1. m_ee_t. 3^1. m_ay_. 5. _ai_r. 6. h_e_r. 8. _a_h. 10. _awe._ 12^{14}. _o_h. 12. _o_re. 14. w_oo_. short vowels. 2. _i_t. 4. m_e_t. 5. _a_t. 7. cub_a_. 9. _u_p. 11. _o_n. 13. f_oo_t. diphthongs. 8^1. p_i_e. 11^1. _oi_l. 8^{14}. _ou_t. y14. _you._ glides. 1.--14._-r._ articulations. lips--_p_, _b_, _m-wh_, _w_. lips and teeth--_f_, _v_. teeth and tongue--_th_ (thin), _th_ (then). tip of tongue--_t_, _d_, _n-l-r-ch_, _j-s_, _z-sh_, _zh_. tongue--_y_. back of tongue--_k_, _g_, _ng_. whispered vowel--_h_. part three. elocution. if you have faithfully practised parts one and two, you have gained some control of voice, and can now begin elocution, or expression of thought and feeling. in each of the short extracts you will find some thought and feeling to express; and if you will take pains to understand thoroughly what you have to speak, and then speak earnestly as the thought and feeling prompts you, you will certainly improve. speak to some person; and, if no one is present, imagine that there is, and talk to them: for you need never speak aloud, unless it is for some one besides yourself to hear. your first endeavor as a speaker should be to make a pleasant quality of voice, so that you may make good listeners of your audience. the following exercises suggest pleasure, and let your voice suggest the sentiment. pleasant quality. 1. a merrier man, within the limit of becoming mirth, i never spent an hour's talk withal: his eye begets occasion for his wit; for every object that the one doth catch, the other turns to a mirth-moving jest, which his fair tongue (conceit's expositor) delivers in such apt and gracious words, that aged ears play truant at his tales, and younger hearings are quite ravished, so sweet and voluble is his discourse. 2. there's something in a noble boy, a brave, free-hearted, careless one, with his unchecked, unbidden joy, his dread of books, and love of fun,- and in his clear and ready smile, unshaded by a thought of guile, and unrepressed by sadness,- which brings me to my childhood back, as if i trod its very track, and felt its very gladness. 3. the scene had also its minstrels: the birds, those ministers and worshippers of nature, were on the wing, filling the air with melody; while, like diligent little housewives, they ransacked the forest and field for materials for their housekeeping. 4. let me play the fool: with mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come; and let my liver rather heat with wine than my heart cool with mortifying groans. why should a man whose blood is warm within sit like his grandsire, cut in alabaster? sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundice by being peevish? 5. across in my neighbor's window, with its drapings of satin and lace, i see, 'neath its flowing ringlets, a baby's innocent face. his feet, in crimson slippers, are tapping the polished glass; and the crowd in the street look upward, and nod and smile as they pass. 6. how sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! here will we sit, and let the sounds of music creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night become the touches of sweet harmony. look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold! there's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st, but in his motion like an angel sings, still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim: such harmony is in immortal souls; but, whilst this muddy vesture of decay doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. 7. a cheerful man is pre-eminently a useful man. he knows that there is much misery, but that misery is not the rule of life. he sees that in every state people may be cheerful; the lambs skip, birds sing and fly joyously, puppies play, kittens are full of joyance, the whole air is full of careering and rejoicing insects; that everywhere the good outbalances the bad, and that every evil that there is has its compensating balm. for other selections, see baker's "reading club." no. page. verse. 1 12 1 1 82 all 2 15 6 2 62 1 2 72 1 2 78 all 3 11 all 3 35 all 3 49 all 4 26 6 4 36 all 4 92 1 articulation. with pleasant quality you will make listeners; but you will soon weary them, unless you make them understand by clear articulation. you have made the organs of articulation elastic by practice of elementary sounds separately and in combination. in combinations you have made syllables, and these syllables make words, words make phrases, phrases make sentences, sentences make up a discourse, address, oration, &c. syllables.--every syllable contains a vowel, or its equivalent; as in the following word, which is separated by hyphens into syllables,--in-com-pre-hen-si-ble: you will hear a vowel-sound in each, the last syllable having the sound of _l_ as an equivalent. words.--a word may have one or more syllables; and, when it has two or more, one of them will receive slightly more force than the others, as in the word "common." pronounce it, and you will give more force to "_com_" than "_mon_." this force applied is called accent. accent.--in pronouncing words, you will notice that in the longest words, even while you make each syllable distinct, there is no perceptible pause until the word is finished. in words of two or three syllables you will find accent as above; but words of four or more syllables have one accented, and perhaps two syllables besides, that receive less force than the accented, but more than the others. pronounce incomprehensibility. properly done, you will hear that you give "_bil_" the strongest accent, and "_com_" and "_hen_" slight accent, but more than the remaining syllables, "_in_," "_pre_," "_si_," "_i_," "_ty_." the accent on "_bil_" is primary accent; and on the "_com_" and "_hen_" secondary accent. phrases.--two or more words make a phrase; and a phrase gives you an idea, perhaps, needing a number of phrases to make complete sense. you should speak phrases just as you would a long word, without perceptible pause, and with more force on prominent words than others. here is a sentence composed of two phrases: "fear the lord, and depart from evil." a poor reading of this would be, "fear (pause) the lord, (pause) and depart (pause) from evil." a good reading would be, "fear the lord, (pause) and depart from evil." emphasis.--as in words you have primary and secondary accent, so in phrases you have what is known as emphasis. in the sentence just given, the words that had most force were "_lord_" and "_evil_;" and less force, "_fear_" and "_depart_;" and little or no force, "_the_," "_and_," and "_from_." you may call this primary and secondary emphasis, the primary having, as in accent, most force. sentences.--these phrases, or groups of words somewhat connected in idea, make sentences; and a sentence gives complete sense. as syllables make words, and in words you have an accented syllable; as words make phrases, and in phrases you have an emphatic word: so, in sentences composed of phrases, you have an important phrase; and this important phrase must be impressed upon the mind of the listener more strongly than any other. this is done by slightly added force and a trifle higher pitch; and, as you will readily see, the emphatic word of the important phrase is the emphatic word of the whole sentence. thus you have the structure of sentences; and, if you proportion your force well, you will not fail to give the meaning correctly. in the following sentence, the phrases are separated by commas; the emphatic words are in small capitals; the secondarily emphatic words are in _italics_. first understand what the sentence means, then speak it as you would in earnest conversation, and you will be likely to give it correctly. "we all of us, in a great _measure_, _create_ our own happiness, which is not _half_ so much _dependent_ upon scenes and circumstances as most _people_ are apt to imagine." in this sentence the important phrase is, "create our own happiness;" and the other phrases must be and are, by a good reader, subordinated to this one. this subordination of phrases to the principal one is made by lowering the pitch slightly, and lessening the force slightly on the subordinate phrases. it is naturally done if you'll talk the sentence understandingly. in the following sentences,-1st, sound each element of a word separately. 2d, pronounce each word separately, with proper accent, being careful to give each element correctly. 3d, read in phrases, remembering that each phrase should be pronounced as a long word, without pause, and with emphasis. 4th, read in sentences, subordinating all other phrases to the principal phrase. 1. when sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions. 2. there's such divinity doth hedge a king, that treason can but keep to what it would, act little of his will. 3. grandfather is old. his back, also, is bent. in the street he sees crowds of men looking dreadfully young, and walking dreadfully swift. he wonders where all the old folks are. once, when a boy, he could not find people young enough for him, and sidled up to any young stranger he met on sundays, wondering why god made the world so old. now he goes to commencement to see his grandsons take their degree, and is astonished at the youth of the audience. "this is new," he says: "it did not use to be so fifty years before." 4. press on! surmount the rocky steeps; climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch: he fails alone who feebly creeps; he wins who dares the hero's march. 5. where i have come, great clerks have purposed to greet me with premeditated welcomes; where i have seen them shiver and look pale, make periods in the midst of sentences, throttle their practised accent in their fears, and, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off, not paying me a welcome, trust me, sweet, out of this silence yet i picked a welcome; and in the modesty of fearful duty i read as much as from the rattling tongue of saucy and audacious eloquence. 6. be not lulled, my countrymen, with vain imaginations or idle fancies. to hope for the protection of heaven, without doing our duty, and exerting ourselves as becomes men, is to mock the deity. wherefore had man his reason, if it were not to direct him? wherefore his strength, if it be not his protection? to banish folly and luxury, correct vice and immorality, and stand immovable in the freedom in which we are free indeed, is eminently the duty of each individual at this day. when this is done, we may rationally hope for an answer to our prayers--for the whole counsel of god, and the invincible armor of the almighty. 7. the quality of mercy is not strained: it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. it is twice blessed,- it blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. 'tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes the throned monarch better than his crown: his sceptre shows the force of temporal power, the attribute to awe and majesty, wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. but mercy is above this sceptred sway: it is enthroned in the hearts of kings; it is an attribute to god himself; and earthly power doth then show likest god's when mercy seasons justice. fulness and power. fulness of voice is necessary, that, when you are speaking in a large hall, your voice may be powerful. most persons could make themselves heard, and, with good articulation, understood; but yet they would lack power, because the voice wants fulness. the extracts given below will suggest to you the necessity of a full voice to express them well. observe these directions in trying to get a full, energetic tone:-1st, correct speaker's position, take active chest, and keep it. 2d, take full breath, breathe often, and control it. (see "holding breath.") 3d, articulate perfectly. 4th, use conversational and lower tones of the voice. 5th, fix the mind on some distant spot, and speak as if you wished to make some one hear at that point. 6th, remember to be very energetic, and yet have it seem to a looker-on or listener to be done without the slightest effort. 1. o'brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands, "fix bay'nets--charge!" like mountain-storm rush on these fiery bands. on fontenoy, on fontenoy! hark to that fierce huzza! "revenge! remember limerick! dash down the sassenagh!" like lions leaping at a fold when mad with hunger's pang, right up against the english line the irish exiles sprang. the english strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled: the green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead. on fontenoy, on fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, with bloody plumes the irish stand: the field is fought and won. 2. thou too sail on, o ship of state! sail on, o union strong and great! humanity, with all its fears, with all its hopes of future years, is hanging breathless on thy fate. we know what master laid thy keel, what workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, who made each mast and sail and rope, what anvils rang, what hammers beat, in what a forge and what a heat were shaped the anchors of thy hope. 3. oh! young lochinvar is come out of the west: through all the wide border his steed was the best; and, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none; he rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. so faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, there never was knight like the young lochinvar. 4. one song employs all nations; and all cry, "worthy the lamb, for he was slain for us!" the dwellers in the vales and on the rocks shout to each other; and the mountain-tops from distant mountains catch the flying joy; till, nation after nation taught the strain, earth rolls the rapturous hosanna round. 5. "but i defy him!--let him come!" down rang the massy cup, while from its sheath the ready blade came flashing half way up; and, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his head, there, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old rudiger sat--dead! 6. all hail to our glorious ensign! courage to the heart, and strength to the hand, to which in all time it shall be intrusted! may it ever wave in honor, in unsullied glory, and patriotic hope, on the dome of the capitol, on the country's stronghold, on the entented plain, on the wave-rocked topmast! 7. rejoice, you men of angiers! ring your bells! king john, your king and england's, doth approach, commander of this hot malicious day! their armors that marched hence so silver bright hither return all gilt with frenchmen's blood; there stuck no plume in any english crest that is removed by a staff of france; our colors do return in those same hands that did display them when we first marched forth; and, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come our lusty english, all with purpled hands dyed in the dying slaughter of their foes. inflection. inflection is a slide of voice, either up or down in pitch, or both, on the accented syllable of a word. you have learned in previous pages what kinds there are. major inflections express strength: minor express weakness. rising inflections refer to something to come that shall complete the sense. if you speak a phrase that needs another to complete its meaning, you will use a rising inflection to connect them. if you defer to another's will, opinion, or knowledge, in what you say, you will use a rising inflection. if you speak of two or more things, thinking of them as a whole, and not separately, you use a rising inflection. falling inflections are used when a phrase or sentence is complete in itself. if you state your own will, opinion, or knowledge, you will use falling inflection. if you speak of two or more things separately, wishing to make each one by itself distinct in the hearer's mind, you will use falling inflections. circumflex inflections, being composed of rising and falling inflections combined, are doubtful in meaning; for if rising means one thing, and falling means another, a combination must mean doubt. it expresses irony, sarcasm, &c. monotone is a varying of inflection within very narrow limits, and comes as near to chanting as the voice can, and still retain the expressiveness of inflection in speech. it expresses any slow-moving emotions, as grandeur, awe, solemnity, &c. practise the short extracts under each head until you are sure you give the right inflection in the right place. major rising inflection. 1. would the influence of the bible, even if it were not the record of a divine revelation, be to render princes more tyrannical, or subjects more ungovernable; the rich more insolent, or the poor more disorderly? would it make worse parents or children, husbands or wives, masters or servants, friends or neighbors? 2. but why pause here? is so much ambition praiseworthy, and more criminal? is it fixed in nature that the limits of this empire should be egypt on the one hand, the hellespont and euxine on the other? were not suez and armenia more natural limits? or hath empire no natural limit, but is broad as the genius that can devise, and the power that can win? 3. shine they for aught but earth, these silent stars? and, when they sprang to birth, who broke the bars and let their radiance out to kindle space, when rang god's morning shout o'er the glad race? are they all desolate, these silent stars; hung in their spheres by fate, which nothing mars? or are they guards of god, shining in prayer, on the same path they've trod since light was there? major falling inflections. 1. stand up erect! thou hast the form and likeness of thy god: who more? a soul as dauntless mid the storm of daily life, a heart as warm and pure, as breast e'er wore. 2. methinks i hear hither your husband's drum; see him pluck aufidius down by the hair, as children from a bear, the voices shunning him; methinks i see him stamp thus, and call thus,- _come on, you cowards! you were got in fear, though you were born in rome_: his bloody brow with his mailed hand then wiping, forth he goes, like to a harvest-man that's tasked to mow or all, or lose his hire. 3. mahomet still lives in his practical and disastrous influence in the east. napoleon still is france, and france is almost napoleon. martin luther's dead dust sleeps at wittenberg; but martin luther's accents still ring through the churches of christendom. shakspeare, byron, and milton, all live in their influence,--for good or evil. the apostle from his chair, the minister from his pulpit, the martyr from his flame-shroud, the statesman from his cabinet, the soldier in the field, the sailor on the deck, who all have passed away to their graves, still live in the practical deeds that they did, in the lives they lived, and in the powerful lessons that they left behind them. minor rising inflections. 1. "let me see him once before he dies? let me hear his voice once more? i entreat you, let me enter." 2. stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake, and hear a helpless orphan's tale! ah! sure my looks must pity wake: 'tis want that makes my cheek so pale. yet i was once a mother's pride, and my brave father's hope and joy; but in the nile's proud fight he died, and i am now an orphan-boy. 3. they answer, "who is god that he should hear us while the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred? when we sob aloud, the human creatures near us pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word. is it likely god, with angels singing round him, hears our weeping, any more?" minor falling inflections. 1. god forbid that we should outlive the love of our children! rather let us die while their hearts are a part of our own, that our grave may be watered with their tears, and our love linked with their hopes of heaven. 2. her suffering ended with the day; yet lived she at its close, and breathed the long, long night away in statue-like repose. but, when the sun in all his state illumed the eastern skies, she passed through glory's morning-gate, and walked in paradise. 3. father cardinal, i have heard you say that we shall see and know our friends in heaven. if that be true, i shall see my boy again; for since the birth of cain, the first male child, to him that did but yesterday suspire, there was not such a gracious creature born. but now will canker-sorrow eat my bud, and chase the native beauty from his cheek; and he will look as hollow as a ghost, as dim and meagre as an ague's fit: and so he'll die; and, rising so again, when i shall meet him in the court of heaven i shall not know him: therefore never, never must i behold my pretty arthur more. circumflex inflection. 1. were i in england now (as once i was), and had but this fish painted, not a holiday-fool there but would give a piece of silver. there would this monster make a man: any strange beast there makes a man. when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead indian. 2. if to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. it is a good divine that follows his own instructions. i can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. the brain may devise laws for the blood; but a hot temper leaps over a cold decree: such a hare is madness the youth to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. 3. "hold, there!" the other quick replies: "'tis green: i saw it with these eyes, as late with open mouth it lay, and warmed it in the sunny ray. stretched at its ease, the beast i viewed, and saw it eat the air for food." "i've seen it, sir, as well as you, and must again affirm it blue: at leisure i the beast surveyed, extended in the cooling shade." "'tis green, 'tis green, sir, i assure ye!" "green!" cries the other in a fury: "why, sir! d'ye think i've lost my eyes?" "'twere no great loss," the friend replies; "for, if they always serve you thus, you'll find them of but little use." monotone. 1. when for me the silent oar parts the silent river, and i stand upon the shore of the strange forever, shall i miss the loved and known? shall i vainly seek mine own? 2. ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, with all your feeble light! farewell, thou ever-changing moon, pale empress of the night! and thou, effulgent orb of day, in brighter flames arrayed, my soul, which springs beyond thy sphere, no more demands thy aid. ye stars are but the shining dust of my divine abode, the pavement of those heavenly courts where i shall reign with god. 3. father of earth and heaven, i call thy name! round me the smoke and shout of battle roll; my eyes are dazzled with the rustling flame: father, sustain an untried soldier's soul. or life or death, whatever be the goal that crowns or closes round this struggling hour, thou know'st, if ever from my spirit stole one deeper prayer, 'twas that no cloud might lower on my young fame. oh, hear, god of eternal power! pitch. the general pitch of voice varies with the emotion. some feelings we are prompted to express in the high tones, as joy; some in the lower tones, as awe: but, without practice, very few have command of the higher and lower tones; and, when they attempt to read, they cannot give the requisite variety to make it expressive. it is important that these exercises should be studied until you can as easily read in your highest and lowest tones as in your natural conversational or middle tones. in high pitch, read in as high pitch as you can, and at the same time keep the tone pure, and you will find your voice gradually gain in compass. in middle pitch, read in your conversational tone, with earnestness. in low pitch, read somewhat lower than middle pitch, and make as full a tone as you can. in very low pitch, read as low in pitch as you can with ease, and do not try to make it loud or full until you have had considerable practice. don't pinch or strain the throat: if you do, the quality will be bad. high pitch. 1. merrily swinging on brier and weed, near to the nest of his little dame, over the mountain-side or mead, robert of lincoln is telling his name,- bob-o-link, bob-o-link, spink, spank, spink! snug and safe is that nest of ours hidden among the summer flowers: chee, chee, chee! 2. oh! did you see him riding down, and riding down, while all the town came out to see, came out to see, and all the bells rang mad with glee? oh! did you hear those bells ring out, the bells ring out, the people shout? and did you hear that cheer on cheer that over all the bells rang clear? 3. i am that merry wanderer of the night: i jest to oberon, and make him smile, when i, a fat and bean-fed horse, beguile, neighing in likeness of a silly foal. and sometimes lurk i in a gossip's bowl, in very likeness of a roasted crab; and, when she drinks, against her lips i bob, and on her withered dew-lap pour the ale. middle pitch. 1. the honey-bee that wanders all day long the field, the woodland, and the garden o'er, to gather in his fragrant winter-store, humming in calm content his quiet song, sucks not alone the rose's glowing breast, the lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips; but from all rank and noisome weeds he sips the single drop of sweetness ever pressed within the poison chalice. thus, if we seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet in all the varied human flowers we meet in the wide garden of humanity, and, like the bee, if home the spoil we bear, hived in our hearts, it turns to nectar there. 2. now the laughing, jolly spring began to show her buxom face in the bright morning. the buds began slowly to expand their close winter folds, the dark and melancholy woods to assume an almost imperceptible purple tint; and here and there a little chirping blue-bird hopped about the orchards. strips of fresh green appeared along the brooks, now released from their icy fetters; and nests of little variegated flowers, nameless, yet richly deserving a name, sprang up in the sheltered recesses of the leafless woods. 3. i know, the more one sickens, the worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep, and that a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by nature or art may complain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred. low pitch. 1. mid the flower-wreathed tombs i stand, bearing lilies in my hand. comrades, in what soldier-grave sleeps the bravest of the brave? is it he who sank to rest with his colors round his breast? friendship makes his tomb a shrine: garlands veil it; ask not mine. 2. god, thou art merciful. the wintry storm, the cloud that pours the thunder from its womb, but show the sterner grandeur of thy form. the lightnings glancing through the midnight gloom, to faith's raised eye as calm, as lovely, come as splendors of the autumnal evening star, as roses shaken by the breeze's plume, when like cool incense comes the dewy air, and on the golden wave the sunset burns afar. 3. o thou eternal one! whose presence bright all space doth occupy, all motion guide; unchanged through time's all-devastating flight; thou only god!--there is no god beside! being above all beings! three-in-one! whom none can comprehend, and none explore; who fill'st existence with thyself alone; embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er; being whom we call god, and know no more! very low pitch. 1. when in the silent night all earth lies hushed in slumber; when the glorious stars shine out, each star a sun, each sun a central light of some fair system, ever wheeling on in one unbroken round, and that again revolving round another sun; while all, suns, stars, and systems, proudly roll along in one majestic, ever-onward course, in space uncircumscribed and limitless,- oh! think you then the undebased soul can calmly give itself to sleep,--to rest? 2. go stand upon the heights at niagara, and listen in awe-struck silence to that boldest most earnest and eloquent, of all nature's orators! and what is niagara, with its plunging waters and its mighty roar, but the oracle of god, the whisper of his voice who is revealed in the bible as sitting above the water-floods forever? 3. the drums are all muffled; the bugles are still; there's a pause in the valley, a halt on the hill; and the bearers of standards swerve back with a thrill where the sheaves of the dead bar the way: for a great field is reaped, heaven's garners to fill; and stern death holds his harvest to-day. quality. as there are all kinds and qualities of emotions, so there are all kinds and qualities of voice to express them. the shade and varieties of these qualities are as infinite in number as the emotions they express. we need, however, in practice, to make but four general divisions,--whisper, aspirate, pure, and orotund. the whisper expresses secrecy, fear, and like emotions. it is seldom required in reading, as the aspirate is expressive of the same, and you would be likely to use that instead of whisper. you should practise the whisper until you can make it very clear, and free from all impurity, or sound of throat, and full, so as to be heard at a distance. in both whisper and aspirate leave the throat free and open; and be energetic, remembering that force is made by control of muscles at the waist, and not by effort of throat or mouth. the clearer you can make a whisper, the better quality you can make in pure and orotund. pure tone or quality is sound made with no disagreeable quality being heard; and is the same as pleasant quality, spoken of as being necessary to make listeners. pure quality is made with ease, with no waste of breath, and is used for expression of agreeable feelings. orotund is a magnified, pure tone, and adds richness and power to the voice in speech. it is the expression of intense feelings, usually slow in movement, as grandeur, sublimity, awe, &c. it can only be obtained by much practice and much patience, allowing the voice to grow in fulness, as it will in time, if practice continues. whisper. 1. deep stillness fell on all around: through that dense crowd was heard no sound of step or word. 2. how dark it is! i cannot seem to see the faces of my flock. is that the sea that murmurs so? or is it weeping? hush, my little children! god so loved the world, he gave his son: so love ye one another. love god and man. amen! 3. hush! 'tis a holy hour! the quiet room seems like a temple; while yon soft lamp sheds a faint and starry radiance through the gloom and the sweet stillness down on bright young heads, with all their clustering locks untouched by care, and bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayer. aspirate. 1. hush! draw the curtain,--so! she is dead, quite dead, you see. poor little lady! she lies with the light gone out of her eyes; but her features still wear that soft, gray, meditative expression which you must have noticed oft. 2. lord of the winds! i feel thee nigh; i know thy breath in the burning sky; and i wait with a thrill in every vein for the coming of the hurricane. and, lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, through the boundless arch of heaven, he sails: silent and slow, and terribly strong, the mighty shadow is borne along, like the dark eternity to come; while the world below, dismayed and dumb, through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. 3. 'tis midnight's holy hour; and silence now is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er the still and pulseless world. hark! on the winds the bell's deep tones are swelling: 'tis the knell of the departed year. no funeral train is sweeping past: yet on the stream and wood, with melancholy light, the moonbeams rest like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred as by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud, that floats so still and placidly through heaven, the spirits of the seasons seem to stand,- young spring, bright summer, autumn's solemn form, and winter with its aged locks,--and breathe, in mournful cadences that come abroad like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, a melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, gone from the earth forever. pure. 1. your voiceless lips, o flowers! are living preachers, each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, supplying to my fancy numerous teachers in loneliest nook. 2. ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, the flying cloud, the frosty light; the year is dying in the night: ring out, wild bells, and let him die. ring out the old; ring in the new; ring, happy bells, across the snow: the year is going; let him go: ring out the false, ring in the true. 3. was it the chime of a tiny bell that came so sweet to my dreaming ear, like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell, that he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, when the winds and the waves lie together asleep, and the moon and the fairy are watching the deep,- she dispensing her silvery light, and he his notes as silvery quite,- while the boatman listens, and ships his oar, to catch the music that comes from the shore? hark! the notes on my ear that play are set to words: as they float, they say, "passing away, passing away!" orotund. 1. approach and behold while i lift from his sepulchre its covering. ye admirers of his greatness, ye emulous of his talents and his fame, approach, and behold him now. how pale! how silent! no martial bands admire the adroitness of his movements, no fascinating throng weep and melt and tremble at his eloquence. amazing change! a shroud, a coffin, a narrow subterraneous cabin,--this is all that now remains of hamilton. and is this all that remains of him? during a life so transitory, what lasting monument, then, can our fondest hopes erect! 2. a seraph by the throne in the full glory stood. with eager hand he smote the golden harp-strings, till a flood of harmony on the celestial air welled forth unceasing: then with a great voice he sang the "holy, holy, evermore, lord god almighty!" and the eternal courts thrilled with the rapture; and the hierarchies, angel and rapt archangel, throbbed and burned with vehement adoration. higher yet rose the majestic anthem without pause,- higher, with rich magnificence of sound, to its full strength; and still the infinite heavens rang with the "holy, holy, evermore!" 3. god, thou art mighty. at thy footstool bound, lie, gazing to thee, chance and life and death. nor in the angel-circle flaming round, nor in the million worlds that blaze beneath, is one that can withstand thy wrath's hot breath. woe in thy frown; in thy smile victory. hear my last prayer. i ask no mortal wreath: let but these eyes my rescued country see; then take my spirit, all-omnipotent, to thee. for examples of pure tone, see "reading club," no. 1, pages 54 and 82; no. 2, page 63; no. 3, pages 11, 49; no. 4, pages 29, 36, 81. for orotund, no. 1, page 42; no. 2, page 64; no. 3, page 25; no. 4, page 61. movement. by different emotions you are prompted to speak words in quick or slow utterance, as in joy or anger you would be prompted to utter words quickly; while in majesty, sublimity, awe, you would speak slowly. you should practise movement, that you may be able to read rapidly and with perfect articulation, and also to read slowly with proper phrasing. in quick movement, read as fast as you can with proper articulation, phrasing, and emphasis. in moderate movement, read as in ordinary earnest conversation. in slow and very slow movement, phrase well, as in these the emphatic words have the longest time given to them, the secondarily emphatic ones less time, and the connecting words the least time; and it is a great art to proportion them rightly. if you do not do the latter, you will drawl. quick movement. 1. boot, saddle, to horse, and away! rescue my castle before the hot day brightens to blue from its silvery gray: boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 2. but hark! above the beating of the storm peals on the startled ear the fire-alarm. yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light; and heart-beats quicken with a strange affright. from tranquil slumber springs, at duty's call, the ready friend no danger can appall: fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave, he hurries forth to battle and to save. 3. after him came, spurring hard, a gentleman almost forespent with speed, that stopped by me to breathe his bloodied horse. he asked the way to chester; and of him i did demand what news from shrewsbury. he told me that rebellion had bad luck, and that young harry percy's spur was cold: with that he gave his able horse the head, and, bending forward, struck his armed heels against the panting sides of his poor jade up to the rowel-head; and, starting so, he seemed, in running, to devour the way, staying no longer question. moderate movement. 1. yes, tom's the best fellow that ever you knew. just listen to this:- when the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through, and i with it, helpless there, full in my view what do you think my eyes saw through the fire, that crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher, but robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see the shining? he must have come there after me, troddled alone from the cottage. 2. oratory, as it consists in the expression of the countenance, graces of attitude and motion, and intonation of voice, although it is altogether superficial and ornamental, will always command admiration; yet it deserves little veneration. flashes of wit, coruscations of imagination, and gay pictures,--what are they? strict truth, rapid reason, and pure integrity, are the only essential ingredients in oratory. i flatter myself that demosthenes, by his "action, action, action," meant to express the same opinion. 3. waken, voice of the land's devotion! spirit of freedom, awaken all! ring, ye shores, to the song of ocean! rivers, answer! and, mountains, call! the golden day has come: let every tongue be dumb that sounded its malice, or murmured its fears. she hath won her story; she wears her glory: we crown her the land of a hundred years! slow movement. 1. within this sober realm of leafless trees the russet year inhaled the dreamy air, like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease when all the fields are lying brown and bare. 2. 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. 3. father, guide me! day declines; hollow winds are in the pines; darkly waves each giant bough o'er the sky's last crimson glow; hushed is now the convent's bell, which erewhile, with breezy swell, from the purple mountains bore greeting to the sunset shore; now the sailor's vesper-hymn dies away. father, in the forest dim be my stay! very slow movement. 1. toll, toll, toll, thou bell by billows swung! and night and day thy warning words repeat with mournful tongue! toll for the queenly boat wrecked on yon rocky shore: seaweed is in her palace-halls; she rides the surge no more. 2. now o'er the drowsy earth still night prevails; calm sleep the mountain-tops and shady vales, the rugged cliffs and hollow glens. the wild beasts slumber in their dens, the cattle on the hill. deep in the sea the countless finny race and monster brood tranquil repose. even the busy bee forgets her daily toil. the silent wood no more with noisy form of insect rings; and all the feathered tribes, by gentle sleep subdued, roost in the glade, and hang their drooping wings. 3. my father, god, lead on! calmly i follow where thy guiding hand directs my steps. i would not trembling stand, though all before the way is dark as night: i stay my soul on thee, and say, father, i trust thy love: lead on! force. every emotion which you have you feel more or less intensely, and that intensity is expressed through the force of the voice. the degree of force with which you speak will be according to the degree of intensity of emotion; and even in the gentlest tone you can express as forcibly as in the loudest. according to your strength of body and mind, and intensity of feeling, you have been accustomed to express in a strong or feeble voice. force needs to be practised to enable you to fill a large hall with your gentlest tone, and to make very loud tones without straining of throat. in gentle force, sustain the breath well, as in fulness and power, observing directions there given; and make your tone soft and pure. in moderate force, be as energetic as in earnest conversation. in loud and very loud force, observe directions under "fulness and power." gentle force. 1. a noise as of a hidden brook in the leafy month of june, that to the sleeping woods all night singeth a quiet tune. 2. o blithe new-comer! i have heard, i hear thee, and rejoice: o cuckoo! shall i call thee bird, or but a wandering voice? thrice welcome, darling of the spring! even yet thou art to me no bird, but an invisible thing, a voice, a mystery. 3. around this lovely valley rise the purple hills of paradise; oh! softly on yon banks of haze her rosy face the summer lays; becalmed along the azure sky the argosies of cloud-land lie, whose shores, with many a shining rift, far off their pearl-white peaks uplift. moderate force. 1. robert of lincoln is gayly dressed, wearing a bright black wedding-coat: white are his shoulders, and white his crest. hear him call, in his merry note, bob-o-link, bob-o-link, spink, spank, spink! look, what a nice new coat is mine! sure there was never a bird so fine. chee, chee, chee! 2. o young men and women! there is no picture of ideal excellence of manhood and womanhood that i ever draw that seems too high, too beautiful, for your young hearts. what aspirations there are for the good, the true, the fair, and the holy! the instinctive affections--how beautiful they are, with all their purple prophecy of new homes and generations of immortals that are yet to be! the high instincts of reason, of conscience, of love, of religion,--how beautiful and grand they are in the young heart! 3. she was a darling little thing: i worshipped her outright. when in my arms she smiling lay; when on my knees she climbed in play; when round my neck her arms would cling, as crooning songs i used to sing; when on my back she gayly rode, then strong beneath its precious load; when at my side, in summer days, she gambolled in her childish plays; when, throughout all the after-years, i watched with trembling hopes and fears the infant to a woman grow,- i worshipped then, as i do now, my life's delight. loud force. 1. hark to the bugle's roundelay! boot and saddle! up and away! mount and ride as ye ne'er rode before; spur till your horses' flanks run gore; ride for the sake of human lives; ride as ye would were your sisters and wives cowering under their scalping-knives. boot and saddle! away, away! 2. news of battle! news of battle! hark! 'tis ringing down the street, and the archways and the pavement bear the clang of hurrying feet. news of battle!--who hath brought it? news of triumph!--who should bring tidings from our noble army, greetings from our gallant king! 3. and, lo! from the assembled crowd there rose a shout, prolonged and loud, that to the ocean seemed to say, "take her, o bridegroom old and gray! take her to thy protecting arms, with all her youth and all her charms." very loud force. 1. "now, men! now is your time!" "make ready! take aim! fire!" 2. up the hillside, down the glen, rouse the sleeping citizen, summon out the might of men! clang the bells in all your spires! on the gray hills of your sires fling to heaven your signal-fires! oh, for god and duty stand, heart to heart, and hand to hand, round the old graves of your land! 3. now for the fight! now for the cannon-peal! forward, through blood and toil and cloud and fire! glorious the shout, the shock, the crash of steel, the volley's roll, the rocket's blasting spire! they shake; like broken waves their squares retire. on them, hussars! now give them rein and heel! think of the orphaned child, the murdered sire! earth cries for blood. in thunder on them wheel! this hour to europe's fate shall set the triumph seal. stress. in expressing your emotions, the voice is ejected in various ways; perhaps in a jerky or trembling or flowing manner, as may be, depending on the kind of emotion you feel. this is called "stress;" and you have learned how, mechanically, to make it. radical stress is used when you try to impress upon others your exact meaning. practise it with that thought in your mind. median stress is used in appeal to the best affections, and expresses agreeable emotions. the swell comes on emphatic words. terminal stress is used in expressions of anger, petulance, impatience, and the like. thorough stress is used in calling to persons at a long distance, but has little place in expression. it is frequently substituted by bad readers or speakers for median or terminal stress. compound stress is used in strong passion; and being a compound of radical and terminal stress, and used with circumflex inflections, it combines the meaning of them all, as sarcasm, irony, &c., mixed with anger, impatience, doubt, &c. tremolo stress is used in excessive emotion; as joy, anger, sorrow, in excess, would cause the voice to tremble. you should practise this in order to avoid it, as, when tremolo does not proceed from real excess of feeling, it has a very ludicrous effect. practise the following exercises by thinking and feeling the idea and emotion. radical stress. 1. hark, hark! the lark sings mid the silvery blue: behold her flight, proud man, and lowly bow. 2. there is the act of utterance, a condition that exists between you and myself. i speak, and you hear; but how? the words issue from my lips, and reach your ears; but what are those words? volumes of force communicated to the atmosphere, whose elastic waves carry them to fine recipients in your own organism. but still i ask, how? how is it that these volumes of sound should convey articulate meaning, and carry ideas from my mind into your own? 3. i call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ancestors, by the dear ashes which repose in this precious soil, by all you are and all you hope to be,--resist every object of disunion; resist every encroachment upon your liberties; resist every attempt to fetter your consciences, or smother your public schools, or extinguish your system of public instruction. median stress. 1. 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. 2. oh divine, oh delightful legacy of a spotless reputation! rich is the inheritance it leaves; pious the example it testifies; pure, precious, and imperishable the hope which it inspires. can there be conceived a more atrocious injury than to filch from its possessor this inestimable benefit; to rob society of its charm, and solitude of its solace; not only to outlaw life, but to attaint death, converting the very grave, the refuge of the sufferer, into the gate of infamy and of shame? 3. how sleep the brave who sink to rest with all their country's wishes blest! when spring, with dewy fingers cold, returns to deck their hallowed mould, it there shall dress a sweeter sod than blooming fancy ever trod. by fairy hands their knell is rung; by forms unseen their dirge is sung: there honor walks, a pilgrim gray, to deck the turf that wraps their clay; and freedom shall a while repair to dwell a weeping hermit there. terminal stress. 1. i'll have my bond; i will not hear thee speak: i'll have my bond; and therefore speak no more: i'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool, to shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield to christian intercessors. 2. nor sleep nor sanctuary, being naked, sick, nor fane nor capitol, the prayers of priests, nor times of sacrifice, embarkments all of fury, shall lift up their rotten privilege and custom 'gainst my hate to marcius: where i find him, were it at home upon my brother's guard,--even there, against the hospitable cannon, would i wash my fierce hand in his heart. 3. a plague upon them! wherefore should i curse them? would curses kill, as doth the mandrake's groan, i would invent as bitter-searching terms, as curst, as harsh, and horrible to hear, delivered strongly through my fixã¨d teeth, with full as many signs of deadly hate, as lean-faced envy in her loathsome cave: my tongue should stumble in mine earnest words; mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint; my hair be fixed on end, as one distract; ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban; and even now my burdened heart would break, should i not curse them. thorough stress. 1. "ho, starbuck and pickney and tenterden! run for your shallops, gather your men, scatter your boats on the lower bay!" 2. "run! run for your lives, high up on the land! away, men and children! up quick, and be gone! the water's broke loose! it is chasing me on!" 3. they strike! hurrah! the fort has surrendered! shout, shout, my warrior-boy, and wave your cap, and clap your hands for joy! cheer answer cheer, and bear the cheer about. hurrah, hurrah, for the fiery fort is ours! "victory, victory, victory!" compound stress. 1. thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward, thou little valiant great in villany! thou wear a lion's hide! doff it for shame, and hang a calf's skin on those recreant limbs. 2. hath not a jew eyes? hath not a jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a christian is? if you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and, if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? 3. think you a little din can daunt mine ears? have i not in my time heard lions roar? have i not heard the sea, puffed up with winds, rage like an angry boar, chafã¨d with sweat? have i not heard great ordnance in the field, and heaven's artillery thunder in the skies? have i not in a pitchã¨d battle heard loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpet's clang? and do you tell me of a woman's tongue, that gives not half so great a blow to the ear as will a chestnut in a farmer's fire? tremolo stress. 1. there's nothing in this world can make me joy: life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man. 2. o men with sisters dear! o 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; sewing at once, with a double thread, a shroud as well as a shirt. 3. grief fills the room up of my absent child, lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, remembers me of all his gracious parts, stuffs out his vacant garments with his form: then have i reason to be fond of grief. transition. the changes from one kind of force to another, or one pitch to another, or one movement to another, or one quality to another, are many in expressive reading; and these changes are called "transition." to practise it is very useful in breaking up monotony of voice, and adding expressiveness to it. in practice of these short extracts, you are showing the benefit of practice in quality, pitch, movement, and force. put yourself into the thought and feeling, and vary the voice as that, guided by common sense, may suggest to you. see "reading club," no. 1, pp. 45, 54; no. 2, pp. 5, 101; no. 3, pp. 9, 70, 87; no. 4, pp. 26, 42, 75. 1. "make way for liberty!" he cried,- made way for liberty, and died! 2. "peace be unto thee, father," tauler said: "god give thee a good day!" the old man raised slowly his calm blue eyes: "i thank thee, son; but all my days are good, and none are ill." 3. "they come, they come! the pale-face come!" the chieftain shouted where he stood, sharp watching at the margin wood, and gave the war-whoop's treble yell, that like a knell on fair hearts fell far watching from their rocky home. 4. "not yet, not yet: steady, steady!" on came the foe in even line, nearer and nearer, to thrice paces nine. we looked into their eyes. "ready!" a sheet of flame, a roll of death! they fell by scores: we held our breath: then nearer still they came. another sheet of flame, and brave men fled who never fled before. 5. did ye not hear it?--no: 'twas but the wind, or the car rattling o'er the stony street. on with the dance! let joy be unconfined! no sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet to chase the glowing hours with flying feet. but hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, as if the clouds its echo would repeat; and nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! arm, arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar! 6. "together!" shouts niagara his thunder-toned decree; "together!" echo back the waves upon the mexic sea; "together!" sing the sylvan hills where old atlantic roars; "together!" boom the breakers on the wild pacific shores; "together!" cry the people. and "together" it shall be, an everlasting charter-bond forever for the free! of liberty the signet-seal, the one eternal sign, be those united emblems,--the palmetto and the pine. 7. "ho, sailor of the sea! how's my boy,--my boy?" "what's your boy's name, good wife? and in what good ship sailed he?" "my boy john,- he that went to sea: what care i for the ship, sailor? my boy's my boy to me." 8. out burst all with one accord: "this is paradise for hell! let france, let france's king, thank the man that did the thing!" what a shout! and all one word,- "hervã© riel!" as he stepped in front once more, not a symptom of surprise in the frank blue breton eyes: just the same man as before. 9. he called his child,--no voice replied; he searched, with terror wild: blood, blood, he found on every side, but nowhere found his child. "hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured," the frantic father cried; and to the hilt his vengeful sword he plunged in gelert's side. his suppliant, as to earth he fell, no pity could impart; but still his gelert's dying yell passed heavy o'er his heart. 10. while the trumpets bray, and the cymbals ring, "praise, praise to belshazzar, belshazzar the king!" now what cometh? look, look! without menace or call, who writes with the lightning's bright hand on the wall? what pierceth the king like the point of a dart? what drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart? "chaldã¦ans, magicians! the letters expound." they are read; and belshazzar is dead on the ground! 11. _sir p._--'slife, madam! i say, had you any of these little elegant expenses when you married me? _lady t._--lud, sir peter! would you have me be out of the fashion? _sir p._--the fashion, indeed! what had you to do with the fashion before you married me? _lady t._--for my part, i should think you would like to have your wife thought a woman of taste. _sir p._--ay, there again! taste! zounds, madam! you had no taste when you married me. _lady t._--that's very true, indeed, sir peter; and, after having married you, i should never pretend to taste again, i allow. 12. "and what the meed?" at length tell asked. "bold fool! when slaves like thee are tasked, it is my will; but that thine eye may keener be, and nerved to such nice archery, if thou succeed'st, thou goest free. what! pause ye still? give him a bow and arrow there: one shaft,--but one." madness, despair, and tortured love, one moment swept the switzer's face; then passed away each stormy trace, and high resolve reigned like a grace caught from above. 13. _bass._--why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly? _shy._--to cut the forfeit from that bankrupt there. _gra._--can no prayers pierce thee? _shy._--no, none that thou hast wit enough to make. _gra._--oh, be thou damned, inexorable dog, and for thy life let justice be accused! thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith, to hold opinion with pythagoras, that souls of animals infuse themselves into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit governed a wolf, who, hanged for human slaughter, even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, and, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallowed dam, infused itself in thee; for thy desires are wolfish, bloody, starved, and ravenous. _shy._--till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond, thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud. repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall to cureless ruin.--i stand here for law. 14. _ham._--now, mother, what's the matter? _queen._--hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. _ham._--mother, you have my father much offended. _queen._--come, come, you answer with an idle tongue. _ham._--go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. _queen._--why, how now, hamlet? _ham._--what's the matter now? _queen._--have you forgot me? _ham._--no, by the rood, not so: you are the queen, your husband's brother's wife; and--would it were not so!--you are my mother. _queen._--nay, then, i'll set those to you that can speak. _ham._--come, come, and sit you down: you shall not budge; you go not, till i set you up a glass where you may see the inmost part of you. modulation. "'tis not enough the voice be loud and clear: 'tis modulation that must charm the ear." a good reader or speaker will vary his or her voice in the elements of emotional expression (that is, pitch, quality, movement, stress, force), on words, phrases, and sentences, in such a manner that the listeners get a suggestion of the meaning of a word by the sound of it. for instance, the words _bright_, _glad_, _joyful_, _dull_, _sad_, _weak_, may be pronounced in such a manner as to suggest by the quality of voice used their meaning; and, in the same manner, phrases and whole sentences may have variation in voice so as to suggest their meaning. this is modulation. to modulate well, first, you must use your imagination, to form a perfect picture in your own mind of what you wish to describe, just as you would if you were an artist, and were intending to paint an ideal picture; and, in reality, you are an artist, for you paint with words and tones. secondly, you should understand the exact meaning of each word, and, when you speak it, make your manner of speaking it suggest its meaning. suppose you were to read tennyson's "song of the brook." we will analyze as near as words may the manner of reading each verse. read the whole song, and form the picture in imagination of the flow of the water, the scenery along its course, the roughness or smoothness of the water as described, the slowness or rapidity of its flow at different points, how large or small the brook is, making the picture as perfect as if you would paint upon canvas the whole scene. the brook. 1. i come from haunts of coot and hern; 2. i make a sudden sally, 3. and sparkle out among the fern 4. to bicker down a valley. 5. by thirty hills i hurry down, 6. or slip between the ridges; 7. by twenty thorps, a little town, 8. and half a hundred bridges. 9. till last by philip's farm i flow 10. to join the brimming river; 11. for men may come, and men may go, 12. but i go on forever. 13. i chatter over stony ways 14. in little sharps and trebles; 15. i bubble into eddying bays; 16. i babble on the pebbles. 17. with many a curve my banks i fret, 18. by many a field and fallow, 19. and many a fairy foreland set 20. with willow-weed and mallow. 21. i chatter, chatter, as i flow 22. to join the brimming river; 23. for men may come, and men may go, 24. but i go on forever. 25. i wind about, and in and out, 26. with here a blossom sailing, 27. and here and there a lusty trout, 28. and here and there a grayling, 29. and here and there a foamy flake 30. upon me as i travel; 31. with many a silvery waterbreak 32. above the golden gravel; 33. and draw them all along, and flow, 34. to join the brimming river; 35. for men may come, and men may go, 36. but i go on forever. 37. i steal by lawns and grassy plots; 38. i slide by hazel covers; 39. i move the sweet forget-me-nots 40. that grow for happy lovers. 41. i slip, i slide, i gloom, i glance, 42. among my skimming swallows; 43. i make the netted sunbeams dance 44. against my sandy shallows. 45. i murmur under moon and stars 46. in brambly wildernesses; 47. i linger by my shingly bars; 48. i loiter round my cresses; 49. and out again i curve and flow 50. to join the brimming river; 51. for men may come, and men may go, 52. but i go on forever. as a whole, this piece requires for quality of voice the _pure tone_; force, _gentle_; movement, _moderate_; pitch, _middle_; stress, _median_. the variations in modulation must be from these, and will be mostly variations in quality, movement, and pitch. lines 2 to 6. movement, quick; pitch, high; with quality changing on words _sudden_, _sparkle_, _bicker_, _hurry_, _slip_, in such a way as to suggest the meaning of the word. lines 7 to 12. movement, moderate; pitch, middle. lines 13 to 16. movement, quick; pitch, high; the words _chatter_, _stony_, _sharps_, _trebles_, _bubble_, _babble_, spoken with suggestion of their meaning. lines 17 to 20. movement, moderate; pitch, middle. lines 21 to 24. movement, quick; pitch, high; make quality suggest on _chatter_, _brimming_. lines 25 to 28. movement, slow; pitch, middle; change to suggestive quality on _wind_, _blossom_, _lusty_. lines 29 to 36. movement, moderate; pitch, middle; suggestive quality on _foamy_, _silvery_, _golden_, _brimming_. lines 37 to 40. movement, slow; pitch, low; suggestive quality on _steal_, _slide_, _move_, _happy_. lines 41, 42. movement, pitch, quality, all varied on words _slip_, _slide_, _gloom_, _glance_. lines 43, 44. movement, quick; pitch, high; suggestive quality on _dance_, _shallows_. lines 45 to 48. movement, slow; pitch, low; quality, very slightly aspirate; suggestive quality on _murmur_, _linger_, _loiter_. lines 49 to 52. movement, moderate; pitch, middle; suggestive quality on _brimming_. this analysis is very imperfect, as it is impossible in words to explain it. what modulation requires is, as a popular author says, "genius and sense" on your part, and you will be enabled to do as here is imperfectly suggested. you will do well to select some pieces, and analyze them, as here suggested. in longfellow's launch of the ship, in his poem "building of the ship," picture the whole scene in imagination, the size and kind of ship, the number of the crowd, &c. the following pieces are marked so that you may get a general idea of what is required for emotional expression in each. no marking can give you particulars of what is necessary, as the modulation of voice or variety in emotional expression--the light and shadow in the coloring of your word-picture--must depend upon your artistic "sense and genius." imagine your picture, understand the meaning of every word and suggest its meaning in tone, concentrate yourself in the thought and feeling of the piece, and let your voice be governed by that, and you will not go far wrong if you have faithfully practised what has been recommended in the previous pages of this book. 1. pure quality, gentle force, slow movement, middle pitch, median stress. 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. 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. 2. orotund quality, with fulness and power, varying middle and low pitch, moderate and quick movement, median and radical stress mixed. with storm-daring pinion and sun-gazing eye the gray forest eagle is king of the sky. from the crag-grasping fir-top where morn hangs its wreath, he views the mad waters white writhing beneath. a fitful red glaring, a rumbling jar, proclaim the storm-demon still raging afar: the black cloud strides upward, the lightning more red, and the roll of the thunder more deep and more dread; a thick pall of darkness is cast o'er the air; and on bounds the blast with a howl from its lair. the lightning darts zig-zag and forked through the gloom; and the bolt launches o'er with crash, rattle, and boom: the gray forest eagle--where, where has he sped? does he shrink to his eyrie, or shiver with dread? does the glare blind his eye? has the terrible blast on the wing of the sky-king a fear-fetter cast? no, no! the brave eagle, he thinks not of fright: the wrath of the tempest but rouses delight. to the flash of the lightning his eye casts a gleam; to the shriek of the wild blast he echoes his scream; and with front like a warrior that speeds to the fray, and a clapping of pinions, he's up and away. away--oh! away--soars the fearless and free; what recks he the skies' strife? its monarch is he! the lightning darts round him, undaunted his sight; the blast sweeps against him, unwavered his flight: high upward, still upward, he wheels, till his form is lost in the black scowling gloom of the storm. 3. pure to orotund quality, gentle to moderate force, moderate movement, middle pitch, radical and median stress mixed. this contains many words that can be pronounced with a quality or variation suggesting their meaning. * * * * * rhetoric as taught in our seminaries and by elocutionists is one thing: genuine, heart-thrilling, soul-stirring eloquence is a very different thing. the one is like the rose in wax, without odor; the other like the rose on its native bush, perfuming the atmosphere with the rich odors distilled from the dew of heaven. the one is the finely-finished statue of a cicero or demosthenes, more perfect in its lineaments than the original, pleasing the eye, and enrapturing the imagination: the other is the living man, animated by intellectual power, rousing the deepest feelings of every heart, and electrifying every soul as with vivid lightning. the one is a picture of the passions all on fire: the other is the real conflagration, pouring out a volume of words that burn like liquid flames bursting from the crater of a volcano. the one attracts the admiring gaze and tickles the fancy of an audience: the other sounds an alarm that vibrates through the tingling ears to the soul, and drives back the rushing blood upon the aching heart. the one falls upon the multitude like april showers glittering in the sunbeams, animating, and bringing nature into mellow life: the other rouses the same mass to deeds of noble daring, and imparts to it the terrific force of an avalanche. the one moves the cerebral foliage in waves of recumbent beauty like a gentle wind passing over a prairie of tall grass and flowers: the other strikes a blow that resounds through the wilderness of mind like rolling thunder through a forest of oaks. the one fails when strong commotions and angry elements agitate the public peace: the other can ride upon the whirlwind, direct the tornado, and rule the storm. * * * * * 4. aspirated orotund quality, moderate force, very slow movement, very low pitch, median stress. tread softly, bow the head, in reverent silence bow: no passing bell doth toll, yet an immortal soul is passing now. stranger, however great, with lowly reverence bow: there's one in that poor shed, one by that paltry bed, greater than thou. beneath that beggar's roof, lo! death doth keep his state. enter, no crowds attend; enter, no guards defend this palace-gate. that pavement damp and cold no smiling courtiers tread: one silent woman stands, lifting with meagre hands a dying head. no mingling voices sound,--an infant wail alone: a sob suppressed, again that short deep gasp, and then the parting groan. oh change! oh wondrous change! burst are the prison-bars: this moment there, so low, so agonized; and now beyond the stars! oh change, stupendous change! there lies the soulless clod: the sun eternal breaks, the new immortal wakes,- wakes with his god! 5. pure quality, moderate force, quick movement, high pitch, radical stress, suggestive quality on many words. the wind one morning sprang up from sleep, saying, "now for a frolic, now for a leap, now for a mad-cap galloping chase: i'll make a commotion in every place!" so it swept with a bustle right through a great town, creaking the signs, and scattering down shutters, and whisking with merciless squalls old women's bonnets and gingerbread-stalls: there never was heard a much lustier shout as the apples and oranges tumbled about; and the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes forever on watch, ran off each with a prize. then away to the field it went blustering and humming, and the cattle all wondered whatever was coming: it plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows, and tossed the colts' manes all about their brows; till, offended at such a familiar salute, they all turned their backs, and stood silently mute. so on it went capering, and playing its pranks; whistling with reeds on the broad river's banks; puffing the birds as they sat on the spray, or the traveller grave on the king's highway. it was not too nice to hustle the bags of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags: 'twas so bold, that it feared not to play its joke with the doctor's wig and the gentleman's cloak. through the forest it roared, and cried gayly, "now, you sturdy old oaks, i'll make you bow!" and it made them bow without more ado, and cracked their great branches through and through. then it rushed like a monster on cottage and farm, striking their dwellers with sudden alarm, and they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm. there were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps to see if their poultry were free from mishaps. the turkeys they gobbled; the geese screamed aloud; and the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd: there was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on, where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone. but the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane with a school-boy who panted and struggled in vain; for it tossed him and twirled him, then passed, and he stood with his hat in a pool, and his shoe in the mud. style. what you have to say, where you have to say it, when you have to say it, why you have to say it, and to whom you have to say it,--on these depend how you shall say it, or your style. conversational style is as you would talk in earnest conversation with a friend; narrative, as you would tell an anecdote or story to a company of friends; descriptive, as you would describe what you had actually seen; didactic, as you would state earnestly, decisively, but pleasantly, your knowledge or opinions to others; public address, which generally includes the didactic, narrative, and descriptive, is spoken with design to move, to persuade, and instruct, particularly the latter; declamatory is public address magnified in expression, exhibiting more emotion, both in language, and in quality, and fulness of voice; the emotional or dramatic, in which the emotions and passions are strongly expressed. in practising these different styles, the quality, pitch, force, and time must be regulated by your thought and feeling, guided, as in transition, by common sense, which will enable you to tell natural from unnatural expression. practise these few exercises under each head; but you will do better to practise pieces such as are referred to under each head in the "reading club." conversational. 1. "and how's my boy, betty?" asked mrs. boffin, sitting down beside her. "he's bad; he's bad!" said betty. "i begin to be afeerd he'll not be yours any more than mine. all others belonging to him have gone to the power and the glory; and i have a mind that they're drawing him to them, leading him away." "no, no, no!" said mrs. boffin. "i don't know why else he clinches his little hand, as if it had hold of a finger that i can't see; look at it!" said betty, opening the wrappers in which the flushed child lay, and showing his small right hand lying closed upon his breast. "it's always so. it don't mind me." 2. _helen._--what's that you read? _modus._--latin, sweet cousin. _hel._--'tis a naughty tongue, i fear, and teaches men to lie. _modus._--to lie! _hel._--you study it. you call your cousin sweet, and treat her as you would a crab. as sour 'twould seem you think her: so you covet her! why, how the monster stares, and looks about! you construe latin, and can't construe that! _modus._--i never studied women. _hel._--no, nor men; else would you better know their ways, nor read in presence of a lady. 3. "now," said wardle, "what say you to an hour on the ice? we shall have plenty of time." "capital!" said mr. benjamin allen. "prime!" ejaculated mr. bob sawyer. "you skate, of course, winkle?" said wardle. "ye--yes; oh, yes!" replied mr. winkle. "i--i am rather out of practice." "oh, do skate, mr. winkle!" said arabella. "i like to see it so much!" "oh, it is so graceful!" said another young lady. a third young lady said it was elegant; and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was "swan-like." "i should be very happy, i'm sure," said mr. winkle, reddening; "but i have no skates." this objection was at once overruled. trundle had got a couple of pair, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more down stairs; whereat mr. winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely uncomfortable. see "reading club," no. 1, p. 56; no. 2, p. 49; no. 3, pp. 5, 38; no. 4, pp. 94, 67. narrative. 1. tauler the preacher walked, one autumn-day, without the walls of strasburg, by the rhine, pondering the solemn miracle of life; as one who, wandering in a starless night, feels momently the jar of unseen waves, and hears the thunder of an unknown sea breaking along an unimagined shore. 2. the illustrious spinola, upon hearing of the death of a friend, inquired of what disease he died. "of having nothing to do," said the person who mentioned it. "enough," said spinola, "to kill a general." not only the want of employment, but the want of care, often increases as well as brings on this disease. 3. sir isaac newton was once examining a new and very fine globe, when a gentleman came into his study who did not believe in a god, but declared the world we live in came by chance. he was much pleased with the handsome globe, and asked, "who made it?"--"nobody," answered sir isaac: "it happened there." the gentleman looked up in amazement; but he soon understood what it meant. see "reading club," no. 1, pp. 23, 73; no. 2, pp. 37, 44; no. 3, pp. 9, 99; no. 4, pp. 26, 49, 89. descriptive. 1. the morn awakes, like brooding dove, with outstretched wings of gray: thin, feathery clouds close in above, and build a sober day. no motion in the deeps of air, no trembling in the leaves; a still contentment everywhere, that neither laughs nor grieves. a shadowy veil of silvery sheen bedims the ocean's hue, save where the boat has torn between a track of shining blue. dream on, dream on, o dreamy day! the very clouds are dreams: that cloud is dreaming far away, and is not where it seems. 2. the broad moon lingers on the summit of mount olivet; but its beam has long left the garden of gethsemane, and the tomb of absalom, the waters of kedron, and the dark abyss of jehoshaphat. full falls its splendor, however, on the opposite city, vivid and defined in its silver blaze. a lofty wall, with turrets and towers and frequent gates, undulates with the unequal ground which it covers, as it encircles the lost capital of jehovah. it is a city of hills, far more famous than those of rome; for all europe has heard of sion and of calvary. 3. it was a fine autumnal day: the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. the forests had put on their sober brown and yellow; while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field. see "reading club," no. 2, pp. 15, 39; no. 3, pp. 28, 97; no. 4, pp. 19, 36, 92. didactic. 1. to teach--what is it but to learn each day some lesson fair or deep, the while our hearts toward others yearn,- the hearts that wake toward those that sleep? to learn--what is it but to teach by aspect, manner, silence, word, the while we far and farther reach within thy treasures, o our lord? then who but is a learner aye? and who but teaches, well or ill? receiving, giving, day by day,- so grows the tree, so flows the rill. 2. all professions should be liberal; and there should be less pride felt in peculiarity of employment, and more in excellence of achievement. and yet more: in each several profession no master should be too proud to do its hardest work. the painter should grind his own colors; the architect work in the mason's yard with his men; the master-manufacturer be himself a more skilful operative than any man in his mills; and the distinction between one man and another be only in experience and skill, and the authority and wealth which these must naturally and justly obtain. 3. now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, hath not old custom made this life more sweet than that of painted pomp? are not these woods more free from peril than the envious court? here feel we but the penalty of adam, the seasons' difference; as, the icy fang and churlish chiding of the winter's wind, which, when it bites and blows upon my body, even till i shrink with cold, i smile, and say, this is no flattery: these are counsellors that feelingly persuade me what i am. sweet are the uses of adversity, which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head; and this our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in every thing. see "reading club," no. 1, p. 82; no. 2, pp. 88, 76; no. 3, p. 59. public address. 1. let not, then, the young man sit with folded hands, calling on hercules. thine own arm is the demigod: it was given thee to help thyself. go forth into the world trustful, but fearless. exalt thine adopted calling or profession. look on labor as honorable, and dignify the task before thee, whether it be in the study, office, counting-room, work-shop, or furrowed field. there is an equality in all, and the resolute will and pure heart may ennoble either. 2. while you are gazing on that sun which is plunging into the vault of the west, another observer admires him emerging from the gilded gates of the east. by what inconceivable power does that agã¨d star, which is sinking fatigued and burning in the shades of the evening, re-appear at the same instant fresh and humid with the rosy dew of the morning? at every hour of the day the glorious orb is at once rising, resplendent as noonday, and setting in the west; or rather our senses deceive us, and there is, properly speaking, no east or west, no north or south, in the world. 3. in all natural and spiritual transactions, so far as they come within the sphere of human agency, there are three distinct elements: there is an element of endeavor, of mystery, and of result; in other words, there is something for man to do, there is something beyond his knowledge and control, there is something achieved by the co-operation of these two. man sows the seed, he reaps the harvest; but between these two points occurs the middle condition of mystery. he casts the seed into the ground; he sleeps and rises night and day; but the seed springs and grows up, he knows not how: yet, when the fruit is ripe, immediately he putteth in the sickle, because the harvest is come. that is all he knows about it. there is something for him to do, something for him to receive; but between the doing and receiving there is a mystery. see "reading club," no. 1, p. 83; no. 2, pp. 77, 79; no. 3, pp. 74, 91; no. 4, pp. 35, 53. declamatory. 1. you speak like a boy,--like a boy who thinks the old gnarled oak can be twisted as easily as the young sapling. can i forget that i have been branded as an outlaw, stigmatized as a traitor, a price set on my head as if i had been a wolf, my family treated as the dam and cubs of the hill-fox, whom all may torment, vilify, degrade, and insult; the very name which came to me from a long and noble line of martial ancestors denounced, as if it were a spell to conjure up the devil with? 2. i have been accused of ambition in presenting this measure,--inordinate ambition. if i had thought of myself only, i should have never brought it forward. i know well the perils to which i expose myself,--the risk of alienating faithful and valued friends, with but little prospect of making new ones (if any new ones could compensate for the loss of those we have long tried and loved), and the honest misconception both of friends and foes. ambition!--yes, i have ambition; but it is the ambition of being the humble instrument in the hands of providence to reconcile a divided people, once more to revive concord and harmony in a distracted land; the pleasing ambition of contemplating the glorious spectacle of a free, united, prosperous, and fraternal people. 3. tell me, ye who tread the sods of yon sacred height, is warren dead? can you not still see him, not pale and prostrate, the blood of his gallant heart pouring out of his ghastly wound, but moving resplendent over the field of honor, with the rose of heaven upon his cheek, and the fire of liberty in his eye? tell me, ye who make your pious pilgrimage to the shades of vernon, is washington indeed shut up in that cold and narrow house? that which made these men, and men like these, cannot die. the hand that traced the charter of independence is indeed motionless; the eloquent lips that sustained it are hushed: but the lofty spirits that conceived, resolved, and maintained it, and which alone, to such men, "make it life to live,"--these cannot expire. see "reading club," no. 1, pp. 66, 75; no. 3, pp. 50, 68, 84; no. 4, pp. 40, 55. dramatic or emotional. 1. vain pomp and glory of this world, i hate ye! i feel my heart new opened. oh, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! there is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, that sweet aspã©ct of princes and their ruin, more pangs and fears than wars or women have; and, when he falls, he falls like lucifer, never to hope again. 2. what would you have, you curs! that like nor peace nor war? the one affrights you; the other makes you proud. he that trusts you, where he should find you lions finds you hares; where foxes, geese. you are no surer, no, than is the coal of fire upon the ice, or hailstone in the sun. 3. to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. out, out, brief candle! life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. see "reading club," no. 1, p. 8; no. 2, p. 28; no. 3, p. 60; no. 4, p. 14. part four. hints on elocution. [sidenote: _practice._] if you have practised and studied the previous pages of this book, you will have gained an elementary knowledge of the science of elocution. carlyle says, "the grand result of schooling is a mind with just vision to discern, with free force to do: the grand school-master is practice." to make an artist of yourself in elocution requires much practice and much patience. as longfellow says, "art is long, and time is fleeting;" and the art of elocution is no exception to that truth. [sidenote: _health._] you must have health, strength, and elasticity of body; and, to get and keep these, obey the laws of life as to exercise, rest, pure air, good food, and temperance in all things. avoid all stimulants, or tobacco in any form. practise any gymnastics that shall help to make you strong and sprightly, but especially the physical gymnastics here given, as they are designed to benefit the muscles used in speaking. [sidenote: _position._] when you stand to speak, the first thing that strikes your audience is the position you assume. therefore be careful to assume and keep the speaker's position until some other position is needed for expression; and return to the speaker's position, as the one which is an active position, but gives the idea of repose and confidence, without that disagreeable self-consciousness which to an audience is disgusting. while you are speaking, avoid all swaying or motion of body, unless it means something. [sidenote: _bowing._] do not bow too quickly, but do it with dignity, and respect to your audience, first with a general, quick glance of the eye about you. bend the body at the hip-joints; let the back bend a little, and the head more than the body. do not bow too low, nor be stiff in your movements. [sidenote: _holding book._] how to hold the book has been shown in part one; and you will find that to be the position that strikes the audience most favorably, and gives an impression of ease, which goes a great way towards making the audience enjoy your reading. [sidenote: _articulation._] when you speak, it is for the purpose of making yourself understood. and to do this you must articulate perfectly; that is, give a clear and correct utterance every element in a word. [sidenote: _pronunciation._] you must also pronounce properly,--that is, accent the proper syllable in a word; and, to find out what the proper syllable is, refer to webster's or worcester's large dictionary (worcester being preferable), and find out for yourself. [sidenote: _emphasis._] you must also give the right phrasing, subordinating all other phrases to the principal one, and remembering that the emphatic word of your sentence is the emphatic word of the important phrase. the emphatic word is usually brought out by inflection and added force; but it may be made emphatic by particular stress, or a pause before it or after it, or both before and after, or by a change of quality. your own common sense will tell you when these may be proper and effective and natural. [sidenote: _fulness and power._] you must also make your audience hear you; and this requires, not a loud, high-pitched voice, but--unless dramatic expression requires otherwise--your middle or conversational pitch, with fulness of voice, that shall give you power. your own mind will regulate this for you, if you will direct your attention to the persons in the back part of the hall, and speak in middle pitch, so that they may hear. [sidenote: _avoid high pitch._] many speakers make the mistake of using a high pitch, and render their speech very ineffective by so doing. you will call to mind the fact, that, when we say we cannot hear a speaker, it is not that we do not hear the sound of his voice, but that we cannot understand the words. bearing this in mind, you will see that perfect articulation is what is wanted, and that fulness added to your voice in middle pitch will make the voice reach, will require less effort, and will produce better effect. [sidenote: _feeling._] having made your audience understand and hear, you must then make them feel. to do this as public reader, actor, clergyman, lawyer, teacher, orator, lecturer, you must yourself feel what you have to say, and, forgetting every thing else in your subject, concentrate your whole being in your utterance and action. then you will be effective, and you will carry your audience with you. and you will fail in proportion as you fail to lose your own personality in your subject. "the heart giveth grace unto every art;" and of no art is this more true than of elocution. you may have all the graces of elocution which practice will give you; yet, in the effect these will produce,--if the will, acting alone, not being guided by mind and heart, prompts the utterance,--something will be lacking, of which learned and unlearned alike will be conscious. [sidenote: _be natural._] "one touch of nature makes the whole world kin," and cultivated and uncultivated alike will feel it; and this "touch of nature" you will show if you enter into what you have to say with mind, heart, and soul. your voice will vary in all the elements of emotional expression, and you will be natural. [sidenote: _mechanical speaking._] when speaking in public, do not try to remember the first rule of elocution. leave it all behind you when you come before the audience. speak from your thought and feeling, and be sure you are thoroughly familiar with what you have to say. be sure you understand it yourself before you try to make others understand. [sidenote: _words without meaning._] you can read words, calling them off mechanically, or you can speak words from memory very mechanically, and not have a clear idea of the meaning the words convey while you speak them. but do not do this. always think the thought, as you read or speak, in the same manner as you would if speaking extempore. you can express your thought clearly by thinking it as you speak; but at the same time there may be no expression of emotion. [sidenote: _thought without feeling._] you may have thought without feeling; but you must impress your thought by feeling. when you read, your mind gets the thought through the words, and from that thought comes feeling; but, when you speak your own thoughts, the feeling creates the thought. in reading, you think, and then feel; but, in speaking your thought, you feel, and then think. when you read, then, or speak from memory, if you will let thought create feeling before you speak, you will avoid mechanical reading and speaking, and be effective in conveying the thought and feeling both together. [sidenote: _feeling without thought._] you can convey emotion without a definite thought; and this is as bad as either words without meaning, or thought without feeling. this arousing the feelings without guiding them by definite thought is the province of the art of music. elocution is superior to music for the reason that it guides both thought and feeling, for certainly it is better that mind and feeling should work together, than either alone. [sidenote: _emotion in song or speech._] the elements of emotional expression are alike in speech and song. in each you have quality, time, force, and pitch. the variation of these elements makes expression of feeling; and each sound you make contains all these elements. it has a certain quality; it has more or less of force; it is relatively high or low in pitch, it takes a longer or shorter time. [sidenote: _variety in expression._] the more you vary in the elements of emotional expression, the better the effect, provided the variation is caused by the variation of your feeling, and not by any artificiality, or seeming to express what you do not feel. [sidenote: _quality. force. pitch. time._] the quality of voice, its purity or harshness, its aspiration, &c., will vary with the kind of feeling; the degree of force will vary according to the intensity of feeling; the pitch will be according to what we may call the height or depth of your feeling; the movement, or time, will be according as the emotion is quick or slow. after having cultivated the voice well in these elements of emotional expression, your own common sense ought to be your best guide in the application of them to reading and speaking. you, for the time being, should be the author of what you read. "put yourself in his place," and express as you feel that he felt while writing it. [sidenote: _feeling without expression._] it is possible for you to feel intense emotion, and not be capable of properly expressing it, so as to make others feel it. you may not have had training that will give you command of sound and motion, those channels of expression through which the body is made to obey mind and soul, and express their thought and feeling. [sidenote: _no expression without feeling._] it is impossible to express, even with the best cultivation, what, at the moment of utterance, you do not feel: therefore you must sink your own personality in your subject; and, according to your conception, so will you express. [sidenote: _reserve power._] all apparent effort must be avoided; that is, in the expression of the strongest passion or emotion, you must not give the audience the slightest indication of want of power. you will give that impression if you try to express more than you actually feel. in emotional expression it must seem as if it overflowed because of excess, and you could hardly control it; but you must never lose control of it. this control will give the audience the impression that you feel more than you express, and is what is called reserved power. if--your well of emotion not being overflowingly full--you use a force-pump, or, in other words, your will-power, to make it overflow, you will fail in expression. [sidenote: _how to get reserve power._] how are you to get this, you ask. by study and long practice. as you plainly see, it involves a perfect command over the feelings; and "he that ruleth his own spirit is greater than he that taketh a city." conquer yourself. all art, elocution included, is but a means of expression for man's thoughts and feelings; and, if you have no thought or feeling to express, art is useless to you. [sidenote: _breathing._] do not let your audience be reminded that you breathe at all. take breath quietly through nostrils or mouth, or both. form the habit of keeping the chest, while speaking, active, as recommended in all vocal exercises; and the breath will flow in unobstructed whenever needed. breathe as nearly as possible as you would if you were not speaking, that is, do not interfere with right action of the lungs. the instant you feel a want of breath, take it: if you do not, you will injure your lungs; and what you say, feeling that want of breath, will lack power. the more breath you have, so that it does not feel uncomfortable and can be well controlled, the more power you will have: therefore practise breathing until you breathe rightly and easily. [sidenote: _throat trouble._] if your general health is good, your throat will be well; and therefore pay attention to the general health of the whole body, and the throat will take care of itself. if, when you come before an audience, your throat and mouth are dry, use only clear, cold water, not ice-water: that is too cold. avoid candy or throat-lozenges; for the use of either of these is worse than if you used nothing at all. if you have a cold or sore throat, you had better not use your voice; but, if you must use it, keep it clear by clear water. a healthy throat will not need even water: it will moisten itself after a little use, if at first it is dry. [sidenote: _pausing._] deliberate movement and frequent pausing are very expressive in some cases. where it is applicable may be determined by what you have to express. pausing in its appropriate place makes emphasis strong. [sidenote: _punctuation._] let the pause be regulated, however, by the feeling, and not all by the punctuation. express according to your conception of the thought. punctuation may be a guide to you in obtaining the right idea; but it is no guide to correct expression. pausing, generally, comes naturally either before or after, or both before and after, the emphatic word or phrase. [sidenote: _poetry._] speak or read poetry with the same care and attention to phrasing that you would give to prose, and you will avoid all drawling, monotony, or sing-song. in order that the rhyme in poetry may be preserved, the pronunciation of a word may be changed from common usage, if, by so doing, you do not obscure the meaning; but never sacrifice the meaning for the sake of the rhyme. in good poetry, which includes blank verse, the metrical movement will show itself without any attempt on your part to make it prominent. [sidenote: _stage fright._] you may feel, when you first come before an audience, a shrinking, or faintness of feeling, such as is known to actors as "stage fright." it probably arises from a very sensitive, nervous organization; and, other things being equal, persons of this character make the best speakers. as to the real cause of this feeling, as lord dundreary says, "it's one of those things no fellah can find out." but, whatever its cause, you can overcome it by strong will-power and self-possession; and, after a time, you will become used to appearance in public, and that will establish the "confidence of habit." some of the best orators and actors that ever lived have had "stage fright;" and some of them, so far as we know, never had it. so you must not flatter yourself that this is a certain indication of your power. it takes much more than a tendency to "stage fright" to make a powerful speaker. [sidenote: _reading. speaking. recitation._] whether you are reading from a book or paper, reciting from memory, or speaking extempore your own thought, you should do all as you would the latter, so that a blind man, who could not judge which you were doing except by the sound of your voice, would be unable to tell. in committing to memory for recitation, you will remember more easily if you will pick out the emphatic words of the sentences in their order, and commit them, as they contain an outline of the succession of thought and meaning. [sidenote: _action._] the look upon the face, the gestures of the arm, the attitude of the body, all speak the language of emotion as plainly to the eye as elocution proper does to the ear. this action will be prompted by the feelings, as the voice is; and it will be expressive or not, it will be appropriate or not, it will be graceful or not, according as you have natural or acquired ability. natural ability will be much aided by a knowledge and practice of gesture as a language, and much may be acquired by any one with practice. [sidenote: _look. gesture. attitude._] i have said nothing of action in the previous pages, as this book treats of expression through the voice, or elocution. a few words here upon the subject will not be out of place. when you read, you should ordinarily make your voice express much, and use gesture sparingly, but, if you feel prompted to make gestures, never do so while the eye rests on the book. look either at the audience, or as may be indicated by the gesture. when you recite, or speak extempore, you can add much to the expression by look, gesture, and attitude. in natural expression the face will first light up, and show feeling; and the attitude and gesture follow more or less quickly, according to the feeling; and then comes speech. and all these must express alike. for the face to be expressionless, or to express one thing while the speech and gesture say another thing, is in effect ludicrous. [sidenote: _motion without meaning._] remember that all motions and attitudes have meaning; and, when no other gesture or attitude is called for to express some feeling, stand perfectly still in the speaker's position before mentioned, that being an active, and at the same time a neutral position. don't move, unless you mean something by it. don't sway the body, or nod the head, or shrug the shoulders, or move the feet, or make motions or gestures, unless the proper expression call for it, and your emotion prompts. [sidenote: _the eye._] the eye is particularly effective in expression, as there the emotion first shows itself; and by it you can get and keep the attention of your audience. in reading, keep your eye off the book as much as possible, and on your audience. in recitation or extempore speaking, look at your audience. the eye leads in gesture, and, in many cases, looks in the direction of the gesture. in personation of character, as in dramatic scenes, your eye must look at those to whom you are supposed to be speaking, as, in common conversation, you usually look at the person to whom you speak. never look in an undecided way, as if you did not have a purpose in looking, but look in the face and eyes of your audience when emotional expression does not require you to look elsewhere. [sidenote: _gesture._] when you don't wish to use your arm for gesture, let it hang naturally at the side. when the emotion calls for gesture, make it with decision, and let the gesture continue as long as you utter words explaining the meaning of the gesture. gesture always comes before words, more or less quickly, as may be the kind of emotion. usually, if the words are quickly spoken, the gesture will be quickly made, and the words will be spoken almost at instant of the gesture. if the words move slow, the gesture will move slow, and there may be a perceptible pause between the gesture and words. [sidenote: _no rules for gesture._] no stated rules for gesture can be given; for they are as infinite in number and variety as the emotions they express. you will find, however, that gesture may be regulated, as emotional expression of voice is, by means of your intensity of thought and feeling, guided by common sense, and aided by genius. gesture is a science and art, which, as in speech and song, has elements of emotional expression; and these elements correspond in each. you have in gesture (as said of the others) quality or kind of gesture, force or intensity in gesture, time or the degree of movement in gesture, and pitch, or relative height and depth; and all these have a meaning something like the corresponding elements of song, or speech, or other arts. long and hard study and practice will be necessary to perfection in this, as in all arts. a graceful habit of gesture, an appropriate expression of eye and face, united to a voice full-toned, musical, and varying in all shades of emotional expression,--what is there more captivating to eye and ear, more pleasing to the senses, more instructive to the mind, more moving to the emotions, if only it is, as mendelssohn says of all art, expressive of lofty thought? "every art can elevate itself above a mere handicraft only by being devoted to the expression of lofty thought." defects of speech. defects of speech cannot be spoken of at great length in this book. a thorough study of articulation in parts one and two will cure any of them where there is no defect in the mouth. the letter _s_ is more often defective than any other letter, it being pronounced like _th_ in _thin_, or whistled. in the first the tongue is too far forward: in the last it is drawn too far back. cure by imitating somebody who makes it correctly. _r_ is often defective by substituting _w_ for it; as, _wun_ for _run_. sometimes it is defective by being made with the whole tongue, something as _y_ is made; as, _yun_ for _run_: and cure may be had by imitating the correct sound. other defects of letters or elementary sounds are less common, and need not be mentioned here. [sidenote: _too precise speech._] too precise speech is a defect, and results from trying to give too much force to the consonant sounds, and not a due proportion to the vowel sounds. it sounds like affectation on the part of the speaker, and may be corrected by giving more force to the vowels, and particular attention to phrasing. (see "articulation," part three.) [sidenote: _slovenly speech._] slovenly speech is a defect, and is opposite in kind and effect from the above. the consonants are not pronounced; and, to remedy it, practise to give consonants more force and precision, and pay attention to phrasing and emphasis. [sidenote: _too rapid speech._] speaking too rapidly is a defect, and results from too rapid thought. put a restraint upon thought,--that is, control it,--and make the tongue move slower in consequence, being careful to phrase and emphasize well. [sidenote: _too slow speech._] speaking too slowly is also a defect, opposite in kind from rapid speech, and is caused by the mind moving too slowly in thinking. the remedy is to think faster, and urge the tongue to move quicker. [sidenote: _stuttering._] when you have too slow thought and too rapid speech, you have stuttering; for the tongue keeps moving all the time while the thought is coming, and it repeats syllables or words. make the mind of the stutterer move faster, and the tongue talk slower. in each of these last three defects, let the person who wants to cure it "know what you wish to say before you attempt to say it." [sidenote: _stammering._] stammering is caused by too much effort on the part of the person to make articulate sounds, and is usually the result of imitating some one who stammered, or formed gradually by habit of incorrect breathing, and from physical weakness. stammerers make the attempt to speak, and the lips or tongue or jaw become immovable, or the words stick in their throat; and, because this takes place, they make great effort to overcome it. the more effort they make, the harder it is for them; and sometimes this leads to contortions and jerkings of body and limbs that are painful. to cure this takes a longer or shorter time, depending on the state of health, the length of time the habit has been in forming, the amount of jerking of limbs to which the stammerer is subject, and the care taken by the stammerer to practise much. a stammerer can be cured by teaching articulation thoroughly. (see parts one and two of this book; also monroe's fourth reader.) show every element separately, and the position the mouth takes to make it; then combine into syllables, then into words, then into phrases. show the stammerer, that, the less the effort made, the easier will be the speaking. impress upon the stammerer's mind, "make no effort to speak," and the habit is to be overcome by long-continued practice and a thorough and complete training in articulation. when reading, be sure and read in phrases; that is, speak a phrase, as a long word, without pause. stammerers, being usually feeble in health, should practise the physical and vocal gymnastics (parts one and two), and particularly the breathing exercises. when you have given the stammerer confidence, and he or she finds that talking is as easy as walking or singing, the cure is certain. there may be times of excitability or nervousness when stammering will return; but these times will be less and less frequent as health gets better and confidence grows, and finally will not return. remember, stammerer, "make no effort." be lazy, and even, at first, slovenly in speech, and cure is certain. the end. * * * * * mr. walter k. fobes, (graduate of boston university school of oratory,) is prepared to teach elocution in private or class lessons, either at his room in boston, his residence in north cambridge, or private residences in boston or vicinity. the private lessons are adapted to the wants of the pupil as reader or speaker, in the pulpit, at the bar, on the rostrum, on the stage, or in the parlor. the class lessons are designed to make pleasing, intelligent readers for the social or home circle. mr. fobes will also accept engagements from schools, academies, or colleges, for courses of lessons designed to give a practical drill in the elements of good reading and speaking. he is also prepared to cure stammering, stuttering, lisping, and other defects of speech, by a simple, natural method, and the use (when required) of bell's visible speech. a few engagements will be accepted for _public or parlor readings_. 149 a tremont street, cor. of west st., boston. residence, beach st., no. cambridge, mass. * * * * * "=books that our teachers ought to have on hand to spice up with now and then.="--st. louis journal of education. geo. m. baker's reading club and handy speaker, being _selections in prose and poetry_, serious, humorous, pathetic, patriotic, and dramatic. fresh and attractive pieces for school speakers and reading circles. in the words of the gospel banner,- _'from grave to gay, from lively to severe,' in poetry and prose a judicious mixture here; beside outlandish dialects, full of words odd and queer, which stir one's sense of humor as they fall upon the ear, pleasant to those who read or speak as unto those who hear._ published in parts, each part containing fifty selections. paper covers, 15 cents each. printed on fine paper, and handsomely bound in cloth, price, 50 cents each. reading club no. 1. "we have many readers and books that purport to furnish pieces for the use of amateur speakers and juvenile orators. but the great defect in nearly all of them is, that their selections are made from the same series of authors. we are surfeited _ad nauseam_ with 'the boy stood on the burning deck,' 'on linden, when the sun was low,' 'my name is norval!' or, 'my voice is still for war.' but in this volume, the first of a series, mr. baker deviates from the beaten track, and furnishes some fifty selections which have not been published before in any collection of readings. mr. baker has himself written many pieces for the amateur stage, and achieved a reputation as a public reader, so that he is eminently qualified by his own experience for the task of teaching others."--_phil. age._ reading club no. 2. "mr. baker deserves the thanks of the reading public for his indefatigable endeavors in the field of light and agreeable literature. the selections are made with good taste, and the book will be of great value for its indicated purpose."--_new haven courier._ "in its adaptation to day schools, seminaries, colleges, and home reading, the work will be found very superior in its variety and adaptability of contents."--_dayton (ohio) press._ reading club no. 3. "this is one of those books that our teachers ought to have at hand to _spice up_ with now and then. this is no. 3 of the series, and they are all brim full of short articles, serious, humorous, pathetic, patriotic, and dramatic. send and get one, and you will be sure to get the rest."--_st. louis journal of education, jan. 1876._ "the young elocutionist will find it a convenient pocket companion, and the general reader derive much amusement at odd moments from its perusal."--_forest and stream, n. y., jan. 6, 1876._ reading club no. 4. (_just ready._) _sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price._ lee & shepard, publishers, boston. transcriber's notes: obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent spellings have been kept. words surrounded by _ are italicized. words surrounded by = are bold. small capitals are presented as all capitals in this e-text. in this e-text, ['w] represents letter w with the acute accent above it as this symbol is not available in latin-1. in this e-text, [`w] represents letter w with the grave accent above it as this symbol is not available in latin-1. in this e-text, [vo] represents letter o with the caron (v-shaped symbol) above it as this symbol is not available in latin-1. transcriber's note: obvious printer's errors have been corrected. hyphenation and accentuation have been made consistent. all other inconsistencies are as in the original. the author's spelling has been retained. [=x] denotes macron above the letter x. text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). vocal expression a class-book of voice training and interpretation by katherine jewell everts author of "the speaking voice" harper & brothers new york and london mcmxi * * * * * books by katherine jewel everts vocal expression net $1.00 the speaking voice. post 8vo net 1.00 harper & brothers, new york copyright, 1911, by harper & brothers printed in the united states of america published november, 1911 * * * * * plan of the book to the pupil introduction part i studies in vocal interpretation preliminary study:--to establish a conscious purpose. discussion:--the relation of the speaker to his audience. material:--direct appeal in prose and verse, with suggestive analysis. selections for interpretation. first study:--to establish vitality in thinking. discussion:--action of the mind in reading aloud. material:--the essay and didactic poetry, with suggestive analysis. selections for interpretation. second study:--to establish intelligence in feeling. discussion:--emotional response and abandon. material:--lyric poetry, with suggestive analysis. selections for interpretation. third study:--to develop the whimsical sense. discussion:--humor and fancy. material:--fairy story, fable, and nonsense rhyme, with suggestive analysis. selections for interpretation. fourth study:--to develop imaginative vigor. discussion:--the picture, the atmosphere, the action. material:--short story and epic poetry, with suggestive analysis. selections for interpretation. fifth study:--to develop dramatic instinct. discussion:--impersonation and characterization. material:--monologue and play, with suggestive analysis. selections for interpretation. part ii studies in vocal expression introductory discussion:--the vocal vocabulary. study in pause and change of pitch. study in inflection. study in tone color. part iii studies in vocal technique introductory discussion:--tuning the instrument. how to support the tone. directions and exercises. how to free the tone. directions and exercises. how to re-enforce the tone. directions and exercises. to the pupil let me trace the evolution which has led to the plan of this text-book. a class in elocution of which you are a member is given a paragraph from _modern eloquence_, a bit from an oration or address of beecher or phillips or beveridge, to study. the passage appeals to you. you are roused by it to an eager, new appreciation of courage, conservatism or of the character of some national hero. you "look" your interest. you are asked to go to the platform. you are glad. you want to repeat the inspired word of the prophet. you begin confidently to voice the words of the great orator--the words which you had lifted alive from the page--but in your voice they sound now formal, cold, lifeless. you hesitate, your emotion is killed, your thought inhibited, your eagerness gone, your impulse dead--but you have made a discovery. you have become conscious of a great need, and your teacher, if she be wise, has discovered the nature of that need. you consult together and find three things have failed you, and, through you, the orator you wished to interpret. these things are your mind, your vocabulary, and your voice. you find that your need is threefold--it is the need to feel intelligently and to think vitally _on your feet_; the need to acquire a vocal vocabulary; the need to train your instruments of expression--voice and body. to help you and your teacher to meet this threefold need is the wish of this book; and the book's plan is the result of the author's experience with her own pupils in watching the evolution of their skill in vocal expression, the development, along natural lines, of their ability to speak effectively. vocal expression introduction the strongest impulse of the human heart is for self-expression. the simplest form of expression is speech. speech is the instinctive use of a natural instrument, the voice. the failure to deal justly with this simple and natural means of expression is one of the serious failures of our educational system. whether the student is to wait on another's table or be host at his own; whether he is to sell "goods" from one side of a counter or buy them from the other; whether he is to enter one of the three great professions of law, medicine, or theology; "go on the stage" or platform; become minister to france or president of the united states, it remains precisely true that to speak effectively will be essential to his success, and should be as essential to his own happiness as it will be to that of all involved in his pursuit of success. yet, if we give heed at all to the question of voice and speech, it is our last, not our first, consideration. we still look upon the mind as a storehouse instead of a clearing-house. we continue to concern ourselves with its ability to take in, not its capacity to give out. voice and speech are still left to shift for themselves during the period of school life when they should be guarded and guided as a most essential equipment for life after school days are over. to convert the resultant hard, high-pitched, nasal tone which betrays the american voice into the adequate agent of a temperament which distinguishes the american personality, and to help english speech in this country to become an efficient medium of lucid intercourse, such is the object of this book. in an address upon the "question of our speech" delivered before a graduating class at bryn mawr, several years ago, mr. henry james said: "no civilized body of men and women has ever left so vital an interest to run wild, to shift, as we say, all for itself, to stumble and flounder, through mere adventure and accident, in the common dust of life, to pick up a living, in fine, by the wayside and the ditch. "the french, the germans, the italians, the english, perhaps, in particular, and many other people, occidental and oriental, i surmise, not excluding the turks and the chinese, have for the symbol of education, of civility, a tone-standard; we alone flourish in undisturbed and in something like sublime unconsciousness of any such possibility." so searching an arraignment by so eminent a scholar before an audience of so high a degree of intelligence and culture seems to have been necessary to command an adequate appreciation of the condition of "our speech" and to incite an adequate effort toward reform. since the arraignment was made and afterward published, classes have been organized, books written, and lectures delivered in increasing abundance, forming a veritable speech crusade--and the books and the classes and the lectures have availed much, but the real and only "reliable remedy" lies with the teacher in the public and private schools and colleges of the united states. and it is to the teacher of english and elocution that this _class book on vocal expression_ is offered. _learning to talk_ might have been a truer, as it had been a simpler, title, yet the more comprehensive phrase has justifiable significance, and we have chosen it in the same spirit which discards for the text-book in rhetoric or english composition the inviting title _learning to write_. there is a close analogy between the evolution of vocal and the evolution of verbal expression. the method of instruction in the study of the less heeded subject of the "spoken word" throws an interesting light on the teaching of the more regarded question of the "written word." an experience as teacher of expression and english in a normal school in minnesota has influenced the author of these pages to so large an extent in the formulation of her own method of study, and so in the plan of this volume, that it seems advisable to record it. to the work of reading or expression to which she was originally called two classes in composition were added. the former teacher of composition had bequeathed to the work as a text-book a rhetoric which consisted of involved theory plus one hundred and twenty-five separate and distinct rules for the use of words, and the teacher of expression found, to her amazed dismay, that the students had been required to learn these rules, not only "by heart," but by number, referring to them as rule six or thirty-six or one hundred and twenty-five, according to the demanded application. a week, possibly a fortnight, passed in silent struggle, then the distracted teacher of expression went to the president of the school with these questions: "of what avail are one hundred and twenty-five rules for the use of words when these children have less than that number of words to use, and no desire to acquire more? could you make teachers of these normal students by giving a hundred and more laws for the governing of pupils and the imparting of the material of knowledge, if you furnished neither pupils nor material upon which to test the laws?" "certainly not!" was the restful reply of one of the wisest of the educators i have known. "may i lay aside the text-book and read with these students in english for a little?" "you may teach them to write english in any way you can!" the next day the class in composition was discovered eagerly reading tennyson's _holy grail_, stopping to note this felicitous phrase, that happy choice of words, the pertinent personnel of a sentence or paragraph. the first examination of the term consisted in a series of single questions, written on separate slips of paper and laid face down on the teacher's desk. each student took one of these slips which read, "tell in your own words the story of _the coming of arthur_, the _holy grail_, _lancelot and elaine_ or _guinevere_," as the chance of the chooser might allot a given idyl. the experiment was a success. the president was satisfied with the papers in english composition. each student had had "something to say" and had said it. each student had words at his command little dreamed of in his vocabulary before the meeting with the knights of the round table. the first step toward a mastery of verbal expression had been successfully taken! the consciousness of need--the need of a vocabulary--had been awakened. the desire to supply that need--to acquire a vocabulary--had been aroused. a way to acquire a vocabulary had been made manifest. out of such consciousness alone is born the willingness to work upon which progress in the mastery of any art depends. to the teacher of expression it seemed no more advisable now than it had seemed before, to ask the students to learn either "by heart" or by number the one hundred and twenty-five rules of technique. but the great laws governing the use of a vocabulary she now found her students eager to study, to understand, and to apply. she found her class willing to enter upon the drudgery which a mastery of technique in any art demands. so in the teaching of vocal expression, he who _begins_ with rules for the use of this change of pitch or that inflection, this pause or that color of tone, before he has aroused in the pupil the desire to express a vivid thought, and so made him conscious of the need to command subtle changes of pitch, swift contrasts in tone and turns of inflection, will find himself responsible for mechanical results sadly divorced from true and natural speech. but let the teacher of expression begin, not with rules of technique, but with the material for inspiration and interpretation; let him rouse in the pupil the impulse to express and then furnish the material and means for study which shall enrich the vocabulary of expression and he will find the instruments of the art--voice and speech--growing into the free and efficient agents of personality they are intended by nature to be. * * * * * in march, 1906, the editor of _harper's bazar_ began a crusade in the interest of the american voice and speech. through the issues of more than a year the magazine published arraignment, admonition, and advice on this subject. it was the privilege of the author of this volume to contribute the last four articles in that series. in response to a definite demand from the readers of the bazar these articles were later embodied in a little book called _the speaking voice_. in a preface to this book the author confesses her "deliberate effort to simplify and condense the principles fundamental to all recognized systems of vocal instruction," making them available for those too occupied to enter upon the more exhaustive study set forth in more elaborate treatises. the book was not intended for hours of class-room work in schools or colleges, but for the spare moments of a business or social life, and its reception in that world was gratifying. but, to the author's delight, the interest aroused created a demand in the schools and colleges for a real text-book, a book which could be put into the hands of students in the departments of english and expression in public and private institutions and colleges, and especially in normal schools. it is in response to that appeal that this class-book in _vocal expression_ is issued; and it is to the teachers whose impelling interest and enthusiasm in the subject justify the publication of this volume that the author desires first to express her grateful appreciation. to miss frances nash, of the lincoln high school in cleveland, for her invaluable advice in determining the exact nature of the need which the book must meet, and for her assistance in choosing the material for interpretation, my gratitude and appreciation are especially due. to others whose influence through books or personal instruction has made this task possible, acknowledgment made in _the speaking voice_ is reiterated. part i studies in vocal interpretation preliminary study to establish a conscious purpose "the orator must have something in his very soul he feels to be worth saying. he must have in his nature that kindly sympathy that connects him with his fellow-men and which so makes him a part of the audience that his smile is their smile, his tear is their tear, the throb of his heart the throb of the hearts of the whole assembly."--henry ward beecher. we have said that whatever part in the world's life we choose or are chosen to take, it remains precisely true that to speak effectively is essential to fulfilling, in the highest sense, that function. whether the occupation upon which we enter be distinguished by the title of cash-girl or counsellor at law; dish-washer or débutante; stable-boy or statesman; artist in the least or the highest of art's capacities, crises will arise in that calling which demand a command of effective speech. the situation may call for a slow, quietly searching interrogation or a swift, ringing command. the need may be for a use of that expressive vocal form which requires, to be efficient, the rugged or the gracious elements of your vocabulary; the vital or the velvet tone; the straight inflection or the circumflex; the salient or the slight change of pitch; the long or the short pause. whatever form the demand takes, the need remains for command of the efficient elements of tone and speech if we are to become masters of the situation and to attain success in our calling. how to acquire this mastery is our problem. how to take the first step toward acquiring that command is the subject of this first study. is there a student reader of these pages who has not already faced a situation requiring for its mastery such command? listen to mr. james again: "all life, therefore, comes back to the question of our speech, the medium through which we communicate with each other; for all life comes back to the question of our relations with each other. these relations are possible, are registered, are verily constituted by our speech, and are successful in proportion as our speech is worthy of its human and social function; is developed, delicate, flexible, rich--an adequate accomplished fact. the more we live by it, the more it promotes and enhances life. its quality, its authenticity, its security, are hence supremely important for the general multifold opportunity, for the dignity and integrity, of our existence." is there one among you whose relations with others would not have been rendered simpler, truer, clearer at some critical moment had your "speech been more worthy of its great human and social function?" then, do you hesitate to enter upon a study which shall make for clarified relations and a new "dignity and integrity of existence?" anticipating your reply, i invite you to take a first step in vocal expression. how shall we approach the subject? how did you begin to master any one of the activities in which you are more or less proficient? how did you learn to swim, or skate, or play the violin? not by standing on the shore and gazing at the water or ice! not by looking at violins in shop windows! no! you began by leaping into the water, putting on your skates and going out on the ice; taking the violin into your hands and drawing the bow across the strings. but you say: "we have taken the step which corresponds to these in speech! we can talk!" exactly! but what command of the art of skating or swimming or playing the violin would the artist in any of these activities have achieved had he been content to stop with the act of jumping into the water, going out on the ice, or drawing the bow across the violin? the question's answer calls up an illuminating analogy. are not most of us in regard to our mastery of speech in the condition of the skater, the swimmer, the fiddler in the first stage of those expressive acts? are we not floundering in the water, fallen on the ice, or alienating the ears of our friends? "we are so! we confess it!"--every time we speak. and so to-day we shall offer no argument against entering upon an _introductory_ study--we shall take our first step in the art of vocal expression. but we shall take it in a new spirit--the spirit of an artist bent upon the mastery of his art. if we flounder or fall, we shall not be more content in our ignominy than is the choking swimmer or the prostrate skater. if we produce painful instead of pleasing sounds with our instrument, we shall not persist in a merciless process of tone production; but we shall proceed to study diligently the laws governing the control of the instrument until we have mastered its technique and made it an agent of harmonious intercourse. we shall take the first steps with a conscious purpose, the purpose to make our speech worthy of its great social and human function. then in this spirit i invite you "to plunge." i furnish as the material for your experiment these sentences: discussion of direct appeal do you ask me, then, what is this puritan principle? the puritan principle in its essence is simply individual freedom!--curtis. mind your own business with your absolute will and soul, but see that it is a good business first.--ruskin. back to the bridge and show your teeth again, back to the bridge and show to god your eyes!--mackaye. what news, and quickly!--mackaye. do not pray for tasks equal to your powers. pray for powers equal to your tasks.--phillips brooks. hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home. is this a holiday?--shakespeare. and so, gentlemen, at this hour we are not republicans, we are not democrats, we are americans!--curtis. i shall not discuss the interpretation of these sentences with you. i shall not interpret them for you. such discussion and interpretation is your part in this study. but you are not to discuss them with a pencil on paper; you are to interpret them with your voice to another mind. let us stop here and consider together for a few moments this act which we call vocal interpretation (which might be more simply designated as reading aloud), and with which these first studies are concerned. what does it mean to vocally interpret a piece of literature--a poem, a play, a bit of prose; a paragraph, a sentence, or even a single word? it means that you, the interpreter, must transfer the thought contained in that word, phrase, sentence, or paragraph from the printed page to the mind of an auditor. it means that you must take the thought out of the safety vault and put it into circulation. that is your problem, and it presents three factors. you cannot slight any one of these factors and expect to successfully solve your problem. these factors are: your author's thought, your own voice, and your auditor's mind. we shall concern ourselves in this first study with the last of these three factors--the mind of the auditor, or, to put it more definitely, your attitude toward the mind of your auditor. we shall make this our first concern, not because it is more essential to successful delivery than the other two elements of the problem, but because failure at this point is a fundamental failure. such failure involves the whole structure in ruin. let me make this point explicit. failure of the speaker to direct the thought toward a receiving mind--the mind of an auditor--results in blurred thought, robs the voice of all aim, and reduces the interpretation to a meaningless recital of words. consider the first factor in the problem of interpretation--the thought of the author. take these first two sentences: do you ask me, then, what is this puritan principle? the puritan principle in its essence is simply individual freedom! a wholly satisfying interpretation of these lines involves a knowledge of the speech from which they are taken, and a knowledge of the circumstances under which it was delivered. complete possession of the thought, which alone insures perfect expression, requires a grasp of the situation out of which it was born and an appreciation of the mind which conceived it. but with no context and no knowledge of these conditions, and so only an approximate appreciation of the thought in all its fulness, the interpreter, under the stimulus of an intent to convince another of the truth contained in the detached sentence, may deliver the lines convincingly! and to carry conviction is the first and fundamental requisite of all good delivery. so it is with the second factor in your problem. your voice may fail at a dozen different points, but _directed_ thought can employ so skilfully even an inefficient instrument that the resultant expression, while never satisfying, may still carry conviction. but let the one who speaks these lines feel no responsibility toward another, let him fail to direct the idea toward another mind, and the most complete possession of the author's thought, plus the most perfect control of the voice, will fail to make the interpretation convincing. you must establish a relation with your auditor! you must have an aim. you must "have something to say," but you must also have some one "to say it at." you cannot hope to become an expert marksman by "shooting into the air." then once more i bid you approach the subject of vocal interpretation in a new spirit. let your study of the thought in these sentences hold in its initial impulse this idea: "i have something i _must tell you_!" try prefacing your interpretation with some such phrase as this: "listen to me!" or, "i want to tell you something." i would suggest as a preliminary exercise that you should try "shooting at a mark" these single words: "no!" "yes!" "come!" "go!" "aim!" "fire!" "help!" "what ho!" listen to me! "you will find the gayest castles in the air far better for comfort and for use than the dungeons that are daily dug and caverned out by grumbling, discontented people."--emerson. let me tell you something! "might is right, say many, and so it is. might is the right to bear the burdens of the weak, to cheer the faint, to uplift the fallen, to pour from one's own full store to the need of the famishing."--napier. it is the angel-aim and standard in an act that consecrates it. he who aims for perfection in a trifle is trying to do that trifle holily. the trier wears the halo, and, therefore, the halo grows as quickly round the brows of peasant as of king.--gannett. think twice before you speak, my son; and it will do no harm if you keep on thinking while you speak.--anonymous. sweet friends man's love ascends, to finer and diviner ends than man's mere thought e'er comprehends. --lanier. suggestive analysis hamlet's speech to the players _hamlet:_ speak the speech, i pray you, as i pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, i had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. 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 your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness.... be not too tame, neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature, for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. --shakespeare. let us consider together the problem of vocally interpreting this speech of hamlet's, keeping the mind of the auditor constantly before us, the special factor in our problem which is the concern of this study. what is the first point to be determined? the situation, is it not? remember, in our previous discussion i have made it clear that it is not essential _to our present purpose_ that we should know, in determining our situation, the exact conditions under which this speech was delivered. neither is it essential _to our present purpose_ that we should make an exhaustive study of the play of "hamlet" or of the character of the prince of denmark. lest you mistake me i must reiterate the fact that an interpretation of these lines, looked upon as hamlet's speech, would require just such exhaustive study of context and character--study which would lead to that complete possession which alone insures perfect expression; but it is legitimate at this point in our study of vocal expression to use this text quite apart from its context as a perfect example of direct appeal. it is legitimate to _imagine_ a situation of our own in which this thought could be pertinently expressed. we must then first determine what you, the speaker, are to represent, and the nature of the audience you are to address. one word in the text more than any other, perhaps, determines these points--the word "players." with this word as a key to a probable situation, let us imagine that you, the one who must "speak this speech," are a stage-director of your own play, and that we, the class to whom you must speak, are a company of players (actors, as we now call them) which is about to present your play. the fact that this is exactly the situation in shakespeare's play from which this speech is taken is interesting, but does not affect our attitude toward the text. but that we should assume the state of mind which animated the author of the _mouse-trap, is_ vital to our problem. hamlet was intent upon getting an effect incalculably potent from the delivery of the "speech" he "had pronounced." you must imagine that you have written not merely a play, but a play which you intend shall have a powerful influence upon the lives of the people who are to hear it. once more, then, let us determine the exact situation. you, the author of a moving play--you, its stage-director--have called us, your actors, together for rehearsal. you know just how you wish the lines of your play delivered. it is absolutely vital to the success of your venture that we, the actors, should grasp your ideal of delivery and act upon it. you must convince us that this is the only way in which you will permit the text to be handled. you are the orator as mr. beecher has drawn him for us. you will realize, in thinking your way through this appeal, that, while the stage-director is addressing the whole company of players, he has singled out from the others one who is to deliver a particular speech from his play. it is well to follow this idea of the situation. include us all, then, as a class in your chosen cast, but single out one of us, and speak directly at the mind of that one. look him straight in the eye. direct your thought in the main to his mind, even while your thought reaches out and draws us all into the circle of its enthusiasm. now, with this attitude and intent toward an audience, try to vocally interpret, to _think aloud_ this thought. what is the trouble? "speak the speech" you say, "is a difficult combination of words to utter"? "'trippingly' trips up your tongue"? "you don't understand the reference to a 'town-crier'"? ah, what discoveries we are making! "you feel that you should be able to illustrate your own ideal of delivery by delivering these directions after the very manner you ask your players to observe"? that might legitimately be expected of you, i think. "but this you cannot do!" what a shocking confession! yes, but how good to have this new knowledge of your own ability, or, in this case, disability. how appalling to find that you cannot easily utter the simple combination of words, "speak the speech, i pray you," without stumbling; that any word, a plain, simple english word, trips your tongue. how appalling, but how encouraging it is! for the discovery of this fact, the consciousness of these limitations, "constitutes half the battle" before us. it is a battle. but you shall be equipped to meet it. turn to the chapters on "freeing the tone." find the exercises for training the tongue. faithful practice of these exercises (even _without_ direction, but, if you are a member of the class in expression for which this book was made, _under_ direction) will very shortly conquer the unruly tongue for use in uttering any difficult combination of words. and your teacher will patiently "pick you up" (_in this first study_) every time you trip over a word or phrase, and she will patiently refer you to the corner of history which will explain any unfamiliar portions of your text if _you_ will persistently try to do _your_ part at this point. that part is, to think the thought before you directly at another's mind. that is all we ask at this point. make this direct appeal for simplicity in delivery straight to the mind of him whom you have chosen to receive, and act upon it. talk to me if i am your chosen player! convince me! make me realize what you expect of me! make me want to meet your expectation! make me afraid to fail you! with these suggestions and this direct appeal to you, i leave you with your teacher and with the following material chosen for your preliminary study in _vocal interpretation_. selections for interpretation there was once a noble ship full of eager passengers, straining at full speed from england to america. two-thirds of a prosperous voyage thus far were over, and in our mess we were beginning to talk of home. suddenly a dense fog came, shrouding the horizon, but, as this was a common occurrence in the latitude we were sailing, it was hardly mentioned in our talk. a happier company never sailed upon an autumn sea. when a quick cry from the lookout, a rush of officers and men, and we were grinding on a ledge of rocks off cape race. i heard the cry, "every one on deck!" and knew what that meant--the masts were in danger of falling. a hundred pallid faces were huddled together near the stern of the ship where we were told to go and wait. suddenly we heard a voice up in the fog in the direction of the wheel-house ringing like a clarion above the roar of the waves. as the orders came distinctly and deliberately through the captain's trumpet to "shift the cargo," to "back her," to "keep her steady," we felt, somehow, that the commander up there in the thick mist knew what he was about. when, after weary days of anxious suspense, the vessel leaking badly, we arrived safely in halifax, old mr. cunard, agent of the line, on hearing from the mail officer that the steamer had struck on the rocks and been saved by the captain's presence of mind and courage, replied, simply: "just what i might have expected. captain harrison is always master of the situation." no man ever became master of the situation by accident or indolence. "he happened to succeed" is a foolish, unmeaning phrase. no man happens to succeed. "what do you mix your paints with?" asked a visitor of opie, the painter. "with brains, sir," was the artist's reply. * * * there are men who fail of mastery in the world from too low an estimate of human nature. "despise nothing, my son," was the advice a mother gave to her boy when he went forth into the untried world to seek his fortune, and that boy grew up into sir walter scott. * * * in case of great emergency it took a certain general in our army several days to get his personal baggage ready. sheridan rode into winchester without even a change of stockings in his saddle-bags. * * * all great leaders have been inspired with a great belief. in nine cases out of ten, failure is borne of unbelief.--_masters of the situation_, james t. fields. once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; or close the wall up with our english dead! in peace, there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility; but when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger: stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage: * * * hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit to his full height! on, on, you noblest english, whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! fathers that, like so many alexanders, have in these parts from morn till even fought, and sheathed their swords for lack of argument. * * * i see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start. the game's afoot: follow your spirit; and, upon this charge cry--god for harry! england! and st. george!--_henry v._, shakespeare 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. but, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate--we cannot consecrate--we cannot hallow--this ground. the brave men, living and dead, who struggled here have consecrated it, far above our 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 dedicated 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.--_address at gettysburg_, abraham lincoln. from an address delivered in the auditorium, at chicago, on the afternoon of february 22, 1902, on the occasion of the celebration of washington's birthday. the meaning of washington in american history is discipline. the message of washington's life to the american people is discipline. the need of american character is discipline. washington did not give patriotism to the american colonies. the people had that as abundantly as he. he did not give them courage. that quality was and is in the american blood. he did not even give them resource. there were intellects more productive than his. but washington gave balance and direction to elemental forces. he was the genius of order. he was poise personified. he was the spirit of discipline. he was the first great conservative. it was this quality in him that made all other elements of the revolution effective. it was this that organized our nebulous independence into a nation of liberty. the parts of a machine are useless until assembled and fitted each to its appropriate place. washington was the master mechanic of our nation; so it is that we are a people. but we are not yet a perfect people. we are still in the making. it is a glorious circumstance. youth is the noblest of god's gifts. the youth of a nation is like the youth of a man. the american people are young? yes! vital? yes! powerful? yes! disciplined? not entirely. moderate? not yet, but growing in that grace. and therefore on this, his day, i bear you the message of washington--he, whose sanity, orderliness, and calm have reached through the century, steadying us, overcoming in us the untamed passions of riotous youth.--_conservatism; the spirit of national self-restraint_, albert beveridge. we have noted in our introduction the close analogy which exists between the evolution of vocal expression and the evolution of verbal expression. let us not fail to follow this analogy through the various studies which make up this one study of interpretation. we have begun our work in vocal expression with the subject of direct appeal. what corresponds to this step in the evolution of verbal expression? mr. j. h. gardiner, in his illuminating text for the student of english composition, called _the forms of prose literature_,[1] discusses these forms first under the two great heads of the "literature of thought" and the "literature of feeling," and then under the four sub-titles which all instruction in rhetoric recognizes as the accepted divisions of literature: exposition, argument, description, and narrative. we do not find the _exact_ parallel for our study in direct appeal under these subheads. do we? no. in order "to take the plunge" in the study of english composition which shall correspond to our preliminary effort in interpretation, we must set aside for the moment the question of _exposition_, to be entered upon as a "first study" in verbal expression corresponding to the question of _vitality in thinking_, which is our first study in vocal expression, and look for a parallel "preliminary study" in composition. [1] _the forms of prose literature_, courtesy of messrs. charles scribner's sons. in his comparative study of exposition and argumentation mr. gardiner says: "an exceedingly good explanation may leave its reader quite unmoved: a good argument never does. even if it does not convert him, it should at least make him uncomfortable. now, when we say that argument must move its reader, we begin to pass from the realm of pure thought, in which exposition takes rise, to that of feeling, for feeling is a necessary preliminary to action. how large a part feelings play in argument you can see if you have ever heard the speech of a demagogue to an excited crowd. it is simply a crass appeal to their lower passions, aided by all the devices of oratory, often, perhaps, also by a moving presence. a better example is henry ward beecher's liverpool speech, in which he won a hearing from a hostile mob by an appeal to their sense of fair play. such cases show how far argument may get from the simple appeal to the understanding, how little it may be confined to the element of thought. the prime quality, therefore, of argument is _persuasiveness_." not argument, then, but the element in argument, called persuasion, furnishes the study in composition which corresponds to direct appeal in interpretation. and just as truly as your intent to convince another mind of the truth of your author's thought will often take care of all other elements in the problem of its vocal expression and result in _convincing interpretation_, so the intent to persuade another mind of the truth of your own thought will often take care of all other elements in the problem of verbal expression and result in _moving composition_. following mr. gardiner a little further in his discussion of persuasion, we find our study in interpretation in direct accord with his advice in the study of composition, for he says: "this element of persuasion belongs to that aspect of literature which has to do with the feelings; and, as depending on the personal equation of the writer, it is much less easy than the intellectual element to catch and generalize from, and almost impossible to teach. all that i can do is to examine it in good examples, and then make very tentatively a few suggestions based on these examples. for it cannot too often be written down in such a treatise as this that the teacher of writing can no more make a great writer than the teacher of painting can turn out a new rembrandt or a millet; in either case the most that the teacher can do is to furnish honest and illuminating criticism, and to save his pupil unnecessary and tedious steps by showing him the methods and devices which have been worked out by the masters of the craft." in treating the question of pure style, as another division of the power of persuasion, mr. gardiner says: "it is almost impossible to give practical help toward acquiring this gift of an expressive style; the ear for the rhythm and assonance of style is like an ear for music, though more common, perhaps. it is good practice to read aloud the writing of men who are famous for the quality, and, when you read to yourself, always to have in mind the sound of what you read. the more you can give yourself of this exercise, the more when you write, yourself, will you hear the way your own style sounds." with our idea for a combined study of the two great forms of expression reinforced by such authority, let us, in taking our next step in this preliminary study in vocal expression, make it also a preliminary study in verbal expression by using as our next selection for interpretation, not a fragment of an address or a part of an oration, but a complete example of persuasive discourse. such an example we find in this sermon of mr. gannett's "blessed be drudgery." and, as we try our growing powers of lucid interpretation upon this subject-matter, let us stop to note its verbal construction and its obedience to the laws of persuasive discourse. the interpretation must be made in the class-room, because interpretation needs an immediate audience; the analysis of the literary form may be made in your study: the two processes should be carried on as far as possible together. blessed be drudgery[2] [2] this sermon is published with the kind permission of the author and the publisher. i of every two men probably one man thinks he is a drudge, and every second woman is _sure_ she is. either we are not doing the thing we would like to do in life; or, in what we do and like, we find so much to dislike that the rut tires even when the road runs on the whole, a pleasant way. i am going to speak of the _culture that comes through this very drudgery_. "culture through my drudgery!" some one is now thinking: "this treadmill that has worn me out, this grind i hate, this plod that, as long ago as i remember it, seemed tiresome--to this have i owed 'culture'? keeping house or keeping accounts, tending babies, teaching primary school, weighing sugar and salt at a counter, those blue overalls in the machine shop--have these anything to do with 'culture'? culture takes leisure, elegance, wide margins of time, a pocket-book; drudgery means limitations, coarseness, crowded hours, chronic worry, old clothes, black hands, headaches. culture implies college: life allows a daily paper, a monthly magazine, the circulating library, and two gift-books at christmas. our real and our ideal are not twins--never were! i want the books,--but the clothes-basket wants me. the two children are good,--and so would be two hours a day without the children. i crave an outdoor life,--and walk down-town of mornings to perch on a high stool till supper-time. i love nature,--and figures are my fate. my taste is books,--and i farm it. my taste is art,--and i correct exercises. my taste is science,--and i measure tape. i am young and like stir,--the business jogs on like a stage-coach. or i am _not_ young, i am getting gray over my ears, and like to sit down and be still,--but the drive of the business keeps both tired arms stretched out full length. i hate this overbidding and this underselling, this spry, unceasing competition, and would willingly give up a quarter of my profits to have two hours of my daylight to myself,--at least i would if, working just as i do, i did not barely get the children bread and clothes. i did not choose my calling, but was dropped into it--by my innocent conceit, or by duty to the family, or by a parent's foolish pride, or by our hasty marriage; or a mere accident wedged me into it. would i could have my life over again! then, whatever i _should_ be, at least i would _not_ be what i am to-day!" have i spoken truly for any one here? i know i have. goes not the grumble thus within the silent breast of many a person, whose pluck never lets it escape to words like these, save now and then on a tired evening to husband or to wife? there is often truth and justice in the grumble. truth and justice both. still, when the question rises through the grumble, can it be that drudgery, not to be escaped, gives "culture"? the true answer is--yes, and culture of the prime elements of life; of the very fundamentals of all fine manhood and fine womanhood. our _prime_ elements are due to our drudgery--i mean that literally; the _fundamentals_ that underlie all fineness and without which no other culture worth the winning is even possible. these, for instance--and what names are more familiar? power of attention; power of industry; promptitude in beginning work; method and accuracy and despatch in doing work; perseverance; courage before difficulties; cheer under straining burdens; self-control and self-denial and temperance. these are the prime qualities; these the fundamentals. we have heard these names before! when we were small mother had a way of harping on them, and father joined in emphatically, and the minister used to refer to them in church. and this was what our first employer meant--only his way of putting the matter was, "look sharp, my boy!"--"be on time, john!"--"stick to it!" yes, that is just what they all meant: these _are_ the very qualities which the mothers tried to tuck into us when they tucked us into bed, the very qualities which the ministers pack into their platitudes, and which the nations pack into their proverbs. and that goes to _show_ that they are the fundamentals. reading, writing, and arithmetic are very handy, but these fundamentals of a man are handier to have; worth more; worth more than latin and greek and french and german and music and art-history and painting and wax flowers and travels in europe added together. these last are the decorations of a man or woman: even reading and writing are but conveniences: those other things are the _indispensables_. they make one's sit-fast strength and one's active momentum, whatsoever and wheresoever the lot in life be--be it wealth or poverty, city or country, library or workshop. those qualities make the solid substance of one's self. and the question i would ask of myself and you is, how do we get them? how do they become ours? high-school and college can give much, but these are never on their programmes. all the book processes that we go to the schools for, and commonly call "our education," give no more than _opportunity_ to win these indispensables of education. how, then, do we get them? we get them somewhat as the fields and valleys get their grace. whence is it that the lines of river and meadow and hill and lake and shore conspire to-day to make the landscape beautiful? only by long chiselings and steady pressures. only by ages of glacier crush and grind, by scour of floods, by centuries of storm and sun. these rounded the hills, and scooped the valley-curves, and mellowed the soil for meadow-grace. there was little grace in the operation, had we been there to watch. it was "drudgery" all over the land. mother nature was down on her knees doing her early scrubbing work! that was yesterday: to-day, result of scrubbing-work, we have the laughing landscape. now what is true of the earth is true of each man and woman on the earth. father and mother and the ancestors before them have done much to bequeath those elemental qualities to us; but that which scrubs them into us, the clinch which makes them actually ours, and keeps them ours, and adds to them as the years go by--that depends on our own plod, our plod in the rut, our drill of habit; in one word, depends upon our "drudgery." it is because we have to go, and _go_, morning after morning, through rain, through shine, through toothache, headache, heartache, to the appointed spot, and do the appointed work; because, and only because, we have to stick to that work through the eight or ten hours, long after rest would be so sweet; because the school-boy's lesson must be learned at nine o'clock and learned without a slip; because the accounts on the ledger must square to a cent; because the goods must tally exactly with the invoice; because good temper must be kept with children, customers, neighbors, not seven, but seventy times seven times; because the besetting sin must be watched to-day, to-morrow, and the next day; in short, without much matter _what_ our work be, whether this or that, it is because, and only because, of the rut, plod, grind, humdrum _in_ the work, that we at last get those self-foundations laid of which i spoke,--attention, promptness, accuracy, firmness, patience, self-denial, and the rest. when i think over that list and seriously ask myself three questions, i have to answer each with _no_:--are there any qualities in the list which i can afford to spare, to go without, as mere show-qualities? not one. can i get these self-foundations laid, save by the weight, year in, year out, of the steady pressures? no, there is no other way. is there a single one in the list which i cannot get in some degree by undergoing the steady drills and pressures? no, not one. then beyond all books, beyond all class-work at the school, beyond all special opportunities of what i call my "education," it is this drill and pressure of my daily task that is my great school-master. _my daily task_, whatever it be--_that is what mainly educates me_. all other culture is mere luxury compared with what that gives. that gives the indispensables. yet fool that i am, this pressure of my daily task is the very thing that i so growl at as my "drudgery"! we can add right here this fact, and practically it is a very important fact to girls and boys as ambitious as they ought to be,---the higher our ideals, the _more_ we need those foundation habits strong. the street-cleaner can better afford to drink and laze than he who would make good shoes; and to make good shoes takes less force of character and brain than to make cures in the sick-room, or laws in the legislature, or children in the nursery. the man who makes the head of a pin or the split of a pen all day long, and the man who must put fresh thought into his work at every stroke,--which of the two more needs the self-control, the method, the accuracy, the power of attention and concentration? do you sigh for books and leisure and wealth? it takes more "concentration" to use books--head tools--well than to use hand tools. it takes more "self-control" to use leisure well than workdays. compare the sundays and mondays of your city; which day, all things considered, stands for the city's higher life,--the day on which so many men are lolling, or the day on which all toil? it takes more knowledge, more integrity, more justice, to handle riches well than to bear the healthy pinch of the just-enough. do you think that the great and famous escape drudgery? the native power and temperament, the outfit and capital at birth, counts for much, but it convicts us common minds of huge mistake to hear the uniform testimony of the more successful geniuses about their genius. "genius is patience," said who? sir isaac newton. "the prime minister's secret is patience," said who? mr. pitt, the great prime minister of england. who, think you, wrote, "my imagination would never have served me as it has, but for the habit of commonplace, humble, patient, daily, toiling, drudging attention"? it was charles dickens. who said "the secret of a wall street million is common honesty"? vanderbilt; and he added as the recipe for a million (i know somebody would like to learn it), "never use what is not your own, never buy what you cannot pay for, never sell what you haven't got." how simple great men's rules are! how easy it is to be a great man! order, diligence, patience, honesty,--just what you and i must use in order to put our dollar in the savings-bank, to do our school-boy sum, to keep the farm thrifty, and the house clean, and the babies neat. order, diligence, patience, honesty! there is wide difference between men, but truly it lies less in some special gift or opportunity granted to one and withheld from another, than in the differing degree in which these common elements of human power are owned and used. not how much talent have i, but how much will to use the talent that i have, is the main question. not how much do i know, but how much do i do with what i know? to do their great work the great ones need more of the very same habits which the little ones need to do their smaller work. goethe, spencer, agassiz, jesus, share, not achievements, but conditions of achievement, with you and me. and those conditions for them, as for us, are largely the plod, the drill, the long disciplines of toil. if we ask such men their secret, they will uniformly tell us so. since we lay the firm substrata of ourselves in this way, then, and only in this way; and since the higher we aim, the more, and not the less, we need these firm substrata,--since this is so, i think we ought to make up our minds and our mouths to sing a hallelujah unto drudgery: _blessed be drudgery_,--the one thing that we cannot spare! ii but there is something else to be said. among the people who are drudges there are some who have given up their dreams of what, when younger, they used to talk or think about as their "ideals"; and have grown at last, if not content, resigned to do the actual work before them. yes, here it is,--before us, and behind us, and on all sides of us; we cannot change it; we have accepted it. still, we have not given up one dream,--the dream of _success_ in this work to which we are _so_ clamped. if we cannot win the well-beloved one, then success with the ill-beloved,--this at least is left to hope for. success may make _it_ well-beloved, too,--who knows? well, the secret of this success still lies in the same old word, "drudgery." for drudgery is the doing of one thing, one thing, one thing, long after it ceases to be amusing; and it is this "one thing i do" that gathers me together from my chaos, that concentrates me from possibilities to powers, and turns powers into achievements. "one thing i do," said paul, and, apart from what his one thing was, in that phrase he gave the watchword of salvation. that whole long string of habits--attention, method, patience, self-control, and the others--can be rolled up and balled, as it were, in the word "concentration." we will halt a moment at the word: "i give you the end of a golden string: only wind it into a ball,- it will lead you in at heaven's gate, built in jerusalem's wall." men may be divided into two classes,--those who have a "one thing," and those who have no "one thing," to do; those with aim, and those without aim, in their lives: and practically it turns out that almost all of the success, and, therefore, the greater part of the happiness, go to the first class. the aim in life is what the backbone is in the body: without it we are invertebrate, belong to some lower order of being not yet man. no wonder that the great question, therefore, with a young man is, what am i to be? and that the future looks rather gloomy until the life-path opens. the lot of many a girl, especially of many a girl with a rich father, is a tragedy of aimlessness. social standards, and her lack of true ideals and of real education, have condemned her to be frittered: from twelve years old she is a cripple to be pitied, and by thirty she comes to know it. with the brothers the blame is more their own. the boys we used to play our school games with have found their places; they are winning homes and influence and money, their natures are growing strong and shapely, and their days are filling with the happy sense of accomplishment,--while _we_ do not yet know what we are. we have no meaning on the earth. lose us, and the earth has lost nothing; no niche is empty, no force has ceased to play, for we have got no aim, and therefore we are still--nobody. _get your meaning_ first of all! ask the question until it is answered past question, what am i? what do i stand for? what name do i bear in the register of forces? in our national cemeteries there are rows on rows of unknown bodies of our soldiers,--men who did a work and put a meaning to their lives; for the mother and the townsmen say, "he died in the war." but the men and women whose lives are aimless reverse their fates. our _bodies_ are known, and answer in this world to such or such a name,--but as to our inner _selves_, with real and awful meaning our walking bodies might be labeled, "an unknown man sleeps here!" now, since it is concentration that prevents this tragedy of failure, and since this concentration always involves drudgery, long, hard, abundant, we have to own again, i think, that that is even more than what i called it first,--our chief school-master; besides that, drudgery is the gray angel of success. the main secret of any success we may hope to rejoice in is in that angel's keeping. look at the leaders in the profession, the "solid" men in business, the master-workmen who begin as poor boys and end by building a town in which to house their factory hands; they are drudges of the single aim. the man of science, and to-day more than ever, if he would add to the world's knowledge, or even get a reputation, must be, in some one branch at least, a plodding specialist. the great inventors, palissy at his pots, goodyear at his rubber, elias howe at his sewing-machine, tell the secret,--"one thing i do." the reformer's secret is the same. a one-eyed, grim-jawed folk the reformers are apt to be: one-eyed, grim-jawed, seeing but the one thing, never letting go, they have to be, to start a torpid nation. all these men as doers of the single thing drudge their way to their success. even so must we, would we win ours. the foot-loose man is _not_ the enviable man. a wise man will be his own necessity and bind himself to a task, if by early wealth or foolish parents or other lowering circumstances he has lost the help of an outward necessity. again, then, i say, let us sing a hallelujah and make a fresh beatitude: _blessed be drudgery!_ it is the one thing we cannot spare. iii this is a hard gospel, is it not? but now there is a pleasanter word to briefly say. to lay the firm foundations in ourselves, or even to win success in life, we _must_ be drudges. but we _can_ be _artists_, also, in our daily task. and at that word things brighten. "artists," i say,--not artisans. "the difference?" this: the artist is he who strives to perfect his work,--the artisan strives to get through it. the artist would fain finish, too; but with him it is to "finish the work god has given me to do!" it is not how great a thing we do, but how well we do the thing we have to, that puts us in the noble brotherhood of artists. my real is not my ideal,--is that my complaint? one thing, at least, is in my power: if i cannot realize my ideal, i can at least _idealize my real_. how? by trying to be perfect in it. if i am but a rain-drop in a shower, i will be, at least, a perfect drop; if but a leaf in a whole june, i will be, at least, a perfect leaf. this poor "one thing i do,"--instead of repining at its lowness or its hardness, i will make it glorious by my supreme loyalty to its demand. an artist himself shall speak. it was michael angelo who said: "nothing makes the soul so pure, so religious, as the endeavor to create something perfect; for god is perfection, and whoever strives for it strives for something that is godlike. true painting is only an image of god's perfection,--a shadow of the pencil with which he paints, a melody, a striving after harmony." the great masters in music, the great masters in all that we call artistry, would echo michael angelo in this; he speaks the artist essence out. but what holds good upon their grand scale and with those whose names are known, holds equally good of all pursuits and all lives. that true painting is an image of god's perfection must be true, if he says so; but no more true of painting than of shoemaking, of michael angelo than of john pounds, the cobbler. i asked a cobbler once how long it took to become a good shoemaker; he answered, promptly, "six years,--and then you must travel!" that cobbler had the artist soul. i told a friend the story, and he asked his cobbler the same question: how long does it take to become a good shoemaker? "all your life, sir." that was still better,--a michael angelo of shoes! mr. maydole, the hammer-maker, of central new york, was an artist: "yes," said he to mr. parton, "i have made hammers here for twenty-eight years." "well, then, you ought to be able to make a pretty good hammer by this time." "no, sir," was the answer, "i _never_ made a pretty good hammer. i make the best hammer made in the united states." daniel morell, once president of the cambria railworks in pittsburgh, which employed seven thousand men, was an artist, and trained artists. "what is the secret of such a development of business as this?" asked the visitor. "we have no secret," was the answer; "we always try to beat our last batch of rails. that's all the secret we have, and we don't care who knows it." the paris bookbinder was an artist, who, when the rare volume of corneille, discovered in a book-stall, was brought to him, and he was asked how long it would take him to bind it, answered, "oh, sir, you must give me a year, at least; _this_ needs all my care." our ben franklin showed the artist when he began his own epitaph, "benjamin franklin, printer." and professor agassiz, when he told the interviewer that he had "no time to make money"; and when he began his will, "i, louis agassiz, teacher." in one of murillo's pictures in the louvre he shows us the interior of a convent kitchen; but doing the work there are, not mortals in old dresses, but beautiful white-winged angels. one serenely puts the kettle on the fire to boil, and one is lifting up a pail of water with heavenly grace, and one is at the kitchen dresser reaching up for plates; and i believe there is a little cherub running about and getting in the way, trying to help. what the old monkish legend that it represented is, i hardly know. but, as the painter puts it to you on his canvas, all are so busy, and working with such a will, and so refining the work as they do it, that somehow you forget that pans are pans and pots pots, and only think of the angels, and how very natural and beautiful kitchen-work is,--just what the angels would do, of course. it is the angel-aim and standard in an act that consecrates it. he who aims for perfectness in a trifle is trying to do that trifle holily. the _trier_ wears the halo, and therefore, the halo grows as quickly round the brows of peasant as of king. this aspiration to do perfectly,--is it not religion practicalized? if we use the name of god, is this not god's presence becoming actor in us? no need, then, of being "great" to share that aspiration and that presence. the smallest roadside pool has its water from heaven, and its gleam from the sun, and can hold the stars in its bosom, as well as the great ocean. even so the humblest man or woman can live splendidly! that is the royal truth that we need to believe,--you and i who have no "mission," and no great sphere to move in. the universe is not quite complete without _my_ work well done. have you ever read george eliot's poem called "stradivarius"? stradivarius was the famous old violin-maker, whose violins, nearly two centuries old, are almost worth their weight in gold to-day. says stradivarius in the poem: "if my hand slacked, i should rob god,--since he is the fullest good,- leaving a blank instead of violins. _he_ could not make antonio stradivari's violins without antonio." that is just as true of us as of our greatest brothers. what, stand with slackened hands and fallen heart before the littleness of your service! too little, is it, to be perfect in it? would you, then, if you were master, risk a greater treasure in the hands of such a man? oh, there is no man, no woman, so small that they cannot make their life great by high endeavor; no sick crippled child on its bed that cannot fill a niche of service _that_ way in the world. this is the beginning of all gospels,--that the kingdom of heaven is at hand just where _we_ are. it is just as near us as our work is, for the gate of heaven for each soul lies in the endeavor to do that work perfectly. but to bend this talk back to the word with which we started: will this striving for perfection in the little thing give "culture"? have you ever watched such striving in operation? have you never met humble men and women who read little, who knew little, yet who had a certain fascination as of fineness lurking about them? know them, and you are likely to find them persons who have put so much thought and honesty and conscientious trying into their common work--it may be sweeping rooms, or planing boards, or painting walls--have put their ideals so long, so constantly, so lovingly into that common work of theirs, that finally these qualities have come to permeate not their work only, but so much of their being that they are fine-fibred within, even if on the outside the rough bark clings. without being schooled, they are apt to instinctively detect a sham,--one test of culture. without haunting the drawing-rooms, they are likely to have manners of quaint grace and graciousness,--another test of culture. without the singing-lessons, their tones are apt to be gentle,--another test of culture. without knowing anything about art, so called, they know and love the best in _one_ thing,--are artists in their own little specialty of work. they make good company, these men and women,--why? because, not having been able to realize their ideal, they have idealized their real, and thus in the depths of their nature have won true "culture." you know all beatitudes are based on something hard to do or to be. "blessed are the meek": is it easy to be meek? "blessed are the pure in heart": is that so very easy? "blessed are they who mourn." "blessed are they who hunger and thirst--who _starve_--after righteousness." so this new beatitude by its hardness only falls into line with all the rest. a third time and heartily i say it,--"blessed be drudgery!" for thrice it blesses us: it gives us the fundamental qualities of manhood and womanhood; it gives us success in the thing we have to do; and it makes us, if we choose, artists,--artists within, whatever our outward work may be. _blessed be drudgery_,--the secret of all culture! and now, as a final step in this preliminary study, a step which shall again give practice in both forms of expression, you are to choose from your vital interests one concerning which you hold intense convictions. first you are to set forth these convictions in the strongest piece of persuasive prose you can command: this is work for your study. second, you are to summon all your vocal resources, and, with the one idea of persuading us of the truth of your convictions, make to us for them a direct appeal: this work is for the class-room. so shall we have combined the preliminary study in vocal expression of _direct appeal_ with the preliminary study in verbal expression of _persuasion_. first study to establish vitality in thinking among the axioms of our subject-matter already formulated stands this one: reading aloud is thinking aloud. if reading aloud is thinking aloud the quality of the reading will depend, of course, upon the quality of the thinking. but while clear thinking does not assure lucid reading (since there are other elements in the problem), the converse is true, that good reading implies clear thinking. for it is impossible to read convincingly unless one is thinking vitally, which brings us to the object of this study: _to establish vitality in thinking._ do you know what it means to think vitally in reading? it means a concentration of your mind upon the thought before you until you, yourself, seem to be thinking that thought for the first time,--until you seem to be bringing forth a thought of your own conception instead of rethinking the conception of another's mind. is this a familiar experience? it must become one if you are to become a true interpreter. for the true interpreter is first of all the keen thinker. we do not say of the great actor, after a performance of hamlet, "he played hamlet wonderfully!" we say, rather, "he was hamlet." the great actor creates the part he plays each time he plays it. he creates the part by living the part. even in the same way the great interpreter creates the thought he voices through a concentration of mind which appropriates the thought and makes it his own to voice. we have said that the greatest need of the human heart is for self-expression. to satisfy the heart that act of expression must be a creative act. true interpretation is creative expression. the fundamental step toward creative expression is complete possession of the thought to be expressed. complete possession depends upon your power to concentrate your mind upon a thought until it is your own. the first step in interpretation is to establish vitality in thinking. the new arithmetic trains the mind to see the relation behind the mathematical statement of the relation. the child who "says his tables" to-day is not repeating by rote words and figures, he is realizing vital relations, he is developing a sense of proportion, he is learning to think vitally. the old method in arithmetic left the statement "two times one is two" a cold mathematical fact; the new method makes it a key to living relations. one in the "tables" of the child in mathematics to-day stands for a definite object, and the statement "two times one is two" is an interesting and significant fact. the statement through imaginative thinking, which is vital thinking, may be invested with personal significance and become a personally interesting fact. try it! say your "tables of one" up to ten times one is ten, _thinking vitally_, which means getting behind the statement of the relation to the relation itself, behind the sign to the thing signified. let your "one" stand each time for something you desire--as a small boy might desire pieces of candy, or a miser "pieces of eight"; now think vitally in this way and say, "ten times one is ten!" what has happened to the mathematical fact? it has become a living expression! this might be called _interpreting_ our mathematics. why not? that is the surest way to master them! it is the surest way to mastery of any subject, of any art, of life itself. it is the only real way. but we have leaped from the part to the whole, from the study of a detail to an application of the law governing the whole subject. back we must go to our special point. if we can turn the statement of a cold mathematical fact into the expression of a living vital relation by thinking vitally, so investing the fact with personal significance and making it our own, what can we not do with the more easily appropriated thought which poets and philosophers and play-writers have given us, and with which rests our especial concern as interpreters? let us see what we can do! but first there is one other point to be considered in this question of _vital thinking_. we have spoken of one aspect of the process of the mind in thinking,--the _concentration_ upon an idea until it is one's own. but there is the passing of the mind from idea to idea to be noted. this phase the psychologists name "transition." this alternate concentration and transition constitutes the "pulsing of the mind" in reading, which doctor curry discusses so vitally in his _lessons in vocal expression_. now transition is an inevitable result of concentration and follows it as naturally as expiration follows inspiration. this being true, we need only note, in our study of the process of the mind in reading aloud, the question of transition, letting it follow naturally the fundamental act of concentration which is our chief concern. if the intense concentration is accomplished the clean transition will follow. in choosing material which shall require for adequate interpretation this intense concentration of the mind, we find our source, of course, to be the literature of thought rather than the literature of feeling. the literary form which seems to furnish the best examples for our purpose at this point is the essay where the appeal is, primarily, at least, an intellectual appeal. for my own suggestive analysis and for our preliminary study in vital thinking i have chosen paragraphs from emerson's essays because emerson's almost every paragraph is an essay in miniature. the story is told of the gentle seer that once in the midst of a lecture he dropped all the pages of his manuscript over the front of the pulpit. the incident disturbed his auditors greatly until they saw mr. emerson gather up the leaves and without any effort at rearrangement in the old order begin to read as though nothing had happened. every sentence was almost equally pertinent to the main theme, and suffered not from a new juxtaposition. so in printing extracts from this source we feel no sense of incompleteness. suggestive analysis let us read this passage from emerson's _experience_: to finish the moment, to find the journey's end in every step of the road, to live the greatest number of good hours, is wisdom. it is not the part of men, but of fanatics--or of mathematicians, if you will--to say that, the shortness of life considered, it is not worth caring whether for so short a duration we were sprawling in want or sitting high. since our office is with moments, let us husband them. five minutes of to-day are worth as much to me as five minutes in the next millennium. let us be poised, and wise, and our own, to-day. i settle myself ever the firmer in the creed that we should not postpone and refer and wish, but do broad justice where we are, by whomsoever we deal with, accepting our actual companions and circumstances, however humble or odious, as the mystic officials to whom the universe has delegated its whole pleasure for us. if you do not think your way through this paragraph clearly, concisely, logically, intensely, when you read it aloud your voice will betray you. in what way? your tone will lack resonance, your speech will lack precision, your pitch will be monotonous, your touch will be uncertain, your inflections will be indefinite. your reading will be unconvincing, because it will fail in lucidity and variety. in approaching this passage let us study first the question of proper emphasis. what is emphasis? the dictionaries tell us that, in delivery, it is a special stress of the voice on a given word. but we must use it in a broader sense than this. to emphasize a word is not merely to put a special stress of the voice upon that word. such an attack might only make the word conspicuous and so defeat the aim of true emphasis. true emphasis is the art of voicing the words in a phrase so that they shall assume a right relation to one another and, so related, best suggest the thought of which they are the symbols. i do not emphasize one word in a phrase and not the others. i simply vary my stress upon each word, in order to gain the proper perspective for the whole sentence. just so, in a picture, i make one object stand out, and others fall into the background, by drawing or painting them in proper relation to one another. i may use any or all of the "elements of vocal expression" to give that proper relation of values to the words in a single phrase. i may pause, change my pitch, vary my inflection, and alter my tone-color, in order to give a single word its full value. let us try experiments in emphasis with some isolated sentences before analyzing the longer passage. here is one of robert louis stevenson's beautifully wrought periods: "every man has a sane spot somewhere." let us vary, vocally, the relative values of the words in this sentence, and study the effect upon the character of the thought. let us look upon the statement as a theme for discussion. with a pause before the second word, "man," a lift of the voice on that word, a whimsical turn of the tone, and a significant inflection, we may convert an innocent statement of fact into an incendiary question for debate on the comparative sanity of the sexes. a plea for endless faith and charity becomes a back-handed criticism of women. now let us read the sentence, giving it its true meaning. "every man has a sane spot somewhere." let your voice make of the statement a plea, by dwelling a bit on the first word and again on the last word. hyphenate the first two words (they really stand for one idea). compound also the words "sane" and "spot." lift them as a single word above the rest of the sentence. now put "somewhere" a little higher still above the level of the rest of the sentence. so, only, have we the true import of this group of words: some where. sane-spot every man has a analyze the rest of these sentences from stevenson in the same way, and experiment with them vocally. that is never a bad wind that blows where we want to go. for truth that is suppressed by friends is the readiest weapon of the enemy. some strand of our own misdoing is involved in every quarrel. drama is the poetry of conduct, romance the poetry of circumstance. you cannot run away from a weakness; you must sometime fight it out or perish; and if that be so, why not now, and where you stand? an aim in life is the only fortune worth the finding; and it is not to be found in foreign lands, but in the heart itself. the world was not made for us; it was made for ten hundred millions of me, all different from each other and from us; there's no royal road, we just have to sclamber and tumble. now, once more, and this time with detailed analysis, let us study the passage from _experience_. let us first consider for a moment some of the words which make this passage powerful: _finish_, _journey's-end_, _good hours_, _wisdom_, _fanatics_, _mathematicians_, _sprawling-in-want_, _sitting-high_, _firmer_, _poised_, _postpone_, _justice_, _humble_, _odious_, _mystic_, _pleasure_. when spoken with a keen sense of its inherent meaning, with full appreciation of its form, and with delight in molding it, how efficient each one of these words becomes! when shall we, as a people, learn reverence for the words which make up our language--reverence that shall make us ashamed to mangle words, offering as our excuse that we are "westerners" or "southerners" or from new york or new england or indiana. the clear-cut thought calls for the clean-cut speech. let us say these words over and over until they assume full value. and now we pass from words to groups of words. the mind and the tone must move progressively through the first three phrases which make up this first sentence: "to finish the moment, to find the journey's end in every step of the road, to live the greatest number of good hours, is wisdom." the phrases must be held together by an almost imperceptible suspension and upward reach of the voice at the end of each group of words, and yet each phrase must be allowed to be momentarily complete. read the sentence, making each phrase a conclusion, and then again letting each phrase look forward to the next. each phrase is really a substantive, looking forward to its predicate through a second substantive which is a little more vital than the first, and again through a third substantive which is a little more vital than either of the other two. bring this out in reading the sentence. the next sentence depends for its significance upon your contrasting inflections of the three words "men," "fanatics," and "mathematicians"; and again upon your sympathetic inflection of "sprawling-in-want" and "sitting-high." "it is not the part of men, but of fanatics--or of mathematicians, if you will--to say that, the shortness of life considered, it is not worth caring whether for so short a duration we were sprawling in want or sitting high." in your utterance of these words can you make "men" men, and "fanatics" _fanatics_, and consign "mathematicians" to the cold corner of human affairs designed for them? can you so inflect "sprawling in want" and "sitting high" as to suggest a swamp and a mountain-top, or a frog and an angel? let your voice leap from the swamp to the mountain-top. let it climb. now comes the swift, concise, admonitory sentence: "since our office is with moments, let us husband them." pause before you speak the word "husband," and _husband_ it. "five minutes of to-day are worth as much to me as five minutes in the next millennium." make "five minutes of to-day" one word, and accent the last syllable, thus: five-minutes-of-_to-day_. let the tone retard and take its time on the last seven words. now poise your tone for the next sentence. "let us be poised, and wise, and our own, to-day." the paragraph closes with a more complex statement of the theme. let your voice search out the meaning. let it settle down into the conclusion, and utter it convincingly. give a definite touch to the words which i shall put in italics. "i settle myself ever _firmer_ in the _creed_ that we should not _postpone_ and _refer_ and _wish_, but do _broad-justice_ where we _are_, by _whomsoever_ we deal with, accepting our _actual_ companions and circumstances, however _humble_ or _odious_, as the _mystic officials_ to whom the _universe_ has dedicated its _whole pleasure_ for _us_." analyze vocally the following paragraph: 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.... what i must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think. this rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectual life, may serve for the whole distinction between greatness and meanness. it is the harder because you will always find those who think they know what is your duty better than you know it. it is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.--_self-reliance._ selections for interpretation by choosing as further material for vocal interpretation selections which shall also be good examples for examination as to their literary construction, we shall serve the double purpose of adapting our studies in vocal interpretation to the uses of english composition. the following selections are to be: first, read aloud (in class); second, examined as to their literary construction (in class); third, analyzed and reported upon as specimens of exposition and argumentation (in the study). exposition is an explanation, a setting forth, or an expounding. it is an attempt to render something plain, an effort to convey to the reader a train of thought which represents the conclusions of the writer upon a subject. the writer, it is at once evident, must be acquainted with the subject with which he deals. he is presuming to teach, and must be in a position which justifies him in so doing. he is prepared to write an exposition only when he is able, in regard to the topic in hand, to take frankly and unreservedly the attitude of a teacher. a teacher must have many good gifts and graces; and whoever else may fail to be well acquainted with a given lesson, he must have mastered it thoroughly. to teach he must first know. whoever has taught understands how completely different is the attitude of the teacher from that of the pupil. while the pupil is hardly expected to be able to do more than reasonably well to understand the subject in hand, the teacher must be able to explain, to justify, to make clear relations, and to impart the whole matter. the pupil is excused with a sort of hearsay knowledge, but the teacher must have a vital experience of what he teaches. especially must he be able to comprehend and to represent a subject as a whole. he is responsible for the student's being able in turn to co-ordinate facts and theories so as to produce unity; and it is therefore essential that he himself have power to hold and to make clear a continuous train of thought. the teacher, moreover, must have over his mind discipline so firm that he is not dependent upon moods. he must cover the wide difference between the train of thought which springs spontaneously in the mind and that which is laboriously worked out as a logical sequence of ideas relating to a subject forced upon the attention. the pupil may, to a certain extent, indulge the vagaries of his inclination, but the teacher must respond to the need of the moment. he must have trained his mind to give an intelligent judgment upon any matter presented to it. he is not equipped for instructing--nor is any individual ready for life--until he can command the resources of his inner self to the utmost. the trained person is one who can take a subject which may not at the outset especially appeal to him, which is full of complications, which is not in itself, perhaps, attractive, and can insist with himself that his mind shall master it thoroughly. he is able so to expend his whole mental strength, if need be, upon any necessary topic that the subject shall be examined, acquired, assimilated, and then shall be so organized, so illumined, and so presented that others shall be instructed. the mind of the teacher, in a word, is so disciplined that it will work when it is ordered. the ideal state of mind for him who wishes to communicate knowledge is that of being absolute master of all its resources. many who possess no inconsiderable powers of thought are practically unable to command the best powers of their intelligence. they depend upon the whim of the moment, upon some outward pressure or inward impulse, to arouse their intellect. they fail to reflect that while any ordinary intellect naturally forms some opinion upon any subject which interests it, only the trained mind is able to judge clearly and lucidly of an indifferent or uninteresting matter. in this mastery of thought lies the difference between the sterile and the productive mind. only one brain in a thousand has not the disposition to shirk work if it is allowed, and every student has moments when his intelligence seems almost to act like a spoiled child that hates to get up when called on a cold morning. to establish the power of the will over the intellect is the object of education, and the ability to exercise this power is what is meant by the proper use of the word "cultivation." the mental process of the cultivated thinker when considering any subject is likely to be: first, to become sure of his terms; then, clearly to set before his mind the facts and conditions; and, lastly, to make the possible and resulting deductions and conclusions. this gives a hint, and indeed practically affords a rule for the writer of exposition. an exposition, broadly speaking, may be said to consist of three steps which nearly correspond to the three steps of mental activity just set down: the definition, the statement, and the inference. definition is making clear to self or to the reader what is under discussion. statement is the setting forth of whatever is to be said of the facts, conditions, relations, and so on, which it is the object of the exposition to make clear. inference is the conclusion or conclusions drawn. these three parts will seldom be found as formal divisions in any ordinary exposition, but in some sort they are always present; and the writer must at least have them clear in his mind if he hopes to render his work well ordered, comprehensive, and symmetrical. together they are woven as the strands which give a firmness of texture to the whole. to illustrate the bearing of this analysis on the composition of an exposition, we may imagine that a student has been required to write a theme on "the influence of college life." he has first to concern himself with definition. he must decide what he means by college life as a molding influence; whether its intellectual, its social, its moral aspects, or all these. he must consider, too, whether he is to deal with the effect upon specific characters or upon types; whether upon boys during the time they are in college or as a training for after life; whether at a special institution or as the result of any college. if he limits himself to one phase of influence, he must in the same way decide fully in what sense he intends to treat that phase. if he is to consider the social effect of college life, for instance, he has to define for himself the sense in which he will use the word "social." is it to mean simply formal society, adaptation to the more conventional and exclusive forms of human intercourse, or to imply all that renders a man more self-poised, more flexible, and more adaptable in any relations with his fellows? if, on the other hand, it is the intellectual influence of college life which is to be studied, the first step is to decide what is to be considered for this purpose the range of the term "intellectual"; whether it is to be taken to mean the mere acquirement of information; whether it has relation to acquirement or to modification of mental conditions; whether it means change in the mind in the way of development or of modification; whether it shall be applied to an alteration in the student's attitude toward knowledge or toward life in general. all this is in the line of definition, and it is naturally connected with the statement of whatever facts bear upon the topic under discussion. statement has largely to do with fact. theory belongs rather to whatever inference is part of an exposition. in the statement will come the observations of the writer; whatever he knows of general conditions at college, or such individual examples as bear upon the question in hand. from these he will inevitably draw some conclusions, and the value of the exposition will depend upon the reasonableness and convincingness of these inferences, as these will, in turn, depend upon the clearness of the writer's original knowledge in regard to his intentions and the logic of his statements. composition, it should be remembered, is the art of communicating to others what is in the mind of the writer. to write without having the subject abundantly in mind is to invite the reader to a barmecide feast of empty dishes. the necessity of insisting upon such particulars as those just given of the process of making an exposition arises from the stubborn idea of the untrained student that writing is something done with paper and ink. it is, on the contrary, something which is done with brains; it is less putting things on paper than it is thinking things out in the mind. before leaving the illustration of a theme on the influence of college life we may glance a moment more at the difficulty, even with so simple a subject, of attaining perfect clarity of thinking. one of the first things which must be determined is the essential difference of life in a college from ordinary existence. if the subject be given out to a class of students half the themes handed in will begin with a remark upon the great change which comes to a boy who finds himself for the first time freed from the restraints of home. the moment this idea is presented to the mind it is to be looked at, not as something with which to fill so much paper, but as a stepping-stone toward ideas beyond. it is necessary, for instance, to determine the distinctions between freedom at college and freedom elsewhere; to decide wherein lie the differences in the conditions which surround a boy in a university and one who escapes from the restrictions of home by going away to live in a city or in a country village, on shipboard or in the army. to be of value, every thought in an exposition must have been tested by a comparison with allied ideas as wide and as exhaustive as the thinker is equal to making. to learn to think is, after all, the prime essential in exposition-writing, and the beginning of thought is the realization of what is already known. the student who patiently examines his views on the subject of which he is to write, who determines to discover exactly how much he knows and what is the relative importance of each of his opinions, is likely soon to come to find that he is considering the theme chosen not only deeply, but with tangible results. the value of any exposition, to sum the matter up in a word, rests primarily and chiefly on the thoroughness of the thought which produces it.--arlo bates.[3] [3] this selection from prof. arlo bates's _talks on writing english_ is printed by permission of the author and his publishers, houghton mifflin company. the _idylls of the king_ has been called a quasi-epic. departing from the conventional epic form by its lack of a closely continuous narrative, it has yet that lofty manner and underlying unity of design which leads us to class it with the epics, at least, in the essentials. it consists of a series of chivalric legends, taken chiefly from the _morte d'arthur_ of sir thomas malory, grouped so as to exhibit the establishment, the greatness, and the downfall of an ideal kingdom of righteousness among men. "the coming of arthur," the ideal ruler, shows us the setting up of this kingdom. before this was disorder, great tracts of wilderness, wherein the beast was ever more and more, but man was less and less. arthur slays the beast and fells the forest, and the old order changes to give place to new. then the song of arthur's knights rises, a majestic chorus of triumph: clang battle-axe and clash brand. let the king reign. in "gareth and lynette" the newly established kingdom is seen doing its work among men. arthur, enthroned in his great hall, dispenses impartial justice. the knights ride abroad redressing human wrongs. the allegory shows us, in gareth's contests with the knights "that have no law nor king," the contest of the soul with the temptations that at different periods of life successively attack it: the war of time against the soul of man. then follow the "idylls," which trace the entrance and growth of an element of sin and discord, which, spreading, pulls down into ruin that "fellowship of noble knights," "which are an image of the mighty world." the purity of the ideal kingdom is fouled, almost at its source, by the guilty love of lancelot and the queen. among some the contagion spreads; while others, in an extremity of protest, start in quest of the holy grail, leaving the duty at hand for mystical visions. man cannot bring down heaven to earth; he cannot sanctify the mass of men by his own rapturous anticipations; he cannot safely neglect the preliminary stages of progress appointed for the race; he "may not wander from the allotted field before his work be done." so by impurity and by impatience the rift in the kingdom widens, and in "the last tournament," in the stillness before the impending doom, we hear the shrill voice of dagonet railing at the king, who thinks himself as god, that he can make honey from hornet-combs and men from beasts. in "guinevere," unequaled elsewhere in the "idylls" in pure poetry, the blow falls; at length, in the concluding poem, arthur passes to the isle of avilion, and once more the old order changeth, yielding place to new. tennyson himself tells us that in this, his longest poem, he has meant to shadow "sense at war with soul," the struggle in the individual and in the race, between that body which links us with the brute and the soul which makes us part of a spiritual order. but the mastery of the higher over the lower is only obtained through many seeming failures. wounded and defeated, the king exclaims: for i, being simple, thought to work his will, and have but stricken with the sword in vain; and all whereon i lean'd, in wife and friend, is traitor to my peace, and all my realm _reels back into the beast_, and is no more. but he also half perceives the truth which it is the poet's purpose to suggest to us. it is short-sighted to expect the immediate sanctification of the race; if we are disheartened, striving to "work his will," it is because "we see not the close." it is impossible that arthur's work should end in failure--departing, he declares, "i pass, but shall not die," and when his grievous wound is healed, he will return. the _idylls of the king_ is thus the epic of evolution in application to the progress of human society. in it the teachings of "in memoriam" assume a narrative form. move upward, working out the beast, may be taken as a brief statement of its theme: and we read in it the belief in the tendency upward and an assurance of ultimate triumph: oh, yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill, to pangs of nature, sins of will, defects of doubt, and taints of blood; that nothing walks with aimless feet, that not one life shall be destroyed, or cast as rubbish to the void when god hath made the pile complete. --pancoast.[4] [4] reprinted by permission from pancoast's _introduction to english literature_. copyright, 1907, by henry holt and company. as an interlude study which shall look back to the step we have just taken, and forward to the one we are about to take, let us test our growth in _vitality in thinking_ and our need of _intelligence in feeling_, by voicing the following selections from didactic poetry. this form affords the best exercise in both activities because it makes a double appeal, and so a double demand upon the interpreter--an appeal through form to emotion, through aim to intelligence, and through message and atmosphere to both. i have chosen examples of this form in which the beauty and fascination of meter, rhythm, and rhyme, and the didactic nature of the thought do not seem to overbalance each other. if either should predominate you must, by your interpretation, strike the balance. in reading robert browning's _rabbi ben ezra_ (from which i shall quote but a few verses) you must carry to your auditor the full import of the philosophy, but in doing so you must not lose the beauty of the verse in which the poet has set it. rabbi ben ezra grow old along with me! the best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made: our times are in his hand who saith, "a whole i planned, youth shows but half; trust god: see all, nor be afraid!" not that, amassing flowers, youth sighed, "which rose make ours, which lily leave and then as best recall?" not that, admiring stars, it yearned, "nor jove, nor mars; mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" not for such hopes and fears annulling youth's brief years, do i remonstrate: folly wide the mark! rather i prize the doubt low kinds exist without, finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. * * * * * then, welcome each rebuff that turns earth's smoothness rough, each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! be our joys three-parts pain! strive and hold cheap the strain, learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! for thence--a paradox which comforts while it mocks- shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: what i aspired to be, and was not, comforts me: a brute i might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. * * * * * now, who shall arbitrate? ten men love what i hate, shun what i follow, slight what i receive; ten, who in ears and eyes match me: we all surmise, they, this thing, and i, that: whom shall my soul believe? not on the vulgar mass called "work," must sentence pass, things done, that took the eye and had the price; o'er which, from level stand, the low world laid its hand, found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: but all, the world's coarse thumb and finger failed to plumb, so passed in making up the main account: all instincts immature, all purposes unsure, that weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount: thoughts hardly to be packed into a narrow act, fancies that broke through language and escaped; all i could never be, all, men ignored in me, this, i was worth to god, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. * * * * * --browning. forbearance hast thou named all the birds without a gun? loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk? at rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse? unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust? and loved so well a high behavior, in man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, nobility more nobly to repay? o, be my friend, and teach me to be thine! each and all 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, 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 cheers 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":- 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. --emerson. as a final step in this study which has for its aim an increase in your power to _think vitally_ you are to choose from the "great heap of your knowledge" a subject about which you have sufficient understanding and enthusiasm to justify your discussion of it, and with this as a topic you are "to unmuzzle your wisdom" in the form of _exposition_ or _argumentation_. second study to establish intelligence in feeling art is in bondage in this country: its internal polity to the temperamental ideal; its external polity to the commercial ideal. business and social life are in the same bondage. in music, in drama, in letters, in society, and in trade we permit personality to exploit itself for commercial purposes. the result is either chaotic or calculated expression on every side. when temperament seeks restraint in technique, and policy, whether business or social, seeks freedom in service, then shall we have that balanced expression in art, in society, and in trade which should proceed from the american personality and distinguish american life. it may seem a far cry from a comment upon american life to the subject of this second study--_intelligence in feeling_. carry the idea of balanced expression from the introduction to the body of this exposition and the transition is not difficult to make. "wonderful technique, but no heart in her singing!" "tremendous temperament, but no technique!" "she moves me profoundly, but oh, what a method!" "her instrument is flawless, but she leaves me absolutely unmoved." have you ever heard such comment, or made such comment, or been the subject of like comment? diagnosis of the case, whether it be yours or another's, should be the same--lack of poise in expression, producing the undesirable effect upon the auditor of no emotion at all, or of unintelligent emotion. to determine just what we mean by intelligent emotion is our first problem for this study. an experience i had in visiting a class in interpretation in a well-known school of oratory some years ago will illustrate the point. the selection for interpretation was the prelude to the first part of _the vision of sir launfal_. "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; ..." the work was well under way when i entered the class-room. my entrance did not disturb the expression on the face of the student who was "up before" the class. a malvolio smile was never more deliciously indelible. i thought at first my request to see some work in interpretation had been mistaken and i had been ushered into a class in facial gymnastics. then i concluded that mr. lowell's poem was being employed as text for an exercise in smiling. finally the awful truth came upon me that this teacher of interpretation was seriously attempting to secure from her pupils an expression which should suggest the spirit of the june day by asking them to assume the outward sign of joy known as smiling. the result was a ghastly series of facial contortions, which left at least one auditor's day as bleak as the bleakest december. no intelligent feeling can be induced in interpreter or auditor by assuming the outward sign of an inward emotion. some of you are recalling mr. james's _talk to students_, on the reflex theory of emotion, and are being confused at this point. let us stop and straighten out the confusion. mr. james says: "action seems to follow feeling, but really action and feeling go together; and by regulating the action, which is under the more direct control of the will, we can indirectly regulate the feeling, which is not. "thus the sovereign voluntary path to cheerfulness, if our spontaneous cheerfulness be lost, is to sit up cheerfully, to look round cheerfully, and to act and speak as if cheerfulness were already there. if such conduct does not make you soon feel cheerful, nothing else on that occasion can. so to feel brave, act as if we _were_ brave, use all our will to that end, and a courage-fit will very likely replace the fit of fear." the application of this principle to the reading of these lines would seem to justify the method the teacher was pursuing. a smile is acceptedly the indication of happy emotion, the outward symbol of inward rejoicing or joy. the june day is full of joyful emotion,--the joy of awakening life. applying mr. james's theory, a legitimate way to induce the inward emotion would seem to be to assume the outward sign. but wait a moment. let us look to our premises. mr. lanier, who sings of nature with joyful understanding, cries in _sunrise_: "tell me, sweet burly-bark'd, man-bodied tree that mine arms in the dark are embracing, dost know from what fount are these tears at thy feet which flow? they rise not from reason, but deeper inconsequent deeps. reason's not one that weeps. what logic of greeting lies betwixt dear over-beautiful trees and the rain of the eyes?" here is a great master of verbal expression whose inward joy finds its outward symbol not in a smile but in a tear. so you and i may respond to mr. lowell's "high tide of the year" with smiles or with tears, with bowed head and closed eyes, or with eyes wide and head raised to meet the returning flood of life. the effect upon me of the beauty of this day as mr. lowell has painted it, my personal emotional response is interesting psychology, but is not my concern as an interpreter. my own emotion and its personal response belong to my preparatory interpretative efforts in the study; but when the interpretation is ready for the audience-room, the emotion must be assimilated into the interpretative act and appear only as part of the illumination of the bit of life i am presenting. the object of all great art, whether creative or interpretative, is not to exploit the personality of the artist, but to disclose at some point the personality of the very god himself, which is life. the revelation not of personal emotion but of universal life is the legitimate aim of all artistic effort. emotional response will accompany every vital mental conception. abandonment to that response is a legitimate and necessary part of full comprehension. but such abandonment, as i have said, belongs to our preparation for expression. such abandonment must not be taken out of the study on to the stage. no temperamental expression along any line is fit for the public until it is controlled by technique, the technique which has been worked out by the masters of every art, not excluding the art of living. it is not the effect of june upon you i want from your interpretation, it is the spirit of june itself. you must let me have my own emotion. your emotional response was the result of your mental concept; mine, to be intelligent, must find the same impulse. if you impose your own emotion upon me mine will be merely an unintelligent reflection of yours. taking as our ideal of the interpreter, the absolutely pure medium, bars out every manifestation which calls attention to the interpreter, and so interferes with the direct message. "the natural form of expression which literature takes when it passes beyond the normal powers of prose, is lyric poetry. when your feelings rise beyond a certain degree of stress you need the stronger beat and vibration of verse; to express the highest joy or the deepest grief poetry is your natural instrument." again corroborated in our choice of direction in study by mr. gardiner, let us turn for "material" in the establishment of _intelligence in emotion_, to the most intensive type of the literature of feeling,--lyric poetry. "every now and then a man will come who will reduce to words--as mr. ruskin has done--some impression of vivid pleasure which has never been reduced to words before. it is only the great master who makes these advances; by studying his works you may perhaps come somewhere near the mark that he has set." this further word from the same paragraph should influence us to pause with mr. ruskin's poetry in prose form for a brief study on our way to the lyrics of wordsworth and shelley and keats, a song from shakespeare, and some few from the rare, more modern lyricists. i shall trust you to this by-path under the guidance of _the forms of prose literature_, where you will find passages from such masters of prose as mr. ruskin and mr. stevenson--passages of surpassing lyric beauty which shall furnish models for your correlated study in description. suggestive analysis i have chosen for suggestive analysis of the lyric, shelley's ode _to a skylark_. i shall analyze in detail only the first five stanzas: 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. 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. how shall we create an atmosphere for the reading of these verses! how can we catch the spirit of the creator of them! shall we ever feel ready to voice that first line? do you know jules breton's picture _the lark_? do you love it? go, then, and stand before it, actually or in imagination. let something of the spirit which informs that lovely child, lifting her eyes, her head in an attitude of listening rapture, steal over you. i know her power. i have tested it. in reading the "skylark" with a class of boys and girls from twelve to fourteen years old, i tried the experiment. i happened to have with me a beautiful copy of breton's picture. i took it to the class-room. i wrote on the blackboard verses of the poem and hung the picture over them. the _picture_ taught them to read the poem. the eyes of the girl became their teacher. i tried the experiment, with a private pupil in my studio, with a somewhat different result. i had told her to bring a copy of shelley's poems to her next lesson. "do you know the ode _to a skylark_?" i asked. "yes," she said. a copy of breton's picture hung on the wall. "before you open your book look at the picture," i said. she obeyed. her expression, always radiant, deepened its radiance. "do you know what the girl is doing?" i asked. "oh yes, she is listening to the skylark." "how do you know?" "i have heard the skylark sing." "i never have," i said. "read the poem to me." now when _i_ read the "skylark," i see the girl in jules breton's picture, but i hear the voice of my english pupil. but if our apperceptive background fails to furnish a memory of the identical sight and sound for our inspiring, it at least holds bird notes and bird flights of great beauty, and we must call upon these for the impulse to voice shelley's apostrophe: 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. an early autumn number of the _atlantic monthly_ for 1907 published a poem by mr. ridgley torrence, entitled _the lesser children_, or _a threnody at the hunting season_. the poem is worthy, in sentiment and structure, to be set beside shelley's ode. let us compare with the picture which the eighteenth-century poet has given us this one from our modern song-writer: who has not seen in the high gulf of light what, lower, was a bird, but now is moored and altered quite into an island of unshaded joy? to whom the mate below upon the bough shouts once and brings him from his high employ. yet speeding he forgot not of the cloud where he from glory sprang and burned aloud, but took a little of the day, a little of the colored sky, and of the joy that would not stay he wove a song that cannot die. now let us study closely the first verse of the older poem. spirit and voice must soar in the first line, "hail to thee, blithe spirit!" the two words "hail" and "blithe" are swift-winged words. let them fly. give them their wings. let them do all they are intended to do. the rhythm of the whole poem is aspiring. reverence the rhythm, but keep the thought floating clear above it in the second line, "bird thou never wert." with the next two lines the tone must gather head to be poured forth in the last line, "in profuse strains of unpremeditated art." let us make another comparative study. set on the other side of this picture lowell's description of the "little bird" in his prologue to sir launfal's vision: the little bird sits at his door in the sun, atilt like a blossom among the leaves, and lets his illumined being o'errun with the deluge of summer it receives. the second verse of the "skylark" demands a still higher flight of imagination and tone. let us try it. 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. again all the words rise and float. sing them over: _higher_, _higher_, _springest_, _fire_, _wingest_, _singing_, _soar_, _soaring_, _singest_. the reader must feel himself poised for flight in every word of the first three verses. why does the poet say cloud of fire? what is the color of the skylark? and now the tone, which has been of a radiant hue through these three verses, must soften a little in the first three lines of the next verse- the pale purple even melts around thy flight;-glow gold again in the last three lines- like a star of heaven in the broad daylight thou art unseen, and yet i hear thy shrill delight-and become the white of an incandescent light in the next verse- 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. do you not see that the secret of its beauty lies, for vocal interpretation, in the color of tone and in the inflection of the words? say "unseen," dwelling on the second syllable; "shrill delight," directing _shrill_ over the head of _delight_; "keen," making it cleave the air like an arrow; "silver sphere," suggesting a moonlit path across water; "intense" and "narrows," letting the tone recede into the "white dawn"; "see," with a vanishing stress; and "feel," with a deepening note carried to the end. so we might go on through the twenty-one stanzas which make up the poem. please analyze undirected the next two verses. 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. in reading the first lines of the next four verses we must avoid monotony. 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 glowworm golden in a dell of dew, scattering unbeholden its aerial hue among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: like a rose embower'd in its own green leaves, by warm winds deflower'd, till the scent it gives makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. vary, if only for variety, the pitch on which you begin each of these first lines. let the first three words of the eighth verse, "like a poet," ascend in pitch. keep the voice level in the first line of the ninth verse, "like a high-born maiden." let the pitch fall in the first words of the tenth stanza, "like a glowworm golden." and again keep the tone level on the first line of the next stanza, "like a rose embower'd." i leave to you the analysis of the rest of the poem: 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 field, 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. 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! --shelley. selections for interpretation the following selections from lyric poetry are designed to give the voice exercise in the expression of varied emotions. i the daffodils i wander'd 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. continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the milky way, they stretch'd 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 out-did 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. --wordsworth. ii by the sea it is a beauteous evening, calm and free; the holy time is quiet as a nun breathless with adoration; the broad sun is sinking down in its tranquillity; the gentleness of heaven is on the sea: listen! the mighty being is awake, and doth with his eternal motion make a sound like thunder--everlastingly. dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here, if thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought thy nature is not therefore less divine: thou liest in abraham's bosom all the year, and worship'st at the temple's inner shrine, god being with thee when we know it not. --wordsworth. iii to the cuckoo o blithe new-comer! i have heard, i hear thee and rejoice: o cuckoo! shall i call thee bird, or but a wandering voice? while i am lying on the grass thy twofold shout i hear; from hill to hill it seems to pass, at once far off and near. though babbling only to the vale of sunshine and of flowers, thou bringest unto me a tale of visionary hours. thrice welcome, darling of the spring! even yet thou art to me no bird, but an invisible thing, a voice, a mystery; the same whom in my school-boy days i listen'd to; that cry which made me look a thousand ways in bush, and tree, and sky. to seek thee did i often rove through woods and on the green; and thou wert still a hope, a love, still long'd for, never seen! and i can listen to thee yet, can lie upon the plain and listen, till i do beget that golden time again. o blesséd bird! the earth we pace again appears to be an unsubstantial, faery place, that is fit home for thee! --wordsworth. iv ode to the west wind 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 wingéd 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 odours plain and hill: wild spirit, which art moving everywhere; destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear! 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, ev'n from the dim verge of the horizon to the zenith's height- the locks of the approaching storm. thou dirge of the dying year, to which this closing night will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, vaulted with all thy congregated might of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: oh hear! thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams the blue mediterranean, where he lay, lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams, beside 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: oh hear! 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 the comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, as then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed scarce seem'd 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 chain'd and bow'd one too like thee--tameless, and swift, and proud. make me thy lyre, ev'n 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 wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth; and, by the incantation of this verse, scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! be through my lips to unawaken'd earth the trumpet of a prophecy! o wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind? --shelley. v to the night swiftly walk over the western wave, spirit of night! out of the misty eastern cave where, all the long and lone daylight, thou wovest dreams of joy and fear which make thee terrible and dear,- swift be thy flight! wrap thy form in a mantle gray star-inwrought; blind with thine hair the eyes of day, kiss her until she be wearied out: then wander o'er sea and city and land, touching all with thine opiate wand- come, long-sought! when i arose and saw the dawn, i sigh'd for thee: when light rode high, and the dew was gone, and noon lay heavy on flower and tree, and the weary day turn'd to his rest lingering like an unloved guest, i sigh'd for thee. thy brother death came, and cried wouldst thou me? thy sweet child sleep, the filmy-eyed, murmur'd like a noon-tide bee shall i nestle near thy side? wouldst thou me?--and i replied no, not thee! death will come when thou art dead, soon, too soon- sleep will come when thou art fled; of neither would i ask the boon i ask of thee, beloved night- swift be thine approaching flight, come soon, soon! --shelley. vi ode to a grecian urn thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, thou foster-child of silence and slow time, sylvan historian, who canst thus express a flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: what leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape of deities or mortals, or of both, in tempé or the dales of arcady? what men or gods are these? what maidens loth? what mad pursuit? what struggle to escape? what pipes and timbrels? what wild ecstasy? heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve; she cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, for ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! ah happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu; and, happy melodist, unweariéd, for ever piping songs for ever new; more happy love! more happy, happy love! for ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, for ever panting, and for ever young; all breathing human passion far above, that leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, a burning forehead, and a parching tongue. who are these coming to the sacrifice? to what green altar, o mysterious priest, lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, and all her silken flanks with garlands drest? what little town by river or sea shore, or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? and, little town, thy streets for evermore will silent be; and not a soul to tell why thou art desolate, can e'er return. o attic shape! fair attitude! with brede of marble men and maidens overwrought, with forest branches and the trodden weed; thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought as doth eternity: cold pastoral! when old age shall this generation waste thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "beauty is truth, truth beauty,"--that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. --keats. vii 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: sweet lovers love the spring. between the acres of the rye these pretty country folks would lie: this carol they began that hour, how that life was but a flower: and therefore take the present time with a hey and a ho and a hey nonino! for love is crownéd with the prime in spring time, the only pretty ring time, when birds do sing hey ding a ding: sweet lovers love the spring. --shakespeare. viii pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, with night we banish sorrow; sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft to give my love good-morrow! wings from the wind to please her mind notes from the lark i'll borrow; bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing, to give my love good-morrow; to give my love good-morrow notes from them both i'll borrow. wake from thy nest, robin-red-breast, sing, birds, in every furrow; and from each hill, let music shrill give my fair love good-morrow! blackbird and thrush in every bush, stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow! you pretty elves, amongst yourselves sing my fair love good-morrow; to give my love good-morrow sing, birds, in every furrow! --heywood. ix the passionate shepherd to his love come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove that hills and valleys, dale and field, and all the craggy mountains yield. there will we sit upon the rocks and see the shepherds feed their flocks, by shallow rivers, to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals. there will i make thee beds of roses and a thousand fragrant posies, a cap of flowers, and a kirtle embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. a gown made of the finest wool, which from our pretty lambs we pull, fair linéd slippers for the cold, with buckles of the purest gold. a belt of straw and ivy buds with coral clasps and amber studs: and if these pleasures may thee move, come live with me and be my love. thy silver dishes for thy meat as precious as the gods do eat, shall on an ivory table be prepared each day for thee and me. the shepherd swains shall dance and sing for thy delight each may-morning: if these delights thy mind may move, then live with me and be my love. --marlowe. x hunting song 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 mountain gray, springlets in the dawn are steaming, 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." waken, lords and ladies gay, to the greenwood haste away; we can show you where he lies, fleet of foot and tall of size; we can show the marks he made when 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; you shall see him brought to bay; "waken, lords and ladies gay." 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, stanch as hound and fleet as hawk; think of this, and rise with day, gentle lords and ladies gay! --scott. xi besides the rivers arve and arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of mont blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the glaciers, the _gentiana major_ grows in immense numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest blue." hymn before sunrise, in the vale of chamouni hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star in his steep course? so long he seems to pause on thy bald awful head, o sovran blanc! the arve and arveiron at thy base rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, how silently! around thee and above deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, an ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, as with a wedge! but when i look again, it is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, thy habitation from eternity! o dread and silent mount! i gazed upon thee, till thou, still present to the bodily sense, didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer i worshiped the invisible alone. yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, so sweet, we know not we are listening to it, thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, yea, with my life and life's own secret joy: till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, into the mighty vision passing--there as in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven! awake, my soul! not only passive praise thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, mute thanks and secret ecstasy! awake, voice of sweet song! awake, my heart, awake! green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale! o struggling with the darkness all the night, and visited all night by troops of stars, or when they climb the sky or when they sink; companion of the morning-star at dawn, thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn co-herald: wake, o wake, and utter praise! who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? who filled thy countenance with rosy light? who made thee parent of perpetual streams? and you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! who called you forth from night and utter death, from dark and icy caverns called you forth, down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, forever shattered and the same forever? who gave you your invulnerable life, your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, unceasing thunder and eternal foam? and who commanded (and the silence came), here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow adown enormous ravines slope amain- torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, and stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! motionless torrents! silent cataracts! who made you glorious as the gates of heaven beneath the keen full moon? who bade the sun clothe you with rainbows? who, with living flowers of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?- god! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, answer! and let the ice-plains echo, god! god! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! and they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, and in their perilous fall shall thunder, god! ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm! ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! ye signs and wonders of the element! utter forth god, and fill the hills with praise! thou too, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast- thou too again--stupendous mountain! thou that as i raise my head, awhile bowed low in adoration, upward from thy base slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, solemnly seemest like a vapory cloud, to rise before me--rise, o ever rise, rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth! thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, and tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, earth, with her thousand voices, praises god. --coleridge. xii jaun's song from the spanish gypsy memory, tell to me what is fair past compare in the land of tubal? is it spring's lovely things, blossoms white, rosy dight? then it is pepita. summer's crest red-gold tressed, corn-flowers peeping under? idle noons, lingering moons, sudden cloud, lightning's shroud, sudden rain, quick again smiles where late was thunder? are all these made to please? so too is pepita. autumn's prime, apple-time, smooth cheek round, heart all sound?- is it this you would kiss? then it is pepita. you can bring no sweet thing, but my mind still shall find it is my pepita. memory says to me it is she- she is fair past compare in the land of tubal. xiii pablo's song from the spanish gypsy spring comes hither, buds the rose; roses wither, sweet spring goes. ojala, would she carry me! summer soars- wide-winged day, white light pours, flies away. ojala, would he carry me! soft winds blow, westward born, onward go toward the morn. ojala, would they carry me! sweet birds sing o'er the graves, then take wing o'er the waves. ojala, would they carry me! --george eliot. xiv memory[5] [5] this and the following poem appear by special permission of houghton mifflin company, the publishers of mr. aldrich's poems. my mind lets go a thousand things, like dates of wars and deaths of kings, and yet recalls the very hour- 'twas noon by yonder village tower, and on the last blue noon in may- the wind came briskly up this way, crisping the brook beside the road; then, pausing here, set down its load of pine-scents, and shook listlessly two petals from that wild-rose-tree. xv enamoured architect of airy rhyme enamoured architect of airy rhyme, build as thou wilt; heed not what each man says: good souls, but innocent of dreamer's ways, will come, and marvel why thou wastest time; others, beholding how thy turrets climb 'twixt theirs and heaven, will hate thee all thy days; but most beware of those who come to praise. o wondersmith, o worker in sublime and heaven-sent dreams, let art be all in all; build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame, build as thou wilt, and as thy light is given: then, if at last the airy structure fall, dissolve, and vanish--take thyself no shame. they fail, and they alone, who have not striven. --thomas bailey aldrich. xvi love in the winds[6] [6] from _along the trail_, by richard hovey. copyright, 1898, by small, maynard & co., duffield & co., successors. when i am standing on a mountain crest, or hold the tiller in the dashing spray, my love of you leaps foaming in my breast, shouts with the winds and sweeps to their foray; my heart bounds with the horses of the sea, and plunges in the wild ride of the night flaunts in the teeth of tempest the large glee that rides out fate and welcomes gods to fight. ho, love, i laugh aloud for love of you, glad that our love is fellow to rough weather,- no fretful orchid hot-housed from the dew, but hale and hardy as the highland heather, rejoicing in the wind that stings and thrills, comrades of ocean, playmate of the hills. --richard hovey. xvii candlemas[7] [7] by permission of houghton mifflin company. o hearken, all ye little weeds that lie beneath the snow, (so low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!) the sun hath risen for royal deeds, a valiant wind the vanguard leads; now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds before ye rise and blow. o furry living things, adream on winter's drowsy breast, (how rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!) arise and follow where a gleam of wizard gold unbinds the stream, and all the woodland windings seem with sweet expectance blest. my birds, come back! the hollow sky is weary for your note. (sweet-throat, come back! o liquid, mellow throat!) ere may's soft minions hereward fly, shame on ye, laggards, to deny the brooding breast, the sun-bright eye, the tawny, shining coat! --alice brown. mr. gilbert chesterton tells us that the real robert browning of literary history arrived with the _dramatic lyrics_. "in dramatic lyrics," says mr. chesterton, "browning discovered the one thing that he could really do better than any one else--the dramatic lyric. the form is absolutely original; he had discovered a new field of poetry, and in the center of that field he had found himself." the form is new, but it obeys the fundamental law of lyric poetry, and so in our study belongs to this chapter. the new element which the word "dramatic" suggests makes a new and a somewhat broader demand upon the interpreter; therefore i have chosen this group of _dramatic lyrics_ from browning as the material for your final study of this form: my star all that 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. cavalier tunes marching along kentish sir byng stood for his king, bidding the crop-headed parliament swing. and, pressing a troop unable to stoop and see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, marched them along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. god for king charles! pym and such carles to the devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles! cavaliers, up! lips from the cup, hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup till you're- _(chorus) marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song._ hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell serve hazelrig, fiennes, and young harry as well! england, good cheer! rupert is near! kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, _(chorus) marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song?_ then, god for king charles! pym and his snarls to the devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! hold by the right, you double your might; so, onward to nottingham, fresh for the fight. _(chorus) march we along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!_ garden fancies the flower's name here's the garden she walked across, arm in my arm, such a short while since. hark, now i push its wicket, the moss hinders the hinges and makes them wince! she must have reached this shrub ere she turned, as back with that murmur the wicket swung; for she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, to feed and forget it the leaves among. down this side of the gravel walk she went while her robe's edge brushed the box: and here she paused in her gracious talk to point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. roses, ranged in valiant row, i will never think that she passed you by! she loves you, noble roses, i know; but yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie! this flower she stopped at, finger on lip, stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, its soft meandering spanish name. what a name! was it love or praise? speech half-asleep or song half-awake? i must learn spanish, one of these days, only for that slow sweet name's sake. roses, if i live and do well, i may bring her, one of these days, to fix you fast with as fine a spell, fit you each with his spanish phrase; but do not detain me now; for she lingers there, like sunshine over the ground, and ever i see her soft white fingers searching after the bud she found. flower, you spaniard, look that you grow not, stay as you are and be loved forever! bud, if i kiss you 'tis that you blow not: mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! for while it pouts, her fingers wrestle, twinkling the audacious leaves between, till round they turn and down they nestle- is not the dear mark still to be seen? where i find her not, beauties vanish; whither i follow her, beauties flee; is there no method to tell her in spanish june's twice june since she breathed it with me? come, bud, show me the least of her traces, treasure my lady's lightest footfall! --ah, you may flout and turn up your faces- roses, you are not so fair after all! --browning. that "the poet is born, not made," is more and more an undisputed fact in every literary age. but many a birthright of poetic power has been saved from sale for a mess of pottage by a wisely ordered meeting of the young bard, while his gift was still latent, with the masters of lyric expression. such an introduction is the object of this study, so far as it can embrace in its aim the ends of both forms of expression,--interpretation and composition. there is no thought of inducing even an aspirant to the _poetical purple_, much less a shelley or a keats or an alice brown, through this brief dwelling with their immortal songs; but if this intensive interpretative study of the highest lyric expression does not result in a new sense of word values, a new sensitiveness to the music of the english language, out of which the songs of america must be made, then the study will have failed in its purpose toward you. if from this suggestive analysis of shelley's "skylark" you receive no impulse to use words with a new delight in the fitting of sound to sense, a new reverence for their harmonious arrangement to suggest and sustain an atmosphere; if, in short, your vocabulary is not enriched and your choice of words clarified through this study, then your new acquaintance with lyric expression will have been in vain. and, finally, if some one of you at least is not impelled by these excursions into the world of song to use his enriched vocabulary in an attempt to create a bit of lyric description in prose or verse, then the author of this study, and the teacher under whose direction it is made, must admit a failure to reach with the pupil the ultimate aim of such interpretative effort. let us make the test. as a final problem of this study i shall ask you to let your emotion find expression--lyric expression--in a bit of prose description. don't be afraid! use your vocabulary! take as a subject: the bit of earth and sky you have secretly worshiped; the bird song or flight which has charmed your day; the memory of some illumined moment; the effect of any one of these lyrics upon you. don't be afraid! and remember it is to be literature of _feeling_ rather than thought; _description_, not exposition. third study to develop the whimsical sense addressing the _gentle reader_ in deliciously whimsical vein on the _mission of humor_, mr. samuel arthur crothers declares: "were i appointed by the school board to consider the applicants for teachers' certificates, after they had passed the examinations in the arts and sciences, i should subject them to a more rigid test. i should hand each candidate lamb's essays on 'the old and new schoolmaster' and on 'imperfect sympathies.' i should make him read them to himself, while i sat by and watched. if his countenance never relaxed, as if he were inwardly saying, 'that's so,' i should withhold the certificate. i should not consider him a fit person to have charge of innocent youth." we can readily see from this extract that we need not go back to the early part of the last century to find material for our test of this sovereign quality, a sense of humor. mr. crothers himself, the charles lamb of our american letters to-day, shall furnish our subject-matter. bring your _gentle reader_, or _the pardoner's wallet_, or the essays collected with the _christmas sermon_, to class to-morrow. if these volumes are not in your personal library, your library is sadly lacking. read "the honorable points of ignorance," "how to know the fallacies," or "conscience concerning witchcraft." if any one of these fails to disclose in you the mental alertness and power of discrimination which their author considers to be requisite characteristics of a true sense of humor, then _you_ are sadly lacking in that coveted quality of mind and heart, and it behooves us to make an attempt to supply these deficiencies. can a sense of humor be cultivated, and if it can be cultivated, is it safe to do so? some one asks--some one who has suffered at the hands of a clever jester perhaps. by way of arriving at an answer, let us examine a little further the category of qualities which mr. crothers considers requisite to true humor. we have already noted mental alertness and power of discrimination. there can be no question as to the desirability or feasibility of developing these characteristics, since such development belongs to the fundamental effort of education. but these are but two characteristics of the quality we are considering, and not the distinguishing ones. "humor," continues the category, "is the frank enjoyment of the imperfect." now we scent a danger! for if, as mr. crothers admits, "artistic sensibility finds satisfaction only in the perfect," and since, as we all admit, artistic sensibility is an end in education devoutly to be desired, then is not a cultivation of the "frank enjoyment of the imperfect," oh dear and gentle humorist, a dangerous indulgence? the conclusive answer comes: "one may have learned to enjoy the sublime, the beautiful, the useful, the orderly, but he has missed something if he has not also learned to enjoy the incongruous, the illusive, and the unexpected." it is a conclusive reply, because we know that it is just as essential to achievement in the finest of the fine arts,--the art of living, as in every other form of art, to recognize that the inrush of discord is for the final issue of harmony; that only through our ability to recognize illusion shall we come to know reality; that only through sensitiveness to the incongruous shall we develop a true sense of the fitness of things; that only frank enjoyment can disarm imperfection and find satisfaction in the perfect. so let us not hesitate to do all we can to cultivate a quality which thackeray defines as a mixture of love and wit; to which erasmus ascribes such desirable characteristics as good temper and insight into human nature; and for one grade of which, in addition to all its other qualities, mr. crothers claims "that it can proceed only from a mind free from any taint of morbidness." if then we conclude that it is not only safe, but possible and desirable, to cultivate a sense of humor, how shall we set about it? to answer you, as to one way at least, and that a way of interpretation, mr. crothers "is left alive," not only to furnish new material for the exercise of the sense, but to point a gently reminding finger toward the immortal sources of good humor,--"chaucer and cervantes and montaigne; shakespeare and bacon and fielding and addison; goldsmith, charles lamb, and walter scott, and in our own country, irving and dr. holmes and james russell lowell." whatever period of time your schedule grants to this phase of the work should be dedicated to a closer acquaintance with the flavor and atmosphere of these great-hearted humorists in their most genial moments. let us also heed mr. crothers' warning against the humor of the dean swifts which "would be so irresistible were it not bad humor." let us avoid more intimate acquaintance with the broad variety furnished by the mark twains and mr. dooleys, which may be legitimately classed as "good humor," but which is so obvious as to be little conducive to that mental alertness and power of discrimination which we aim to acquire through this study. instead, let us seek the gracious company of william dean howells in the whimsical mood he so often induces. accepting, then, as a distinguishing characteristic of the humor we desire to cultivate, ability to enjoy the incongruous, the illusive, and the unexpected, let us look to a master maker of these conditions for class-room guidance in this effort. i suppose mr. lewis carroll has done more to develop this distinguishing characteristic than any other contributor to our letters. so we shall go on an excursion with his _alice_ into the _wonderland_ he made for her. if her frank enjoyment and free acceptance of the incongruous and the unexpected does not prove infectious, we must be forever written down among those who could not understand _peter pan_. we shall read and enjoy a chapter or two of _alice_ together in class, but for suggestive analysis along interpretative lines heaven forbid that i should lay violent hands on her text. no one can teach you to interpret your _alice_ save alice herself. you may walk with her, talk with her, dwindle and grow with her, join her adventures in any way she will permit, but you may not analyze nor dissect her. you may learn to interpret her only by living with her and loving her. now _æsop_ is another matter. however long you may live with him, however much you may love his fables, there is a trick of interpretation to be learned in voicing his philosophy which will develop the whimsical side of your sense of humor and counteract the insistent moral tone attached to every fable. suggestive analysis the danger in handling a fable does not lie, as the interpreter seems so often to think, in adopting too serious a tone. all the literature of pure fancy, from the humorous essays of bacon through the _arabian nights_ to the nonsensical rhymes of lear, must be treated with great gravity of tone and temper by the interpreter. it is not levity, but only whimsicality of temperament, i demand from one who would read from this particular lore to me. i want my whimsical friend to interpret my chaucer and crothers, _peter pan_ and the _pied piper_, hans christian andersen, carroll, and lear, and all the rest of the genial host who minister to my most precious sense of nonsense. and, perhaps, most of all, it is he (the whimsical friend) who must read fables to me, for a fable, the dictionary tells us, is "a story in which, by the imagined dealings of men with animals or mere things, or by the supposed doings of these alone, useful lessons are taught." now a moral "rubbed in" is like an overdose of certain kinds of medicine, where a little cures, too much kills. it is the presence of the _lesson_ which the whimsical tone alone can offset. the whimsical tone never falls into the monotone. whimsicality always seeks variety of emphasis and movement. let us apply this to the reading of the fable called the crow and the pitcher a crow, half dead with thirst, came upon a pitcher which had once been full of water; but when the crow put his beak into the mouth of the pitcher he found that only very little water was left in it, and that he could not reach far enough down to get at it. he tried, and he tried, but at last had to give up in despair. then a thought came to him, and he took a pebble and dropped it into the pitcher. then he took another pebble and dropped it into the pitcher. then he took another pebble and dropped that into the pitcher. then he took another pebble and dropped that into the pitcher. then he took another pebble and dropped that into the pitcher. then he took another pebble and dropped that into the pitcher. at last, at last, he saw the water mount up near him; and after casting in a few more pebbles he was able to quench his thirst and save his life. little by little does the trick. how shall we avoid the monotony of the lines beginning "then he took another pebble and dropped it into the pitcher"? note that this line is followed by one in which but two words are changed, and then by a line with but one change, and then by three lines with no change at all. our only hope lies in a variation of emphasis and movement--a whimsical variation. try it! give "another" the particular stress in reading the first of these lines. pause at the close of the line as if to study the effect of the pebble. in the next line "that," of course, takes the emphasis. pause before the word and give it a salient stress. the movement of the voice through these two lines has been deliberate. on the next line hasten it a little, and make the pause at the close of the line shorter. with the fourth line let the tone settle down to work. give each of the first five words equal stress. with the fifth and last line let us feel that you may "go on forever," and surprise us with a very short pause and a joyful stress upon "at last, at last," and don't fail to let the enthusiasm of your tone give us the full sense of the relief which comes with the mounting of the water, and the delight in the conclusion--"he was able to quench his thirst and save his life." and now, most whimsically, let us voice the moral, "little by little does the trick." selections for interpretation the lion and the mouse once when a lion was asleep a little mouse began running up and down upon him; this soon wakened the lion, who placed his huge paw upon him, and opened his big jaws to swallow him. "pardon, o king," cried the little mouse; "forgive me this time. i shall never forget it; who knows but what i may be able to do you a turn some of these days?" the lion was so tickled at the idea of the mouse being able to help him, that he lifted up his paw and let him go. some time after the lion was caught in a trap, and the hunters, who desired to carry him alive to the king, tied him to a tree while they went in search of a wagon to carry him on. just then the little mouse happened to pass by, and seeing the sad plight in which the lion was, went up to him and soon gnawed away the ropes that bound the king of the beasts. "was i not right?" said the little mouse. little friends may prove great friends. the wind and the sun the wind and the sun were disputing which was the stronger. suddenly they saw a traveler coming down the road, and the sun said: "i see a way to decide our dispute. whichever of us can cause that traveler to take off his cloak shall be regarded as the stronger. you begin." so the sun retired behind a cloud, and the wind began to blow as hard as he could upon the traveler. but the harder he blew the more closely did the traveler wrap his cloak round him, till at last the wind had to give up in despair. then the sun came out and shone in all his glory upon the traveler, who soon found it too hot to walk with his cloak on. kindness effects more than severity. and, now, here is alice herself to play with a little. go fearlessly into her _wonderland_ and let her teach you "how to meet the illusive, the incongruous, and the unexpected." let her minister to your ability to enjoy the imperfect. let her develop your _sense of humor_. if she cannot do so no one can. down the rabbit-hole[8] [8] these following selections are taken from harper & brothers' edition of _alice in wonderland_ and _alice through the looking-glass_. alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do; once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, "and what is the use of a book," thought alice, "without pictures or conversations?" so she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid) whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a white rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. there was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the rabbit say to itself, "oh dear! oh dear! i shall be too late!" (when she thought it over afterward, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the rabbit actually _took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried on, alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and, burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. in another moment down went alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. the rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down--so suddenly that alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very steep well. either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her, and to wonder what was going to happen next. first, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and bookshelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. she took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labeled "orange marmalade," but to her great disappointment it was empty. she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. "well!" thought alice to herself. "after such a fall as this, i shall think nothing of tumbling down-stairs! how brave they'll all think me at home! why, i wouldn't say anything about it, even if i fell off the top of the house!" (which was very likely true.) down, down, down. would the fall _never_ come to an end? "i wonder how many miles i've fallen by this time?" she said, aloud. "i must be getting somewhere near the center of the earth. let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, i think--" (for, you see, alice had learned several things of this sort in her lessons in the school-room, and though this was not a _very_ good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) "--yes, that's about the right distance--but then i wonder what latitude or longitude i've got to?" (alice had no idea what latitude was, or longitude either, but thought they were nice, grand words to say.) presently she began again. "i wonder if i shall fall right _through_ the earth? how funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward! the antipathies, i think--" (she was rather glad there _was_ no one listening this time, as it didn't sound at all the right word) "--but i shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. 'please, ma'am, is this new zealand or australia?'" (and she tried to courtesy as she spoke--fancy _courtesying_ as you're falling through the air! do you think you could manage it?) "and what an ignorant little girl she'll think me! no, it'll never do to ask; perhaps i shall see it written up somewhere." down, down, down. there was nothing else to do, so alice soon began talking again. "dinah'll miss me very much to-night, i should think!" (dinah was the cat.) "i hope they'll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. dinah, my dear, i wish you were down here with me! there are no mice in the air, i'm afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that's very like a mouse, you know. but do cats eat bats, i wonder?" and here alice began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of way, "do cats eat bats? do cats eat bats?" and sometimes, "do bats eat cats?" for, you see, as she couldn't answer either question, it didn't much matter which way she put it. she felt that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with dinah, and saying to her very earnestly, "now, dinah, tell me the truth: did you ever eat a bat?" when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap of dry leaves, and the fall was over. alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on her feet in a moment. she looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was another long passage, and the white rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it. there was not a moment to be lost; away went alice like the wind, and was just in time to hear it say, as it turned a corner, "oh my ears and whiskers, how late it's getting!" she was close behind it when she turned the corner, but the rabbit was no longer to be seen; she found herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging from the roof. there were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked; and when alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to get out again. suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and alice's first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the hall; but, alas! either the locks were too large or the key was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of them. however, the second time round she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high. she tried the little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted! alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole. she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. how she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head through the doorway! "and even if my head would go through," thought poor alice, "it would be of very little use without my shoulders. oh, how i wish i could shut up like a telescope! i think i could, if i only knew how to begin." for, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately that alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible. there seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or, at any rate, a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes. this time she found a little bottle on it ("which certainly was not here before," said alice), and round its neck a paper label, with the words "drink me" beautifully printed on it in large letters. it was all very well to say "drink me," but the wise little alice was not going to do _that_ in a hurry. "no, i'll look first," she said, "and see whether it's marked '_poison_' or not"; for she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burned, and eaten up by wild beasts, and many other unpleasant things, all because they _would_ not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that, if you cut your finger _very_ deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked "_poison_," it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later. however, this bottle was _not_ marked "poison," so alice ventured to taste it, and, finding it very nice (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavor of cherry-tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast), she very soon finished it off. * * * * * "what a curious feeling!" said alice. "i must be shutting up like a telescope." and so it was, indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going through the little door into that lovely garden. first, however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this, "for it might end, you know," said alice, "in my going out altogether, like a candle. i wonder what i should be like then?" and she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after it is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing. after a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided to go into the garden at once, but, alas for poor alice! when she got to the door she found she had forgotten the little golden key, and when she went back to the table for it she found she could not possibly reach it. she could see it quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her best to climb up one of the table-legs, but it was too slippery; and when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing sat down and cried. "come, there's no use in crying like that!" said alice to herself, rather sharply. "i advise you to leave off this minute!" she generally gave herself very good advice (though she very seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears in her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself, for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people. "but it's no use now," thought poor alice, "to pretend to be two people! why, there's hardly enough of me left to make _one_ respectable person!" soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table. she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words "eat me" were beautifully marked in currants. "well, i'll eat it," said alice, "and if it makes me larger i can reach the key, and if it makes me smaller i can creep under the door; so, either way, i'll get into the garden, and i don't care which happens!" she ate a little bit and said anxiously to herself, "which way? which way?" holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was growing, and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same size. to be sure, this generally happens when one eats cake, but alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way. so she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake. * * * * * the pool of tears "curiouser and curiouser!" cried alice (she was so much surprised that for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good english); "now i'm opening out like the largest telescope that ever was! good-by, feet!" (for when she looked down at her feet they seemed to be almost out of sight, they were getting so far off). "oh, my poor little feet, i wonder who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears? i'm sure _i_ sha'n't be able! i shall be a great deal too far off to trouble myself about you: you must manage the best way you can--but i must be kind to them," thought alice, "or perhaps they won't walk the way i want to go! let me see; i'll give them a new pair of boots every christmas." and she went on planning to herself how she would manage it. "they must go by the carrier," she thought; "and how funny it'll seem, sending presents to one's own feet! and how odd the directions will look!- _alice's right foot, esq. hearthrug, near the fender_ (_with alice's love_). oh dear, what nonsense i'm talking!" just then her head struck against the roof of the hall--in fact she was now more than nine feet high--and she at once took up the little golden key and hurried off to the garden door. poor alice! it was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to look through into the garden with one eye, but to get through was more hopeless than ever. she sat down and began to cry again. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself," said alice--"a great girl like you" (she might well say this), "to go on crying in this way! stop this moment, i tell you!" but she went on all the same, shedding gallons of tears, until there was a large pool all round her, about four inches deep and reaching half down the hall. after a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and she hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming. it was the white rabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in one hand and a large fan in the other. he came trotting along in a great hurry, muttering to himself as he came, "oh! the duchess, the duchess! oh! won't she be savage if i've kept her waiting!" alice felt so desperate that she was ready to ask help of any one; so, when the rabbit came near her, she began, in a low, timid voice, "if you please, sir--" the rabbit started violently, dropped the white kid gloves and the fan, and scurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go. alice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very hot, she kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking: "dear, dear! how queer everything is to-day! and yesterday things went on just as usual. i wonder if i've been changed in the night? let me think: was i the same when i got up this morning? i almost think i can remember feeling a little different. but if i'm not the same, the next question is, who in the world am i? ah, _that's_ the great puzzle!" and she began thinking over all the children she knew that were of the same age as herself, to see if she could have been changed for any of them. "i'm sure i'm not ada," she said, "for her hair goes in such long ringlets, and mine doesn't go in ringlets at all; and i'm sure i can't be mabel, for i know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she knows such a very little! besides, _she's_ she and _i'm_ i, and--oh dear, how puzzling it all is! i'll try if i know all the things i used to know. let me see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and four times seven is--oh dear! i shall never get to twenty at that rate! however, the multiplication table doesn't signify: let's try geography. london is the capital of paris, and paris is the capital of rome, and rome--no, _that's_ all wrong, i'm certain! i must have been changed for mabel! i'll try and say '_how doth the little--_'" and she crossed her hands on her lap as if she were saying lessons, and began to repeat it, but her voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words did not come the same as they used to do: how doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail, and pour the waters of the nile on every golden scale! how cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly spread his claws, and welcomes little fishes in with gently smiling jaws! "i'm sure those are not the right words," said poor alice, and her eyes filled with tears again as she went on: "i must be mabel, after all, and i shall have to go and live in that poky little house, and have next to no toys to play with, and oh! ever so many lessons to learn! no, i've made up my mind about it; if i'm mabel, i'll stay down here! it'll be no use their putting their heads down and saying, 'come up again, dear!' i shall only look up and say, 'who am i, then? tell me that first, and then, if i like being that person, i'll come up; if not, i'll stay down here till i'm somebody else.' but, oh dear!" cried alice, with a sudden burst of tears, "i do wish they _would_ put their heads down! i am so _very_ tired of being all alone here!" as she said this she looked down at her hands, and was surprised to see that she had put on one of the rabbit's little white kid gloves while she was talking. "how _can_ i have done that?" she thought. "i must be growing small again." she got up and went to the table to measure herself by it, and found that, as nearly as she could guess, she was now about two feet high, and was going on shrinking rapidly. she soon found out that the cause of this was the fan she was holding, and she dropped it hastily, just in time to avoid shrinking away altogether. "that _was_ a narrow escape!" said alice, a good deal frightened at the sudden change, but very glad to find herself still in existence; "and now for the garden!" and she ran with all speed back to the little door; but, alas! the little door was shut again, and the little golden key was lying on the glass table as before, "and things are worse than ever," thought the poor child, "for i never was so small as this before--never! and i declare it's too bad, that it is!" as she said these words her foot slipped, and in another moment, splash! she was up to her chin in salt water. her first idea was that she had somehow fallen into the sea, "and in that case i can go back by railway," she said to herself. (alice had been to the seaside once in her life, and had come to the general conclusion that wherever you go to on the english coast you find a number of bathing-machines in the sea, some children digging in the sand with wooden spades, then a row of lodging-houses, and behind them a railway station.) however, she soon made out that she was in the pool of tears which she had wept when she was nine feet high. "i wish i hadn't cried so much!" said alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out. "i shall be punished for it now, i suppose, by being drowned in my own tears! that _will_ be a queer thing, to be sure! however, everything is queer to-day." just then she heard something splashing about in the pool a little way off, and she swam nearer to make out what it was. at first she thought it must be a walrus or hippopotamus, but then she remembered how small she was now, and she soon made out that it was only a mouse that had slipped in like herself. "would it be of any use, now," thought alice, "to speak to this mouse? everything is so out-of-the-way down here that i should think very likely it can talk; at any rate, there's no harm in trying." so she began: "o mouse, do you know the way out of this pool? i am very tired of swimming about here, o mouse!" (alice thought this must be the right way of speaking to a mouse. she had never done such a thing before, but she remembered having seen in her brother's latin grammar, "a mouse--of a mouse--to a mouse--a mouse--o mouse!") the mouse looked at her rather inquisitively, and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes, but it said nothing. "perhaps it doesn't understand english," thought alice; "i dare say it's a french mouse, come over with william the conqueror." (for with all her knowledge of history, alice had no very clear notion how long ago anything had happened.) so she began again: "ou est ma chatte?" which was the first sentence in her french lesson-book. the mouse gave a sudden leap out of the water, and seemed to quiver all over with fright. "oh, i beg your pardon!" cried alice, hastily, afraid that she had hurt the poor animal's feelings. "i quite forgot you didn't like cats." "not like cats!" cried the mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice. "would _you_ like cats if you were me?" "well, perhaps not," said alice, in a soothing tone. "don't be angry about it. and yet i wish i could show you our cat dinah: i think you'd take a fancy to cats if you could only see her. she is such a dear, quiet thing," alice went on, half to herself, as she swam lazily about in the pool, "and she sits purring so nicely by the fire, licking her paws and washing her face--and she is such a nice soft thing to nurse--and she's such a capital one for catching mice--oh, i beg your pardon!" cried alice again, for this time the mouse was bristling all over, and she felt certain it must be really offended. "we won't talk about her any more, if you'd rather not." "we, indeed!" cried the mouse, who was trembling down to the end of his tail. "as if _i_ would talk on such a subject! our family always _hated_ cats--nasty, low, vulgar things! don't let me hear the name again!" "i won't, indeed!" said alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of conversation. "are you--are you fond--of--of dogs?" the mouse did not answer, so alice went on eagerly: "there is such a nice little dog near our house i should like to show you! a little bright-eyed terrier, you know, with oh, such long, curly brown hair! and it'll fetch things when you throw them, and it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things--i can't remember half of them--and it belongs to a farmer, you know, and he says it's so useful it's worth a hundred pounds! he says it kills all the rats and--oh dear!" cried alice in a sorrowful tone, "i'm afraid i've offended it again!" for the mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went. so she called softly after it, "mouse dear! do come back again, and we won't talk about cats, or dogs either, if you don't like them!" when the mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her. its face was quite pale (with passion, alice thought), and it said in a low, trembling voice, "let us get to the shore, and then i'll tell you my history, and you'll understand why it is i hate cats and dogs." it was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a duck and a dodo, a lory and an eaglet, and several other curious creatures. alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. the walrus and the carpenter the sun was shining on the sea, shining with all his might; he did his very best to make the billows smooth and bright- and this was odd, because it was the middle of the night. the moon was shining sulkily, because she thought the sun had got no business to be there after the day was done- "it's very rude of him," she said, "to come and spoil the fun!" the sea was wet as wet could be, the sands were dry as dry. you could not see a cloud, because no cloud was in the sky; no birds were flying overhead- there were no birds to fly. the walrus and the carpenter were walking close at hand; they wept like anything to see such quantities of sand- "if this were only cleared away," they said, "it would be grand!" "if seven maids with seven mops swept it for half a year, do you suppose," the walrus said, "that they could get it clear?" "i doubt it," said the carpenter, and shed a bitter tear. "o oysters, come and walk with us!" the walrus did beseech. "a pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, along the briny beach; we cannot do with more than four, to give a hand to each." the eldest oyster looked at him, but never a word he said; the eldest oyster winked his eye, and shook his heavy head- meaning to say he did not choose to leave the oyster-bed. but four young oysters hurried up, all eager for the treat; their coats were brushed, their faces washed, their shoes were clean and neat- and this was odd, because, you know, they hadn't any feet. four other oysters followed them, and yet another four; and thick and fast they came at last, and more, and more, and more- all hopping through the frothy waves, and scrambling to the shore. the walrus and the carpenter walked on a mile or so, and then they rested on a rock conveniently low- and all the little oysters stood and waited in a row. "the time has come," the walrus said, "to talk of many things: of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax- of cabbages--and kings- and why the sea is boiling hot- and whether pigs have wings." "but wait a bit," the oysters cried, "before we have our chat; for some of us are out of breath, and all of us are fat!" "no hurry!" said the carpenter. they thanked him much for that. "a loaf of bread," the walrus said, "is what we chiefly need; pepper and vinegar besides are very good indeed- now, if you're ready, oysters dear, we can begin to feed." "but not on us!" the oysters cried, turning a little blue. "after such kindness, that would be a dismal thing to do!" "the night is fine," the walrus said. "do you admire the view? "it was so kind of you to come! and you are very nice!" the carpenter said nothing but, "cut us another slice. i wish you were not quite so deaf- i've had to ask you twice!" "it seems a shame," the walrus said, "to play them such a trick. after we've brought them out so far, and made them trot so quick!" the carpenter said nothing but, "the butter's spread too thick!" "i weep for you," the walrus said; "i deeply sympathize." with sobs and tears he sorted out those of the largest size, holding his pocket-handkerchief before his streaming eyes. "o oysters," said the carpenter, "you've had a pleasant run! shall we be trotting home again?" but answer came there none- and this was scarcely odd, because they'd eaten every one. we must not deny to humor and fancy the opportunity for creative effort offered to other faculties in our previous studies. what form shall the effort take: fable, fairy tale, a whimsical play of fancy in essay, or merely a nonsense rhyme? i think we must bar the _limerick_ from our serious creative efforts in the study. you may engage as a class in an extemporaneous contest in the making of this infectious form of verse if you like. meanwhile, there is still another class-room test of humor which should be made,--the test of the clever anecdote. there is nothing which so effectually discloses the quality of your sense of humor as your attitude toward so-called funny stories. judgment in such a case will rest upon three points: what you think is "funny" enough to tell; when you judge it "apropos" to tell; and the manner of the telling. three warnings are in order at this point. if you find that you must preface your anecdote with the question too often heard, "do you think you can stand this story?--it really _is_ clever," in the name of clean humor, don't tell it! if you find you must introduce your anecdote with the remark, "apropos of nothing," or "this is not apropos, but"--in the name of "sulphitic" humor, don't tell it; finally, if you don't know _how_ to tell it, in the name of any and all humor, _don't tell it_. with these cautions in mind, i shall ask you to bring to class to-morrow your best three "funny stories." conflicting choice is not likely to have appropriated all three of your favorite anecdotes. should you find that it has done so, never mind. your taste, though it coincides with another's, can be quite as well questioned or commended; and the manner of your telling will be subjected to trial by comparison, which, if not always comfortable, is always helpful (_when met in the right spirit_). remember, the serious creative work you are to produce is to take the form of a fable, fairy story, or humorous essay. fourth study to develop imaginative vigor in one of the great manufacturing towns of the northwest there are some twenty-five thousand girls employed in factories. the city permits conditions of work hostile to the physical life of these girls. civic reform is trying to control these conditions. in time it doubtless will succeed in doing so; meanwhile it makes efforts in other directions. it establishes working girls' clubs. a class in literature in one of these clubs enlisted the services of a comprehending young teacher, who kept the girls interested for more than two years. a little girl from a bag factory entered this class. she came to every meeting of the first year. she did not join in the discussions nor ask questions nor evince unusual intelligence or enjoyment, but she _came_ every night. the class began its second year. the little girl from the bag factory was the first to enroll. the teacher could not cover the surprise in her question, "are you coming into the class again?" the girl's breathless "oh yes" sent her to investigate the case. she went to the factory. she found the child standing at a bench folding bags. eight hours a day she folded bags. a swing back on her right foot with the stuff of which the bag was made grasped in her hands--a swing forward, and her hands brought the edges of the stuff together evenly. over and over a thousand times the single motion repeated made up the girl's day. "it used to make me tired," she said, simply. "but it doesn't any more?" "no, because now i forget what i am doing sometimes. i have my book, you see. they let me fasten it here." there it was--a paper copy of shelley's poems. the print was good; the teacher had seen to that. she had observed that factory girls' eyes are not always very strong. the book was fastened to the front of the desk. the child could catch a line from time to time without interrupting her bag-folding. "but i know most of the poems we have studied in class by heart." so she had to recall but a line, and then off she would go through the windows of the stifling factory into the open fields on the wings of her _imagination_. she was a swift, sure, little workman; her eye watched the stuff before her and measured it truly; her hands obeyed her eye, did her work efficiently, and "kept her job." but the eye of her imagination had been opened in the literature class and kept her soul alive in spite "of her job." this is a true story. it has significance for you and me. if through the use of her imagination a little factory girl can escape from the monotony of bag-folding, and find freedom and joy in the lyric world shelley has created, what limit need be set to our emancipation through the development of this faculty? but emancipation is but one result of such development. listen to david as he stands with his harp before the king in browning's story of _saul_. already his song has released the monarch from the depths of his great despair, but now comes the boy's cry: what spell or what charm (for, awhile there was trouble within me) what next should i urge to sustain him where song had restored him?... then fancies grew rife which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheep fed in silence--above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep; and i lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie 'neath his ken, though i saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky: and i laughed--"since my days are ordained to be passed with my flocks, let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks, dream the life i am never to mix with, and image the show of mankind as they live in those fashions i hardly shall know! schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains, and the prudence that keeps what men strive for." and now those old trains of vague thought came again; i grew surer; so, once more the string of my harp made response to my spirit.... so the imagination of the young shepherd boy had not only disregarded the limits of his actual environment and escaped in fancy to the great world beyond, but so vividly had he realized that world _through his imagination_ that his sympathies had been made broad to comprehend a monarch's need and his song potent to meet it. experience alone gives comprehension. we are prone to think that experience is limited by our actual horizon. we need to know that experience has no limit save that which is set by the limit of our imaginative insight. no door of life is closed to the imaginative mind and heart. the world is its playground to wander in at will. experience, and thorough experience, comprehension of life is at the command of _imagination_. life can be intelligently apprehended on the material plane through trained senses. life can be vividly realized on the spirit's plane only through a trained imagination. it is only vivid realization of life at every point which makes it worth living. you may see the lark long after he is lost to my duller eye in our common sky, you may hear the song when my less keen ear no longer catches a faintest thread of melody; but unless the eye and ear of your imagination match mine you shall not _vividly realize_ flight or song, and so i shall follow both long after they are lost to you. your skylark will pass with the moment of his rapturous song-flight, while mine shall remain forever a spirit of joy to be recalled at will for my spirit's refreshing. looking then upon imagination as a key to that comprehension of life which clarifies and constitutes its worth, let us eagerly enter upon the cultivation of such power. we have left this question of imaginative development as a definite exercise to a fifth place in our interpretative study, not because it is less vital to effective expression than the first four subjects we have considered, but because _balanced expression_ is our aim, and imagination once given free play may easily impair that harmonious development of all our faculties which makes for balance in expression. of course there is no phase of the study of interpretation which, when rightly conducted, does not indirectly or directly involve the training of the imagination. on the other hand, training of the imagination wisely conducted may comprehend and carry on development along all other lines of evolution in expression. a sensitive imagination trained and controlled to its highest power of apprehension must make for sympathy and intelligence in thought and feeling, keep humor sane, and give direction to purpose. but imaginative vigor set free to the uses of thought and emotion _already_ disciplined, to _conscious_ purpose and to _good_ humor, becomes a safe master of expressive living. the material through which we are to exercise the imagination and develop imaginative vigor is the narrative form of discourse. narration is successful when it records or has the effect of recording actual experience. a story (according to the authority we so often invoke,--mr. gardiner), "whether it be as simple as those of the book of genesis or as complex as mr. james or mr. meredith, must carry the effect of the concreteness, and, as it were, the solidity of life." the plot, the characters, the setting of a story _which is to live_, must have the vividness of real experience. this does not mean that the creator of the story must have actually experienced the plot, the people, and the pictures which together make up his tale--they may be the product of actual experience or of imagination--but it does mean that while he is putting these elements together and creating his narrative he must realize _as though it were actual experience_ the incident of his plot with the characters and in the atmosphere of his creation. such realization can only come through vivid imagination. exactly the same demand is made upon the imagination of the interpreter. when you retell the tale of a master creator of stories your interpretation will be convincing, exactly as was his creation,--through the lucid play of a vivid imagination. you must make me feel that i am in the presence of incidents, characters, pictures which you yourself have experienced. nay, more, you must make me feel that i myself am actually meeting these people, seeing these pictures, taking part in these incidents, as you relive for me _in imagination_ at the moment of your interpretation the tale you are retelling to me. suggestive analysis we shall use for suggestive analysis in this study not a complete specimen of narration, but several examples illustrating two of the three elements necessary to the personnel of a good story. these three recognized elements are the setting or situation which the pictures compose, the atmosphere which the characters create, and the plot or the action in which the characters engage. we shall leave the question of the plot to class work upon the selections from epic poetry to be considered later in this study. suppose we test our imaginations in the analysis of a situation or setting before we attempt a character study. remember the situation is to be realized through imagination as though it were actual experience. it is to be _recreated_. give your imagination full play in this opening chapter of george eliot's _mill on the floss_. let us read the first sentence: a wide plain, where the broadening floss hurries on between its green banks to the sea, and the loving tide, rushing to meet it, checks its passage with an impetuous embrace. can you see and feel the elements of this picture! you have never experienced a tide river? never mind! there is enough in the picture which _is_ familiar to your actual senses through experience to brace your imagination for a grasp of the unfamiliar elements. the wide plain, the river hurrying between green banks--no apperceptive background fails thus far in the picture. what do we mean by apperceptive background? let us investigate for a moment the psychology involved in the art of "making pictures." let us get back of this word-picture. rather let us stay this side of it. look at the page before you not with the inner eye of your imagination, but with the outer eye--the eye which is merely the organ of the sense of sight. use your eye as a physical sense only. what does your eye carry to your mind when you look at this page? "black letters grouped into words on a white surface." did you get all these qualities at once? yes, because you have seen other printed pages. can you wipe out of your mind your knowledge of paper, print, and words? can you imagine looking on such a page as this for the first time--_perceiving_ it for the first time? if you can do this you will arrive at an understanding of apperceptive background through its elimination. you will realize, that all that is in the back of your mind, stored there by its previous acquaintance with other printed pages, makes up the apperceptive background by which you get a conception of this page. that conception comes first through your physical sense of sight. you may perceive also through touch, through feeling, for instance, the quality of paper. but all that you perceive in this initial process,--the stimulus which comes through the physical senses, yields little to the complete conception as compared with the yield of your so-called _mental senses_. it is when you have fully apperceived the object that your conception is complete. it is when you have brought to bear upon this page (still looked upon, remember, merely as a printed page regardless of the matter behind the print) all your previous knowledge,--it is when you have observed that the paper is of good quality, that the page is closely set, that the print is excellent, that the margin is wide,--it is when you have compared it in memory with other pages in other books,--it is when you have not only perceived but _ap_perceived it that you have really gained a conception of it. of course, if you are a type-setter, or a proof-reader, or a printer, or an editor, or one connected with book-making in any least or last capacity, you will see a printed page quite lost to me, because your apperceptive background will outmatch mine as to paper, print, margin, and type. good! i yield to you from type-setter to editor! but i challenge you to another contest over the same page. match with me now conceptions gained from another view of this same printed matter. forget now type, paper, margins, and words--yes, forget the words as printed words--look back of them with me. what do you see now on the page? still words? look behind them at the pictures! now, what do you see? "a wide plain, a river, green banks, the sea!" yes, but i see more than that! and you do, too? "the river flows between green banks?" you have missed a point. how does she flow? ah, yes, "she hurries on." where? "to the sea!" yes! and what meets her? "the tide!" yes, the loving tide meets her! but how? "rushing, he checks her passage in an impetuous embrace!" "you _see_ all this!" you say. yes, but do you hear it, smell it, taste it, feel it? are you, too, caught up in that impetuous embrace? no? ah, then your imagination is only half awake. no, it is not a question of background or actual experience now. there are enough familiar elements, as i have said before, to rouse your senses to _vividly realize_ the picture as a whole if you will not shut the door to such realization--that door is your imagination. open it! open it! now i shall close the book and ask the class to do likewise, while you read once more _to us_ these first sentences, paint for us this picture. yes, now you are using your imagination to stimulate my senses and awake my imagination, but you must take heed. you must let me enjoy this picture as a whole. you must let me see, feel, taste, smell, all "in the same breath." remember it is a picture. don't disregard its perspective. let all the elements rest in proper relation one to another and to the whole--as george eliot placed them when she made the setting. the atmosphere is on the whole full of peace. the river "hurries," _but_ the "plain is wide"; the tide "rushes," but it is a "_loving_ tide," even though its embrace be "impetuous." try it once more! is there not the joy of creation in such interpretation? let us read on! you read to us still. on this mighty tide the black ships--laden with the fresh-scented fir-planks, with rounded sacks of oil-bearing seed, or with dark glitter of coal--are borne along to the town of st. ogg's, which shows its aged, fluted red roofs and the broad gables of its wharves between the low wooded hill and the river-brink, tingeing the water with a soft purple hue under the transient glance of this february sun. far away on each hand stretch the rich pastures and the patches of dark earth, made ready for the seed of broad-leaved, green crops, or touched already with the tint of the tender-bladed autumn-sown corn. there is a remnant still of the last year's golden clusters of beehive ricks rising at intervals beyond the hedgerows; and everywhere the hedgerows are studded with trees: the distant ships seem to be lifting their masts and stretching their red-brown sails close among the branches of the spreading ash. just by the red-roofed town the tributary ripple flows with a lively current into the floss. how lovely the little river is, with its dark, changing wavelets! it seems to me like a living companion while i wander along the bank and listen to its low, placid voice, as to the voice of one who is dear and loving. i remember these large, dipping willows. i remember the stone bridge. and this is dorlcote mill. i must stand a minute or two here on the bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it is far on in the afternoon. even in this leafless time of departing february it is pleasant to look at--perhaps the chill, damp season adds a charm to the trimly kept, comfortable dwelling-house, as old as the elms and chestnuts that shelter it from the northern blast. the stream is brimful now, and lies high in this little withy plantation, and half drowns the grassy fringe of the croft in front of the house. as i look at the full stream, the vivid grass, the delicate bright-green powder softening the outline of the great trunks and branches that gleam from under the bare purple boughs, i am in love with moistness, and envy the white ducks that are dipping their heads far into the water here among the withes, unmindful of the awkward appearance they make in the drier world above. the rush of the water and the booming of the mill bring a dreamy deafness, which seems to heighten the peacefulness of the scene. they are like a grand curtain of sound, shutting one out from the world beyond. and now there is the thunder of the huge covered wagon coming home with sacks of grain. that honest wagoner is thinking of his dinner, getting sadly dry in the oven at this late hour; but he will not touch it till he has fed his horses--the strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts, who, i fancy, are looking mild reproach at him from between their blinkers, that he should crack his whip at them in that awful manner, as if they needed that hint! see how they stretch their shoulders up the slope toward the bridge, with all the more energy because they are so near home! look at their grand shaggy feet, that seem to grasp the firm earth, at the patient strength of their neck, bowed under the heavy collar, at the mighty muscles of their struggling haunches! i should like well to hear them neigh over their hardly earned feed of corn, and see them, with their moist necks freed from the harness, dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy pond. now they are on the bridge, and down they go again at a swifter pace, and the arch of the covered wagon disappears at the turning behind the trees. now i can turn my eyes toward the mill again, and watch the unresting wheel sending out its diamond jets of water. that little girl is watching it too: she has been standing on just the same spot at the edge of the water ever since i paused on the bridge. and that queer white cur with the brown ear seems to be leaping and barking in ineffectual remonstrance with the wheel; perhaps he is jealous, because his playfellow in the beaver bonnet is so rapt in its movement. it is time the little playfellow went in, i think; and there is a very bright fire to tempt her: the red light shines out under the deepening gray of the sky. it is time, too, for me to leave off resting my arms on the cold stone of this bridge. ah, my arms are really benumbed. i have been pressing my elbows on the arms of my chair and dreaming that i was standing on the bridge in front of dorlcote mill, as it looked one february afternoon many years ago. before i dozed off, i was going to tell you what mr. and mrs. tulliver were talking about as they sat by the bright fire in the left-hand parlor on that very afternoon i have been dreaming of. if, in your interpretation of this passage, a sensitive imagination free, but controlled by vital thought and intelligent feeling, has found in trained instruments a lucid channel for expression, then, at the close of your reading, _we_, your auditors, shall find our arms really benumbed from pressing our elbows on the arms of our chairs as we dream with you that we are standing on the bridge in front of dorlcote mill--the mill on the floss, which we find on awakening is but the title and setting of a great author's great story. we turn now to the second element of narration--the _characters_. the setting we have just analyzed has introduced us to the main characters of a great story. our interest is already awake to the little girl who has been watching with us the unresting wheel of the mill. why not take maggie tulliver for our character study? to follow maggie but a little way is to find tom. this is well for us, because we need to study both types. let us read from the chapter called "tom comes home" in the life of the boy and girl. tom comes home tom was to arrive early in the afternoon, and there was another fluttering heart besides maggie's when it was late enough for the sound of the gig-wheels to be expected; for if mrs. tulliver had a strong feeling, it was fondness for her boy. at last the sound came--that quick light bowling of the gig-wheels--and in spite of the wind, which was blowing the clouds about, and was not likely to respect mrs. tulliver's curls and cap-strings, she came outside the door, and even held her hand on maggie's offending head, forgetting all the griefs of the morning. "there he is, my sweet lad! but lord ha' mercy! he's got never a collar on; it's been lost on the road, i'll be bound, and spoiled the set." mrs. tulliver stood with her arms open; maggie jumped first on one leg and then on the other; while tom descended from the gig, and said, with masculine reticence as to the tender emotions, "hallo! yap--what! are you there?" nevertheless, he submitted to be kissed willingly enough, though maggie hung on his neck in rather a strangling fashion, while his blue-gray eyes wandered toward the croft and the lambs and the river, where he promised himself that he would begin to fish the first thing to-morrow morning. he was one of those lads that grow everywhere in england and at twelve or thirteen years of age look as much alike as goslings--a lad with light-brown hair, cheeks of cream and roses, full lips, indeterminate nose and eyebrows--a physiognomy in which it seems impossible to discern anything but the generic character of boyhood; as different as possible from poor maggie's phiz, which nature seemed to have molded and colored with the most decided intention. but that same nature has the deep cunning which hides itself under the appearance of openness, so that simple people think they can see through her quite well, and all the while she is secretly preparing a refutation of their confident prophecies. under these average boyish physiognomies that she seems to turn off by the gross, she conceals some of her most rigid, inflexible purposes, some of her most unmodifiable characters; and the dark-eyed, demonstrative, rebellious girl may after all turn out to be a passive being compared with this pink-and-white bit of masculinity with the indeterminate features. "maggie," said tom, confidentially, taking her into a corner as soon as his mother was gone out to examine his box, and the warm parlor had taken off the chill he had felt from the long drive, "you don't know what i've got in _my_ pockets," nodding his head up and down as a means of rousing her sense of mystery. "no," said maggie. "how stodgy they look, tom! is it marls (marbles) or cobnuts?" maggie's heart sank a little, because tom always said it was "no good" playing with _her_ at those games--she played so badly. "marls! no; i've swopped all my marls with the little fellows, and cobnuts are no fun, you silly, only when the nuts are green. but see here!" he drew something half out of his right-hand pocket. "what is it?" said maggie, in a whisper. "i can see nothing but a bit of yellow." "why, it's ... a ... new ... guess, maggie." "oh, i _can't_ guess, tom," said maggie, impatiently. "don't be a spitfire, else i won't tell you," said tom, thrusting his hand back into his pocket and looking determined. "no, tom," said maggie, imploringly, laying hold of the arm that was held stiffly in the pocket. "i'm not cross, tom; it was only because i can't bear guessing. _please_ be good to me." tom's arm slowly relaxed, and he said, "well, then, it's a new fish-line--two new uns--one for you, maggie, all to yourself. i wouldn't go halves in the toffee and ginger-bread on purpose to save the money; gibson and spouncer fought with me because i wouldn't. and here's hooks--see here! i say, _won't_ we go and fish to-morrow down by round pool? and you shall catch your own fish, maggie, and put the worms on, and everything--won't it be fun?" maggie's answer was to throw her arms around tom's neck and hug him, and hold her cheek against his without speaking, while he slowly unwound some line, saying, after a pause: "wasn't i a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to yourself? you know, i needn't have bought it if i hadn't liked." "yes, very, very good. i _do_ love you, tom." tom had put the line back in his pocket, and was looking at the hooks one by one, before he spoke again. "and the fellows fought me because i wouldn't give in about the toffee." "oh, dear! i wish they wouldn't fight at your school, tom. didn't it hurt you?" "hurt me? no," said tom, putting up the hooks again, taking out a large pocket-knife, and slowly opening the largest blade, which he looked at meditatively as he rubbed his finger along it. then he added: "i gave spouncer a black eye, i know--that's what he got by wanting to leather _me_; i wasn't going to go halves because anybody leathered me." "oh, how brave you are, tom! i think you're like samson. if there came a lion roaring at me, i think you'd fight him--wouldn't you, tom?" "how can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? there's no lions only in the shows." "no; but if we were in the lion countries--i mean, in africa, where it's very hot--the lions eat people there. i can show it to you in the book where i read it." "well, i should get a gun and shoot him." "but if you hadn't got a gun--we might have gone out, you know, not thinking, just as we go fishing; and then a great lion might run toward us roaring, and we couldn't get away from him. what should you do, tom?" tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, saying: "but the lion _isn't_ coming. what's the use of talking?" "but i like to fancy how it would be," said maggie, following him. "just think what you would do, tom?" "oh, don't bother, maggie! you're such a silly--i shall go and see my rabbits." maggie's heart began to flutter with fear. she dared not tell the sad truth at once, but she walked after tom in trembling silence as he went out, thinking how she could tell him the news so as to soften at once his sorrow and anger; for maggie dreaded tom's anger of all things--it was quite a different anger from her own. "tom," she said, timidly, when they were out-of-doors, "how much money did you give for your rabbits?" "two half-crowns and a sixpence," said tom, promptly. "i think i've got a great deal more than that in my steel purse up-stairs. i'll ask mother to give it you." "what for?" said tom. "i don't want _your_ money, you silly thing. i've got a great deal more money than you, because i'm a boy. i always have half-sovereigns and sovereigns for my christmas boxes, because i shall be a man, and you only have five-shilling pieces, because you're only a girl." "well, but, tom--if mother would let me give you two half-crowns and a sixpence out of my purse to put into your pocket to spend, you know, and buy some more rabbits with it?" "more rabbits? i don't want any more." "oh, but, tom, they're all dead." tom stopped immediately in his walk and turned round toward maggie. "you forgot to feed 'em, then, and harry forgot?" he said, his color heightening for a moment, but soon subsiding. "i'll pitch into harry--i'll have him turned away. and i don't love you, maggie. you sha'n't go fishing with me to-morrow. i told you to go and see the rabbits every day." he walked on again. "yes. but i forgot--and i couldn't help it, indeed, tom. i'm so very sorry," said maggie, while the tears rushed fast. "you're a naughty girl," said tom, severely, "and i'm sorry i bought you the fish-line. i don't love you." "oh, tom, it's very cruel," sobbed maggie. "i'd forgive you if _you_ forgot anything--i wouldn't mind what you did--i'd forgive you and love you." "yes, you're a silly; but i never _do_ forget things--_i_ don't." "oh, please forgive me, tom; my heart will break," said maggie, shaking with sobs, clinging to tom's arm, and laying her wet cheek on his shoulder. tom shook her off, and stopped again, saying in a peremptory tone: "now, maggie, you just listen. aren't i a good brother to you?" "ye-ye-es," sobbed maggie, her chin rising and falling convulsively. "didn't i think about your fish-line all this quarter, and mean to buy it, and saved my money o' purpose, and wouldn't go halves in the toffee, and spouncer fought me because i wouldn't?" "ye-ye-es ... and i ... lo-lo-love you so, tom." "but you're a naughty girl. last holidays you licked the paint off my lozenge-box, and the holidays before that you let the boat drag my fish-line down when i set you to watch it, and you pushed your head through my kite, all for nothing." "but i didn't mean," said maggie; "i couldn't help it." "yes, you could," said tom, "if you'd minded what you were doing. and you're a naughty girl, and you sha'n't go fishing with me to-morrow." with this terrible conclusion, tom ran away from maggie toward the mill, meaning to greet luke there, and complain to him of harry. maggie stood motionless, except from her sobs, for a minute or two; then she turned round and ran into the house, and up to her attic, where she sat on the floor, and laid her head against the worm-eaten shelf, with a crushing sense of misery. tom was come home, and she had thought how happy she should be--and now he was cruel to her. what use was anything, if tom didn't love her? oh, he was very cruel! hadn't she wanted to give him the money, and said how very sorry she was? she knew she was naughty to her mother, but she had never been naughty to tom--had never _meant_ to be naughty to him. "oh, he is cruel!" maggie sobbed aloud, finding a wretched pleasure in the hollow resonance that came through the long empty space of the attic. she never thought of beating or grinding her fetish; she was too miserable to be angry. these bitter sorrows of childhood! when sorrow is all new and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer seems measureless. this text furnishes an easier exercise in interpretation, does it not? it does not require a great stretch of imagination to slip back five, ten, a dozen years to play with these children. but i cannot let you _play_ with them. we want to meet and know them. the task for your imagination is not so simple as you think. it is called upon to engage in character interpretation. you cannot be allowed to merely watch maggie and tom play, or even to play with them. you must use your imagination to get inside the minds, hearts, souls of this boy and girl and reveal them to us. you must relive this scene for us, becoming first maggie and then tom. this exercise of your imagination belongs in its final and complete stage to the next and last of our studies, and to work on the drama; so we shall not demand too much of you along this line here, and i shall confine my suggestive analysis of the text to the following questions: define the relation existing between this brother and sister indicated by this scene. is this scene typical of their relation? is it a relation likely to obtain throughout their lives? why? define the dispositions of these two children by applying to each three adjectives. will maggie or tom make the sacrifices inevitable to such a relation? characterize as to inflection and tone-color maggie's voice and tom's. (if your use of this book has been intelligently directed you have already made a study of these two elements of a vocal vocabulary--_inflection_ and _tone-color_.) answer these questions and re-read the scene. selections for interpretation the following selections were chosen for this study with a double concern in the choice,--concern for the development of imaginative vigor in vocal interpretation; concern for the development of a sense of plot in narrative composition. the demand upon the interpreter of any of these poems, for sensitive progressive play of imagination, in carrying an auditor through a series of events up to a critical issue, cannot fail to develop, with imaginative vigor, a new sensitiveness of creative instinct to the third element in narrative,--action. your imagination given free play can no more carry the "good news" from ghent to aix on this wild ride, and in the feat fail to outgrow all its former dimensions, than could the heart of roland's master remain untouched in actually performing the feat itself. how they brought the good news from ghent to aix[9] [9] the "good news" is that of the "pacification de gant," concluded in 1576. it was a treaty of union between holland, zealand, and the southern netherlands, against spain, under tyrannical philip ii. the treaty was greeted rapturously by the frontier cities, because it was expected to free the netherlands from spanish power. "there is," writes mr. browning, "no sort of historical foundation about 'good news from ghent.' i wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel off the african coast, after i had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse 'york,' then in my stable at home. it was written in pencil on the fly-leaf of bartoli's _simboli_, i remember." while there is, then, no historical foundation for the "gallop," the verisimilitude of the situation is perfect. aix might easily have resolved to set herself on fire at a given hour, rather than submit herself and her citizens piecemeal to the torch of the persecutor. the "horse without peer" might possibly have galloped the ninety-odd miles between ghent and aix, but the feat would be a marvelous one. this poem and "hervé riel," with the accompanying notes, are reprinted from _select poems of robert browning_, edited by william rolfe, a.m., and héloise e. hersey, and published by harper & brothers. i i sprang to the stirrup, and joris, and he; i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts 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. ii 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 check-strap, chained slacker the bit, nor galloped less steadily roland a whit. iii '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!" iv at aerschot, 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; v 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. vi 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. vii so we were left galloping, joris and i, past looz and past tongres, 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! viii how they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; 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. ix then i cast loose my buff-coat, 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. x 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. --browning. lochinvar oh, young lochinvar is come out of the west, through all the wide border his steed was the best; and save his good broadsword he weapon had none, he rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. so faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, there never was knight like the young lochinvar. he stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone, he swam the esk river where ford there was none; but, ere he alighted at netherby gate, the bride had consented, the gallant came late: for a laggard in love and a dastard in war was to wed the fair ellen of brave lochinvar. so boldly he entered the netherby hall, 'mong bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all; then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, for the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,- "oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, or to dance at our bridal, young lord lochinvar?" "i long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied; love swells like the solway, but ebbs like its tide; and now am i come, with this lost love of mine, to lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. there are maidens in scotland more lovely by far that would gladly be bride to the young lochinvar." the bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up; he quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup; she looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, with a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye. he took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,- "now tread we a measure!" said young lochinvar. so stately his form, and so lovely her face, that never a hall such a galliard did grace; while her mother did fret, and her father did fume, and the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, and the bride-maidens whispered, "'twere better by far to have matched our fair cousin with young lochinvar!" one touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, when they reached the hall door, where the charger stood near; so light to the croup the fair lady he swung, so light to the saddle before her he sprung! "she is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; they'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young lochinvar. there was mounting 'mong graemes of the netherby clan:- fosters, fenwicks, and musgraves, they rode and they ran; there was racing and chasing on cannobie lea,- but the lost bride of netherby ne'er did they see. so daring in love, and so dauntless in war, have ye e'er heard of gallant like young lochinvar? --walter scott. king volmer and elsie _after the danish of christian winter_ where, over heathen doom-rings and gray stones of the horg, in its little christian city stands the church of vordingborg, in merry mood king volmer sat, forgetful of his power, as idle as the goose of gold that brooded on his tower. out spake the king to henrik, his young and faithful squire: "dar'st trust thy little elsie, the maid of thy desire?" "of all the men in denmark she loveth only me: as true to me is elsie as thy lily is to thee." loud laughed the king: "to-morrow shall bring another day, when i myself will test her; she will not say me nay." thereat the lords and gallants, that round about him stood, wagged all their heads in concert and smiled as courtiers should. the gray lark sings o'er vordingborg, and on the ancient town from the tall tower of valdemar the golden goose looks down: the yellow grain is waving in the pleasant wind of morn, the wood resounds with cry of hounds and blare of hunter's horn. in the garden of her father little elsie sits and spins, and, singing with the early birds, her daily task begins. gay tulips bloom and sweet mint curls around her garden-bower, but she is sweeter than the mint and fairer than the flower. about her form her kirtle blue clings lovingly, and, white as snow, her loose sleeves only leave her small, round wrists in sight; below the modest petticoat can only half conceal the motion of the lightest foot that ever turned a wheel. the cat sits purring at her side, bees hum in sunshine warm; but, look! she starts, she lifts her face, she shades it with her arm. and, hark! a train of horsemen, with sound of dog and horn, come leaping o'er the ditches, come trampling down the corn! merrily rang the bridle-reins, and scarf and plume streamed gay, as fast beside her father's gate the riders held their way; and one was brave in scarlet cloak, with golden spur on heel, and, as he checked his foaming steed, the maiden checked her wheel. "all hail among thy roses, the fairest rose to me! for weary months in secret my heart has longed for thee!" what noble knight was this? what words for modest maiden's ear? she dropped a lowly courtesy of bashfulness and fear. she lifted up her spinning-wheel; she fain would seek the door, trembling in every limb, her cheek with blushes crimsoned o'er. "nay, fear me not," the rider said, "i offer heart and hand, bear witness these good danish knights who round about me stand. i grant you time to think of this, to answer as you may, for to-morrow, little elsie, shall bring another day." he spake the old phrase slyly as, glancing round his train, he saw his merry followers seek to hide their smiles in vain. "the snow of pearls i'll scatter in your curls of golden hair, i'll line with furs the velvet of the kirtle that you wear; all precious gems shall twine your neck; and in a chariot gay you shall ride, my little elsie, behind four steeds of gray. and harps shall sound, and flutes shall play, and brazen lamps shall glow; on marble floors your feet shall weave the dances to and fro; at frosty eventide for us the blazing hearth shall shine, while, at our ease, we play at draughts, and drink the blood-red wine." then elsie raised her head and met her wooer face to face; a roguish smile shone in her eye and on her lip found place. back from her low white forehead the curls of gold she threw, and lifted up her eyes to his, steady and clear and blue. "i am a lowly peasant, and you a gallant knight; i will not trust a love that soon may cool and turn to slight. if you would wed me henceforth be a peasant, not a lord; i bid you hang upon the wall your tried and trusty sword." "to please you, elsie, i will lay keen dynadel away, and in its place will swing the scythe and mow your father's hay." "nay, but your gallant scarlet cloak my eyes can never bear; a vadmal coat, so plain and gray, is all that you must wear." "well, vadmal will i wear for you," the rider gaily spoke, "and on the lord's high altar i'll lay my scarlet cloak." "but mark," she said, "no stately horse my peasant love must ride, a yoke of steers before the plow is all that he must guide." the knight looked down upon his steed: "well, let him wander free,- no other man must ride the horse that has been backed by me. henceforth i'll tread the furrow and to my oxen talk, if only little elsie beside my plow will walk." "you must take from out your cellar cask of wine and flask and can; the homely mead i brew you may serve a peasant-man." "most willingly, fair elsie, i'll drink that mead of thine, and leave my minstrel's thirsty throat to drain my generous wine." "now break your shield asunder, and shatter sign and boss, unmeet for peasant-wedded arms, your knightly knee across. and pull me down your castle from top to basement wall, and let your plow trace furrows in the ruins of your hall!" then smiled he with a lofty pride: right well at last he knew the maiden of the spinning-wheel was to her troth-plight true. "ah, roguish little elsie! you act your part full well: you know that i must bear my shield and in my castle dwell! the lions ramping on that shield between the hearts aflame keep watch o'er denmark's honor, and guard her ancient name. for know that i am volmer; i dwell in yonder towers, who plows them plows up denmark, this goodly home of ours! i tempt no more, fair elsie! your heart i know is true; would god that all our maidens were good and pure as you! well have you pleased your monarch, and he shall well repay: god's peace! farewell! to-morrow will bring another day!" he lifted up his bridle hand, he spurred his good steed then, and like a whirl-blast swept away with all his gallant men. the steel hoofs beat the rocky path; again on winds of morn the wood resounds with cry of hounds and blare of hunter's horn. "thou true and ever faithful!" the listening henrik cried: and, leaping o'er the green hedge, he stood by elsie's side. none saw the fond embracing, save, shining from afar, the golden goose that watched them from the tower of valdemar. o darling girls of denmark! of all the flowers that throng her vales of spring the fairest, i sing for you my song. no praise as yours so bravely rewards the singer's skill; thank god! of maids like elsie the land has plenty still! --whittier. hervé riel[10] [10] "this spirited poem was sent to the _cornhill_, because browning was asked for a subscription to the fund for sending food to paris after the siege by the germans in 1870-71. though he condemned louis napoleon's war, he wished to help the french in their distress, and he sent to the fund the 100 pounds that mr. george smith gave him for 'hervé riel.' the subject of the poem and its generous treatment surely manifolded the good-will of the gift. an english poet restored to france its 'forgotten worthy.' an englishman sang the praises of a french sailor's balking the english fleet. one of the nation whose boast it is that her heroes need no other motive for their noble deeds than 'england expects every man to do his duty' showed that in france, too--whose citizens were accused of seeking glory and vainglory as their dearest gain--was a man who could act out nelson's words with no thought of nelson's end--a 'peerage or westminster abbey'--but just do his duty because it lay before him, and put aside with a smile the reward offered him for doing it; a real man, an honor to the nation and the navy of which he was part." "the facts of the story had been forgotten and were denied at st. malo, but the reports to the french admiralty at the time were looked up and the facts established. browning's only alteration is that hervé riel's holiday to see his wife, 'la belle aurore,' was to last, not a day only, but his lifetime." "hervé riel" was written at le croisic, the home of the hero. it is a small fishing village near the mouth of the loire. i on the sea and at the hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, did the english fight the french--woe to france! and, the thirty-first of may, helter-skelter thro' the blue, like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, came crowding ship on ship to st. malo on the rance, with the english fleet in view. ii 'twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; first and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, damfreville: close on him fled, great and small, twenty-two good ships in all; and they signaled to the place, 'help the winners of a race! get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker still, here's the english can and will!' iii then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; 'why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?' laughed they: 'rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, shall the _formidable_ here with her twelve and eighty guns think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, and with flow at full beside? now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. reach the mooring? rather say, while rock stands or water runs, not a ship will leave the bay! iv then was called a council straight. brief and bitter the debate: 'here's the english at our heels; would you have them take in tow all that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, for a prize to plymouth sound? better run the ships aground!' (ended damfreville his speech). not a minute more to wait! 'let the captains all and each shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! france must undergo her fate. v give the word!' but no such word was ever spoke or heard; for up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these- a captain? a lieutenant? a mate--first, second, third? no such man of mark, and meet with his betters to compete! but a simple breton sailor pressed by tourville for the fleet, a poor coasting-pilot he, hervé riel the croisickese. vi and, 'what mockery or malice have we here?' cries hervé riel: 'are you mad, you malouins? are you cowards, fools, or rogues? talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell on my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'twixt the offing here and grève, where the river disembogues? are you bought by english gold? is it love the lying's for? morn and eve, night and day, have i piloted your bay, entered free and anchored fast at the foot of solidor. burn the fleet and ruin france? that were worse than fifty hogues! sirs, they know i speak the truth! sirs, believe me there's a way! only let me lead the line, have the biggest ship to steer, get this _formidable_ clear, make the others follow mine, and i lead them, most and least, by a passage i know well, right to solidor past grève, and there lay them safe and sound; and if one ship misbehave, keel so much as grate the ground, why, i've nothing but my life--here's my head!' cries hervé riel. vii not a minute more to wait. 'steer us in, then, small and great! take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!' cried its chief. captains, give the sailor place! he is admiral in brief. still the north wind, by god's grace! see the noble fellow's face as the big ship, with a bound, clears the entry like a hound, keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! see, safe thro' shoal and rock, how they follow in a flock, not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, not a spar that comes to grief! the peril, see, is past, all are harbored, to the last, and just as hervé riel hollas 'anchor!'--sure as fate up the english come, too late! viii so, the storm subsides to calm: they see the green trees wave on the heights o'erlooking grève. hearts that bled are stanched with balm, 'just our rapture to enhance, let the english rake the bay, gnash their teeth and glare askance as they cannonade away! 'neath rampired solidor pleasant riding on the rance!' how hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! out burst all with one accord, 'this is paradise for hell! let france, let france's king, thank the man that did the thing!' what a shout, and all one word, 'hervé riel!' as he stepped in front once more, not a symptom of surprise in the frank blue breton eyes, just the same man as before. ix then said damfreville, 'my friend, i must speak out at the end, though i find the speaking hard. praise is deeper than the lips; you have saved the king his ships, you must name your own reward. faith our sun was near eclipse! demand whate'er you will, france remains your debtor still. ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not damfreville.' x then a beam of fun outbroke on the bearded mouth that spoke, as the honest heart laughed through those frank eyes of breton blue: 'since i needs must say my say, since on board the duty's done, and from malo roads to croisic point, what is it but a run?- since 'tis ask and have, i may- since the others go ashore- come! a good whole holiday! leave to go, and see my wife, whom i call the belle aurore!' that he asked and that he got--nothing more. xi name and deed alike are lost: not a pillar nor a post in his croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; not a head in white and black on a single fishing smack, in memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack all that france saved from the fight whence england bore the bell. go to paris: rank on rank search the heroes flung pell-mell on the louvre, face and flank! you shall look long enough ere you come to hervé riel. so, for better and for worse, hervé riel, accept my verse! in my verse, hervé riel, do thou once more save the squadron, honor france, love thy wife the bell aurore! your imagination can no more follow the flight of the _formidable_, steered by hervé riel, with the french fleet close following her guidance and "the english at her heels" past the rocks and shoals of grève to safe harbor at solidor, and remain creatively unsensitive to the pulse of progressive action, than could the actual rescue of his country's squadron leave unmoved toward the "man who did the deed" the heart of her captain damfreville. and when your imagination has not only carried you through such adventure, but stimulated _my_ imagination to like activity, there is no limit to be set to the development which may result for us both. suggestive analysis can be of little help at this point, the work must be done in the class-room under direction. to such stimulating exercise in the vocal interpretation of these poems of action, i leave you and your imagination. i shall hope to find difficulty in recognizing either of you at our next meeting. like mr. rhoades's[11] pupil when he emerged from the ninth book of _paradise lost_, you ought to have "outgrown all your present intellectual clothes" in the study of these stories in verse. [11] read _the training of the imagination_, by james rhoades; john lane publishing company. as further material for this study there is no better choice to be made than tennyson's great quasi-epic, _the idylls of the king_, from which but for lack of space we should have printed selections. the following suggestions for work in composition at this point are based on the _idylls_. describe in your own words camelot. write an imaginary scene between gareth and his mother. tell the story of elaine. make the holy grail into the form of a miracle play. fifth study to develop dramatic instinct our final study in interpretation has for its concern the development of dramatic instinct. the work just finished should have left no doubt in your mind as to the nature or value of this final step in the training, since it has anticipated both. development of imaginative vigor should arouse a latent dramatic instinct and release histrionic power. the choice of place in these studies for this phase of the training was made to insure cumulative evolution resulting in balanced expression. as imagination needs to safeguard her freedom with sympathetic thought and intelligent emotion, so dramatic instinct needs the guidance of a vigorous but trained imagination. dramatic instinct so directed should achieve skill in interpreting drama and lead to distinction in the art of acting. the immediate evolution should be a clarified vision of life. your final attainment from this theory should be distinction in the art of living. with dramatic instinct capable of such achievement, let us proceed to exercise it in the material chosen for this study,--dramatic literature. the natural transition from story to play, from narrative to drama, is by way of the monologue. some discussion with suggestive analysis of this form is necessary in order to impress upon you the difference between suggestive impersonation and actual impersonation or characterization, leading to a clear understanding of the difference between reading a play and acting in one; but the final evolution of interpretative power must come through acted drama,--through taking part in a play. the dictionary in defining the monologue authorizes three forms: (1) when the actor tells a continuous story in which he is the chief character, referring to the others as absent; (2) when he assumes the voice or manner of several characters successively; (3) more recently, when he implies that the others are present, leading the audience to imagine what they say by his replies. browning created this more recent form, which is the most vital of the three. i have chosen for your study of the monologue examples from browning alone. to interpret effectively any one of the browning monologues will call into play every element of power in voice and expression which you have gained in your study of previous forms. you must think vividly, feel intelligently, realize and suggest an atmosphere, sustain a situation, and keep the beauty of the poetic form. and you must do all this _in the person of another_. the new demand which the monologue makes is impersonation. let us see just what we mean by impersonation. it is the art of identifying one's self with the character to be portrayed. it is the art of losing one's self in the character and the situation the dramatist has created. this means that the spirit of the character must take possession of the impersonator, and inform his every thought and feeling, and so his every motion and tone. remember, it is the _spirit_ of the character that must determine the nature of the tone and gesture. the great danger in entering upon the study of impersonation lies in emphasizing the outward manifestation instead of the inward spirit of the character to be portrayed. if you really sense the soul, mind, heart quality of the character you are to present, and have made your voice and body free agents for the manifestation of those qualities, your impersonation will be convincing. if the spirit of the _patriot_ or _andrea del sarto_ or _fra lippo lippi_ or _pompilia_ or _caponsacchi_ or _guido_ obsesses you, the outward manifestation will take care of itself--always provided your instruments are responsive. don't begin with the outward manifestation. don't say i think this man would frown a great deal, or fold his arms over his breast, or use an eyeglass, or strut, or stoop, or do any one of a hundred things which, if repeated a half-dozen times during an impersonation, may become a mannerism and get between the audience and the spirit of the character. when you are studying a character for the purpose of impersonation determine first to what type it belongs. then study that type, wherever you are. daily life becomes your teacher and studio. when you enter upon this art there are no longer dull moments in railroad stations or trains, in shops or in the social whirl. everywhere and always you are the student seeking to know and understand types of people better, that you may use your knowledge in presenting to an audience an individual. when you have caught the spirit of the individual you must realize the situation out of which this particular individual speaks. let us make a special study of the _tale_ (browning's epilogue to _the two poets of croisic_). it is perhaps the most exquisite of the poet's creations in this field. the situation reveals a young girl recalling to her poet lover an old greek tale he had once told her. there is a suggestion from some critics that browning has drawn his wife in this portrait, and through it pays his tribute to her. this immediately affords us a clue to the type of character to which the speaker belongs. we cannot hope (nor do we wish) to impersonate mrs. browning, but a knowledge of mrs. browning and her relation to her poet lover, gained through a study of her _letters and sonnets_, will lead us more quickly to a comprehension of the speaker and situation in the _tale_. obsessed by the spirit of the character and fully realizing the situation, our next step is, _in imagination_, to set the stage. this is an important point in presenting a monologue. the impersonator must have a clear idea of his position on his imaginary stage relative to his imaginary interlocutor. but he must remember that _imaginary_ stage-setting admits of only delicately suggestive use. this is true of the handling of a monologue at every point. it must be suggestive. the actor carries to completion the action which the monologuist suggests. the art of interpreting a monologue depends upon the discrimination of the impersonator in drawing his line between suggestion and actualization in gesture. the business of the monologuist is to make an appeal to the imagination of the audience so vivid that the imagination of the audience can actualize the suggestion. and the illusion is complete. what are the relative positions of the girl and her lover in the _tale_? there is nothing in the lines to make our choice arbitrary. it is only important that we determine a relation and keep it consistently throughout the reading. here is a possible "setting." they are in the poet's study; he is working at his desk; she is sitting in a great chair before the fire, a book in her hand, which she does not read; she is gazing into the flames. she begins dreamily, more to herself than to him--"what a pretty tale you told me." at what point does her tone lose its reflective quality and become more personal? where does she turn to him? how do we know that he leaves his chair and comes over to sit on the arm of her chair? what calls him to her? what two qualities of feeling run through her mood and determine the color of her tone and the character of her movements. if your study of mrs. browning has been intelligent, this interplay of the whimsical and serious in her nature cannot have escaped you, and it will illumine now your impersonation of this girl. it is the secret of the peculiar charm of this creation. the story she tells is an old and well-known one. it is the manner of the telling through which we come in touch with an exquisite woman's soul that holds us spellbound. unless the interpreter catches this secret and reveals it to his audience, he will miss the distinctive feature of the monologue and reduce it to a narrative poem. a tale i what a pretty tale you told me once upon a time --said you found it somewhere (scold me!) was it prose or was it rhyme, greek or latin? greek, you said, while your shoulder propped my head. ii anyhow there's no forgetting this much if no more, that a poet (pray, no petting!) yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, went where such like used to go, singing for a prize, you know. iii well, he had to sing, nor merely sing but play the lyre; playing was important clearly quite as singing: i desire, sir, you keep the fact in mind for a purpose that's behind. iv there stood he, while deep attention held the judges round, --judges able, i should mention, to detect the slightest sound sung or played amiss: such ears had old judges, it appears! v none the less he sang out boldly, played in time and tune, till the judges, weighing coldly each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, sure to smile 'in vain one tries picking faults out: take the prize!' vi when, a mischief! were they seven strings the lyre possessed? oh, and afterward eleven, thank you! well, sir--who had guessed such ill luck in store?--it happed one of those same seven strings snapped. vii all was lost, then! no! a cricket (what 'cicada'? pooh!) --some mad thing that left its thicket for mere love of music--flew with its little heart on fire, lighted on the crippled lyre. viii so that when (ah, joy!) our singer for his truant string feels with disconcerted finger, what does cricket else but fling fiery heart forth, sound the note wanted by the throbbing throat? ix ay and, ever to the ending, cricket chirps at need, executes the hands intending, promptly, perfectly,--indeed saves the singer from defeat with her chirrup low and sweet. x till, at ending, all the judges cry with one assent 'take the prize--a prize who grudges such a voice and instrument? why, we took your lyre for harp, so it shrilled us forth f sharp!' xi did the conqueror spurn the creature, once its service done? that's no such uncommon feature in the case when music's son finds his lotte's power too spent for aiding soul-development. xii no! this other, on returning homeward, prize in hand, satisfied his bosom's yearning: (sir, i hope you understand!) --said 'some record there must be of this cricket's help to me!' xiii so, he made himself a statue: marble stood, life-size; on the lyre, he pointed at you, perched his partner in the prize; never more apart you found her, he throned, from him, she crowned. xiv that's the tale: its application? somebody i know hopes one day for reputation thro' his poetry that's--oh, all so learned and so wise and deserving of a prize! xv if he gains one, will some ticket, when his statue's built, tell the gazer ''twas a cricket helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt sweet and low, when strength usurped softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? xvi for as victory was nighest, while i sang and played- with my lyre at lowest, highest, right alike,--one string that made "love" sound soft was snapt in twain, never to be heard again,- xvii had not a kind cricket fluttered, perched upon the place vacant left, and duly uttered "love, love, love," whene'er the bass asked the treble to atone for its somewhat somber drone.' xviii but you don't know music! wherefore keep on casting pearls to a--poet? all i care for is--to tell him that a girl's 'love' comes aptly in when gruff grows his singing. (there, enough!) incident of the french camp i you know, we french stormed ratisbon: a mile or so away, on a little mound, napoleon stood on our storming-day; with neck out-thrust, you fancy how, legs wide, arms locked behind, as if to balance the prone brow oppressive with its mind. ii just as perhaps he mused 'my plans that soar, to earth may fall, let once my army-leader lannes waver at yonder wall,'- out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew a rider, bound on bound full-galloping; nor bridle drew until he reached the mound. iii then off there flung in smiling joy, and held himself erect by just his horse's mane, a boy: you hardly could suspect- (so tight he kept his lips compressed, scarce any blood came through) you looked twice ere you saw his breast was all but shot in two. iv 'well,' cried he, 'emperor, by god's grace we've got you ratisbon! the marshal's in the market-place, and you'll be there anon to see your flag-bird flap his vans where i, to heart's desire, perched him!' the chief's eye flashed; his plans soared up again like fire. v the chief's eye flashed; but presently softened itself, as sheathes a film the mother-eagle's eye when her bruised eaglet breathes; 'you're wounded!' 'nay,' the soldier's pride touched to the quick, he said: 'i'm killed, sire!' and his chief beside, smiling the boy fell dead. my last duchess ferrara that's my last duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive. i call that piece a wonder, now: frà pandolf's hands worked busily a day, and there she stands. will 't please you sit and look at her? i said 'frà 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 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, t'was not her husband's presence only, called that spot of joy into the duchess' cheek: perhaps frà 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, 'twas all one! my favor at her breast, the dropping of the daylight in the west, the bough 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 disgusts 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; 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 pretense of mine for dowry 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! --browning. our last form for interpretative vocal study is the play. we shall discover that the presentation of the play makes the same demands upon the interpreter as the monologue with the new element of _transition_. we are still studying the monologue, because we are to read, not act, the play. it is still suggestive, not actualized impersonation. but instead of one character to suggestively set forth we have two, three, a dozen to present. the transition from character to character becomes our one new problem. as we have said before, in making the transition from character to character, voice, mind, and body must be so volatile that the action of the play shall not be interrupted. i know of no better way to enter upon the study of a play for reading (or acting) than to treat each character as the speaker in a monologue of the browning type. the danger in transition from character to character centers in the instant's pause when one speaker yields to another. the unskilful reader loses both characters at this point and becomes conscious of himself; the action of the play stops; and the illusion of scene and situation is lost. the great reader of the play (in that _instant's pause_), as he utters the last word of one character, becomes the interlocutor listening to the words which he as the other character has just uttered. in that instant he must show the effect of the speech he has just uttered upon the character he has just become. which is the greater art: to read a play, or to act in it? use for your study of the play the shakespearian drama. begin with scenes from _as you like it_ and _the merchant of venice_; but begin with actualized impersonation of the characters. no discussion more! no analysis more! the play--the "play's the thing" through which to complete this evolution in vocal expression. _a final word on interpretation_ looking back over these studies in interpretation, let us review in true scholastic fashion the main points thus far discovered. we say looking back, but as far as the arrangement of our text goes this review involves looking forward too. the division of the book into three parts is purely a matter of a necessary separation in discussing the three activities involved in vocal expression. if your use of this book has been intelligent, each study in interpretation has revealed your need to strengthen your vocal vocabulary or to perfect your vocal technique, and you have turned at once for the required help to the studies in part ii and the exercises in part iii. omitting a review of the _preliminary plunge_, which was intended to "show up" all your peculiar powers and all your especial needs at once, and so furnish a basis for the main work, let us see what happened in the five following studies. it will simplify our statement in each case to base the analysis of our discoveries on the form of literature employed in each study. you found then (or ought to have found) in study one: that the essay and didactic poem make a fundamental appeal to the mind; that the demand upon the interpreter of this form is for clear, concise thinking; that your need is for a command of unerring emphasis and purposeful inflection. you turned to the studies in _pause_, _change of pitch_, and _inflection_ to meet that need. returning to the main study, you tested your vocal skill on the essay to find the essay so read might persuade an auditor to some readjustment of his ideas, values, discriminations, or strengthen him in convictions already held. study two revealed that in lyric poetry the primary appeal is to emotion; that its vocal demand upon the interpreter is for a mastery of _tone-color_, a sense of rhythm, and the power to suggest a background of musical sound. having supplied as far as possible any lack in your vocabulary or technique by supplementary work in parts ii and iii, returning you found that a lyric rightly read could release in the auditor pity, forgiveness, forbearance, endurance, understanding, love. the third study should have convinced you that a sense of _good_ humor is a safe and desirable thing to cultivate; that the whimsical tone in interpretation will leaven almost any lump of sheer learning and counteract a serious overdose of sentiment; that fable, fairy tale, and nonsense rhyme depend too for successful interpretation upon this element of whimsicality in the reader; that the secret of the whimsical element in vocal expression lies in a use of _pause_ and _inflection_. study four should have discovered to you that the three elements of the short story can only be realized through imagination; that imaginative vigor dealing with action requires sustained vitality of tone. such discovery should have resulted in many hours of work on the exercises for _support_ and _freedom_ of _tone_. when you reached the fifth and last study, the work in monologue and drama should have easily awakened your dramatic instinct and quickly released your histrionic power. you should have learned through monologue and drama to understand various types of persons; to see more clearly the relations of men and events; to more intelligently comprehend life itself. finally, we have discovered that to become a true interpreter of literature means to become a lucid channel for the message of an author to the mind of an auditor,--nay, that it means more than that. in final evolution the interpreter of literature becomes a revealer of life. the final effect of literature worth interpreting is to enlarge the world's knowledge of life's beauty, truth, or power. your final concern as an interpreter is to let life find through you uninterrupted revelation on one of these planes; to become a pure medium between the beauty, truth, and power of life and the seeking soul. the author need not be considered in this final analysis, because you, the interpreter, first became identified with the author, and then both of you are lost in the vision, save only as either personality may enlarge or clarify the revelation. a personal experience may help you to realize this ideal of the interpreter's art. with a sense of protest, i had presented a play i loved to an audience with which i felt little sympathy. by chance there was in that audience one of our best teachers and critics. after my recital i sought his criticism. beginning, as the true critic always should, with a noting of some point of power, he said, "i congratulate you upon your _illumined moments_, but--they are too infrequent. you must multiply them." "what do you mean by my illumined moments?" i asked. "the moments when you do not get between your audience and the thought you are uttering--the moments when you become a revealer of life to them. your attitude toward your audience is not sustained in the simplicity and clearness of some of its moments. you suddenly ring down the curtain in the middle of the scene. that spoils the scene, you know. you seem to feel a revolt against the giving of your confidence to the audience, and thereupon you immediately shut them away. you become conscious of yourself, and we, the audience, lose the vision and become conscious of you and the way you are reading or reciting or acting." then he added, "adelaide neilson, at first, had illumined moments in her playing of juliet, but finally her impersonation became one piece of illumination." that delightful teacher, reader, and critic, the late mr. howard ticknor, suggested the same ideal in comparing a juliet of to-day with miss neilson's juliet. "when miss ---is on the balcony," he said, "you hear all around you: 'how lovely she looks!' 'isn't that robe dear?' 'how beautiful her voice is!' when miss neilson lived that little minute, a breathless people prayed with juliet, 'i would not for the world they found thee here,' and sighed with romeo--'o blessed, blessed night! i am afeard, being in night, all this is but a dream.'" miss neilson _was_ juliet. they, the audience, lived with these lovers one hour of lyric rapture, and could never again be quite so commonplace in their attitude toward the "deathless passion." they may not now remember adelaide neilson, but they remember that story, and forever carry a new vision of life and love, because the actress lost herself in the life of the play. she did not exploit her personality and let it stand between the audience and the drama. when some one says to you--the reader or actress, "i shall never forget the way you raised your eyebrow at that point," don't stop to reply, but fly to your study and read the lines "at that point" over and over, with level brows, until you understand the meaning, and can express the thought so effectively by a lift of your voice that you no longer need the help of your eyebrow. every gesture, every tone, must call attention, not to itself, but to the hidden meaning of the author. it must illumine the text of the character portrayed. that is it: if we would be artists (and there is not one among us who would not be an artist) we must cease to put our little selves in front of our messages. in the home, in the office, in the houses of our friends, in the school-room, on the platform, on the stage, let us be _simple_, _natural_, _sincere_. let us lay aside our mannerisms. let us seek to know and reveal life. then shall we be remembered--not, for a queer way of combing our hair, or lifting our eyes, or using our hands, or shrugging our shoulders, but for some revelation of truth or of beauty which we have brought to a community. part ii studies in vocal expression studies in vocal expression the vocal vocabulary there is a theory that it is dangerous to go beyond the mere freeing of the instrument in either vocal or physical training. in accordance with this theory i was advised by a well-known actress to confine my study for the stage, so far as the vocal and pantomimic preparation was concerned, to singing, dancing, and fencing. "get your voice and body under control," she said. "make them free, but don't connect shades of thought and emotion with definite tones of the voice or movements of the body; don't meddle with delsarte or elocution." this advice seemed good at the time. it still seems to me that it ought to be the right method. but i have grown to distrust it. one of the chief sources of my distrust has been the effect of the theory upon the art of the actress who gave the advice. she is perhaps the most graceful woman on the stage to-day, and her voice is pure music. but her gestures and tones fail in lucidity; they fail to illumine the text of the part she essays to interpret. one grows suddenly impatient of the meaningless grace of her movements, the meaningless music of her voice. one longs for a swift--if studied--stride across the stage in anger instead of the unstudied grace of her glide in swirling-robed protest. one longs to hear a staccato declaration of intention instead of the cadenced music of a voice guiltless of intention. no! after the body has been made a free and responsive agent, a mastery of certain fundamental laws, a mastery of certain principles of gesture in accordance with the dictates of thought and emotion, is necessary to its further perfecting as a vivid, powerful, and true agent of personality. the action must be suited to the word, the word to the action, through a study of the laws governing expression in action. so with the voice: to become not only a free instrument, but a beautiful and powerful means of expression and communication it must learn to recognize and obey certain fundamental laws governing its modulations. a master of verbal expression is distinguished by his vast vocabulary of words, and his skill and discrimination in its use. a master of vocal expression must acquire what we may call a _vocal vocabulary_, consisting of changes of pitch, varieties of inflection and variations in tone color, and must know how to use these elements with skill and discrimination. our need for such a vocabulary was discovered to us at every step of the work in interpretation. the suggestions and exercises of the following studies aim to supplement the work in interpretation by meeting that need. before making a detailed study of each element of this vocal vocabulary let us make a quick study with the four elements in mind. remember, in the last preliminary exercise, as in the final complete interpretative endeavor, the material we employ is to be chosen from real literature. it is to be worth interpreting whether it be a single line or phrase or a complete poetical drama. we have agreed to consider literature as real literature, and so worth our interpretative efforts, when it possesses one or combines all of the three qualities,--_beauty_, _truth_, and _power_. this passage from emerson's _friendship_ surely meets that requirement. it is truth beautifully and powerfully expressed. it will serve. our friendships hurry to short and poor conclusions because we have made them a texture of wine and dreams instead of the tough fiber of the human heart. having read this passage cursorily (as is the custom in reading to one's self to-day), will you now study it for a moment very closely. now, once more, please, read it silently, noting the action of your mind as you read. ("watch its pulsations," dr. curry would say.) and now, aloud, although without an auditor, read it, this time noting the effect of the action of the mind upon your voice. did its pitch change? where and why? how did you inflect the words "wine and dreams"? how did the inflection of these words differ from that of the last six words, "tough fiber of the human heart," with which they are contrasted in thought? did your tone change color at any point? why? where? but now, once more, let us approach the passage, this time with a different intention. let us study it with the idea of interpreting it for another mind. now the method of attack is very different. not that it ought to be different. but it is. intense concentration ought to characterize all our reading, whether its object be to acquire knowledge or pleasure for one's self, or to impart either to another. but the day of reading which "_maketh a full man_" seems to be long past, so far as the general public is concerned. the necessity of skimming the pages of a dozen fourth-rate books of the hour in order to be at least a lucid interlocutor, and so a desired dinner guest, is making our reading a swift gathering of colorless impressions which may remain a week or only a day, and which leave no lasting effect of beauty or truth upon the mind and heart of the reader. should it not be rather an intense application of the mind to the thought of a master mind, until that thought, in all its power and beauty, has broadened the boundaries of the reader's mind and enlarged the meaning of all his thoughts? i wonder if a much smaller proportion of time spent in such reading might not result in a less _bromidic_ social atmosphere, even though its tendency were a bit serious. i think it might be both safe and interesting to try such an experiment. but now we must return to emerson on _friendship_. in studying a passage for the purpose of vocal interpretation you have learned that the concentration of attention upon the thought must be intense, you must make the thought absolutely your own before you can present it to your auditor, it must possess you before you can express it; that the thought must seem in the moment of its expression to be a creation of your own brain, it must belong to you as only the thing you have created can, and until you have so recreated the thought it is not yours to give. having recalled these precepts, read the passage silently again. pour upon it the light of your experience, your philosophy, your ideals, your perception of truth. comment upon it silently as you read. now read it aloud and let your voice do this commenting. but wait a moment. let me quote for you the paragraph following this statement. the laws of friendship are austere and eternal, of one web with the laws of nature and morals. but we have aimed at a swift and petty benefit to suck a sudden sweetness. we snatch at the slowest fruit in the whole garden of god, which many summers and many winters must ripen. this is emerson's paraphrase of his original statement. how much of it did your mental commentary include? how did your silent paraphrase resemble this? read the original passage again to yourself in the light of this paraphrase. i shall ask you now to repeat the first sentence from memory, for you will find, after this concentrated contemplation of a thought, that its form is fixed fast in your mind. that is a delightful accompaniment of this kind of reading. the form of the thought, if it be apposite (which it must be to be literature, and we are considering only literature), the form of a thought so approached stays with us in all its beauty. let us then repeat the original statement, having read the passage in which emerson has elaborated it. now, what you must demand of your voice is this: that it shall so handle the single introductory sentence as to suggest the rest of the paragraph. in other words, your voice must do the paraphrasing, by means of its changes in pitch, its inflections, and its variations in tone-color; by means, in short, of its _vocal vocabulary_. i study in pause and change of pitch it is asserted that, "the last word has not been said on any subject." mr. hamilton mabie seemed to me to achieve a _last word_ on the subject of _pause_ when he casually remarked: "emerson was a master of pause; he would pause, and into the pool of expectancy created by that pause drop just the right word." there seems little to be added to complete the exposition of that single sentence. it surely leaves no doubt in our minds as to the effect to be desired from the use of this element of our vocabulary. how to use it to gain that effect is our problem. first of all, we must cease to be afraid to pause. we hurry on over splendid opportunities to elucidate our text through a just use of this form of emphasis, beset by two fears: fear that we shall seem to have forgotten the text; fear that we shall actually forget it if we stop to think. think of being afraid to stop to think lest we should stop thinking! that is precisely what the fear indicates. it arises, of course, from a confusion as to the real nature of pause. we confuse pause with its ghost, hesitation. dr. curry makes the difference clear for us in his definition of hesitation as an "empty pause." "empty of what?" you ask. empty of thought! of course, an empty pause is a ghastly as well as a ghostly thing to experience. if you have ever faced an audience in one of those "awful" moments when your voice has ceased because your thought has stopped, and when you are painfully aware of a pool of embarrassed sympathy into which you know there is no word to drop, then you have learned the meaning of an _empty pause_. on the other hand, if you shall ever face an audience in one of those _fateful_ moments when your voice pauses because your thought is so vital, that you realize both your audience and you must be given time to fully grasp it, and when you are serenely conscious of that "pool of expectancy" into which you know you have just the right word to drop, then you will learn the meaning of a _true pause_. some one has called inflection a running commentary of the emotions upon the thought. emphasis might well be defined in the same way. the definition would need to be a bit more inclusive, since emphasis includes inflection. emphasis then may be defined as a running commentary of the thought and emotion of the reader upon the thought of the text he interprets. the words reveal the thought; your valuation of that thought, as you interpret it, is revealed through your vocal vocabulary in voicing it. we, your auditors, can only gather from your emphasis your valuation of the truth or importance of what you are uttering. you may use one or all of the elements of your vocal vocabulary to bring out the thought of a single phrase. the elements of the vocal vocabulary are all forms of emphasis. since pause is a cessation of speech it can hardly be called an element of a vocal vocabulary; but it may rightly be called the basis of our vocabulary because it determines our use of the other elements. it behooves us then to make a study of pause before testing our vocabulary as to its other elements. here are two texts to be valued by our use of the pause. extract from the diary of a boarding-school girl at midnight, the magic hour as every girl knows for affairs of a purely private and personal nature, when far away at the end of a corridor you can almost hear miss ----'s peaceful snore, when as the poet aptly put it in this morning's english stunt, "darkness clears our vision which by day is sun-blind"--(i thought jane and i would die laughing and give it all away when we came to that line in mr. lanier's stupid poem),--well, as i say, exactly at that hour my heart began to beat so hard i thought it would wake madge without the "punch" i had promised to give her when it was time to begin preparations for our grand spread. from sidney lanier's _crystal_. at midnight, death's and truth's unlocking time. when far within the spirit's hearing rolls the great soft rumble of the course of things- a bulk of silence in a mask of sound,- when darkness clears our vision that by day is sun-blind, and the soul's a ravening owl for truth and flitteth here and there about low-lying woody tracts of time and oft is minded for to sit upon a bough, dry-dead and sharp, of some long-stricken tree and muse in that gaunt place,--'twas then my heart, deep in the meditative dark, cried out: ... the same hour, _midnight_, is designated by both girl and poet; the same two words, "at midnight," open the confession and the poem. a pause must follow these words in the reading of either text, and another pause must be made after the qualifying phrase which immediately follows the opening words of either text. but what a difference in the comparative length of the pauses demanded by the two readings! a very different atmosphere attends an hour when it is the time chosen for a school-girl's escapade or set apart for a _poet's meditation_. and the voice by its use of _pause_ can preserve or destroy either atmosphere. try it. make your pauses in reading the school-girl's text of equal length with the pauses the reading of lanier's poem demands. you will find the result is that _overemphasis_ which has brought such discredit upon the name of "elocution." i once heard a much-advertised reader strain all the elements of her vocal vocabulary in announcing a simple change in her programme. i have heard more than one reader give the stage directions, indicate the scene setting, and introduce the characters in exactly the same voice and with the same use of emphasis which were afterward employed in the most dramatic passages. of course all the ammunition had been used up before the real battle began, and no one was in the least affected by the firing during the rest of the engagement. we have said that the use of pause determines the use of all other elements of the vocabulary. this is particularly true of the _change of pitch_ which immediately follows pause. we pause before a new idea to get possession of it; in that pause we measure the idea, and the pitch of the voice changes to accord with that measure. every change of thought causes a change of pitch, but the degree and direction of change in pitch of the voice depends upon the degree and direction of change in thought values. in the pause the mind takes time to value the new thought, and tells the voice what change it must make. robert browning affords the best material for a study in change of pitch, because of his sudden and long parentheses, which can be handled lucidly by a voice only after it has mastered this element of the vocal vocabulary. _abt vogler_ offers the voice an excellent opportunity for exercise in change of pitch. i print the first stanza and first line of the second stanza of this poem for your use. would that the structure brave, the manifold music i build, bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when solomon willed armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, man, brute, reptile, fly--alien of end and of aim, adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed, should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable name, and pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved! would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine-remember, you are to confine your consideration to the one point, _change of pitch_, not the change of pitch within a word, which is inflection and belongs to another chapter, but to the broad changes of pitch from word to word, phrase to phrase, sentence to sentence, following the intricate changes of the thought. i leave you to blaze a trail through this forest of ideas. you must find the main road, and then trace the by-paths which lead away from that main road, and in this case, fortunately, come back to it again--which does not always happen in mr. browning's "woody tracts of thought." to employ a better figure for vocal purposes, you must cut off the stream, the voice, and trace the bed of this river of thought, following the main channel, and then its branches. you will find the main channel cut by the first and last lines: would that the structure brave, the manifold music i build, * * * * * would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine-all between, beginning with the second line, "bidding my organ obey," and including the last words of the eighth line, "the princess he loved," is a branch channel, leading away from and coming back to the main river's bed. but this branch channel is interrupted in turn by its own branch leading away from it and returning with it to join the main bed with the last line we quote. this second branch begins in the middle of the third line with the words, "as when solomon willed," wanders in this course for five lines, and, rejoining the first offshoot, returns to the main channel with the last line. now turn on the stream, the _voice_, and watch it flow into the course as traced. analyze the reading as to the use of pause and change of pitch. ii study in inflection to me, the most notable among the many notable elements in madame alla nazimova's acting is her illumination of the text of her impersonations through _inflection_. to an ear unaccustomed to the "broken music" of her speech, a word may now and then be lost because of her still faulty english, but of her attitude toward the thought she is uttering, or the person she is addressing, or the situation she is meeting, there can never be a moment's doubt--so illuminating is the inflectional play of her voice. the tone she uses is not to me pleasing in quality. it does not fall in liquid alluring cadences upon the ear as does miss marlowe's, for instance. it is always keyed high, whether the child-wife nora, or hedda, omnivorous of experience, is speaking. but this high-pitched tone is endlessly volatile. it is restless. it never lets your attention wander. it is never monotonous. it is a master of _inflection_. madame nazimova's emotion is always primarily intellectual. it always proceeds from a mind keenly alive to the instant's incident. this intensely intellectual temperament reveals itself through her voice in a rare degree of inflectional agility. recall the revelation of nora's soul in her cry: "it is not possible! it is not possible!" madame nazimova's conception of the mistress of _the doll's house_ is concentrated in these four words--in her inflection of the last word, i may almost say. when i close my eyes and think of madame nazimova's voice i see a grove of soft maples in early october with the sun playing upon them, while miss marlowe's tone carries me at once into the pine woods, where a white birch now and then shimmers its yellow leaves. again, the voice of the russian actress suggests a handful of diamonds, and the american instrument a set of turquoise in the matrix. the difference in these two agents of two compelling personalities is, of course, the result of a difference in the two temperaments; but undoubtedly it also arises from a difference in methods of training. whatever the temperament, light and shade can be developed in the voice through practice of inflection; and whatever the temperament, a pure tone can be secured through a mastery of support of breath and freedom of vocal conditions. the voices of these two actresses vividly illustrate these two points. we shall study how to secure miss marlowe's tone. we are now to work for madame nazimova's light and shade, so far as a mastery of inflection will secure it. how shall we proceed? "all my life," writes ellen terry, in her entrancing memoirs, "the thing which has struck me as wanting on the stage is variety. some people are tone-deaf, and they find it physically impossible to observe the law of contrasts. but even a physical deficiency can be overcome by that faculty of taking infinite pains." that is the secret of successful acquisition in any direction, is it not--the _faculty of taking infinite pains_? with ellen terry it resulted in a voice which in its prime estate suggested, it is said, all the riotous colors of all the autumns, or henry ward beecher's most varied collection of precious stones. we can secure an approximate result by employing the same method. let us proceed with infinite pains to practise, practise, practise inflection. let us first examine this _change of pitch within a word_ which we call inflection. how does the pitch change, and why, and what does the change indicate? we have discovered that a change of thought results in a broad change of pitch from word to word, phrase to phrase, sentence to sentence, and we shall discover that a change in emotion results in a change in the color of the tone we are using; but this element of our vocal vocabulary, inflection, is subtler than either of the other two. while change of pitch is an intellectual modulation, and variation in tone-color is an emotional modulation, _inflection_, in a degree, combines both. it is a change in both color and key within the word. it is primarily of intellectual significance, but it also reveals certain temperamental characteristics which cannot be disassociated with emotion. for instance, the staccato utterance of mrs. fiske is technically the result of her use of straight, swift-falling inflections, but it is temperamentally the result of thinking and feeling in terms of becky sharp. let us see how inflections vary. they rise and fall swiftly or slowly. they move in a straight line from point to point, or make a curve. (the latter we call circumflex inflection.) they make various angles with the original level of pitch, rising or falling abruptly or gradually. these are some of the variations, each indicating an attitude of the mind and heart of the speaker toward the thought, or toward the one spoken to, or toward the circumstances out of which the speech arises. all must be mastered for use at will if light and shade are to be developed in the voice. now let us take a phrase or sentence, and voice it under a certain condition, noting the inflection of the word or words which hold the thought of the phrase or sentence in solution. then let us change the condition and again voice the thought, noting the change in inflection. let me propound a profound question,--"do you like growing old?" the answers will all be "yes" or "no." but what of the inflection of those monosyllabic words? _sweet sixteen_ will employ a straight, swift-falling inflection on the affirmative (unless some untoward influence, such as "_love_ the _destroyer_," has embittered her life, when she may give us one of _may iverson's_ adorable replies, masked in indifference and circumlocution). _twenty_ will employ the straight-falling inflection without the swiftness of sweet sixteen's slide. with _twenty-five_ we detect a faint sign of a curve in the more gradual fall. _twenty-eight_ to _thirty-five_ employs various degrees of circumflex, according to the desire--or possibility--of concealing the real facts. _forty_ to _forty-five_, if in defiant mood, employs the abrupt-falling inflection, or, if quite honest, changes to the negative with as swift and straight a fall. this lasts through sixty-five, and at _seventy_ we hear a new and gentle circumflex of the "no," until the pride of extreme old age sets in at _eighty-five_ with the swift fall of sixteen's affirmative. were it not expedient to maintain friendly relations with one's printer, i should venture to diagram these changes of tone within a word. as it is, i shall content myself with advising you to do so. it is my privilege to have had acquaintance with a woman who was a personal friend of emerson. among the incidents of his delightful talk with her, retold to me, i recall one which bears upon our present problem. they were discussing mutual "friends on the shelf." "have you ever read _titan_?" asked the gentle seer. "yes," replied the lady. "read it again!" said he. query to the class: how did the lady inflect the word _yes_ to call forth the injunction, _read it again_? what did her inflection reveal? however inclined we may be to quarrel with bernhardt's conception of the duke of reichstadt, we can never forget her disclosure of the eaglet's frail soul through _inflection_ as she crushes letter after letter in her hand and tosses them aside, uttering the simple words, _je déchire_, and the final revelation in the quick, thrilling curve of her wonderful voice on the same words as the little cousin leaves the room at the close of this episode of the letters. no better material can be chosen for a study of inflection than the paragraph from emerson's _friendship_, quoted in a preceding chapter. let us repeat the first sentence again. "our friendships hurry to short and poor conclusions because we have made them a texture of wine and dreams instead of the tough fiber of the human heart." study, in voicing this, how to illumine the thought by your contrastive inflection of the words "wine and dreams" and "tough fiber of the human heart." a lingering circumflex cadence in uttering the first two words will suggest the unstable nature of a friendship woven out of so frail a fabric as wine and dreams, while a swift, strong, straight-falling inflection on each of the last six words indicates the vigorous growth of a love rooted in the tough fiber of the human heart. in _monna vanna_ maurice maeterlinck gives the actress a superb opportunity to show her mastery of inflection. let us turn to the scene in prinzivalle's tent:[12] [12] from _monna vanna_. by maurice maeterlinck. published by harper & brothers. prinzivalle. are you in pain? vanna. no! prinzivalle. will you let me have it [her wound] dressed? vanna. no! (pause.) prinzivalle. you are decided? vanna. yes. prinzivalle. need i recall the terms of the--? vanna. it is useless--i know them. prinzivalle. your lord consents. vanna. yes. prinzivalle. it is my mind to leave you free.... there is yet time should you desire to renounce.... vanna. no! and so the seeming inquisition proceeds. to each relentlessly searching interrogation from gianello comes vanna's unfaltering reply, in a single, swift monosyllable, "yes" or "no." the same word, but, oh, the revelation which may lie in the inflection of that word! let us try it. let us read the scene aloud, first giving as nearly as possible the same inflection to each of vanna's answers, then let us voice it again, putting into the curve of the tone within the narrow space of the two or three lettered monosyllables all the concentrated mental passion of vanna's soul in its attitude toward the terrible situation and toward the man whom she believes to be her enemy. this is a most difficult exercise, but if "a man's reach should exceed his grasp," it will not retard our progress toward the goal of a vocal vocabulary to attempt it now. apart from all aim in its pursuit, there is no more fascinating study than this study of inflection. in this day of artistic photography there is an endless interest for the artist of the camera in playing with a subject's expression by varying the light and shade thrown upon the face. so for the student of vocal expression there is endless interest in this play with the thought behind a group of words by varying the inflection of those words. lady macbeth's, "we fail!" or macbeth's, "if it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly," occurs to us, of course, as rich material for this exercise. in her analysis of the character of lady macbeth mrs. jameson gives us an interesting study in inflection, based on mrs. siddons's interpretation of the words "we fail." a foot-note reads: "in her impersonation of the part of lady macbeth mrs. siddons adopted successively three different intonations in giving the words 'we fail.' at first a quick, contemptuous interrogation--'we fail?' afterward with the note of admiration--'we fail!' and an accent of indignant astonishment laying the principal emphasis on the word we--'_we_ fail!' lastly, she fixed on what i am convinced is the true reading--'_we fail_'--with the simple period, modulating the voice to a deep, low, resolute tone which settled the issue at once, as though she had said: 'if we fail, why then we fail, and all is over.'" think how vitally the total impersonation is affected by your choice of inflections at this point. compare the effects of the three, mrs. siddons tested. are there other possible intonations of the words? what are they? do you realize the vital effect upon the voice of such vocal analysis and experimentation? devote ten minutes of the time you take for reading each day to this phase of vocal interpretation, and at the end of a week note its effect upon your silent reading and upon your voice. remember, with inflection, as with every other phase of the training, the greatest immediate benefit will come from holding the question of its peculiar significance constantly in mind. study the temperament of the people about you by noting this element in their speech. study the attitude of every interlocutor you face, by studying the inflection of his replies to the questions of life and death you propound. but, above all, study your own use of this element. do not let your own attitude go undetected. it may help you to alter an unfortunate attitude to realize its effect upon your own voice. iii study in tone-color and now we must turn to our last point of discussion, tone-color. what is the nature of this element of our vocabulary--this _klangfarbe_, this _timbre_? upon what does it depend? you will say, "it is a property of the voice depending upon the form of the vibrations which produce the tone." true! and physiologically the form of the vibrations depends upon the condition of the entire vocal apparatus. _tone-color_, then, is a modulation of resonance. but what concerns us is the fact that it is an _emotional_ modulation of resonance. what concerns us is the fact that, as a change of thought instantly registers itself in a change of pitch, so a change of emotion instantly produces a change in the color of the tone--if the voice is a free instrument. and so, as before, i want you not to think of the physiological aspect, but to yield to the emotion, noting the character of the resultant tone, regardless of what has happened in the larynx to produce that result. as browning affords us the best material for our study in change of pitch, so the poems of sidney lanier offer to the voice the richest field for exercise in tone-color. musician and poet in one, lanier's peculiar charm lies in his unerring choice of words, which suggest in their sound, when rightly voiced, the atmosphere of the scene he is painting. lanier uses words as corot uses colors. this gives the voice its opportunity to bring out by subtle variations in _timbre_ the variations in light and shade of an atmosphere. to read aloud, sympathetically, once a day, lanier's _the symphony_ is the best possible way to develop simultaneously all the elements of a vocal vocabulary. we shall use this poem to-day as a text for our study in tone-color. let us omit the message of the violins and heavier strings, and take the passage beginning with the interlude upon which the flute-voice breaks: but presently a velvet flute-note fell down pleasantly upon the bosom of that harmony, and sailed and sailed incessantly, as if a petal from a wild rose blown had fluttered down upon that pool of tone and boatwise dropped o' the convex side and floated down the glassy tide and clarified and glorified the solemn spaces where the shadows bide. from the warm concave of that fluted note somewhat, half song, half odor, forth did float, as if a rose might somehow be a throat; ... what an ideal for tone-color! dare we think to make it ours? we must. we must adopt it with confidence of attainment. let me quote a little further: when nature from her far-off glen flutes her soft messages to men, the flute can say them o'er again; yea, nature, singing sweet and lone, breathes through life's strident polyphone the flute-voice in the world of tone. read this passage aloud as a mere statement of fact, employing a matter-of-fact tone. gray in color, is it not? now let your voice take the color lanier has blended for you. let your tone, like a thing "half song, half odor," float forth on these words and linger as only a perfume can about the thought. now let the tone change in color to clarify and glorify the following message from the flute:[13] [13] the extracts on pp. 279-287 are from mr. sidney lanier's volume of "poems," published by charles scribner's sons. sweet friends, man's love ascends to finer and diviner ends than man's mere thought e'er comprehends. i cannot, for lack of space, reprint the whole flute message, but you will get the poem, if you have it not, and voice every word of it, i am sure. here are some of the most telling lines for our present purpose: i speak for each no-tongued tree that, spring by spring, doth nobler be, and dumbly and most wistfully his mighty prayerful arms outspreads above men's oft-unheeding heads, and his big blessing downward sheds. i speak for all-shaped blooms and leaves, lichens on stones and moss on eaves, grasses and grains in ranks and sheaves; broad-fronded ferns and keen-leaved canes, and briery mazes bounding lanes, and marsh-plants, thirsty-cupped for rains, and milky stems and sugary veins; for every long-armed woman-vine that round a piteous tree doth twine; for passionate odors, and divine pistils, and petals crystalline; * * * * * all tree-sounds, rustlings of pine-cones, wind-sighings, doves' melodious moans, and night's unearthly undertones; all placid lakes and waveless deeps, all cool reposing mountain-steeps, vale-calms and tranquil lotos-sleeps;- yea, all fair forms, and sounds, and lights, and warmths, and mysteries, and mights, of nature's utmost depths and heights, --these doth my timid tongue present, their mouthpiece and leal instrument and servant, all love-eloquent. you see, to voice this message a mood born of all the "warmths and mysteries and mights of nature's utmost depths and heights" must take possession of you, and you must yield your instrument to the expression of that mood. then watch, watch, watch the color of the tone change as the voice, starting with the clear flute-note, follows sympathetically the varying phases of nature's face which the poet has so sympathetically painted. and now, after a "thrilling calm," the flute yields its place to a sister instrument, and the tone must change its _timbre_ to the reed note of the clarionet. in the "melting" message of that instrument we find two passages which afford the voice chance for a most vivid contrast in color. beginning with the line, "now comes a suitor with sharp, prying eye," read the two descriptions which follow, lending your voice to the atmosphere of each: _ ... here, you lady, if you'll sell i'll buy: come, heart for heart--a trade? what! weeping? why?_ shame on such wooer's dapper mercery! i would my lover kneeling at my feet in humble manliness should cry, _o sweet! i know not if thy heart my heart will greet: i ask not if thy love my love can meet: whate'er thy worshipful soft tongue shall say, i'll kiss thine answer, be it yea or nay: i do but know i love thee, and i pray to be thy knight until my dying day._ the first two lines, which set forth a suit in terms of trade, demand a hard, calculating tone, suggestive of large silver dollars. call this color dull steel gray. this tone flashes out for a moment in the white indignation of the third line, softens and warms with the next two lines, then grows and glows until it reaches a crimson radiance in the last two lines. try it! and now, with "heartsome voice of mellow scorn," let us sound the message of the "bold straightforward horn." "now comfort thee," said he, "fair lady. for god shall right thy grievous wrong, and man shall sing thee a true-love song, voiced in act his whole life long, yea, all thy sweet life long, fair lady. where's he that craftily hath said. the day of chivalry is dead? i'll prove that lie upon his head, or i will die instead, fair lady. * * * * * now by each knight that e'er hath prayed to fight like a man and love like a maid, since pembroke's life as pembroke's blade, i' the scabbard, death was laid, i dare avouch my faith is bright that god doth right and god hath might. nor time hath changed his hair to white, nor his dear love to spite, fair lady. i doubt no doubts: i strive, and shrive my clay, and fight my fight in the patient modern way for true love and for thee--ah me! and pray to be thy knight until my dying day, fair lady." made end that knightly horn, and spurred away, into the thick of the melodious fray. remember your _key_ is set for you,--the color of the tone is plainly chosen for you by mr. lanier. not red nor yellow, but a blending of the two. _orange_, is it not? will not an orange tone give us the feel of heartsome confidence behind and through the mellow scorn of the knight's message? try it! let the two primary colors, red and yellow, enter in varying degrees according to, or following, the emotional variation in the thought, as the knight or the lover dominates in the message. in the first seven lines the tone glows with the love radiance and the orange deepens toward red. with the next five lines the lover yields to the knight, and the tone flashes forth a golden, keen-edged sword. with the thirteenth line the tone begins in the orange on "now by each knight that e'er hath prayed," flashes into yellow in "to fight like a man," softens and deepens toward red in "and love like a maid," and returns to the orange to finish the horn _motif_. next in this poem which affords such a wonderful study for tone-color we have the hautboy's message. the color is mixed and laid on the palette ready for use as before, with the introductory lines: and then the hautboy played and smiled, and sang like any large-eyed child, cool-hearted and all undefiled. don't let the words _large-eyed child_ mislead you. don't, i beseech you, make the mistake of adopting the "little orphan annie" tone with which the "elocutionist" too often insults the pure treble of a child's "undefiled" instrument. that is the keynote to us for our choice of color--"cool-hearted and all undefiled." almost a white tone, is it not? with a little of the blue of the june sky? try it. let the blue be visibly present in the first three lines: "huge trade!" he said, "would thou wouldst lift me on thy head and run where'er my finger led!" turning to pure white in the next three lines: once said a man--and wise was he- never shalt thou the heavens see save as a little child thou be. the last voice comes from the "ancient wise bassoons." again there is danger. do not, oh! do not fall afoul of the conventional old man's quavering tone. there is nothing conventional about these "weird, gray-beard old harpers sitting on the high sea-dunes," chanting runes. the last words of these introductory lines safeguard us--"chanted runes." there is only one color of tone in which to _chant runes_. gray, is it not? yes, but a silver gray, not the steel gray of the clarionet when she became for the moment a commercial lover. then in the silver-gray tone of the philosopher, voice this last _motif_: bright-waved gain, gray-waved loss, the sea of all doth lash and toss, one wave forward and one across: but now 'twas trough, now 'tis crest, and worst doth foam and flash to best, and curst to blest. the importance of a right use of tone-color in vocal interpretation was impressed upon a browning class last winter. we were reading the _dramatic lyrics_. the poem for the hour was _meeting at night_. the tone with which the first student attacked this exquisite love-lyric was so businesslike, so matter of fact, so utterly out of key, that we who listened saw not the lover hastening to his beloved, but a real-estate agent "out to buy" a farm. the "gray sea, the long black land, the yellow half-moon large and low, the startled little waves that creep in fiery ringlets from their sleep, the pushing prow of the boat quenched in the slushy sand, the warm, sea-scented beach, and the three fields" all assumed a merely commercial value. they were interesting exactly as would be a catalogue of properties in a deed of real estate. if you are not a very _intense_ member of a browning society you will, i think, enjoy the test of tone-color involved in reading this poem from the contrasted standpoints of the business man and the lover. of course, in the first instance you must stop where i, in desperation, stopped the student on the words, "a farm appears." for i defy any one to read the last two lines in a gray, matter-of-fact tone. as was the case in our consideration of inflection, so in this study of tone-color there is an embarrassment of rich material for the exercise of this element. lanier's _sunrise_ and _corn_; browning's prologue to _the two poets of croisic_, with a vivid contrast of color in each verse; swinburne's almost every line; dante gabriel rossetti, wordsworth, keats, tennyson--but why enumerate? all the colorists among the poets will reward your search of a text for the development of _timbre_. for a final brief study of the three elements we aim to acquire, with especial emphasis in thought upon the last one, let us take this prologue to _the two poets of croisic_, with its color-contrast in each verse: such a starved bank of moss till that may morn, blue ran the flash across: violets were born! sky--what a scowl of cloud till, near and far, ray on ray split the shroud: splendid, a star! world--how it walled about life with disgrace till god's own smile came out: that was thy face the vocal treatment of the first two verses will be very much alike. the voice starts in minor key, a gray monotone, in harmony with the absence of color in the bare bank of dull moss. the inflection of the word "starved" must emphasize the grayness. it must be a dull push of the tone on the first syllable, with little, if any, lift above the level of the low pitch on which the whole line is spoken. with a swift, salient, rising inflection on the opening word of the second line, an inflection which creates expectancy of change, the voice lifts the thought out of the minor into the major key. i must call your attention to the vital significance of the use of pause at this point by simply asking you to indulge in it. stop after uttering the word _till_ and study the effect of the pause. it is the pause quite as much as the inflection, you see, which induces the expectant attitude you desire to create in the mind of your auditor. with the next three words, "that may morn," the tone takes on a bit of the warmth of early summer. a lingering cadence on the word "may" will help the suggestion. with the third line the voice begins to shine. i know no other way to express it. the inflections are swift and straight, but not staccato, because they must suggest a growth, not a burst of color. the tone on which the words are borne must be continuous. it must not be broken off definitely with each word, as is to prove most effective, we shall find, in handling the third line of the second verse. the fourth line brings the full, glowing, radiant tone on the first word, "violets." this tone must be held in full volume on the last two words. the law for beautiful speech must be observed here. (but where should it not be observed?) let us recall the law, "_beautiful speech depends upon openness of vowels and definiteness of consonants._" the vowels give volume to a word, the consonants form. slur your consonants and squeeze your vowels in the three words of this line, "violets were born," and what becomes of this miracle of spring? the voicing of the second verse is very like that of the first. the opening line demands the same gray monotone. but the three words, "sky," "scowl," and "cloud," if clear-cut in utterance, as they should be, will break the level of the line more than the single word "starved" in the first line of the first verse can do, or was meant to do. there is the same swift lift of the voice in the opening word of the second line, the same change to the major key, the same growing glow in the tone on the third line, and the same radiant outburst of color sustained through the last line. the only difference lies in the suffusion of radiance in the tone to suggest the coming of color to the bank, in the first verse, and the outburst of radiance to suggest the sudden splitting of the clouds and the star's swift birth, in the second verse. with the emotional change of thought in the last verse, from a travail and birth in nature to a human soul's struggle and rebirth, the deepening color which creeps into the tone indicates the entrance of personal passion. the key does not change. the inflections are still and straight. the tone simply deepens and glows in the last two lines, as a prayerful ecstasy possesses the one who reads. part iii studies in vocal technique studies in vocal technique the uninterrupted tone when a rich, dramatic temperament seeks for its instrument of expression the control of faultless technique the result ought to be art of the highest order. such is the art of gracia ricardo. she has translated her english name into musical italian, but does her country the honor to announce her beautiful voice as an american soprano. every tone of gracia ricardo's singing voice is as absolutely free from effort as the repeated note of the hermit thrush's song, and her tone as pure tone has the effect of that liquid call. but could you freight the thrush note with knowledge of human passion,--with throb of joy or pulse of pain, you would get from it the effect of gracia ricardo's singing of a heine-schubert song, a schumann, brahms, or franz _lied_, or one of our english ballads. it must always be a song, for gracia ricardo does not exploit her voice in astonishing vocal feats. she simply _sings her song_. it was her wish to interpret the _lieder_ of all countries that sent her in search of a method which would free her voice to that high use. she found that method, not in her own country, alas, but in germany, where for twelve years she has used it in the guidance of her own voice and that of many others. she finds the american pupil "difficult," because "you are so impatient of a long, quiet preparation. you wish to try your skill at every step of the way--and not in the privacy of your study, but in a public's hearing." poor american public! how it has suffered from this _impatience_. it is true, is it not, we are not willing to take time to establish a right condition for tone before using the tone in what should be final efforts of the perfected instrument. _blessed be drudgery_ has not become a beatitude in the gospel of the american artist. when it is so recognized by the student of vocal expression perhaps we can reclaim this great singer and teacher, madame ricardo. this book would further that end. it has been my good fortune while making this book for you to do some brief but intensive studying under madame ricardo. it is by her gracious consent that i shall leave with you as an incentive toward the ideal for which we are striving the two _watchwords_ of her teaching which were most potently suggestive to me. the exercises which constitute her method require personal supervision, but the active principle of those exercises for both tone production and breath control is clearly indicated by the two phrases "the uninterrupted tone" and "the constant mouth-breath." these two ideas fully sensed by a voice will work swift wonders in its use. like mr. mabie's pool of expectancy, these watchwords of the ricardo method suggest their own application; but let us consider them somewhat more closely. think then with me of an _uninterrupted tone_--a tone which is not interfered with at any point in its production. think of a breath that flows freely on and on, constantly reinforced, but never interrupted--a breath that is allowed to enter the vocal box, pass between the vocal chords, where it is converted into tone; yield itself to the organs of speech and controlled by the speech process, issue from the mouth in beautiful speech forms, in the words which constitute a language! tracing the process of tone production in this way, we find that three distinct steps are involved. even as i write the words distinct and steps i realize their inharmony with the idea of flowing tone. rather then let us say three phases in the evolution of speech: _breath_, _tone_, _speech_. in using the word speech to designate the final phase in this evolution i am thinking of it in its broadest sense--really in a sense identical with language. with this final phase beyond its mere initiation this book cannot deeply concern itself. for work along this line i must refer you to prof. t. r. lounsbury's _standard of pronunciation in english_; to the article on _the acquiring of clear speech_ by john d. barry, published in _harper's bazaar_ for august, september, and october, 1907; to _the technique of speech_, by dora duty jones. not technique of speech, but _technique_ of _tone_ is our study. not how to make beautiful speech forms, but how to make beautiful speech-tones; not how to distinguish one speech from another in a language, or the speech forms of one language from those of another, but how to distinguish interrupted speech-tone from _uninterrupted_ speech-tone--such is our problem. but tone is breath before it becomes speech, so our first concern is with the initial stage. the process of breath control in the ricardo method of tone production (as in my own) is analogous to the process of pumping water. let your chest with its lungs represent the reservoir, your diaphragm, the great muscle at the base of the lungs, becomes the piston and your mouth the mouth of the pump. if the mouth of the pump runs dry the pump itself runs down and has to be primed. priming a pump is precisely analogous to "catching your breath" in speech. the active principle of breath control in the ricardo method is the idea of a _constant mouth-breath_. a sense of uninterrupted breath is as essential to a knowledge of correct tone as a sense of uninterrupted tone is to a knowledge of correct speech and song. in breathing to speak or sing there must be such perfect diaphragmatic control that the mouth shall never be out of breath. you must learn in speaking and reading to take easily and quietly breath enough and _often enough_ to supply the tone which is to be made into a single word, a phrase, a sentence, or a series of sentences, and leave the mouth-breath unexhausted, even unaffected. you must never catch your breath; the breath must pass continuously, the _mouth-breath_ remaining a _constant_ quantity. it was gratifying in my work with this master of tone production to find that my own method in the training of the speaking voice was in accord at almost every point with her method in the training of the singing voice. in reprinting for you the exposition of my own method, as set down in _the speaking voice_, i have found it necessary to make but few changes. i have altered entirely the method of handling the tongue. i have added a word as to the part the lips play in the production of speech. in the few exercises it is safe to offer under the reinforcing of tone i have used the _[=e]_ instead of the _ä_, convinced that it is the more effective vowel sound through which to work for uninterrupted tone. it was also a pleasure to find my own instrument, through its training for speech, adequately prepared for the work in song. the studies which constitute _part three_ of this book, if faithfully attended, will fit your voices for higher work in either art. learning to support the tone before attempting the exercises involved in the first step, let us examine a tone in the making, or, rather, let us feel how it is made--for the process of tone production, so far as it concerns us, is not of physiological, but rather psychological, significance. the huge tomes on the physiology of the voice which are of vital interest to the student of anatomy are not only of no use, but are apt to be a positive hindrance to the student of vocal training. a vivid picture of the larynx or vocal cords, a cross-section of the trachea, or a highly illuminated image of any of the cavities concerned in the production of that most wonderful thing in the world, a pure tone of the human voice, is a source of delight to the physiologist, but will only interfere with that _feel_ for the free, full volume of sound which the student of voice as an instrument of thought and emotion is to make, as a first step in vocal training. then, not as anatomists or physiologists, but as makers of music, let us look at, let us feel for, a tone. i am "stung by the splendor of a sudden thought"; i desire to share it with you; the desire causes me to take a deep breath, a column of air rises, is converted into tone, passes into the mouth, and is moulded into the words which symbolize my thought. let us, without further analysis, try this. close your eyes, think of some line of prose or poetry which has moved you profoundly; let it take possession of you until you are seized by the desire to voice it. still with closed eyes, feel yourself take the breath which is to be made into tone, and then into the words which stand for the thought. hold that sensation, and study it with me for a moment. "but," you say, "the desire to voice the thought does not seize me." very well, let me ask you a question. "do you believe in examinations?" now your thought was converted so swiftly into speech that you had no time to study the conversion. once more, whether your answer be yes or no, close your eyes and feel for the tone you are to use in making the single word. now, a little more in detail, let us see what happens. a thought full of emotion meets the question, the desire to answer is born; the need of breath to meet the desire contracts the diaphragm (the pump); the chest (the reservoir) fills; a column of air, pumped and controlled by the diaphragm, and reinforced in the chest, rises, strikes the vocal cords (the "strings" of the instrument), the strings vibrate, converting the air into sound, into tone; the tone, reinforced in all the chambers of the head, passes into the mouth, and is there moulded by the juxtaposition of the organs of speech (lips, teeth, tongue) into the word, the single, monosyllabic word, yes or no, which frames the thought. now, once more, with closed eyes, sense the process and hold the sensation, but do not speak the word. now, still once more, and this time, speak. alas! did we say we were "makers of music"? is this harmony,--this harsh, hard, breathy, strident note? what is the trouble? first of all, fundamental to all, and beyond a doubt the secret of the dissonance, you did not breathe before you spoke or as you spoke. i mean, really breathe. and that is the first point to be attacked. breathe, breathe, breathe! you must learn how to breathe; you must get your pump, your diaphragm, into working order, you must master it, you must control it, you must not fetter it, you must give it a free chance to do its work. if you are a man, you have probably at least been fair in not tying down your pump; you have not incased yourself in steel bands and drawn them so tight that your diaphragm could not descend and perform its office. yes, and if you are the athletic girl of to-day, you have probably learned the delight and benefit of free muscular action. but you may still be suffering from the effect of your mother's crime in this direction. it may have sent you into the world with weakened muscles in control of the great pumping-station upon which must depend the beauty of your voice. but whatever the condition or the cause, it must, if wrong, be made right. we must learn to breathe properly, freely, naturally. (do not confuse _naturally_ and "habitually." in this connection these terms are opposites rather than synonyms.) to breathe naturally we must do away with all constriction. we must choose between the alleged beauty of a disproportionately small waist and the charm of a beautiful and alluring voice. we cannot have both. then, off with tight corsets! thank heaven! they are the exception and not the rule to-day. please note that i distinctly do not say, "off with corsets," but only "off with _ill-fitting_ corsets," for which tight is but another name. i believe, to digress a moment, with our present method of dress, a properly fitted corset is an absolute necessity, except in the rare instances where a perfectly proportioned and slender figure is also under the control of firm, well-trained muscles. in a first flush of rapture over the vision of the gentle ladies of mr. howell's altruria, seen _through the eye of the needle_, we feel that we can take a step toward that paradise by discarding the strait-laced tailored torture the present-day costume prescribes, for the corsetless grace of the altrurian garment; but our enthusiasm is short-lived, as we realize that we are in modern america and must make as inconspicuously gracious an appearance as possible without violating the conventions. so, as i say, do not discard the corset, which is, for the majority of women, the saving grace of the present fashion in dress; only see that your corset brings out what is best in the figure god gave you, instead of disfiguring it, as undue constriction of any part of your body will inevitably do. incidentally, by this precaution, save your voice as well. but until we can be refitted, or readjust the corsets we already wear, and the gowns made over them, we must avoid the discouraging effect of trying to work against the odds of a costume which interferes with our breathing, by making a practice of taking the breathing exercises involved in the first step, at night and in the morning. five minutes of deep, free breathing from the diaphragm, lying flat on your back in bed at night and before you rise in the morning, will accomplish the desired result. the point in lying flat on your back is that in that position alone you can be sure you are breathing naturally, which is diaphragmatically. indeed, you cannot, without great effort, and sometimes not even then, breathe any other way than naturally. i cannot tell you why. i can only say, try it and see. our first exercise, then, is to lie flat on the back at night and in the morning, when you are perfectly free, and, with closed eyes, take deep, long breaths, letting them go slowly, and studying the accompanying sensation until it is fixed fast and you feel you cannot lose it, but can reproduce, under any condition, the action which resulted in that sensation. the incidental effect of this exercise is to make one very sleepy. indeed, nothing will so quickly and effectually put to flight that foe of the society woman and business man of to-day, insomnia, as the practice of deep, regular natural breathing. add counting each respiration, and it is an almost unfailing remedy. the only trouble for our purpose is that it is sometimes so swiftly soporific that we are asleep before the sensation is fixed fast and noted in consciousness: which is one object of the exercise. however, should we find the prescribed five minutes at night interfered with by coming drowsiness, we may yield in sleepy content, "sustained and soothed" by the thought that we shall be in splendid shape for the morning practice, with which nothing must interfere, "not headache, or sciatica, or leprosy, or thunder-stroke." we are ready now for the third exercise. when, for five minutes in the morning, lying flat on your back, with closed eyes, you have taken deep, long breaths, letting them go slowly, yielding your whole body to the act of respiration, noting the effect and fixing fast the sensation, as a next step you are to stand up and repeat the operation. still holding the sensation (not by tightening your muscles, or clenching your fists, or setting your teeth, but simply by thinking the sensation, letting it possess you), in this attitude of mind breathe naturally, standing instead of lying down. that is all. don't be discouraged if the test prove unsatisfactory at first. try an intermediate step. sit on the side of your bed, or in a straight-back chair, and, closing your eyes and relaxing all your muscles except those governing the diaphragm, breathe. now stand, well poised. by well poised, of course, you know i mean with the weight perfectly balanced about the center of gravity, which, in turn, means that a perpendicular dropped from the highest point of the lifted chest without encountering any part of your body, and especially not your abdomen (which should be held always back, so that it is flat, if not actually concave) will fall unobstructed to the floor, striking a point just between the balls of your feet. standing thus, well poised, place the right hand on your body, just below your ribs at the base of the lungs, and your left hand on your back, just opposite your right hand; then breathe, and feel the diaphragm, as it descends, cause the torso, in turn, to expand from front to back, pressing against either hand. let the breath go slowly, controlling its emission by controlling the diaphragm. so the three exercises stand progressively thus: _first._--breathe naturally, which is diaphragmatically, five minutes at night. (at first you can be sure of doing this only by lying flat on your back.) _second._--breathe naturally, which is diaphragmatically, for five minutes in the morning, and note the sensation. _third._--stand and test your newly acquired power by trying to breathe diaphragmatically while on your feet. these three exercises constitute the first step in the first stage of vocal training, and that step is called _learning to support the tone_. i know a little girl who, in the beginning of her career, alarmed her parents by refusing to utter a syllable or the semblance of a syllable until she was three years old, when she evidently considered herself ready for her maiden effort at speech. prepared she proved, for, sitting at the window in her high-chair one day, watching people pass, she remarked quietly and with perfect precision, "there goes mrs. tibbets." i find myself secretly wishing it were possible for you to refrain from speech, not for three years, but for three weeks, while you quietly prepare for speech by practising these three breathing exercises. it is quite the customary thing (or ought to be) for the teacher of voice as an instrument of song to require of the student a period of silence--that is, a period in which only exercises are allowed, and songs, even the simplest, are forbidden. however, our only way to secure this condition would be to go into retreat; but, after all, one of the most encouraging things about this work is the remarkable effect upon the speaking voice of simply holding the thought of the right condition for tone, _thinking_ the three exercises i have given you. it is not so remarkable, perhaps, in the light of the experiment recently made (i am told) in one of our great colleges, when three men daily performed a certain exercise, and three other men simply thought it intensely, and the resultant effect upon the muscles used in the act was marvelously similar. i am half afraid to have recalled this, lest you take advantage of the suggestion and relax your effort, or, out of curiosity, make the experiment. please don't. i offer it only as an incentive to you, to _think_ at least of the desired condition, if you cannot every day indulge in an active effort to attain it. please test at once the immediate effect of this third exercise. take the attitude i have defined, and try once more any full-voweled syllable. i think you will find the tone already improved. learning to free the tone we have worked, so far, for support of tone. we must now free the supported tone, by freeing the channel for the emission of the breath as it is converted into tone and moulded into speech. we shall find that in learning to support the tone we have gone far toward securing that freedom; but the habit of years is not easily overcome, and every time you have spoken without proper support of breath you have _forced_ the tone _from_ the _throat_, by tightening the muscles and closing the channel, thus making conditions which must now be reformed by steady, patient effort. yet it is not effort i want from you now; it is _lack_ of effort. it is _passivity_; it is _surrender_. i want you to relax all the muscles which govern the organs concerned in converting the breath into tone and moulding the tone into speech, all the muscles controlling the throat and mouth, including the lips and jaw. i want utter passivity of the parts from the point where the column of breath strikes the vocal cords to where, as tone, it is moulded into the word "no." surrender to the desire to utter that word. concentrate your thought on two things: the taking of the breath and the word it is to become. now, lying down, or sitting easily, lazily, in a comfortable chair, or standing leaning against the wall, with closed eyes, surrender to the thought "no," and, taking a breath, speak. still hard and unmusical you find? yes, but i am sure not so hopelessly hard as before. what shall we do to relax the tense muscles, to release the throat and free the channel? at the risk of being written down a propagandist, in the ranks of the extreme dress-reformers, i shall say, first of all, take off those high, tight collars. again, as with the corset, it is a case of a misfit rather than too tight a fit. if your collar is cut to fit, it need not be too high nor too tight for comfort, and it will still be becoming. you want it to cling to the neck and keep the line. cut it to fit, and it will keep the line; then put in pieces of whalebone, if necessary, or resort to some of the many other devices now in vogue for keeping the soft collar erect, but don't choke yourself, either by fastening it too tight or cutting it too high. but how simple it would be if we could relax the tension by doffing our ill-fitting corsets and collars. alas! the trouble is deeper seated than that. it is an indisputable and most unfortunate fact that nervous tension registers itself more easily in the muscles about the mouth and throat than anywhere else. so, if we live as do even the children of to-day, under excitement, and so in a state of nervous tension, the habit of speaking with the channel only half open is quickly formed, and the voice becomes shrill and harsh. you have noticed that the more emphatic one grows in argument the higher and harder the voice becomes, and, incidentally, the less convincing the argument. this is true of all excitement; the nervous tension accompanying it constricts the throat, and the result is a closed channel. to learn instinctively to refer this tension for registration not to the throat, but to the diaphragm, is a part of vocal training. this can be easily accomplished with children, and the habit established of taking a deep breath under the influence of any emotion. this breath will cause the throat to open instead of shut, and the tone to grow full, deep, and round, instead of high and harsh. the full, deep, round tone will carry twice as far as the high, harsh, breathy one. the one deep breath resulting in the full, deep tone may--nay, will--often serve the same purpose as tattycoram's "count five-and-twenty," and save the angry retort. it is useless to regret, on either ethical or aesthetic grounds, that we were not taught in childhood to take the deep breath and make the deep tone. but let us look to it that the voices and dispositions of our children are not allowed to suffer. meanwhile, in correcting the fault in the use of our own instruments, we shall go far toward establishing the proper condition with the next generation, since the child is so mimetic that, to hear sweet, quiet, low tones about him will have more effect than much technical training in keeping his voice free and musical. in the same way, the child who hears good english spoken at home seems less dependent upon text-books in grammar and rhetoric to perfect his verbal expression than the child who is not so fortunate in this respect. to insure the registration of nervous tension in the muscles controlling the diaphragm and not the throat--that is, to form the habit of breathing deeply when speaking under the influence of emotion, is our problem. the present fault in registration will be found to be different with each one of us, or, at least, will cause us "to flock together" according to the place of registration. each must locate for himself his own difficulty, or go to a vocal specialist and have it located. the tension may be altogether in the muscles governing the throat, or it may be in those about the mouth. there is the resultant, _breathy_ tone, the _hard_ tone, the _nasal_ tone, the _guttural_ tone, the tone that issues from a set jaw or an unruly tongue. all mean tension of muscles somewhere, and must be met by relaxation of these muscles and the freeing of the channel. how to relax the throat shall be our initial point of attack. a suggestion made by my first teacher proved most helpful to me, a suggestion so simple that i did not for the moment take it seriously. "think," she said, "how your throat feels just before you yawn." "yes," i replied, irrelevantly, "and just after you have eaten a peppermint--that cool, delicious, open sensation." this impressed her as significant, but not so effective as her suggestion to me, which i felt to be true when i began to think of it seriously, and so, of course, to yawn furiously. try it. think of the yawn. close your eyes and feel how the deep breath with which the yawn begins (the need of which, indeed, caused it) opens the throat, relaxing all the muscles. now, instead of yawning, speak. the result will be a good tone, simply because the condition for tone was right. the moment the yawn actually arrives, the condition is lost, the throat closes; but in that moment before the break into the yawn, the muscles about the throat relax and the channel opens, as the muscles controlling the diaphragm tighten and the deep breath is taken. these, then, are the first exercises in the second step in vocal training. this step is called _freeing the tone_. _first._--yawn, noting the sensation. _second._--just before the throat breaks into the yawn, stop, and, instead of carrying out the yawn, speak. repeat this fifty times a day, or ten times, as often as you will. only, keep at it. take always a single full-voweled monosyllable; _one_, or _four_, or _no_, or _love_, or _loop_, or _dove_, etc. we cannot, in a printed consideration, touch more in detail upon individual cases, but must confine ourselves to these simple exercises, which will, in general, be swiftly and effectively remedial. but we must not stop with the throat, which is but part of the channel involved in the emission of breath as speech. there is the tense jaw to be reckoned with--the jaw set by nervous tension, the jaw which refuses to yield itself to the moulding of the tone into the beautiful open vowel and the clean-cut consonant which make our words so interesting to utter. it is the set jaw which, forcing the tone to squeeze itself out, causes it to sound thin and hard. again, it is surrender and not effort i want. just as i should try to secure the relaxation of your arm or hand by asking you to surrender it to me, drop it a dead weight at your side for me to lift as i choose, so now i ask you to surrender your lower jaw to yourself. let it go. drop your head forward, resting your chin on your chest. then raise your head, but not your chin. let your mouth fall open. assume for the moment that mark of the feeble-minded, the idiotic, the dropped-open mouth, just long enough to note the sensation. place your fingers on either side of your head where the jaws conjoin, and open your mouth quickly and with intention. note the action under your finger-tips. now let the mouth fall open, by simply surrendering the lower jaw, and note this time the lack of action under your fingers, at the juncture of the jaws. it is this passive surrender which we must learn to make, if we find, on investigation, that we are speaking through a half-open mouth held fast by a set jaw. the set jaw resists and distorts the mould, and the beauty of the form of the word which flows from the mould is lost; the relaxed jaw yields to the moulding of the perfectly modeled word. in practising this relaxation there is very little danger of going too far, since the set jaw is the indication of a tense habit of thought, of a high-strung temperament, and this habit of thought will never become, through the practise of an outward mechanical exercise, the slack habit of thought which is evidenced by the loose dropping of words from a too relaxed jaw--a habit which must be met by quite the opposite method of treatment. there are many exercises involved in vocal training which must be directed very carefully for a time before the student can be trusted to practise them alone; so i am confining myself in this, as in every step we take together, to the simple, fundamental, and at the same time perfectly safe ones. to review those for relaxation of the lower jaw: _first._--drop the head until the chin rests upon the breast. raise the head, but not the lower jaw. _second._--with eyes devoid of intelligence and the mouth dropped open, shake the head until you feel the weight of the lower jaw--until the lower jaw seems to hang loosely from the upper jaw and to be shaken by it, as your hand, when you shake it from the wrist, seems to be commanded by the arm, and to have no volition of its own. _third._--test your ability to surrender the jaw by placing your fingers on either side your head in front of the ears at the conjunction of the jaws, and first open your mouth with intention, noting the action; then think the word no, and surrender the jaw to the forming of the word, noting the action or absence of action again. so much for the set jaw. ten or fifteen minutes a day--yes, even five minutes a day of actual practice with the constant thought of surrender, will reward you. try it. and still the channel is not open. there remains that most unruly member, the tongue. dora duty jones refers all faults of technique in speech to failure in the management of the tongue. miss jones bases her entire system upon the three words, "on the tongue," in hamlet's injunction to the players: speak the speech ... trippingly _on the tongue_. that this organ plays a vital part in the presentation of speech is not to be questioned; that it is the chief actor may be disputed. but whether the tongue is to play a main or a minor part the training to which miss jones would subject it is most interesting, and _the technique of speech_[14] should belong to the library of every student of expression. the only danger of this training lies in that of making the tongue a self-conscious actor. what we require of the tongue is that it shall act as a free agent in modeling the perfect word. many of the exercises given by miss jones can be safely attempted only after the preparatory freeing of the organ has been accomplished, but all of them will eventually repay investigation. [14] _the technique of speech_, by dora duty jones, published by harper & brothers. meanwhile the following drill for freeing the tongue ought to develop the agility we desire: _first._--combine _l_ (which may be called the tongue's pet consonant) with _ä_ and repeat the syllable _la_ with constantly increasing speed to form the following groups: _lä'_ ... _lä lä lä'_ ... _lä lä lä'_ ... _lä'_ ... _lä'_. _second._--change the accent over the vowel and repeat the exercise until all the sounds of _a_ are exhausted in combination with the _l_. _third._--change the vowel and repeat the exercise until all the vowels have been used in combination with _l_. _fourth._--change the consonant to _d_, then to _t_, then _n_, and repeat the exercise. _fifth._--follow these exercises on groups of syllables with work on groups of words of one syllable beginning with _l_, such as: _late_, _lade_, _lane_, _lame_; _last_, _lack_, _lank_, _lapse_, _laugh_; _lean_, _least_, _leak_, _leap_, _lead_, etc. remember, we are considering primarily speech-_tone_ and not speech form, and that our aim in the exercise of the tongue is to keep it from interrupting the tone. and now a word must be said as to the part the lips take in speech. it must be only a word, because here more than at any other point the work needs the careful supervision of a trained ear and trained eyes. madame ricardo yields to the lips control of the tongue, as she gives to the diaphragm control of the breath. i think she would make _easily on the lips_ rather than "trippingly on the tongue" the controlling principle in tone and speech. i shall give you but one exercise: combine the speech process _m_ with the vowel _[=e]_ and let the tone explode easily on the lips in the repeated syllable, _m[=e]_, _m[=e]_, _m[=e]_. learning to reinforce the tone and now we turn from the second step in the training to the third and last step--the _reinforcing_ of the supported and freed tone. it is again a freeing process. this time we are to free the cavities now closed against the tone; we are to use the walls of these cavities as sounding-boards for tone, as they were designed to be, so reinforcing the tone and letting it issue a resonant, bell-like note with the carrying power resonance alone can give, instead of the thin, dull, colorless sound which conveys no life to the word into which it is moulded by the organs of speech. how shall we free these cavities? i find myself now impatient of the medium of communication we are using. i want to make the tone for you. i want, for instance, to shut off the nasal cavity and let you hear the resultant nasal note, thin, high, unresonant, which hardly reaches the first member of my audience; then i want you to hear the tone flood into the nasal cavity, and, reinforced there by the vibration from the walls of the cavity, grow a resonant, ringing, bell-like note, which will carry to the farthest corner of the room without the least increase in loudness. but we must be content with the conditions imposed by print. first, you must realize that so-called "talking through the nose" is not talking _through_ the nose at all, but rather failure to do so--that is, instead of letting the tone flood into the nasal cavity, to be reinforced there by striking against the walls of the cavity, which act as sounding-boards for the tone confined within that cavity, we shut off the cavity, and refuse the tone its natural reinforcement. it takes on, as a result, a thin, unresonant quality which we call nasal, although it is thin and unpleasing because it lacks _true nasal resonance_. the only remedy lies in ceasing to shut off the cavity. think the sound [=oo]. let the tone on which it is to be borne grow slowly in thought, filling, filling, and, as it grows, flooding the whole face. let it press against your lips (in thought only as yet), feel your nostrils expand, your face grow alive between the eyes and the upper lip, that area so often inanimate, lifeless, even in a mobile, animated countenance. now let the sound come, but let it follow the thought, flood the face, let the nostrils expand, feel the nasal cavity fill with sound; let it go on up into the head and strike the forehead and the eye-sockets and the walls of all the cavities so unused to the impact of sound, which should never have been shut out. now begin, with lips closed, a humming note, _m-m-m_. let it come flooding into the face, until it presses against the lips, demanding the open mouth. now let it open the mouth into the _e_. repeat this over and over--_m-[=e]_, _m-[=e]_, _m-[=e]_. don't let the tone drop back as the mouth opens. keep it forward behind the upper lip, which it has made full, and which, playing against, it tickles until we _must_ let the tone escape. just as much of the day as possible, think the tone in a flood into the face, and as often as possible hum and let it escape, noting its increasing resonance. it will increase in resonance, i promise you. it will lose its thin, high-pitched nasal quality, and grow mellow and rich and ringing. and so, with chest lifted, diaphragm at work, throat open, tongue free, jaws relaxed, and all the cavities concerned in vocalization open to the tone, as you breathe and yawn and hum, let it issue a full, round, resonant, singing note to add itself to the music of the world. a last word to the pupil mr. william james tells us that we learn to swim in winter and to skate in summer. the principle underlying this statement is of immense comfort in approaching a class in vocal expression. the hope of satisfying results is fostered by the knowledge that a mere statement of the fundamental facts of right tone production will do much toward inducing a right condition for tone. but i know, too, that immediate results depend upon immediate and faithful putting into practice of the principles set forth. a little practice every day will work swift wonders with the voice. and so, in leaving with you madame ricardo's watchwords, i also commend you to ellen terry's "infinite pains." when it means, as it does in pursuing this ideal, that we must be _on guard_ every waking instant--_for a time_; when it means a watch set (for a time) upon every organ involved in expression--lips, teeth, tongue, jaw, mouth, throat, chest, diaphragm, and all the muscles governing these organs; when it means a watch set (for a time) upon one's every thought and emotion lest it make false demands upon the sensitive instruments of their expression--then it becomes a daring device, indeed, to wear upon one's crest. let us not hesitate to carve it there, when we realize that to follow it means culture, true culture, the culture which can only come through control and command of one's self. to the teacher when i consider how much depends in the training of a voice upon listening to the made tone, how little depends upon knowing how it was made, i realize that it is _your ear_, not my book, which must become the real guide in this _study of vocal expression_. public speaking principles and practice by irvah lester winter in offering a book to students of public speaking the author would pay what tribute is here possible to charles william eliot who for many years has taught by example the power and beauty of perfected speech preface this book is designed to set forth the main principles of effective platform delivery, and to provide a large body of material for student practice. the work laid out may be used to form a separate course of study, or a course of training running parallel with a course in debating or other original speaking. it has been prepared with a view also to that large number who want to speak, or have to speak, but cannot have the advantage of a teacher. much is therefore said in the way of caution, and untechnical language is used throughout. the discussion of principles in part one is intended as a help towards the student's understanding of his task, and also as a common basis of criticism in the relation between teacher and pupil. the preliminary fundamental work of part two, technical training, deals first with the right formation of tone, the development of voice as such, the securing of a fixed right vocal habit. following comes the adapting of this improved voice to the varieties of use, or expressional effect, demanded of the public speaker. after this critical detailed drill, the student is to take the platform, and apply his acquired technique to continued discourse, receiving criticism after each entire piece of work. the question as to what should be the plan and the content of part three, platform practice, has been determined simply by asking what are the distinctly varied conditions under which men most frequently speak. it is regarded as profitable for the student to practice, at least to some extent, in all the several kinds of speech here chosen. in thus cultivating versatility, he will greatly enlarge his power of expression, and will, at length, discover wherein lies his own special capability. the principal aim in choosing the selections has been to have them sufficiently alive to be attractive to younger speakers, and not so heavy as to be unsuited to their powers. some of them have proved effective by use; many others are new. in all cases they are of good quality. it is hoped that the new features of the book will be found useful. one of these is a group of lighter after-dinner speeches and anecdotes. it has been said that, in present-day speech-making, humor has supplanted former-day eloquence. it plays anyway a considerable part in various kinds of speaking. the young speaker is generally ineffective in the expression of pleasantry, even his own. practice in the speaking of wholesome humor is good for cultivating quality of voice and ease of manner, and for developing the faculty of giving humorous turn to one's own thought. it is also entertaining to fellow students. other new features in the book are a practice section for the kind of informal speaking suited to the club or the classroom, and a section given to the occasional poem, the kind of poem that is associated with speechmaking. a considerable space is given to argumentative selections because of the general interest in debating, and because a need has been felt for something suited for special forensic practice among students of law. some poetic selections are introduced into part two in order to give attractive variety to the student's work, and to provide for the advantage of using verse form in some of the vocal training. the few character sketches introduced may serve for cultivating facility in giving entertaining touches to serious discourse. all the selections for platform practice are designed, as seems most fitting, to occupy about five minutes in delivery. original speeches, wherein the student presents his own thought, may be intermingled with this more technical work in delivery, or may be taken up in a more special way in a subsequent course. it should, perhaps, be suggested that the plan of procedure here prescribed can be modified to suit the individual teacher or student. the method of advance explained in the discussion of principles is believed to be the best, but some who use the book may prefer, for example, to begin with the second group of selections, the familiar, colloquial passages, and proceed from these to those more elevated and sustained. this or any other variation from the plan here proposed can, of course, be adopted. for any plan the variety of material is deemed sufficient, and the method of grouping will be found convenient and practical. the making of this kind of book would not be possible except for the generous privileges granted by many authors and many publishers of copyrighted works. for the special courtesies of all whose writings have a place here the editor would make the fullest acknowledgment of indebtedness. the books from which extracts are taken have been mentioned, in every case, in a prominent place with the title of the selection, in order that so far as possible students may be led carefully to read the entire original, and become fully imbued with its meaning and spirit, before undertaking the vocal work on the selected portion. for the purpose of such reading, it would be well to have these books collected on a section of shelves in school libraries for easy and ready reference. the publishers from whose books selections have been most liberally drawn are, messrs. houghton mifflin company, messrs. lothrop, lee and shepard, messrs. little, brown, and company, of boston, and messrs. harper and brothers, messrs. charles scribner's sons, messrs. g. p. putnam's sons, messrs. g. w. dillingham company, messrs. doubleday, page and company, and mr. c. p. farrell, new york. several of the after-dinner speeches are taken from the excellent fifteen volume collection, "modern eloquence," by an arrangement with geo. l. shuman and company, chicago, publishers. in the first three volumes of this collection will be found many other attractive after-dinner speeches. i. l. w. cambridge, massachusetts. contents preface introduction part one a discussion of principles technical training establishing the tone vocal flexibility the formation of words making the point indicating values and relations expressing the feeling showing the picture expression by action platform practice the formal address the public lecture the informal discussion argumentative speech the after-dinner speech the occasional poem the making of the speech part two technical training establishing the tone o scotia!.......................... _robert burns_ o rome! my country!................ _lord byron_ ring out, wild bells!.............. _alfred lord tennyson_ roll on, thou deep!................ _lord byron_ thou too, sail on!................. _henry w. longfellow_ o tiber, father tiber!............. _lord macaulay_ marullus to the roman citizens..... _william shakespeare_ the recessional.................... _rudyard kipling_ the cradle of liberty.............. _daniel webster_ the impeachment of warren hastings. _edmund burke_ bunker hill........................ _daniel webster_ the gettysburg address............. _abraham lincoln_ vocal flexibility cæsar, the fighter................. _henry w. longfellow_ official duty...................... _theodore roosevelt_ look well to your speech........... _george herbert palmer_ hamlet to the players.............. _william shakespeare_ bellario's letter.................. _william shakespeare_ casca, speaking of cæsar........... _william shakespeare_ squandering of the voice........... _henry ward beecher_ the training of the gentleman...... _william j. tucker_ making the point brutus to the roman citizens....... _william shakespeare_ the precepts of polonius........... _william shakespeare_ the high standard.................. _lord rosebery_ on taxing the colonies............. _edmund burke_ justifying the president........... _john c. spooner_ britain and america................ _john bright_ values and transitions king robert of sicily.............. _henry w. longfellow_ laying the atlantic cable.......... _james t. fields_ o'connell, the orator.............. _wendell phillips_ justification for impeachment...... _edmund burke_ wendell phillips, the orator....... _george william curtis_ on the disposal of public lands.... _robert y. hayne_ the declaration of independence.... _abraham lincoln_ expressing the feeling northern greeting to southern veterans. ................................... _henry cabot lodge_ matches and overmatches............ _daniel webster_ the coalition...................... _daniel webster_ in his own defense................. _robert emmet_ on resistance to great britain..... _patrick henry_ invective against louis bonaparte.. _victor hugo_ showing the picture mount, the doge of venice!......... _mary russell mitford_ the revenge........................ _alfred lord tennyson_ a vision of war.................... _robert g. ingersoll_ sunset near jerusalem.............. _corwin knapp linson_ a return in triumph................ _t. de witt talmage_ a return in defeat................. _henry w. grady_ expression by action in our forefathers' day............ _t. de witt talmage_ cassius against cæsar.............. _william shakespeare_ the spirit of the south............ _henry w. grady_ something rankling here............ _daniel webster_ faith in the people................ _john bright_ the french against hayti........... _wendell phillips_ the necessity of force............. _john m. thurston_ against war with mexico............ _thomas corwin_ the murder of lovejoy.............. _wendell phillips_ depicting character a tale of the plains............... _theodore roosevelt_ gunga din.......................... _rudyard kipling_ address of sergeant buzfuz......... _charles dickens_ a natural philosopher.............. _maccabe_ response to a toast................ _litchfield moseley_ partridge at the play.............. _henry fielding_ a man's a man for a that........... _robert burns_ artemus ward's lecture............. _charles farrar brown_ jim bludso, of the prairie belle... _john hay_ the trial of abner barrow.......... _richard harding davis_ part three platform practice the speech of formal occasion the benefits of a college education _abbott lawrence lowell_ what the college gives............. _le baron russell briggs_ memorial day address............... _john d. long_ william mckinley................... _john hay_ robert e. lee...................... _john w. daniel_ farewell address to the united states senate. ...................................._henry clay_ the death of garfield.............. _james g. blaine_ the second inaugural address....... _abraham lincoln_ the death of prince albert......... _benjamin disraeli_ an appreciation of mr. gladstone... _arthur j. balfour_ william e. gladstone............... _lord rosebery_ the soldier's creed................ _horace porter_ competition in college............. _abbott lawrence lowell_ the public lecture a master of the situation.......... _james t. fields_ wit and humor...................... _minot j. savage_ a message to garcia................ _elbert hubbard_ shakespeare's "mark antony"........ _anonymous_ andré and hale..................... _chauncey m. depew_ the battle of lexington............ _theodore parker_ the homes of the people............ _henry w. grady_ general ulysses s. grant........... _canon g. w. farrar_ american courage................... _sherman hoar_ the minutemen of the revolution.... _george william curtis_ paul revere's ride................. _george william curtis_ the arts of the ancients........... _wendell phillips_ a man without a country............ _edward everett hale_ the execution of rodriguez......... _richard harding davis_ the informal discussion the flood of books................. _henry van dyke_ effectiveness in speaking.......... _william jennings bryan_ books, literature and the people... _henry van dyke_ education for business............. _charles william eliot_ the beginnings of american oratory. _thomas wentworth higginson_ daniel webster, the man............ _thomas wentworth higginson_ the enduring value of speech....... _thomas wentworth higginson_ to college girls................... _le baron russell briggs_ the art of acting.................. _henry irving_ address to the freshman class at harvard university ...................................._charles william eliot_ with tennyson at farringford....... _by his son_ notes on speech-making............. _brander matthews_ hunting the grizzly................ _theodore roosevelt_ argument and persuasion debates and campaign speeches on retaining the philippine islands _george f. hoar_ on retaining the philippine islands _william mckinley_ debate on the tariff............... _thomas b. reed_ debate on the tariff............... _charles f. crisp_ south carolina and massachusetts... _robert y. hayne_ south carolina and massachusetts... _daniel webster_ the republican party............... _john hay_ nominating ulysses s. grant........ _roscoe conkling_ the choice of a party.............. _roscoe conkling_ nominating john sherman............ _james a. garfield_ the democratic party............... _william e. russell_ the call to democrats.............. _alton b. parker_ nominating woodrow wilson.......... _john w. wescott_ democratic faith................... _william e. russell_ england and america................ _john bright_ on home rule in ireland............ _william e. gladstone_ the legal plea the dartmouth college case......... _daniel webster_ in defense of the kennistons....... _daniel webster_ in defense of the kennistons, ii... _daniel webster_ in defense of john e. cook......... _d. w. voorhees_ in defense of the soldiers......... _josiah quincy, jr._ in defense of the soldiers, ii..... _josiah quincy, jr._ in defense of the soldiers, iii.... _josiah quincy, jr._ in defense of lord george gordon... _lord thomas erskine_ pronouncing sentence for high treason ................................... _sir alfred wills_ the impeachment of andrew johnson.. _george s. boutwell_ the impeachment of andrew johnson.. _william m. evarts_ the impeachment of andrew johnson, ii ................................... _william m. evarts_ the after-dinner speech at a university club dinner........ _henry e. howland_ the evacuation of new york......... _joseph h. choate_ ties of kinship.................... _sir edwin arnold_ canada, england and the united states ................................... _sir wilfred laurier_ monsieur and madame................ _paul blouet (max o'rell)_ the typical american............... _henry w. grady_ the pilgrim mothers................ _joseph h. choate_ bright land to westward............ _e. o. wolcott_ woman.............................. _theodore tilton_ abraham lincoln.................... _horace porter_ to athletic victors................ _henry e. howland_ the occasional poem charles dickens.................... _william watson_ the mariners of england............ _thomas campbell_ class poem......................... _langdon warner_ a troop of the guard............... _hermann hagedorn, jr._ the boys........................... _oliver wendell holmes_ the anecdote the mob conquered.................. _george william curtis_ an example of faith................ _henry w. grady_ the rail-splitter.................. _h. l. williams_ o'connell's wit.................... _wendell phillips_ a reliable team.................... _theodore roosevelt_ meg's marriage..................... _robert collyer_ outdoing mrs. partington........... _sidney smith_ circumstance not a cause........... _sidney smith_ more terrible than the lions....... _a. a. mccormick_ irving, the actor.................. _john de morgan_ wendell phillips's tact............ _james burton pond_ baked beans and culture............ _eugene field_ secretary chase's chin-fly......... _f. b. carpenter_ index of titles index of authors introduction happily, it is no longer necessary to argue that public speaking is a worthy subject for regular study in school and college. the teaching of this subject, in one form or another, is now fairly well established. in each of the larger universities, including professional schools and summer schools, the students electing the courses in speaking number well into the hundreds. these courses are now being more generally placed among those counted towards the academic degrees. the demand for trained teachers in the various branches of the work in schools and colleges is far above the present supply. educators in general look with more favor upon this kind of instruction, recognizing its practical usefulness and its cultural value. the question of the present time, then, is not whether or not the subject shall have a place. some sort of place it always has had and always will have. present discussion should rather bear upon the policy and the method of that instruction, the qualifications to be required of teachers, and the consideration for themselves and their work that teachers have a right to expect. naturally, public speaking in the form of debating has received favor among educators. it seems to serve the ends of practice in speaking and it gives also good mental discipline. the high regard for debating is not misplaced. we can hardly overestimate the good that debating has done to the subject of speaking in the schools and colleges. the rigid intellectual discipline involved in debating has helped to establish public speaking in the regular curriculum, thus gaining for it, and for teachers in it, greater respect. to bring training in speech into close relation with training in thought, and with the study of expression in english, is most desirable. this, however, does _not_ mean that training in speech, as a distinct object in itself, should be allowed to fall into comparative neglect. it is quite possible that, along with the healthy disapproval of false elocution and meaningless declamation, may come an underestimation of the important place of a right kind and a due degree of technical training in voice and general form. in a recent book on public speaking, the statement is made that it is all well enough, if it so happens, for a speaker to have a pleasing voice, but it is not essential. this, though true in a sense, is misleading, and much teaching of this sort would be unfortunate for young speakers. it would seem quite unnecessary to say that beauty of voice is not in itself a primary object in vocal training for public speaking. the object is to make voices effective. in the effective use of any other instrument, we apply the utmost skill for the perfect adjustment or coordination of all the means of control. we do this for the attainment of power, for the conserving of energy, for the insuring of endurance and ease of operation. this is the end in the training of the voice. it is to avoid friction. it is to prevent nervous strain, muscular distortion, and failing power, and to secure easy response to the will of the speaker. the point not wholly understood or heeded is that, as a rule, the unpleasing voice is an indication of ill adjustment and friction. it denotes a mechanism wearing on itself--it means a voice that will weaken or fail before its time--a voice that needs repair. since speech is to express a speaker's thought, training in speech should not be altogether dissociated from training in thinking. it ought to go hand in hand, indeed, with the study of english, from first to last. but training in voice and in the method of speech is a technical matter. it ought not to be left to the haphazard treatment, the intense spurring on, of vocally unskilled coaches for speaking contests. discussions about the teaching of speaking are often very curious. we are frequently told by what means a few great orators have succeeded, but we are hardly ever informed of the causes from which many other speakers have been embarrassed or have failed. a book or essay is written to prove, from the individual experience of the author, the infallibility of a method. he was able to succeed, the argument runs, only by this or that means; therefore all should do as he did. it seems very plausible and attractive to read, for instance, that to succeed in speaking, it is only necessary to plunge in and be in earnest. but another writer points out that this is quite absurd; that many poor speakers have not lacked in intense earnestness and sincerity; that it isn't feeling or intense spirit alone that insures success, but it is the attainment as well of a vocal method. yet he goes on to argue that this vocal method, this forming of a public speaking voice and style, cannot be rightly gained from the teachers; it must be acquired through the exercise of each man's own will; if a man finds he is going wrong he must will to go right--as if many men had not persistently but unsuccessfully exercised their will to this very end. it is so easy, and so attractive, to resolve all problems into one idea. president woodrow wilson, of princeton university, once said that he always avoided the man or the book that proclaimed one idea for the correcting of society's ills. these ideas on which books or essays are written are too obviously fallacious to need extended comment; the wonder is that they are often quoted and commended as being beneficial in their teaching. if we want to row or sprint or play golf, we do not simply go in and do our utmost; we apply the best technical skill to the art; we seek to learn how, from the experience of the past, and through the best instructors obtainable. both common sense and experience show that the use of the human voice in the art of speaking is not the one thing, among all things, that cannot be successfully taught. the results of vocal teaching show, on the contrary, from multitudes of examples, from volumes of testimony, that there are few branches of instruction wherein the specially trained teacher is so much needed, and can be so effective as in the art of speaking. in an experience extending over many years, an experience dealing with about all the various forms of public speaking and vocal teaching, the present writer has tried many methods, conducted classes on several different plans, learned the needs, observed the efforts, considered the successes and failures, of many men and women of various ages and of many callings. the constant and insistent fact in all this period of experience has been that skillful, technical instruction, as such, is the one kind of instruction that should always be provided where public speaking is taught, and the one that the student should not fail to secure when it is at hand. other elements in good speech-making may, if necessary, be obtained from other sources. the teacher of speaking should teach speech. he should teach something else also, but he should, as a technician, teach that. the multitude of men and women who, in earlier and later life, come, in vocal trouble, to seek help from the experienced teacher, and the abundance of testimony as to the satisfactory results; the repeated evidences of failure to produce rightly trained voices wholly by so-called inspirational methods; the frequent evidences of pernicious vocal results from the forcing of young voices in the overintense and hasty efforts made in preparing for prize speaking, acting, and debating,--all these may not come to the understanding of the ordinary observer; they may not often, perhaps, come within the experience of the exceptionally gifted individuals who are usually cited as examples of distinguished success; they cannot impress themselves on educators who have little or no relation with this special subject; they naturally come into the knowledge and experience of the specially trained teacher of public speaking, who is brought into intimate relations with the subject and deals with all sorts and conditions of men. out of this experience comes the strong conviction that the teacher of public speaking should be a vocal technician and a vocal physician, able to teach constructively and to treat correctively, knowing all he can of all that has been taught before, but teaching only as much of what he knows as is necessary to any individual. for the dignity and worth of the teaching, the teacher of speaking should be trained, and should be a trainer, as has been indirectly said, in some other subject--in english literature or composition, in debating, history, or what not. he should be one of the academic faculty--concerned with thought, which speech expresses. he should not, for his other subject, be mainly concerned with gymnastics or athletics; he should not, for his own good and the consequent good of his work, be wholly taken up merely with the teaching of technical form in speaking. he should not be merely--if at all--a coach in intercollegiate contests; nor should his service to an institution be adjudged mainly by the results of such contests. he should be an independent, intellectually grown and growing man, one who--in his exceptionally intimate relations with students--will have a large and right influence on student life. the offer recently held out by a university of a salary and an academic rank equal to its best, to a sufficiently qualified instructor in public speaking, was one of the several signs of a sure movement of to-day in the right direction--the demand for a man of high character and broad culture, specially skilled in the technical subject he was to teach, and the providing of a worthy position. one fact that needs to be impressed upon governing bodies of school and college is that the cultivation of good speaking cannot but be unsatisfactory when it is continued over only a very brief time. it may only do mischief. a considerable period is necessary, as is the case with other subjects, for reaching the student intelligence, for molding the faculties, for maturing the powers, for adapting method to the individual, and for bringing the personality out through the method, so that method disappears. senator george f. hoar once gave very sensible advice in an address to an audience of harvard students. he did not content himself with dwelling on the inevitable platitude, first have something to say, and then say it; he said he had been, in all his career, at a special disadvantage in public speaking, from the want of early training in the use of his voice; and he urged that students would do well not only to take advantage of such training in college, but to have their teacher, if it were possible, follow them, for a time, into their professional work. this idea was well exemplified in the case of phillips brooks--a speaker of spontaneity, simplicity, and splendid power. it is said that, in the period of his pulpit work, in the midst of his absorbing church labors, he made it a duty to go from time to time for a period of work with his teacher of voice, that he might be kept from falling back into wrong ways. it is often said that, if a man has it in him, he will speak well anyway. it is emphatically the man who has it in him, the man of intense temperament, like that of phillips brooks, who most needs the balance wheel, the sure reliance, of technique. that this technique should not be too technical; that form should not be too formal; that teaching should not be too good, or do too much, is one of the principles of good teaching. the point insisted on is that a considerable time is needed, as it is in other kinds of teaching, for thoroughly working out a few essential principles; for overcoming a few obstinate faults; for securing matured results by the right process of gradual development. there is much cause for gratification in the evidences of a growing appreciation, in all quarters, of the place due to spoken english, as a study to be taught continuously side by side with written english. much progress has also been made toward making youthful platform speaking, as well as youthful writing, more rational in form, more true in spirit, more useful for its purpose. in good time written and spoken english, conjoined with disciplinary training in thought and imagination, will both become firmly established in their proper place as subjects to be thoroughly and systematically taught. good teaching will become traditional, and good teachers not rare. and among the specialized courses in public speaking an important place should always be given to an exact training in voice and in the whole art of effective delivery. part one a discussion of principles technical training establishing the tone the common trouble in using the voice for the more vigorous or intense forms of speaking is a contraction or straining of the throat. this impedes the free flow of voice, causing impaired tone, poor enunciation, and unhealthy physical conditions. students should, therefore, be constantly warned against the least beginnings of this fault. the earlier indications of it may not be observed, or the nature of the trouble may not be known, by the untrained speaker. but it ought to have, from the first, the attention of a skilled teacher, for the more deep-seated it becomes, the harder is its cure. so very common is the "throaty" tone and so connected is throat pressure with every other vocal imperfection, that the avoiding or the correcting of this one fault demands constant watchfulness in all vigorous vocal work. the way to avoid the faulty control of voice is, of course, to learn at the proper time the general principles of what singers call voice production. these principles are few and, in a sense, are very simple, but they are not easily made perfectly clear in writing, and a perfect application of them, even in the simpler forms of speaking, often requires persistent practice. it will be the aim here to state only what the student is most likely to understand and profit by, and to leave the rest to the personal guidance of a teacher. the control of the voice, so far as it can be a conscious physical operation, is determined chiefly by the action of the breathing muscles about the waist and the lower part of the chest. the voice may be said to have its foundation in this part of the physical man. this foundation, or center of control, will be rightly established, not by any very positive physical action; not by a decided raising of the chest; not by any such marked expansion or contraction as to bring physical discomfort or rigid muscular conditions. when the breath is taken in, by an easy, natural expansion, much as air is taken into a bellows, there is, to a certain degree, a firming of the breathing muscles; but this muscular tension is felt by the speaker or singer, if felt at all, simply as a comfortable fullness around, and slightly above, the waistline, probably more in front than elsewhere. an eminent teacher of singing tells his pupils to draw the breath into the stomach. that probably suggests the sensation. when the breath has been taken in, it is to be gently withheld,--not given up too freely,--and the tone is formed on the top, so to speak, of this body of breath, chiefly, of course, in the mouth and head. for the stronger and larger voice the breath is not driven out and dissipated, but the tone is intensified and given completer resonance within--within the nasal or head cavities, somewhat within the pharynx and chest. this body of breath, easily held in good control, by the lower breathing muscles, forms what is called the vocal "support." it is a fixed base of control. it is a fundamental condition, and is to be steadily maintained in all the varied operations of the voice. since this fundamental control of voice is so important, breathing exercises are often prescribed for regular practice. such exercises, when directed by a thoroughly proficient instructor, may be vocally effective, and beneficial to health. unwisely practiced, they may be unfitted to vocal control and of positive physical harm. moderately taking the breath at frequent intervals, as a preparation or reënforcement for speaking, should become an unconscious habit. excessive filling of the lungs or pressing downward upon the abdomen should be avoided. in general, the hearing of the voice, and an expressional purpose in making the voice, are the better means of acquiring good breathing. for the purposes of public speaking, at least, it is seldom necessary to do much more, in regard to the breathing, than to instruct a student against going wrong. the speaker should have a settled feeling of sufficiency; he should hold himself well together, physically and morally, avoiding nervous agitation and physical collapse; he should allow the breath freedom rather than put it under unnatural constraint. perfect breathing can only be known by certain qualities in the voice. when it is best, the process is least observed. the student learns the method of breathing mainly by noting the result, by rightly hearing his voice. he must, after all, practice through the hearing. the discussion of vocal support has brought us to the second main principle, the government of the throat. the right control of the voice, by placing a certain degree of tension upon the breathing muscles, tends to take away all pressure and constraint from the throat, leaving that passage seemingly open and free, so that the breath body or column; as some conceive it, seems almost unbroken in continued speech, much as it is, or should be, in prolonging tone in singing. the throat is opened in a relaxed rather than a constrained way, so as to give free play for the involuntary action of the delicate vocal muscles connected with the larynx, which determine all the finer variations of voice. whatever kind of vocal effort is made, the student should constantly guard himself against the least throat stiffening or contraction, against what vocalists call a "throat grip." he is very likely to make some effort with the throat, or vocal muscles, when putting the voice to any unusual test--when prolonging tone, raising or lowering the pitch, giving sharp inflections, or striking hard upon words for emphasis. in these and other vocal efforts the throat muscles should be left free to do their own work in their own way. the throat is to be regarded as a way through; the motive power is below the throat; the place for giving sound or resonance, to voice, for stamping upon words their form and character, is in the mouth, front and back, and especially in the head. the last of the three main considerations, the concentration of tone where it naturally seems to be formed, is often termed voice "placing," or "placement." the possible objection to this term is that it may suggest a purely artificial or arbitrary treatment or method. rightly understood, it is the following of nature. its value is that it emphasizes the constancy of this one of the constant factors in voice. its result is a certain kind and degree of monotony; without that particular kind of monotony the voice is faulty. when the tone is forced out of its proper place, it is dissipated and more or less lost. a student once told the writer, when complimented on the good placement of his voice, that he learned this in his summer employment as a public crier at the door of a show tent. he said he could not possibly have endured the daily wear upon the voice in any other way. voices are heard among teamsters, foremen on the street, and auctioneers, that conform to this and other principles perfectly. we may say that in such cases the process of learning is unconscious. in the case of the untaught student it was conscious, and was exactly what he would have been instructed to do by a teacher. the point is that many cannot learn by themselves, and our more unconscious doings are likely to become our bad habits. just what this voice placement is can perhaps be observed simply by sounding the letter "m," or giving an ordinary hum, as the mother sings to the child. it is merely finding the natural, instinctive basal form of the voice, and making all the vowels simply as variations of this form. the hum is often practiced, with a soft pure quality, by singers. it is varied by the sound of "ng," as in "rung" or "hung," and the elemental sound of "l." the practice should always be varied, however, by a fuller sounding of the rounder vowels, lest the voice become too much confined or thinned. the speaker, like the singer, must find out how, by a certain adjustment all along the line from the breathing center to the point of issue of the breath at the front of the mouth, he can easily maintain a constant hitting place, to serve as the hammer head; one singing place for carrying the voice steadily through a sustained passage; one place where, as it were, the tone is held in check so it will not break through itself and go to pieces,--a "placing of the voice," which is to be preserved in every sort of change or play of tone, whether in one's own character or an assumed character; a constant focus or a fixed center of resonance, a forming of tone along the roof of the mouth and well forward in the head, the safeguard and, practically, the one most effective idea in the government of voice. and now it should be hastily stated that this excellent idea, like other good things, may be easily abused. if the tone is pushed forward or crowded into the head or held tight in its place, in the least degree, there is a drawing or a cramping in the throat; there is a "pressing" of the voice. it should be remembered that the constancy of high placement of tone depends upon the certainty of the tone foundation; that, after all, the voice must rest upon itself, and must not sound as if it were up on tip-toe or on stilts; that tone placement is merely a convenient term for naming a natural condition. as a final word on this part of the discussion, the student should of course be impressed with the idea that though these three features of vocal mechanism have been considered separately, all ideas about voice are ultimately to become one idea. the voice is to be thought of as belonging to the whole man, and is to become the spontaneous expression of his feelings and will; it should not draw attention to any particular part of the physical man; whatever number of conditions may be considered, the voice is finally to be one condition, a condition of normal freedom. a lack of freedom is indicated in the voice, as in other kinds of mechanism by some sign of friction--by a harsh tone from a constrained throat; by a nasal or a muffled tone, from some obstruction in the nasal passages of the head, either because of abnormal physical conditions, or because of an unnatural direction of the breath, mainly due probably to speaking with a closed mouth; by a bound-up, heavy, "chesty" tone, resulting from a labored method of breathing. voice in its freer state should be pure, clear, round, fairly musical, and fairly deep and rich. its multitude of expressive qualities had better be cultivated by the true purpose to express, in the simplest way, sentiments appropriated to one's self through an understanding and a comprehensive appreciation of various passages of good literature. as soon as possible all technique is to be forgotten, unless the consciousness is pricked by something going wrong. voices in general need, in the larger development, to be rounded. the vowel forms "oo" as in moon, "o" as in roll, and "a" as in saw, greatly help in giving a rounded form to the general speech; for all vowels can be molded somewhat into the form of these rounder ones. the vowels "e" as in meet, "a" as in late, short "e" as in met, short "a" as in sat, are likely to be made very sharp, thin, and harsh. when a passage for practice begins with round vowels, as for example, "roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll!" the somewhat rounded form of the lips, and the opened condition of the throat produced in forming the rounder vowels, can be to some extent maintained through the whole of the passage, in forming all the vowels; and this will give, by repeated practice, a gradually rounded and deepened general character to the voice. on the other hand the thinner, sharper vowels may serve to give keenness and point to tones too thick and dull. in applying these suggestions, as well as all other vocal suggestions, moderation and good sense must be exercised, for the sake of the good outward appearance and the good effect of the speaking. the chief vowel forms running from the deepest to the most shallow are: "oo" as in moon, "o" as in roll, "a" as in saw, "a" as in far, "a" as in say, "e" as in see. since the making of tones means practically the shaping of vowels, something should here be said about vowel forms. the mouth opening should of course be freely shaped for the best sounding of the vowels. for the vowel "a" as in far, the mouth is rather fully opened; for "a" as in saw, it is opened deep, that is, the mouth passage is somewhat narrowed, so as to allow increased depth. the vowel "o," as in no, has two forms, the clear open "o," and the "o" somewhat covered by a closer form of the lips, commonly, when the vowel is prolonged, the initial form, that is the open "o," is held, with the closed form, like "oo" in moon, touched briefly as the tone is finished. so with long "i" (y), as in thy, and "ou," as in thou--the first form is like a broad "a" as in far, with short "i" (sit) ending the "i" (y), and "oo" (moon) ending the "ou." this final sound, though sometimes accentuated for humorous effect, is usually not to be made prominent. the sound of "oi," as in voice, has the main form of "aw" as in saw, and the final form in short "i," as in pin. the vowel "u" is sounded like "oo" (moon) in a few words, as in rule, truth. generally, it sounds about like "ew" in new or mew. in some of the forms the front of the mouth will be open, in some half open, and in some, as in the case of long "e" (meet), nearly closed. whatever the degree of opening, the jaw should never be allowed to become stiffly set, nor the tongue nor lips to be held tight, in any degree or way. these faults cause a tightening in the throat, and affect the character of the tone. it will generally be advantage to the tone if the lips are trained to be very slightly protruding, in bell shape, and if the corners of the mouth be not allowed to droop, but be made very slightly to curve upward. the tongue takes of course various positions for different vowels. for our purposes, it may be sufficient to say that it will play its part best if it be not stiffened but is left quite free and elastic, perhaps quite relaxed, and if the tip of it be made to play easily down behind the lower teeth. since voice has here been discussed in an objective sort of way, it is fitting to emphasize the importance of what is called naturalness, or more correctly, simplicity. everybody desires this sort of result. it can readily be seen, however, that about everything we do is a second nature; is done, that is to say, in the acquired, acceptable, conventional way. voice and speech are largely determined by surrounding influences, and what we come to regard as natural may be only an acquired bad habit, which is, in fact, quite unnatural. voice should certainly be what we call human. better it should have some human faults than be smoothed out into negative perfection, without the true ring, the spunk of individuality. there is, nevertheless, a best naturalness, or second nature, and a worst. the object of training is to find the best. in this discussion of voice some of the ideas often applied to the first steps in the cultivation of singing have been presented, as those most effective also for training in speech. although, on the surface, singing and speaking are quite different, fundamentally they are the same. almost all persons have, if they will use it, an ear for musical pitch and tone, and the neglect to cultivate, in early life, the musical hearing and the singing tone is a mistake. to prospective public speakers it is something like a misfortune. the best speakers have had voices that sang in their speaking. this applies distinctly to the speaking, for example, of wendell phillips, who is commonly called the most colloquial of our public speakers. it has often been commented on in the case of gladstone, and applies peculiarly to some of our present-day speakers, who would be called, not orators, but impressive talkers. the meaning is, not of course that speaking should sound like singing, or necessarily like oratory, but that to the trained ear the best speaking has fundamentally the singing conditions, and the voice has singing qualities; and the elementary exercises designed for singing are excellent, in their simpler forms and methods, for the speaking voice. in carrying out this idea in voice training, the selections here given for the earliest exercises, are such as naturally call for some slight approach to the singing tone. some are in the spirit and style of song or hymn; others are in the form of address to distant auditors, wherein the reciter would call to a distance, or "sing out," as we say. this kind of speaking is a way of quickly "bringing out" the voice. young students especially are very apt in this, getting the idea at once, though needing, as a rule, special cautions and guidance for keeping the proper vocal conditions, so as to prevent "forcing." the passages are simple in spirit and form. they carry on one dominant feeling, needing little variation of voice. the idea is to render them in a way near to the monotone, that the student may learn to control one tone, so to speak, or to speak nearly in one key, before doing the more varied tones of familiar speech or of complex feeling. we might say the passages are to be read in some degree like the chant; but the chant is likely to bring an excess of head resonance and is too mechanical. the true spirit of the selections is to be given, from the first, but reduced to its very simplest form. difficulties arise, in this first step, in the case of two classes of student: those who lack sentiment or imagination, or at least the faculty of vocally expressing it, and those with an excess of feeling. the former class have to be mentally awakened; for some motive element, aesthetic appreciation or imaginative purpose, should play a part, as has been said, even in technical vocal training. the latter class must be restrained. excessive emotion either chokes off expression, or runs away with itself. calmness, evenness, poise, the easy control that comes from a degree of relaxation, without loss of buoyancy,--these are the conditions for good accomplishment of any kind. this self-mastery the high-strung, ardent spirit must learn, in order to become really strong. this is accomplished, in the case of a nervous temperament, not by tightening up and trying hard, but by relaxing, by letting down. in the use of these passages the voice will be set at first slightly high in pitch, in order to help in keeping a continuous sounding of tone against the roof of the mouth and to a proper degree in the head. this average pitch, or key, or at least the character of the tone, will be maintained without much change, and with special care that the tone be kept up in its place at the ends of lines or sentences, and be kept well fixed on its breath foundation. the simpler inflections indicating the plain meaning, will of course be observed, the tone will be kept easily supported by the frequently recovered breath that is under it. the back of the mouth will seem to be constantly somewhat open. there will be no attempt at special power, but only a free, mellow, flowing tone of moderate strength. in the exercise each voice will be treated, in detail, according to its particular needs, and in each teacher's own way. at the time of student life, when physical conditions are not matured, the counsel should repeatedly be given, not only that the voice, though used often and regularly, should be used moderately, but also that the voice should be kept youthful--youthful, if it can be, even in age--but especially in youth, whatever the kind of literature used for practice. also youth should be counseled not to try to make a voice like the voice of some one else, some speaker, or actor, or teacher. it will be much the best if it is just the student's own. vocal flexibility in the earliest exercises here given the tone will be, for the best and most immediate effect, kept running on somewhat in a straight line, so to speak; will have a certain sameness of sound; will be perhaps somewhat monotonous, because kept pretty much in one key, or in one average degree of pitch. it will perhaps be necessary to make the utterance for the time somewhat artificial. the voice is in the artificial stage, as is the work of an oarsman, for example, in learning the parts of the stroke, or that of a golfer in learning the "swing," although in the case of some students, when the vocal conditions are good and the tone is well balanced, very little of the artificial process is necessary. in that case the voice simply needs, in its present general form, to be developed. the next step in the training is to try a more varied use of the voice, without a loss of what has been acquired as to formation of tone. the student is to make himself able to slide the voice up and down in pitch, by what is called inflection, to raise or lower the pitch by varied intervals, momentarily to enlarge or diminish the tone, in expressive ways; in short, to adapt the improved tone, the more effective method of voice control, to more varied speech. in the early practice for getting tone variation, the student must guard most carefully against "forcing." additional difficulties arise when we have vocal changes, and moderate effort, in the degree of the change, is best. in running the tone up, one should let the voice take its own way. the tone should not be pushed or held by any slightest effort at the throat. the control should, as has been said, be far below the throat. in running an inflection from low to high, the tone may be allowed, especially in the earlier practice, to thin out at the top. and always when the pitch is high the tone should be smaller, as it is on a musical instrument, though it should have a consistent depth and dignity from its proper degree of connection with the chest. this consistent character in the upper voice is attained by giving the tone a bit of pomp or nobleness of quality. in taking a low pitch there is, among novices, always a tendency to bear down on the tone in order to gain strength or to give weight to utterance. the voice is thus crowded into, or on, the throat. the voice should never be pushed down or pressed back in the low pitch. this practice leads to raggedness of tone, and finally to virtual loss of the lower voice. the voice should fall of itself with only that degree of force which is legitimately given by the breath tension, produced easily, though firmly, by the breathing muscles. breadth will be given to the tone by some degree of expansion at the back of the mouth, or in the pharynx. as soon as can be, the speech should be brought down to the utmost of simplicity and naturalness, so that the thought of literature can be expressed with reality and truth; can be made to sound exactly as if it came as an unstudied, spontaneous expression of the student's own mind, and yet so it can be heard, so it will be adequate, so it will be pleasing in sound. the improved tone is to become the student's inevitable, everyday voice. the formation of words the term enunciation means the formation of words, including right vocal shape to the vowels and right form to the consonants. pronunciation is scholastic, relating to the word accent and the vowel sound. authority for this is in the dictionary. enunciation, belonging to elocution, is the act of forming those authorized sounds into finished speech. there is a common error regarding enunciation. it is usual, if a speaker is not easily understood, to say that he should "articulate" more clearly; that is, make the consonants more pronounced, and young students are thus often urged into wrongly directed effort with the tongue and lips. sometimes in books, articulation "stunts," in the form of nonsense alliterations, are prescribed, by which all the vowels are likely to be chewed into consonants. the result is usually an overexertion, and a consequent tightening, of the articulating muscles. at first, and for a time, it may appear that this forcing of the articulation brings the desired result of clearer speech, but it will, in the end, be destructive to voice and bring incoherent utterance. articulation exercises too difficult for the master, should not be given to the novice. all teachers of singing train voices, at first, on the vowel, and it should be known that, without right vowel, or tone, formation, efforts at good articulation are futile. every technical vocal fault must be referred back to the fundamental condition of right formation of tone, that is, the vowel. sputtering, hissing, biting, snapping, of consonants is not enunciation. the student should learn how without constraint, to prolong vowels; learn, if you please, the fundamentals of singing, and articulation, the formation of consonants, the jointing of syllables, will become easy. the reason for this is that when the vowel tone is rightly produced, all the vocal muscles are freed; the tongue, lips, and jaw act without constraint. the principle of rhythm simplifies greatly the problem of enunciation. it is easier, not only to make good tone, but also to speak words, in the reading of verse than of prose. it is much easier to read a rhythmical piece of prose than one lacking in rhythm. all prose, then, should be rendered with as much rhythmical flow as is allowed consistently with its spirit and meaning. care must be taken of course that no singsong effect occurs; that the exact meaning receives first attention. in case of long, hard words, ease is attained by making a slight pause before the word or before its preposition or article or other closely attached word, and by giving a strong beat to its accented syllable or syllables, with little effort on the subordinate syllables. the particular weakness among americans, in the speaking of words, is failure adequately to form the nasal, or head, sounds. the letters "l," "m," "n," are called vowel consonants. they can be given continuous sound, a head resonance. this sounding may be carried to a fault, or affectation; but commonly it is insufficiently done, and it should be among the first objects of cultivation in vocal practice. the humming of these head sounds, with very moderate force, is excellent for developing and clearing this resonance. the "ng" sound, as in rung, may be added. improper division of words into syllables is a common fault. the word "constitution," for example, is made "cons-titution," instead of "constitution;" "prin-ciple" is pronounced "prints-iple." a clean, correct formation should be made by slightly holding, and completing the accented syllable. the little word "also" is often called "als-o" or "als-so" or "alt-so"; chrysanthemum is pronounced "chrysant-themum"; coun-try is called "country," band so forth. in the case of doubled consonants, as in the word "mellow," "commemorate," "bubble," and the like, a momentary holding of the first consonant, so that a bit of separate impulse is given to the second, makes more perfect speaking. there is a slight difference between "mel-low" and "mel-ow," "bub-ble" and "bub-le," "com-memorate" and "com-emorate." these finer distinctions, if one cares to make speech accurate and refined, can be observed in words ending in "ence" and "ance" as in "guidance" and "credence"; in words with the ending "al," "el," or "le," as in "general," "principal," "final," "vessel," "rebel," "principle," and "little." if that troublesome word "separate" were from the beginning rightly pronounced, it would probably be less often wrongly spelled. one should hasten to say, however, that over-nicety in enunciation, pedantic exactness, obtrusive "elocutionary" excellence, or any sort of labored or affected effort should be carefully guarded against. the line of distinction between what is perfect and what is slightly strained is a fine one. very often, for example, one hears such endings as "or" in "creator," "ed" in "dedicated," "ess" in "readiness," "men" in "gentlemen," pronounced with incorrect prominence. these syllables, being very subordinate, should not be made to stand out with undue distinctness, and though the vowels should not be distorted into a wrong form, they should be obscured. in "gentlemen," for example, the "e" is, according to the dictionary, an "obscure" vowel, and the word is pronounced almost as "gentlem'n,"--not "gentle_mun_," of course, but not "gentlem_e_n." the fault in such forms is more easily avoided by throwing a sharp accent on the accented syllable, letting the other syllables fall easily out. the expression of greeting, "ladies and gentlemen," should have a strong accent on each first syllable of the two important words, with little prominence given to other syllables or the connecting word; as, "la'dies 'nd gen'tlem'n." in the same class of errors is that of making an extra syllable in such words as "even," "seven," "heaven," "eleven," and "given," where properly the "e" is elided, leaving "ev'n," "heav'n," and so forth. the mouth should remain closed when the first syllable is pronounced; the "n" is then simply sounded in the head. the same treatment should be given to such words as "chasm" and "enthusiasm." if the mouth is opened after the first part of the word is sounded, we have "chas-_u_m," "enthusias-_u_m." the little words "and," "as," "at" and the like should, of course, when not emphatic, be very lightly touched, with the vowel hardly formed, and the mouth only slightly opened. the word "and" is best sounded, where not emphatic, with light touch, slight opening of the mouth, and hardly any forming of the vowel; almost like "'nd." these words should be connected closely with the word which follows, as if they were a subordinate syllable of that word. often we hear such words as "country," "city," and their plurals, pronounced "countree," "citee," and "citees"; "ladies" is called "ladees." the sound should properly be that of short "i" not of long "e." the vowel sound, short "a," as in "cast," "fast," "can't," must be treated as a localism, and yet it is hardly necessary to adhere to any decided extreme because of local associations. vocally, the very narrow sound of short "a," called "western," is impossible. it can't be sung; in speech it is usually dry and harsh. as a matter of taste the very broad sound of the short "a," when it is made like "a" in "far," is objectionable because it is extraordinary. there is a form between these extremes, the correct short "a"; this ought to be acceptable anywhere. it is suggestive to observe that localisms are less pronounced among artists than among untrained persons. trained singers and actors belonging to different countries or sections of country, show few differences among themselves in english pronunciation. among localisms the letter "r" causes frequent comment. in singing and dramatic speaking, this letter is best formed at the tip of the tongue. in common speech it may be made only by a very slight movement at the back of the tongue. a decided throaty "burr" should always be avoided. in the case of vigorous dramatic utterance, the "r" may be quite decidedly rolled, on the principle that, in such cases, all consonants become a means of effectiveness in expression. in the expression of fine, delicate, or tender sentiment, all consonants should be lightly touched or should be obscured. enumeration of the many kinds of carelessness of speech would be to little purpose. scholarly speech requires a knowledge of correct forms, gained from the dictionary, and vocal care and skill in making these forms clear, smooth, and finished in sound. this discussion has perhaps suggested the extreme of accuracy in speech. but as has already been said, any degree of overnicety, of pedantic elegance, of stilted correctness, is especially irritating to a sensitive ear. excessive biting off of syllables, flipping of the tongue, showing of the teeth, twisting of the lips, is carrying excellence to a fault. the inactive jaw, tongue, and lips must be made mobile, and in the working away of clumsiness and slovenliness of speech, some degree of stiltedness must perhaps, for a time, be in evidence, but matured practice ought finally to result, not only in accuracy and finish, but in simplicity and ease in speaking. making the point when the student has made a fair degree of progress in the more strictly mechanical features of speech, the formation of tone, and the delivery of words, he is ready to give himself up more fully to the effective expression of thought. of first importance to the speaker, as it is to the writer, is the way to make himself clear as to his meaning. the question has to be put again and again to the young speaker, what is your point? what is the point in the sentence? what is the point in some larger division of the speech? what is the point, or purpose, of the speech as a whole? this point, or the meaning of what is said, should be so put, should be so clear, that no effort is required of a listener for readily apprehending and appreciating it. discussing now only the question of delivery, we say that the making of a point depends mainly upon what we commonly call emphasis. extending the meaning of emphasis beyond the limit of mere stress, or weight, of voice, we may define it as special distinctness or impressiveness of effect. in the case of a sentence there is often one place where the meaning is chiefly concentrated; often the emphasis is laid sharply upon two or more points or words in the sentence; sometimes it is put increasingly on immediately succeeding words, called a climax, and sometimes the stress of utterance seems to be almost equally distributed through all the principal words of the sentence. the particular point of a sentence is determined, not so much by what the sentence says as it stands by itself, as by its relation to what goes before or what follows after. the first thing, then, for the student to do is to become sure of the precise meaning of the sentence, with reference to the general context. then he must know whether or not he says, for the understanding of others, exactly what is meant. the means of giving special point to a statement is in some way to set apart, or to make prominent, the word or words of special significance. there are several ways in which this is done. commonly a stress or added weight of voice is put upon the word; generally, too, there is an inflection, a turning of the tone downward or upward; there is frequently a lengthening out of the vowel sound, and a sudden stop after, in some cases before, the word. any or all these special noticeable vocal effects serve to draw attention to the word and give it expressive significance. these effects are everywhere common in good everyday speech. in the formal art of speaking, they have to be more or less thought out and consciously practiced. emphasis is determined by the comparative importance of ideas. an idea is important when, being the first to arise in the mind, it becomes the motive for utterance. we see an object, the idea of high or broad or beautiful arises in the mind; we so form a sentence as to make that idea stand forth; this idea, or the word expressing it, becomes vocally emphatic. in this sentence, "he has done it in a way to impress upon the filipinos, so far as action and language can do it, his desire, and the desire of our people, _to do them good_," the idea "to do them good" is the one that arose first in the mind of the speaker and called up the other ideas that served to set this one prominently forth. it is the emphatic idea. it should be carried in the mind of the student speaker from the beginning of the sentence. again, an idea is important when it arises as closely related to the first, and becomes the chief means of giving utterance concerning the first. this second idea may be something said about the first; it may be compared or contrasted with the first. being matched against the first, it may become of equal significance with it. "who is here so _base_ that would be a _bondman_?" here the idea "base" is used to emphasize the quality of "bondman," and becomes equally emphatic with that idea. other ideas, or other words expressing them, being formed around these principal ones, will be subordinated or more loosely run over, since they simply serve as the setting for the principal ones, or the connecting links, holding them together. sometimes an idea arising in the mind grows in intensity, asserting itself by stronger and stronger successive words. for example, "he _mocks_ and _taunts_ her, he _disowns, insults_ and _flouts_ her"; and, "i impeach him in the name of human nature itself, which he has cruelly _outraged, injured_, and _oppressed_, in both sexes in every _age, rank, situation_, and _condition of life_." the impressiveness in delivering these successive words is increased not because they are in the form of a climax, but they are in the form of a climax because the thought is so insistent as to require new words for its expression. the student will be true and sure in his emphasis only when he takes ideas into his mind in the natural way; that is, he should seize upon the central idea before he gives utterance to any part of a statement. if that idea is constantly carried foremost in the mind, he will then, in due time, give it its true emphasis. so, in the case of a climax, he must realize the spirit and force behind the utterance, and not depend upon any mechanical process of merely increasing the strength of his tones. sometimes emphasis must be made to stand so strong as not merely to arrest the movement of thought, and fix the mind of the hearer upon a point, but to turn the attention of the hearer for the moment aside; to draw his mind to the thought of something very remote in time or place or relation, as in the case of making momentary reference to some historic fact or some well-known expression of literature. allusions and illustrations, then, should be given, not only with color but also with special emphasis. byron, contemplating the ruins of rome, calls her "the _niobe_ of nations." the hearer's mind should be arrested, his imagination stirred, at that word. words used in contrast with one another are given opposing effect by contrasting emphasis: "not that i loved _cæsar_ less, but that i loved _rome more_." "my _words fly up_; my _thoughts remain below_." when words are used with a double meaning, as in the case of a pun, or with a peculiar implication, or are repeated for some peculiar effect of mere repetition,--when we have, in any form, what is called a play upon words,--a peculiar pointedness is given, wherein the circumflex inflection plays a large part. "now is it _rome_ indeed and _room_ enough, when there is in it but one only man." "i had rather _bear with_ you than _bear_ you; yet if i did bear you, i should bear no _cross_, for i think you have no _money_ in your purse." "but, sir, the _coalition_! the _coalition_! aye, the _murdered coalition_!" although, as has been said, the usual method of making a point is to give striking force to an idea, very often the same effect, or a better effect, is produced by a striking sudden suppression of utterance, by way of decided contrast. when the discourse has been running vigorously and inflections have been repeatedly sharp and strong, the sudden stop, and the stilled utterance of a word, are most effective. only, the suppressed word must be set apart. there must be the pause before or after, or both before and after. robert ingersoll, when speaking with great animation, would often suddenly stop and ask a question in the quietest and most intimate way. this gave point to the question and was impressive. we have been considering thus far only primary or principal emphasis. of equal importance is the question of secondary emphasis. the difference in vocal treatment comes in regarding the principal emphasis as absolute or final, as making the word absolved from, cut off from, the rest of the sentence following, and having a final stop or conclusive effect, while the secondary may be regarded as only relatively emphatic, as being related in a subordinate way to the principal, and as maintaining a connection with the rest of the sentence, or as hanging upon the words which follow, or as being a step leading up to the main idea. the vocal indication of this connective principle is the circumflex inflection. the tone will be raised, as in the principal emphasis, but instead of being allowed to fall straight to a finality, it is turned upward at the finish, to hook on, as it were, to the following. the weight of voice will be less marked, the inflection less long, and the pause usually less decided, than in the case of the primary emphasis. "recall _romance_, recite the names of heroes of legend and _song_, but there is none that is his peer." at the words romance and song there is a secondary emphasis; the voice is not dropped, it is kept suspended with the pause. a common failing among students is an inability to avoid a frequent absolute emphatic inflection when it is not in place. many are unable steadily to sustain a sentence till the real point is reached. they fail to keep the voice suspended when they make a pause. it is very important that a student should have a sure method of determining what the principal emphasis is. he should, as has already been said, follow, in rendering the thought of another, the method of the spontaneous expression of his own ideas. he should take into his mind the principal idea or ideas, before he speaks the words leading thereto. he should then, at every pause, keep the thought suspended, incomplete, till he reaches that principal idea; he should then make the absolute stop, with the effect of finality, afterwards running off in a properly related way, such words as serve to complete the form of expression. take the following sentence: "i never take up a paper full of congress squabbles, reported as if sunrise depended upon them, without thinking of that idle english nobleman at florence, who when his brother, just arrived from london, happened to mention the house of commons, languidly asked, ah! is that thing still going?" it is rather curious that very rarely will a student keep the thought of such a sentence suspended and connected until he arrives at the real point at the end. he will first say that he never takes up a paper, though of course he really does take up a paper. then he says he never takes up this kind of paper; and this he does not mean. so he goes on misleading his audience, instead of helping them properly to anticipate the form of statement and so be prepared for the point at the right moment. he should not, as a general rule, let his voice take an absolute drop at the places of secondary emphasis. in reference to the emphatic point in a larger division of the speech, and to the main or climactic points of the whole speech, the principles for emphasis in the sentence are applied in a larger way. and the way to make the point is, first of all, to think hard on what that point is, what is the end or purpose to be attained. if this does not bring the result--and very often it does not--then the mechanical means of producing emphasis should be studied and consciously applied--the increase, or perhaps the diminution, of force, the lengthening or shortening of tones on the words; a change in the general level of pitch; the use of the emphatic pause; and a lengthening of the emphatic inflection. a more impressive general effect must, in some way, be given to the parts of greater importance. indicating values and relations perhaps the most commonly criticized fault among beginners in speaking is that of monotony. monotony that arises from lack of inflection of voice or from lack of pointed-ness or emphasis in a sentence, will presumably be corrected in the earlier exercises. the monotony that is caused by giving to all sentences an equal value, saying all sentences, or a whole speech, in about the same force, rate, and general pitch, is one that may be considered from another point of view. one fault in the delivery of sentences--perhaps the most frequent one--is that of running them all off in about the same modulation. by modulation we mean the wavelike rise and fall of the voice that always occurs in some degree in speech,--sometimes called melody--and the change of key, or general pitch, in passing from one sentence, or part of a speech, to another. frequently, novices in speaking and in reading, will swing the voice upward in the first part of every sentence, give it perhaps another rise or two as the sentence proceeds, and swing it down, always in precisely the same way, at the end. the effect of this regular rising at the beginning, and this giving of a similar concluding cadence at the end, is to make it appear that each sentence stands quite independent of the others, that each is a detached statement; and when, besides, each sentence is given with about the same force and rate of speed, they all seem to be of about equal importance, all principal or none principal, but as much alike as rosalind's halfpence. sentences that have a close sequence as to thought should be so rendered that one seems to flow out from the other, without the regular marked rise at the beginning or the concluding cadence at the end. sentences, and parts of sentences, which are of less importance than others with which they are associated, should be made less prominent in delivery. often students are helped by the suggestion that a sentence, or a part of a sentence, or a group of sentences, it may be, be dropped into an undertone, or said as an aside, or rapidly passed over, or in some way put in the background--said, so to speak, parenthetically. other portions of the speech, or the sentence, the important ones, should, on the same principle, be made to stand out with marked effect. notice, in the following quotation, how the first and the last parts arc held together by the pitch or key and the modulation of the voice, and the middle part, the group of examples, is held together in a different key by being set in the background, as being illustrative or probative. "why, all these irish bulls are greek,--every one of them. take the irishman carrying around a brick as a specimen of the house he had to sell; take the irishman who shut his eyes, and looked into the glass to see how he would look when he was dead; take the irishman that bought a crow, alleging that crows were reported to live two hundred years, and he meant to set out and try it. well, those are all greek. a score or more of them, of the parallel character, come from athens." the speaker should cultivate a quick sensitiveness as to close unity and slight diversity, as to what is principal and what is subordinate, as to what is in the direct, main line of thought, and what is by the way, casual, or merely a connecting link. this sense of proportion, of close or remote relation, of directness and indirectness, the feeling for perspective, so-called, can be acquired only by continued practice, for sharpening the faculty of apprehension and appreciation. it is usually the last attainment in the student's work, but the neglect of it may result in a confirmed habit of monotony. the term transition is commonly used to denote a passing from one to another of the main divisions of the discourse. the making of this transition, though often neglected, is not difficult. the finishing of one part and the making of a new beginning on the next, usually with some change of standing position, as well as of voice, has an obvious method. the slighter transition, or variation, within a main division, and the avoidance of the slight transition where none should be made, require the keener, quicker insight. sentences will have many other kinds of variation in delivery according to the nature and value of the thought. some will flow on with high successive waves; some will be run almost straight on as in a monotone. some will be on a higher average tone, or in a higher key; others will be lower. some will have lengthened vowel sound, and will be more continuous or sustained, so that groups of successive words seem to run on one unbroken tone; others will be abrupt and irregular. some will be rapid, some slow; some light, others weighty; some affected by long pauses, others by no pause, and some will be done in a dry, matter-offact, or precise, or commonplace, or familiar manner, others will be touched with feeling, colored by imagination, glowing with persuasive warmth, elevated, dignified, or profound. a repetition of the selections to be learned, with full expression by voice and action, repetition again, and again, and again, until the sentiment of them becomes a living reality to the speaker, is the only way to acquire the ability to indicate to others the true proportions, the relative values, and the distinctive character, of what is to be said. expressing the feeling we are in the habit of distinguishing between what proceeds from mere thinking, what is, as we say, purely intellectual, and what arises more especially from feeling, what we call emotional. we mean, of course, that one or the other element predominates; and the distinction is a convenient one. the subject, the occasion, to a great extent the man, determine whether a speech is in the main dispassionate or impassioned, whether it is plain or ornate in statement, whether it is urgent or aggressive, or calm and rather impassive. it would be beyond our purpose to consider many of the variations and complexities of feeling that enter into vocal expression. we call attention to only a few of the simpler and more common vocal manifestations of feeling, counselling the student who is to deliver a selected speech, to adapt his speaking to the style of that speech. in so doing he will get a varied training, and at length will find his own most effective style. the speech which is matter-of-fact and commonplace only, has characteristically much short, sharp inflection of voice, with the rapidly varying intervals of pitch that we notice in one's everyday talking. as the utterance takes on force, it is likely to go in a more direct line of average pitch, with stronger inflection on specially emphatic words. as it rises to sentiment, the inflections are less marked, and in the case of a strain of high, nobler feeling, the voice moves on with some approach to the monotone. according as feeling is stronger and firmer, as in the expression of courage, determination, firm resolve, resistance, intense devotion, the voice is kept sustained, with pauses rather abrupt and decisive; if the feeling, though of high sentiment, is tranquil, without aggressiveness, the voice has more of the wavelike rise and fall, and at the pausing places the tone is gradually diminished, rather than abruptly broken off. in the case of quickly impulsive, passionate feeling, the speech is likely to be much varied in pitch, broken by frequent abrupt stops, and decisive inflections. in the case of the expression of tenderness or pathos, there is a lingering tone, with the quality and inflection of plaintiveness, qualified, in public speech, by such dignity and strength as is fitting. in all cases the quality of voice is of course the main thing, and this, not being technical or mechanical, must depend on the speaker's entering into the spirit of the piece and giving color, warmth, and depth to his tones. the spirit of gladness or triumph has usually the higher, brighter, ringing tone; that of gravity, solemnity, awe, the lower, darker, and less varied tone. in the case of the expression of irony, sarcasm, scorn, contempt, and kindred feelings, the circumflex inflection is the principal feature. this is the curious quirk or double turn in the voice, that is heard when one says, for example, "you're a _fine_ fellow," meaning, "you are anything but a fine fellow." in the earlier part of webster's reply to hayne are some of the finest examples of irony, grim or caustic humor, sarcasm, and lofty contempt. they need significant turns and plays of voice, but are often spoiled by being treated as high declamation. in the expression of the various kinds and degrees of feeling there may be a fully expressed force or a suppressed or restrained force. often the latter is the more natural and effective. this is intense, but not loud, though at times it may break through its restraint. it is most fitting when the hearers are near at hand, as in the case of a jury or judge in court, when the din of loudness would offend. the climax is a gradually increasing expression of feeling. it may be by a gradual raising of the voice in pitch; it may be by any sort of increasing effectiveness or moving power. it is rather difficult to manage, and may lead to some strained effort. the speaker should keep a steady, controlled movement, without too much haste, but rather a retarded and broadened utterance as the emphatic point is approached; and always the speaker should keep well within his powers, maintaining always some vocal reserve. the practice of emotional expression gives warmth, mellowness, sympathy and expansiveness to the voice, and must have considerable cultural value. showing the picture a difficult attainment in speaking is that of vividness. the student may see the picture in his own mind's eye, but his mode of expression does not reveal the fact to others. imagination in writing he may have, with no suggestion of it in the voice. too often it is erroneously taken for granted that the human voice, because it is human, will at any call, respond to all promptings of the mind. it will no more do so, of course, than the hand or the eye. it must be trained. often it is a case not merely of vocal response, but of mental awakening as well, and in that case the student must, if he can, learn to see visions and dream dreams. a way to begin the suiting of speech to imaginative ideas is to imitate; to make the voice sound like the thing to be suggested. some things are fast, some slow, some heavy, some light, some dark and dismal, some bright and joyous; some things are noisy, some still; some rattle, others roar; the sea is hoarse; the waves wash; the winds blow; the ocean is level, or it dashes high and breaks; happy things sing, and sad things mourn. all life and nature speak just as we speak. how easy it ought to be for us to speak just as nature speaks. and when our abstract notions are put in concrete expression, or presented as a picture, how easy it would seem, by these simple variations of voice, to speak the language of that picture, telling the length, breadth, action, color, values, spirit of it. that it is a task makes it worth while. it affords infinite variety, and endless delight. one necessary element in so-called word-painting is that of time. when a speaker expresses himself in pictures for the imagination he must give his hearers time to see these pictures, and to sufficiently see and appreciate the parts, or lines of them, and the significance of them. it is a common fault to hasten over the language of imagination as over the commonplace words. the speaker or reader had better be sure to see the image himself before, and indeed after, he speaks it. others will then be with him. although among most young speakers the tone of imagination is lacking, yet often young persons who become proficient vocally are fain greatly to overdo it, till the sound that is suited to the sense becomes sound for its own sake, and thereby obscures the sense. regard for proportion and fitness, in relation to the central idea or purpose, should control the feeling for color in the detail. expression by action it should always be borne in mind that gesture means the bearing or the action of the whole man. it does not mean simply movement of the arm and hand. the practice of gesture should be governed by this understanding of the term. a thought, an emotion, something that moves the man from within, will cause a change, it may be slight, or it may be very marked, in eye, face, body. this is gesture. this change or movement may, from the strength of the feeling that prompts it, extend to the arm and hand. but this latter movement, in arm and hand, is only the fuller manifestation of one's thought or feeling--the completion of the gesture, not the gesture itself. arm movement, when not preceded or supplemented by body movement, or body pose, is obtrusive action; it brings a member of the body into noticeable prominence, attracting the auditor's eye and taking his mind from the speaker's thought. better have no gesture than gesture of this kind. the student, then, should first learn to appreciate the force of ideas, to see and feel the full significance of what he would say, and indicate by some general movement of body and expression of face, the changing moods of mind. then the arm and hand may come--in not too conspicuous a way--to the aid of the body. when wendell phillips pointed to the portraits in faneuil hall and exclaimed: "i thought those pictured lips would have broken into voice to rebuke the recreant american,--the slanderer of the dead," it was not, we may be sure, the uplifted arm alone, but the pose of the man, the something about his whole being, which bespoke the spirit within him, and which was really the gesture. in less positive or striking degrees of action, the body movement will, of course, be very slight, at times almost imperceptible, but the principle always holds, and should be from the first taught. in gesture, the bodily man acts as a unit. the amount of gesture is, of course, determined by the temperament of the speaker, the nature of the speech, the character of the audience, and the occasion of the address. one speaker will, under certain conditions, gesticulate nearly all the time; another will, under the same conditions, seem seldom to move in any way. the two may be equally effective. a speech that is charged with lively emotion will usually be accompanied by action; a speech expressive of the profound feeling that subdues to gravity, or resignation, would be comparatively without action. the funeral oration by mark antony is full of action because it is really intended to excite the will of his audience; in a funeral address simply expressive of sorrow and appreciation, gesture would, as a rule, be out of place. a sharply contested debate may need action that punctuates and enforces; the pleasantry of after-dinner talk may need only the voice. so, one audience, not quick in grasping ideas, may need, both in language and action, much clear, sharp indication of the point by illustration, much stirring up by physical attack, so to speak, while another audience would be displeased by this unnecessary effort to be clear and expressive. yet again, given a certain speaker and a certain subject and a certain audience, it is obvious that the occasion will determine largely how the speaker will bear himself. the atmosphere of a college commencement will be different from that of a barbecue, and the speaker would, within the limits set by his own personality and his own dignity, adapt himself to the one or the other. the general law of appropriateness and good taste must determine the amount of gesture. for the purposes of this work there is probably very little, if any, value in a strict classification of gestures. it may, at times, be convenient to speak of one gesture as merely for emphasis, of another as indicating location, of another as giving illustration, of one as more subjective, expressing a thought that reflects back upon the speaker, or is said more in the way of self-communion, of another as objective, concerned only with outer objects or with ideas more apart from the person or the inward feeling of the speaker. but it can easily be shown that one idea, or one dominant feeling, may be expressed by many kinds of action, in fact, so far at least as prescribed movements are concerned, in directly opposite kinds, and gesture is so largely a matter of the individual, and is governed so much by mixed motive and varying circumstance, that the general public speaker will profit little by searching for its philosophic basis, and trying to practice according to any elaborated system. the observing of life, with the exercise of instinct, taste, sense, above all of honest purpose--these, with of course the help of competent criticism, will serve as sufficient practical guides in the cultivation of expressive action. some observations, or perhaps general principles, may be offered as helpful. when a speaker is concerned with driving ideas straight home to his audience, as in putting bare fact in a debate, his action will be more direct; it will move in straighter lines and be turned, like his thought, more directly upon his audience. as his statement is more exactly to a point, so his gesture becomes more pointed and definite. when the speaker is not talking to or at his audience, to move them to his will, but is rather voicing the ideas and feelings already possessed by them, and is in a non-aggressive mood, he is likely to use less of the direct and emphasis-giving gesture, and to employ principally the gesture that is merely illustrative of his ideas, more reposeful, less direct, less tense. to consider more in detail the principle that the man, and not the arm, is the gesture, a man should look what he is to speak. the eye should always have a relation to gesture. the look may be in the direction of the arm movement or in another direction. no practical rule can be given. it can only be said that the eye must play its part. observing actions in real life, we see that when one person points out an object to another, he looks now at the object, now at the person, as if to guide that person's look. when he hears a sound he may glance in the direction of it, but then look away to listen. often a suspended action, with a fixed look of the face, will serve to arrest the attention of auditors and fix it upon an idea. one should cultivate first the look, then the supporting or completing action. as to the movement of the arm and the form of the hand, one should be careful not to become stiff and precise by following exact rules. in general, it may be said that the beginning of the arm movement, being from the body, is in the upper arm; the finish of it is at the tips of the fingers, with the forefinger leading, or bringing the gesture to a point. there is generally a slightly flexible, rythmical movement of the arm and hand. this should not, as a rule, be very marked, and in specially energetic action is hardly observable. in this arm action there is an early preparatory movement, which indicates or suggests, what is coming. often a moment of suspense in the preparation enhances the effect of the finish, or stroke, of the gesture, which corresponds usually to the vocal emphasis. at the final pointing of the action, the hand is, for a moment or for moments, fixed, as the mind and the man are fixed, for the purpose of holding the attention of the auditor; then follows the recovery, so-called, from the gesture, or it may be, the passing to another gesture. and all the while, let it again be said, slight changes of bodily pose with proper adjustments of the feet, will make the harmonious, unified action. it should be remembered that, as in viewing a house or a picture we should be impressed by the main body and the general effect, rather than by any one feature, so on the same principle, no striking feature of a man's action should attract attention to itself. on the same principle, no part of the hand should be made conspicuous--the thumb or forefinger should not be too much stuck out, nor the other fingers, except in pointing, be very much curved in. generally, except in precise pointing, there is a graduated curving, not too nice, from the bent little finger to the straighter forefinger. as the gesture is concerned with thought more delicate, the action of the hand is lighter and tends more to the tips of the fingers; as it is more rugged and strong, the hand is held heavier. it is bad to carry the arm very far back, causing a strained look; to stretch the arms too straight out, or to confine the elbow to the side. the elbow is kept somewhat away even in the smallest gesture. while action should have nerve, it should not become nervous, that is, overtense and rigid. it should be free and controlled, with good poise in the whole man. before leaving this subject, in its physical aspect, let us consider somewhat the matter of standing and moving on the platform. among imperfections as regards position, that kind of imperfection which takes the form of perfectly fixed feet, strictly upright figure, hands at the side, head erect, and eyes straight-of all bad kinds, this kind is the worst. this is often referred to as school declamation, or the speaking of a piece. we have discarded many old ideas of restriction in education. let us discard the strait-jacket in platform speaking. nobody else ever speaks as students are often compelled to speak. let them speak like boys--not like men even--much less like machines. there is of course a good and a bad way of standing and moving, but much is due to youth, to individuality, and to earnest intention, and a student should have free play in a large degree. in walking, the step should neither be too fast nor too slow, too long nor too short, too much on the heel or too much on the toe. a simple, straightforward way of getting there is all that is wanted. the arms are left to swing easily, but not too much; nor should one arm swing more than the other. the head, it will be noted, may occasionally rise and fall as one goes up or down steps or walks the platform. before beginning to speak, one should not obviously take a position and prepare. he should easily stop at his place, and, looking at his auditors, begin simply to say something to them. as to the feet, they will, of course, be variously placed or adjusted according to the pose of the body in the varying moods of the speech. in general, the body will rest more on one foot than on the other. in a position of ease, as usually at the beginning of a speech, one foot will bear most of the weight. in this case, this foot will normally be pointed nearly to the front; the other foot will be only very slightly in advance of this and will be turned more outward. the feet will not be close together; nor noticeably far apart. they need not--they had better not--as it is sometimes pictured in books, be so set that a line passing lengthwise through the freer foot will pass through the heel of the other foot. as a man becomes earnest in speaking, his posture will vary, and often he will stand almost equally on his two feet. in changing one's position, it is best to acquire the habit of moving the freer foot, the one lighter on the floor, first, thus avoiding a swaying, or toppling look of the body. in connection with the subject of standing, naturally comes the question of the arms in the condition of inaction. it is possibly well to train one's self, when learning to speak, to let the arms hang relaxed at the side, but speakers do not often so hold the arms. usually there is a desk near, and the speaker when at rest drops one hand upon this, or he lets one arm rest at the waist, or he brings the two hands together. any of these things may be done, if done simply, easily, without nervous tightening, or too frequent shifting. one thing, for practical reasons, should not be allowed, the too common habit of clasping the hands behind the back. it will become a fixed mannerism, and a bad one, for the hands are thus concealed, the shoulders and head may droop forward, and the hands may be so tightened together behind the back as to cause nervous tension in the body and in the voice. the hands should be in place ready for expressive action. the back is not such a place. nearly every movement that a man makes in speaking should have some fitting relation to what he is at the moment saying. these movements will then be varied. when certain repeated actions, without this proper relation, are acquired, they are called mannerisms. they have no meaning, and are obtrusive and annoying. repeated jerking or bobbing of the head, for a supposed emphasis; regularly turning the head from side to side, for addressing all the audience; nervous shaking of the head, as of one greatly in earnest; repeated, meaningless punching or pounding of the air, always in the same way; shifting of one foot regularly backward and forward; rising on the toes with each emphatic word,--although single movements similar to these often have appropriate place, none of these or others should be allowed to become fixed mannerisms, habitually recurring movements, without a purpose. we are sometimes told that certain manneristic ways are often a speaker's strength. probably this is at least half true. but eccentricities should not be cultivated or indulged. they will come. we should have as few as possible, or they won't count. one thing, however, should here be said. positive strength, with positive faults, is much better than spiritless inoffensiveness. one should not give all his attention to the avoiding of faults. in the application of gesture to the expression of ideas, one is helped, as has been said, by constantly heeding the general principle of suiting the form of the gesture to the nature of the thought, or of suiting the action to the word. inasmuch as gesture so generally takes the form of objects or actions, it is undoubtedly easier to begin with the more concrete in language, or with the discussion of tangible objects, and work from these to the more abstract and remotely imaginary--from the more, to the less, familiar. let the student indicate the location, or the height, or the width, or the form of an object. his action will probably be appropriate. let him apply similar, probably less definite, action to certain abstract ideas. let him pass to ideas more remote and vague, by action largely suggestive, not definite or literal. the most important, because the most fundamental, principle to be borne in mind is that gesture should be made to enforce, not the superficial, or incidental, ideas appearing in a statement, but the ideas which lie behind the form of expression and are the real basis, or inhere in the fundamental purpose, of the speaker's discourse. at the close of senator thurston's speech on intervention in behalf of cuba, there is picturesque language for impressing the contention that force is justified in a worthy cause. the speaker cites graphically examples of force at bunker hill, valley forge, shiloh, chattanooga, and lookout heights. the student is here very likely to be led astray by the fine opportunity to make gesture. he may vividly see and picture the snows of valley forge, marked with bloodstained feet, and the other scenes suggested, but forget about the central idea, the purpose behind all the vivid forms of expression. graphic, detailed gestures may have the effect of making the pictures in themselves the main object. the action here should be informal, unstudied, and merely remotely suggestive. the speaker should keep to his one central idea, and keep with his audience. otherwise the speech will be insincere and purposeless, perhaps absurd. the fundamental, not the superficial, should determine the action. young speakers almost invariably pick out words or phrases, suggesting the possibility of a gesture, and give exact illustration to them, as if the excellence of gesture were in itself an object, when really the thing primarily to be enforced is not these incidental features in the form of expression, but the underlying idea of the whole passage. it is as if the steeple were made out of proportion to the church, or a hat out of proportion to the man. this misconception of what gesture really means is doubtless, in large measure, the cause of making platform recitation often false and offensive. the remedy does not lie in omitting gesture altogether, as some seem to think, but in making gesture simple and true. finally, let the student remember that he goes to the platform, not to make a splendid speech and receive praise for a brilliant exhibition of his art, but that he goes there because the platform is a convenient place from which to tell the people something he has to say. let him think it nothing remarkable that he should be there; let him so bear himself, entering with simplicity, honesty, earnestness, and modesty, into his work, that no one will think much about how his work is done. spirited oratory, with the commanding presence, the sweeping action, and an overmastering force of utterance, may at times be called forth, but these are given to a man out of his subject and by the occasion; they are not to be assumed by him merely because he is before an audience, or as necessary features of speech-making. let the student speak, first and always, as a self-respecting, thinking man, earnest and strong, but self-controlled and sensible. platform practice the formal address the selections in the several sections for platform practice are to be used for applying, in appropriate combination, the principles heretofore worked out, one by one. the first group provides practice in the more formal style. the occasion of the formal address requires, in large degree, restraint and dignity. the thought is elevated; the mood serious, in some cases subdued, the form of expression exact and firm. the delivery should correspond. the tone should be, in some degree, ennobled; the movement deliberate, and comparatively even and measured; the modulation not marked by striking variations in pitch; the pauses rather regular, and the gesture always sparing, perhaps wholly omitted. the voice should be generally pure and fine; the enunciation should be finished and true. whatever action there may be should be restrained, well poised, deliberate, with some degree of grace. in general it should be felt that carelessness or looseness or aggressiveness or undue demonstrativeness would be out of harmony with the spirit of the occasion. good taste must be exercised at every step, and the audience should be addressed, from the outset, as in sympathy with the speaker and ready at once to approve. the spirit and manner of contention is out of place. in this style of discourse the liability to failure lies in the direction of dullness, monotony, lack of vitality and warmth. this is because the feeling is deep and still; is an undercurrent, strong but unseen. this restrained, repressed feeling is the most difficult fittingly to express. in this kind of speech some marring of just the right effect is difficult to avoid. simplicity, absolute genuineness, are the essential qualities. the ideas must be conveyed with power and significance, in due degree; but nothing too much is particularly the watchword regarding the outward features of the work. the public lecture in the public lecture the element of entertainment enters prominently. the audience, at first in a passive state, must be awakened, and taken on with the speaker. probably it must be instructed, perhaps amused. the speaker must make his own occasion. he has no help from the circumstance of predisposition among his auditors. he must compel, or he must win; he must charm or thrill; or he must do each in turn. animation, force, beauty, dramatic contrast, vividness, variety, are the qualities that will more or less serve, according to the style of the composition. aptness in the story or anecdote, facility in graphic illustration, readiness in expressing emotion, happiness in the imitative faculty, for touching off the eccentric in character or incident, are talents that come into play, and in the exercise of these, gesture of course has an important place. the lecture platform is perhaps the only field, with possibly the exception of what is properly the after-dinner speech, wherein public speaking may be viewed as strictly an art, something to be taken for its own sake, wherein excellence in the doing is principally the end in view. this means, generally, that individual talent, and training in all artistic requirements, count for more than the subject or any "accidents of office," in holding the auditor's interest. an animated and versatile style can be cultivated by striving to make effective the public lecture. the informal discussion informal discussion is the name chosen for the lecture or talk in the club or the classroom. it implies a rather small audience and familiar relations between audience and speaker. while the subject may be weighty, and the language may be necessarily of the literary or scientific sort, the style of speaking should be colloquial. it ought to bring the hearer pretty near to the speaker. if the subject and language are light, the speaking will be sprightly and comparatively swift. since the occasion for this kind of speaking is frequent, and the opportunity for it is likely to fall to almost any educated man, proficiency in it might well be made an object in the course of one's educational training. the end aimed at is the ability to talk well. this accomplishment is not so easy as it may seem. it marks, indeed, the stage of maturity in speech-making. since authoritative opinion from the speaker and interest in the subject on the part of the audience are prime elements in this form of discussion, little cultivation of form is usually given to this kind of speaking. the result is much complaining from auditors about inaudibleness, dullness, monotony, annoying mannerisms, or a too formal, academic tone that keeps the audience remote, a lack of what is called the human quality. a good talker from the desk not only has the reward of appreciation and gratitude, but is able to accomplish results in full proportion to all that he puts into the improvement of his vocal work. an agreeable tone, easy formation of words, clear, well-balanced emphasis, good phrasing, or grouping of words in the sentence, some vigor without continual pounding, easy, unstudied bodily movement without manneristic repetition of certain motions, in short, good form without any obtrusive appearance of form,--these are the qualities desired. argumentative speech in the case of the forensic, we come nearer to the practical in public speaking. the speaker aims, as a rule, to effect a definite purpose, and he concentrates his powers upon this immediate object. since the speech is for the most part an appeal to the reason, and therefore deals largely with fact and the logical relations of ideas, precision and clearness of statement are the chief qualities to be cultivated. but since the aim is to overcome opposition, and produce conviction, and so to impress and stir as to affect the will to a desired action, the element of force, and the moving quality of persuasion enters in as a reënforcement of the speaker's logic. generally the speech is very direct, and often it is intense. it has in greater degree than any other form the feature of aggressiveness. some form of attack is adopted, for the purpose of overthrowing the opposing force. that attack is followed up in a direct line of argument, and is carried out to a finish. in delivery the continuous line of pursuit thus followed often naturally leads to a kind of effective monotone style, wherein the speaker keeps an even force, or strikes blow after blow, or sends shot after shot. the characteristic feature of the forensic style is the climax--climax in brief successions of words, climax in the sentence, climax in giving sections of the speech, climax in the speech as a whole. special notice should be taken of the fact that, in earnest argument, sentences have, characteristically, a different run from that in ordinary expository speaking. whereas in the expository style the sentence flows, as a rule, easily forth, with the voice rising and falling, in an undulatory sort of way, and dropping restfully to a finish, in the heated forensic style, the sentence is given the effect of being sent straight forth, as if to a mark, with the last word made the telling one, and so kept well up in force and pitch. the accumulating force has the effect of sending the last word home, or of making it the one to clinch the statement. the dangers to be guarded against in debate are wearying monotony, over-hammering--too frequent, too hard, too uniform an emphasis--too much, or too continued heat, too much speed, especially in speaking against time, a loss of poise in the bearing, a halting or jumbling in speech, nervous tenseness in action, an overcontentious or bumptious spirit. bodily control, restraint, good temper, balance, are the saving qualities. a debater must remember that he need not be always in a heat. urbanity and graciousness have their place, and the relief afforded by humor is often welcome and effective. in no form of speaking, except that of dramatic recitation, is the liability to impairment of voice so great as it is in debating. one of the several excellent features of debating is that of the selfforgetfulness that comes with an earnest struggle to win. but perhaps a man cannot safely forget himself until he has learned to know himself. the intensity of debating often leads, in the case of a speaker vocally untrained, to a tightening of the throat in striving for force, to a stiffening of the tongue and lips for making incisive articulation, to a rigidness of the jaw from shutting down on words to give decisive emphasis. soon the voice has the juice squeezed out of it. the tone becomes harsh and choked; then ragged and weak. the only remedy is to go straight back and begin all over, just as a golfer usually does when he has gone on without instruction. the necessity of going back is often not realized till later in life; then the process is much harder, and perhaps can never be entirely effective. the teacher in the course of his experience meets many, many such cases. the time to learn the right way is at the beginning. among the selections here offered for forensic practice, examples in debate serve for the cultivation of the aggressiveness that comes from immediate opposition; examples in the political speech for acquiring the abandon and enthusiasm of the so-called popular style; in the legal plea for practice in suppressed force. in the case of the last of these, it is well that the audience be near to the speaker, as is the case in an address to a judge or jury. the idea is to be forcible without being loud and high; to cultivate a subdued tone that shall, at the same time, be vital and impressive. the importance of a manner of speaking that is not only clear and effective, but also agreeable, easy to listen to, is quite obvious when we consider the task of a judge or a jury, who have to sit for hours and try to carry in their minds the substance of all that has been said, weighing point against point, balancing one body of facts against another. a student can arrange nearly the same conditions as to space, and can, by exercise of imagination, enter into the spirit of a legal conflict. the after-dinner speech after-dinner speaking is another form that many men may have an opportunity to engage in. it can also be practiced under conditions resembling those of the actual occasion, that is, members of the class can be so seated that the speaking may become intimate in tone, and speeches can be selected that will serve for cultivating that distinctive, sociable quality of voice that, in itself, goes far in contributing to the comfort and delight of the after-dinner audience. the real after-dinner speech deals much in pleasantry. the tone of voice is characteristically unctuous. old fezziwig is described by dickens as calling out "in a comfortable, rich, fat, jovial, oily voice." something like this is perhaps the ideal after-dinner voice, although there is a dry humor as well as an unctuous, and each speaker will, after all, have his own way of making his hearers comfortable, happy, and attentive. ease and deliberation are first requisites. nervous intensity may not so much mar the effect of earnest debate. the social chat is spoiled by it. humor, as a rule, requires absolute restfulness. especially should a beginner guard himself against haste in making the point at the finish of a story. it does no harm to keep the hearer waiting a bit, in expectation. the effect may be thus enhanced, while the effect will be entirely lost if the point, and the true touch, are spoiled by uncontrolled haste. the way to gain this ease and control is not by stiffening up to master one's self, but by relaxing, letting go of one's self. practice in the speech of pleasantry may have great value in giving a man repose, in giving him that saving grace, an appreciation of the humorous, in affording him a means of relief or enlivenment to the serious speech. the occasional poem the occasional poem is so frequently brought forth in connection with speech-making that some points regarding metrical reading may be quite in place in a speaker's training. practice in verse reading is of use also because of the frequency of quoted lines from the poets in connection with the prose speech. to read a poem well one must become in spirit a poet. he must not only think, he must feel. he must exercise imagination. he must, we will say it again, see visions and dream dreams. what was said about vividness in the discussion of expressional effects applies generally to the reading of poetry. one will read much better if he has tried to write-in verse as well as in prose. he will then know how to put himself in the place of the poet, and will not be so likely to mar the poet's verses by "reading them ill-favoredly." he will know the value of words that have been so far sought, and may not slur over them; he may feel the sound of a line formed to suggest a sound in nature. he will know that a meter has been carefully worked out, and that, in the reading, that meter is of the spirit of the poem; it is not to be disregarded. likewise he will appreciate the place of rhyme, and may not try so to cover it up as entirely to lose its effect. in humorous verse, especially, rhyme plays an effective part; and in all verse, alliteration, variations in melody, the lighter and the heavier touch, acceleration and retard in movement, the caesura, or pause in the line, and the happy effect of the occasional cadence, are features which one can come to appreciate and respect only with reading one's favorite poems many times, with spirit warm, with faculties alert. the making of the speech although the use of selected speeches is best for effective drill in delivery, yet a student's training for public speaking is of course not complete until he has had experience in applying his acquired skill to the presenting of his own thought. thinking and speaking should be made one operation. the principles of composition for the public speech belong to a separate work. a few hints only can be given here, and these will be concerned with the informal, offhand speech rather than with the formal address. the usual directions regarding the choosing of the subject, the collecting of material, and the arranging of it in the most effective order, with exceptions and variations, hold in all forms of the speech. the subject chosen should be one of special interest to the speaker, one on which it is known he can speak with some degree of authority, because of his personal study of it, or because of his having had exceptional personal relations with it. it must also be, because of the nature of it, or because of some special treatment, of particular interest to the audience to be addressed. either new, out-of-the-way subjects, or new, fresh phases of old subjects are usually interesting. the subject must be limited in its comprehensiveness to suit the time allowed for speaking, and the title of the speech should be so phrased as to indicate exactly what the subject, or the part of a subject, is to be. to this carefully limited and defined subject, the speaker should rigidly adhere. how to find a subject is generally a topic on which students are advised. though it is often a necessity to hunt for a suitable special topic on which to speak, the student should know that when he gets outside the classroom, he will find that he will not be invited to speak because he is ready at finding subjects and clever in speech. it is not strange, in view of the many advertisements that reach young men, offering methods of home training, or promising sure success from this or that special method of schooling, that they may come to believe that any one has only to learn to stand up boldly on a platform, and with voice and gesture exercise some mysterious sort of magical control over an audience, and his success as an orator is secure. they will find that their time and money have been wasted, so far as public speaking is concerned, unless, having at the start some native ability, they have secured, in addition, a kind of training that is fundamental. a man is wanted as a speaker primarily because he stands for something; because he has done some noteworthy work. his subjects for discussion arise out of his personal interests, and, to a large extent, his method of treatment will be determined by his relation to these subjects. a young man may well be advised, then, not simply how to choose and how to present a subject, but first to secure a good mental training, and then to find for himself an all-absorbing work to do. the wisdom that comes from a concentrated intellectual activity, and an interest in men's affairs, both directed to some unselfish end, is the essential qualification of the speaker. in considering the arrangement of a speech, the student will do well to ask himself first, not what is to be the beginning of it, but what is to be the end of it; what is the purpose of it; and what shall be the central idea; what impression, or what principal thought or thoughts, shall be left with the audience. when this is determined, then a way of working out this central idea or of working up to it--in a short speech, by a few points only--must be carefully and thoroughly planned. extemporaneous speaking is putting spontaneously into words what has previously been well thought out and well arranged. without this state of preparation, the way of wisdom is silence. the language of a speech is largely determined by the man's habit of mind, the nature of his subject, and the character of his audience. students often err in one of two directions, either by being too bookish in language or by allowing the other extreme of looseness, weak colloquialism in words, and formless monotony of sentence, with the endless repetition of the connective "and." language should be fresh, vital, varied. it should have some dignity. much reading, writing, and speaking are necessary to secure an adequate vocabulary, and a readiness in putting in firm form a variety of sentences. concreteness of expression and occasional illustration are more needed in speech than in writing, and the brief anecdote or story is welcome and useful if there is room for it, and if it comes unbidden, by virtue of its fitness and spontaneity, and is not drawn in by the ears for halfhearted service. the inevitable story at the opening of an after-dinner speech might often be spared. although a good story is in itself enjoyable, yet when a speaker feels that he must make one fit into the speech, whether or no, by applying it to himself or his subject or the occasion, the effect is often very unhappy. a man is best guided in these things simply by being true, by being sincere rather than artful. on this same principle, a student may need some advice with regard to his spirit and manner in giving expression to his own ideas before an audience. he need not, as students often seem to think they must, appear to have full knowledge or final judgment on the largest of subjects. it is more fitting that he should speak as a student, an inquirer, not as an authority. if his statements are guarded and qualified; if he speaks as one only inclined to an opinion when finality of judgment is obviously beyond his reach; if he directly refers, and defers, to opinions that must be better than his can be, his speech will have much more weight, and he will grow in strength of character by always being true to himself. it is a question whether students are not too often inspired to be bold and absolute, for the sake of apparent strength in speaking, rather than modest and judicious and sensible, for the sake of being strong as men. in the form of delivering one's thought to an audience, it is of the first importance that one should speak and not declaim. there is, of course, a way of talking on the platform that is merely negatively good, a way that is fitting enough in general style, but weak. there should be breadth, and strength, and reach. but this does not mean any necessity of sending forth pointless successive sentences over the heads of an audience. a college president recently said, "our boys declaim a good deal, though they're not so bad as they used to be. it seems to me," he added, "that the idea is to say something to your audience." that is what a teacher must be continually insisting on, that the student say something to somebody, not chant or declaim into space. and the student should be continually testing himself on this point, whether he is looking into the faces of his hearers and speaking, though on a larger scale, yet in the usual way of communicating ideas. it is not desirable that men should become overready speakers. methods of training in extemporaneous discussion that require speaking without thought, on anything or nothing that can be at the moment invented, are likely to be mischievous. thought suggests expression, and exact thought will find fit form. sound thinking is the main thing. practice for mere fluency tends to the habit of superficial thinking, and produces the wearisome, endless talker. in this connection emphasis may be laid upon the point of ending a speech when its purpose is accomplished, and that as soon as can be. many speeches are spoiled by the last third or quarter of them, when a point well made has lost its effect by being overenforced or obscured by a wordy conclusion. let the student study for rare thought and economy of speech. books on speaking have repeatedly insisted that after all has been said, the public speaker's word will be taken for what he is known to be worth as a man; that his utterances will have effect according as they are given out with soul-felt earnestness. this has already been touched upon here, and it is well that it should be often repeated. it may be well, however, also to consider quite carefully what part is played in men's efforts by the element of skill. of two equally worthy and equally earnest men, the man of the superior skill, acquired by persistent training in method, will be the stronger man, the man who will be of more service to his fellows. more than this, inasmuch as public men can seldom be perfectly known or judged as to character, and may often, for a time at least, deceive, it is quite possible that the unscrupulous man with great skill will, at some moment of crisis, make the worse appear to be the better cause. equally skilled men are therefore wanted to contend for the side of right. the man whose service to men depends largely upon his power of speech--in the pulpit, at the bar, or in non-professional capacity--must have, either from gift or from training, the speaker's full equipment, for matching himself against opposing strength. review exercises for convenience of practice, a few pages of brief exercises, exemplifying the foregoing principles, are given at the end of the book. by using each day one example in each group, and changing from time to time, the student will have sufficient variety to serve indefinitely. this vocal practice may be made a healthful and pleasurable daily exercise. part two technical training establishing the tone o scotia! from "the cotter's saturday night" by robert burns o scotia! my dear, my native soil! for whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent, long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! and oh! may heaven their simple lives prevent from luxury's contagion, weak and vile! then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, a virtuous populace may rise the while, and stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. o thou! who poured the patriotic tide, that streamed through wallace's undaunted heart, who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, or nobly die, the second glorious part, (the patriot's god, peculiarly thou art, his friend, inspirer, guardian and reward!) oh never, never, scotia's realm desert; but still the patriot, and the patriot bard, in bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! o rome! my country! from "childe harold's pilgrimage" by lord byron o rome! my country! city of the soul! the orphans of the heart must turn to thee, lone mother of dead empires! and control in their shut breasts, their petty misery. what are our woes and sufferance?--come and see the cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way o'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye! whose agonies are evils of a day:-a world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. the niobe of nations! there she stands, childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe; an empty urn within her withered hands, whose holy dust was scattered long ago;- the scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; the very sepulchers lie tenantless of their heroic dwellers:--dost thou flow, old tiber! through a marble wilderness? rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress! ring out, wild bells! from "in memoriam" by alfred lord tennyson ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, the flying cloud, the frosty light; the year is dying in the night; ring out, wild bells, and let him die. ring out the old, ring in the new, ring, happy bells, across the snow; the year is going, let him go; ring out the false, ring in the true. ring out the grief that saps the mind, for those that here we see no more; ring out the feud of rich and poor, ring in redress to all mankind. ring out a slowly dying cause, and ancient forms of party strife; ring in the nobler modes of life, with sweeter manners, purer laws. ring out the want, the care, the sin, the faithless coldness of the times; ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, but ring the fuller minstrel in. ring out false pride in place and blood, the civic slander and the spite; ring in the love of truth and right, ring in the common love of good. roll on, thou deep! from "childe harold's pilgrimage" by lord byron roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; man marks the earth with ruin--his control stops with the shore: upon the watery plain, the wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain a shadow of man's ravage, save his own, when for a moment, like a drop of rain, he sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. the armaments, which thunderstrike the walls of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, and monarchs tremble in their capitals; the oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make their clay creator the vain title take of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; these are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, they melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar alike th' armada's pride or spoils of trafalgar. thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee: assyria, greece, rome, carthage,--what are they? thy waters wasted them while they were free, and many a tyrant since; their shores obey the stranger, slave, or savage; their decay has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou; unchangeable, save to thy wild waves play, time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow; such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. and i have loved thee, ocean! and my joy of youthful sports was on thy breast to be borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy i wanton'd with thy breakers--they to me were a delight; and if the freshening sea made them a terror--'twas a pleasing fear. thou, too, sail on! from "the building of the ship," by permission of, and by special arrangement with, houghton mifflin company, authorized publishers of this author's works. by henry w. longfellow sail forth into the sea, o ship! through wind and wave, right onward steer! the moistened eye, the trembling lip, are not the signs of doubt or fear. sail forth into the sea of life, o gentle, loving, trusting wife, and safe from all adversity upon the bosom of that sea thy comings and thy goings be! for gentleness and love and trust prevail o'er angry wave and gust; and in the wreck of noble lives something immortal still survives! thou, too, sail on, o ship of state! sail on, o union, strong and great! humanity with all its fears, with all the hopes of future years, is hanging breathless on thy fate! we know what master laid thy keel, what workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, who made each mast, and sail, and rope, what anvils rang, what hammers beat, in what a forge and what a heat were shaped the anchors of thy hope! fear not each sudden sound and shock, 'tis of the wave and not the rock; 'tis but the flapping of the sail, and not a rent made by the gale! in spite of rock and tempest's roar, in spite of false lights on the shore, sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith triumphant o'er our fears, are all with thee,--are all with thee! o tiber, father tiber! from "horatius" by lord macaulay "o tiber, father tiber! to whom the romans pray, a roman's life, a roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!" so he spake, and, speaking, sheathed the good sword by his side, and, with his harness on his back, plunged headlong in the tide. no sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank, but friends and foes in dumb surprise, with parted lips and straining eyes, stood gazing where he sank; and when above the surges they saw his crest appear, all rome sent forth a rapturous cry, and even the ranks of tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer. but fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain, and fast his blood was flowing, and he was sore in pain, and heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows; and oft they thought him sinking, but still again he rose. and now he feels the bottom;- now on dry earth he stands; now round him throng the fathers to press his gory hands. and now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud, he enters through the river gate, borne by the joyous crowd. marullus to the roman citizens from "julius cæsar" by william shakespeare _flavius_. why dost thou lead these men about the streets? _second citizen_. indeed, sir, we make holiday, to see cæsar, and to rejoice in his triumph. _marullus_. wherefore rejoice? what conquest brings he home? what tributaries follow him to rome, to grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels? you blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! o you hard hearts, you cruel men of rome, knew you not pompey? many a time and oft have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, to towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, your infants in your arms, and there have sat the live-long day, with patient expectation to see great pompey pass the streets of rome; and when you saw his chariot but appear, have you not made an universal shout, that tiber trembled underneath her banks, to hear the replication of your sounds, made in her concave shores? and do you now put on your best attire? and do you now cull out a holiday? and do you now strew flowers in his way that comes in triumph over pompey's blood? be gone! run to your houses, fall upon your knees, pray to the gods to intermit the plague that needs must light on this ingratitude. the recessional from "collected verse," with the permission of a. p. watt and son, london, and doubleday, page and company, new york, publishers by rudyard kipling god of our fathers, known of old- lord of our far-flung battle-line-beneath whose awful hand we hold dominion over palm and pine-lord god of hosts, be with us yet, lest we forget--lest we forget. the tumult and the shouting dies- the captains and the kings depart-still stands thine ancient sacrifice, an humble and a contrite heart. lord god of hosts, be with us yet, lest we forget--lest we forget. far-called our navies melt away- on dune and headland sinks the fire, lo, all our pomp of yesterday is one with nineveh and tyre. judge of the nations, spare us yet, lest we forget--lest we forget. if, drunk with sight of power, we loose wild tongues that have not thee in awe-such boasting as the gentiles use or lesser breeds without the law-lord god of hosts, be with us yet, lest we forget--lest we forget. for heathen heart that puts her trust in reeking tube and iron shard-all valiant dust that builds on dust, and guarding calls not thee to guard-for frantic boast and foolish word, thy mercy on thy people, lord. the cradle of liberty from webster's reply to hayne, in the united states senate. little, brown and company, boston, publishers of "the great speeches and orations of daniel webster" by daniel webster mr. president, i shall enter on no encomium upon massachusetts; she needs none. there she is. behold her, and judge for yourselves. there is her history; the world knows it by heart. the past, at least, is secure. there is boston, and concord, and lexington, and bunker hill; and there they will remain forever. the bones of her sons, fallen in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every state from new england to georgia; and there they will lie forever. and, sir, where american liberty raised its first voice, and where its youth was nurtured and sustained, there it still lives in the strength of its manhood and full of its original spirit. if discord and disunion shall wound it; if party strife and blind ambition shall hawk at and tear it; if folly and madness, if uneasiness under salutary and necessary restraint, shall succeed in separating it from that union by which alone its existence is made sure,--it will stand, in the end, by the side of that cradle in which its infancy was rocked; it will stretch forth its arm with whatever of vigor it may still retain over the friends who gather round it; and it will fall at last, if fall it must, amidst the proudest monuments of its own glory, and on the very spot of its origin. the impeachment of warren hastings delivered in the house of lords, february 13, 1788 by edmund burke my lords, i do not mean to go further than just to remind your lordships of this,--that mr. hastings's government was one whole system of oppression, of robbery of individuals, of spoliation of the public, and of suppression of the whole system of the english government, in order to vest in the worst of the natives all the power that could possibly exist in any government; in order to defeat the ends which all governments ought, in common, to have in view. in the name of the commons of england, i charge all this villainy upon warren hastings, in this last moment of my application to you. therefore, it is with confidence that, ordered by the commons of great britain, i impeach warren hastings of high crimes and misdemeanors. i impeach him in the name of the commons of great britain in parliament assembled, whose parliamentary trust he has abused. i impeach him in the name of the commons of great britain, whose national character he has dishonored. i impeach him in the name of the people of india, whose laws, rights, and liberties he has subverted. i impeach him in the name of the people of india, whose property he has destroyed, whose country he has laid waste and desolate. i impeach him in the name of human nature itself, which he has cruelly outraged, injured, and oppressed, in both sexes. and i impeach him in the name and by the virtue of those eternal laws of justice, which ought equally to pervade every age, condition, rank, and situation, in the world. bunker hill from the oration at the laying of the corner stone of the monument, june 17, 1825. little, brown and company, boston, publishers of "the great speeches and orations of daniel webster" by daniel webster this uncounted multitude before me and around me proves the feeling which the occasion has excited. these thousands of human faces, glowing with sympathy and joy, and from the impulses of a common gratitude turned reverently to heaven in this spacious temple of the firmament, proclaim that the day, the place, and the purpose of our assembling have made a deep impression on our hearts. if, indeed, there be anything in local association fit to affect the mind of man, we need not strive to repress the emotions which agitate us here. we are among the sepulchers of our fathers. we are on ground distinguished by their valor, their constancy, and the shedding of their blood. we are here, not to fix an uncertain date in our annals, nor to draw into notice an obscure and unknown spot. if our humble purpose had never been conceived, if we ourselves had never been born, the 17th of june, 1775, would have been a day on which all subsequent history would have poured its light, and the eminence where we stand a point of attraction to the eyes of successive generations. but we are americans. we live in what may be called the early age of this great continent; and we know that our posterity, through all time, are here to enjoy and suffer the allotments of humanity. we see before us a probable train of great events; we know that our own fortunes have been happily cast, and it is natural, therefore, that we should be moved by the contemplation of occurrences which have guided our destiny before many of us were born, and settled the condition in which we should pass that portion of our existence which god allows to man on earth. the gettysburg address in dedication of the national cemetery at gettysburg, pa., nov. 19, 1863 by abraham lincoln 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. but, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate--we cannot consecrate--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 dedicated 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. vocal flexibility cæsar, the fighter from "the courtship of miles standish," by permission of, and by special arrangement with, houghton mifflin company, authorized publishers of this author's works by henry w. longfellow "a wonderful man was this cæsar! you are a writer, and i am a fighter, but here is a fellow who could both write and fight, and in both was equally skillful!" straightway answered and spake john alden, the comely, the youthful: "yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his pen and his weapons. somewhere have i read, but where i forget, he could dictate seven letters at once, at the same time writing his memoirs." "truly," continued the captain, not heeding or hearing the other, "truly a wonderful man was caius julius cæsar! better be first, he said, in a little iberian village, than be second in rome, and i think he was right when he said it. twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after; battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered; he, too, fought in flanders, as he himself has recorded; finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator brutus! now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in flanders, when the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too, and the immortal twelfth legion was crowded so closely together there was no room for their swords? why, he seized a shield from a soldier, put himself straight at the head of his troops, and commanded the captains, calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns; then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons; so he won the day, the battle of something-or-other. that's what i always say; if you wish a thing to be well done, you must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!" official duty by theodore roosevelt i want to talk to you of the attitude that should properly be observed by legislators, by executive officers, toward wealth, and the attitude that should be observed in return by men of means, and especially by corporations, toward the body politic and toward their fellow citizens. i utterly distrust the man of whom it is continually said: "oh, he's a good fellow, but, of course, in politics, he plays politics" it is about as bad for a man to profess, and for those that listen to him by their plaudits to insist upon his professing something which they know he cannot live up to, as it is for him to go below what he ought to do, because if he gets into the habit of lying to himself and to his audience as to what he intends to do, it is certain to eat away his moral fiber. he won't be able then to stand up to what he knows ought to be done. the temptation of the average politician is to promise everything to the reformers and then to do everything for the organization. i think i can say that, whatever i have promised on the stump or off the stump, either expressly or impliedly, to either organization or reformers, i have kept my promise; and i should keep it just as much if the reformers disapproved. a public man is bound to represent his constituents, but he is no less bound to cease to represent them when, on a great moral question, he feels that they are taking the wrong side. let him go out of politics rather than stay in at the cost of doing what his own conscience forbids him to do. look well to your speech from "self-cultivation in english," with the permission of the author, and of thomas y. crowell company, new york, publishers by george herbert palmer first, then, "look well to your speech." it is commonly supposed that when a man seeks literary power he goes to his room and plans an article for the press. but this is to begin literary culture at the wrong end. we speak a hundred times for every once we write. the busiest writer produces little more than a volume a year, not so much as his talk would amount to in a week. consequently through speech it is usually decided whether a man is to have command of his language or not. if he is slovenly in his ninety-nine cases of talking, he can seldom pull himself up to strength and exactitude in the hundredth case of writing. a person is made in one piece, and the same being runs through a multitude of performances. whether words are uttered on paper or to the air, the effect on the utterer is the same. vigor or feebleness results according as energy or slackness has been in command. i know that certain adaptations to a new field are often necessary. a good speaker may find awkwardnesses in himself when he comes to write, a good writer when he speaks. and certainly cases occur where a man exhibits distinct strength in one of the two, speaking or writing, and not in the other. but such cases are rare. as a rule, language once within our control can be employed for oral or for written purposes. and since the opportunities for oral practice enormously outbalance those for written, it is the oral which are chiefly significant in the development of literary power. we rightly say of the accomplished writer that he shows a mastery of his own tongue. fortunate it is, then, that self-cultivation in the use of english must chiefly come through speech; because we are always speaking, whatever else we do. in opportunities for acquiring a mastery of language, the poorest and busiest are at no large disadvantage as compared with the leisured rich. it is true the strong impulse which comes from the suggestion and approval of society may in some cases be absent; but this can be compensated by the sturdy purpose of the learner. a recognition of the beauty of well-ordered words, a strong desire, patience under discouragements, and promptness in counting every occasion as of consequence,--these are the simple agencies which sweep one on to power. watch your speech, then. hamlet to the players from "hamlet" by william shakespeare _hamlet_. speak the speech, i pray you, as i pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it as many of your players do, i had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. 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, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance 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 dumbshows and noise. i could have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing termagant; it out-herods herod: pray you, avoid it. _i player_. i warrant your honor. _hamlet_. be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature; for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theater of others. o, there be players that i have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of christians nor the gait of christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that i have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. bellario's letter from "the merchant of venice" by william shakespeare _duke_. this letter from bellario doth commend a young and learned doctor to our court. where is he? _nerissa_. he attendeth here hard by, to know your answer, whether you'll admit him. _duke_. with all my heart. some three or four of you go give him courteous conduct to this place. meantime the court shall hear bellario's letter. _clerk_ (reads). "your grace shall understand that at the receipt of your letter i am very sick; but in the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of rome; his name is balthasar. i acquainted him with the cause in controversy between the jew and antonio the merchant: we turned o'er many books together: he is furnished with my opinion; which, bettered with his own learning, the greatness whereof i cannot enough commend, comes with him, at my importunity, to fill up your grace's request in my stead. i beseech you, let his lack of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend estimation; for i never knew so young a body with so old a head. i leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation." casca, speaking of cæsar from "julius cæsar" by william shakespeare _casca_. you pull'd me by the cloak; would you speak with me? _brutus_. ay, casca; tell us what hath chanc'd to-day, that cæsar looks so sad. _casca_. why, you were with him, were you not? _brutus_. i should not, then, ask casca what had chanc'd. _casca_. why, there was a crown offered him; and being offered him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting. _brutus_. what was the second noise for? _casca_. why, for that too. _cassius_. they shouted thrice: what was the last cry for? _casca_. why, for that too. _brutus_. was the crown offered him thrice? _casca_. ay, marry, was't, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other; and at every putting-by mine honest neighbors shouted. _cassius_. who offered him the crown? _casca_. why, antony. _brutus_. tell us the manner of it, gentle casca. _casca_. i can as well be hanged as tell the manner of it: it was mere foolery; i did not mark it. i saw mark antony offer him a crown;--yet 'twas not a crown neither, 'twas one of these coronets;-and, as i told you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. then he offered it to him again; then he put it by again: but, to my thinking, he was very loth to lay his fingers off it. and then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by: and still as he refused it, the rabblement shouted, and clapped their chopped hands, and threw up their sweaty nightcaps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because cæsar refused the crown, that it had almost choked cæsar; for he swooned, and fell down at it: and for mine own part, i durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips, and receiving the bad air. squandering of the voice from "lectures on oratory" by henry ward beecher how much squandering there is of the voice! how little there is of the advantage that may come from conversational tones! how seldom does a man dare to acquit himself with pathos and fervor! and the men are themselves mechanical and methodical in the bad way who are most afraid of the artificial training that is given in the schools, and who so often show by the fruit of their labor that the want of oratory is the want of education. how remarkable is the sweetness of voice in the mother, in the father, in the household! the music of no chorded instruments brought together is, for sweetness, like the music of familiar affection when spoken by brother and sister, or by father and mother. conversation itself belongs to oratory. how many men there are who are weighty in argument, who have abundant resources, and who are almost boundless in their power at other times and in other places, but who, when in company among their kind, are exceedingly unapt in their methods. having none of the secret instruments by which the elements of nature may be touched, having no skill and no power in this direction, they stand as machines before living, sensitive men. a man may be a master before an instrument; only the instrument is dead; and he has the living hand; and out of that dead instrument what wondrous harmony springs forth at his touch! and if you can electrify an audience by the power of a living man on dead things, how much more should that audience be electrified when the chords are living and the man is alive, and he knows how to touch them with divine inspiration! the training of the gentleman from "personal power," by permission of, and by special arrangement with, houghton mifflin company, authorized publishers of this author's works. by william j. tucker in this talk about the part which the college may take in the training of a gentleman, i have not dwelt, as you have noticed, upon forms or conventionalities. every gentleman respects form. respect for form can be taught, or at least inculcated, but not form itself. one comes to be at ease in society by going into society. manners come by observation. we imitate, we follow the better fashion of society, the better behavior of men. good breeding consists first in the attention of others in our behalf to certain necessary details, then in our attention to them. we come in time to draw close and nice distinctions. this little thing is right, that is not quite right. so we grow into the formal habits of a gentleman. "good manners are made up of constant and petty sacrifices," says emerson. it is well to keep this saying in mind as a qualification of another of his more familiar sayings: "give me a thought, and my hands and legs and voice and face will all go right. it is only when mind and character slumber that the dress can be seen." i like to see the well-bred man, to whom the details of social life have become a second nature. i like also to see the play of that first healthy instinct in a true man which scorns a mean act, which will not allow him to take part in the making of a mean custom, which for example, if he be a college fellow, will not suffer him to treat another fellow as a fag. i am entirely sure that that man is a gentleman. so then it is, in this world of books, of companionship, of sport, of struggle with some of us, of temptation also, and yet more of high incentives, we are all set to the task of coming out, and of helping one another to come out, as gentlemen. do not miss, i beseech you, the greatness of the task. do not miss its constancy. it is more than the incidental work of a college to train the efficient, the honorable, the unselfish man. a college-bred man must be able to show at all times and on all occasions the quality of his distinction. making the point brutus to the roman citizens from "julius cæsar" by william shakespeare be patient till the last. romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may hear: believe me for mine honor, and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe: censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. if there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of cæsar's, to him i say, that brutus' love to cæsar was no less than his. if, then, that friend demand why brutus rose against cæsar, this is my answer,--not that i loved cæsar less, but that i loved rome more. had you rather cæsar were living, and die all slaves, than that cæsar were dead, to live all free men? as cæsar loved me, i weep for him; as he was fortunate i rejoice at it; as he was valiant, i honor him: but, as he was ambitious, i slew him. there is tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honor for his valor; and death for his ambition. who is here so base that would be a bondman? if any, speak; for him have i offended. who is here so rude that would not be a roman? if any, speak; for him have i offended. who is here so vile that will not love his country? if any, speak; for him have i offended. i have done no more to cæsar than you shall do to brutus. the question of his death is enrolled in the capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offenses enforced, for which he suffered death. here comes his body, mourned by mark antony: who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? with this i depart,-that, as i slew my best lover for the good of rome, i have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death. the precepts of polonius from "hamlet" by william shakespeare yet here, laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame! the wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, and you are stay'd for. there; my blessing with thee! and these few precepts in thy memory see thou character. give thy thoughts no tongue, nor any unproportion'd thought his act. be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; but do not dull thy palm with entertainment of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. beware of entrance to a quarrel, but, being in, bear't that the opposed may beware of thee. give every man thy ear, but few thy voice; take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, but not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy; for the apparel oft proclaims the man, and they in france of the best rank and station are most select and generous, chief in that. neither a borrower nor a lender be; for loan oft loses both itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. this above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man. farewell; my blessing season this in thee! the high standard from the lord rector's address, university of edinburgh, 1882 by lord rosebery let us win in the competition of international well-being and prosperity. let us have a finer, better educated, better lodged, and better nourished race than exists elsewhere; better schools, better universities, better tribunals, ay, and better churches. in one phrase, let our standard be higher, not in the jargon of the education department, but in the acknowledgment of mankind. the standard of mankind is not so exalted but that a nobler can be imagined and attained. the dream of him who loved scotland best would lie not so much in the direction of antiquarian revival, as in the hope that his country might be pointed out as one that in spite of rocks, and rigor, and poverty, could yet teach the world by precept and example, could lead the van and point the moral, where greater nations and fairer states had failed. those who believe the scots to be so eminently vain a race, will say that already we are in our opinion the tenth legion of civilization. well, vanity is a centipede with corns on every foot: i will not tread where the ground is most dangerous. but if we are not foremost, we may at any rate become so. our fathers have declared unto us what was done in their days and in the old time before them: we know that we come of a strenuous stock. do you remember the words that young carlyle wrote to his brother nine years after he had left this university as a student, forty-three years before he returned as its rector?-"i say, jack, thou and i must never falter. work, my boy, work unweariedly. i swear that all the thousand miseries of this hard fight, and ill-health, the most terrific of them all, shall never chain us down. by the river styx it shall not! two fellows from a nameless spot in annandale shall yet show the world the pluck that is in carlyles." let that be your spirit to-day. you are citizens of no mean city, members of no common state, heirs of no supine empire. you will many of you exercise influence over your fellow men: some will study and interpret our laws, and so become a power; others will again be in a position to solace and exalt, as destined to be doctors and clergymen, and so the physical and spiritual comforters of mankind. make the best of these opportunities. raise your country, raise your university, raise yourselves. on taxing the colonies delivered in the house of commons, march, 1775 by edmund burke reflect, sirs, that when you have fixed a quota of taxation for every colony, you have not provided for prompt and punctual payment. you must make new boston port bills, new restraining laws, new acts for dragging men to england for trial. you must send out new fleets, new armies. all is to begin again. from this day forward the empire is never to know an hour's tranquillity. an intestine fire will be kept alive in the bowels of the colonies, which one time or other must consume this whole empire. instead of a standing revenue, you will therefore have a perpetual quarrel. indeed, the noble lord who proposed this project seems himself to be of that opinion. his project was rather designed for breaking the union of the colonies than for establishing a revenue. but whatever his views may be, as i propose the peace and union of the colonies as the very foundation of my plan, it cannot accord with one whose foundation is perpetual discord. compare the two. this i offer to give you is plain and simple; the other full of perplexed and intricate mazes. this is mild; that harsh. this is found by experience effectual for its purposes; the other is a new project. this is universal; the other calculated for certain colonies only. this is immediate in its conciliatory operation; the other remote, contingent, full of hazard. mine is what becomes the dignity of a ruling people--gratuitous, unconditional, and not held out as a matter of bargain and sale. i have done my duty in proposing it to you. i have indeed tried you by a long discourse; but this is the misfortune of those to whose influence nothing will be conceded, and who must win every inch of their ground by argument. you have heard me with goodness. may you decide with wisdom! justifying the president from a speech in the senate, 1900 by john c. spooner some one asked the other day why the president did not bring about a cessation of hostilities. upon what basis could he have brought about a cessation of hostilities? should he have asked aguinaldo for an armistice? if so, upon what basis should he have requested it? what should he say to him? "please stop this fighting"? "what for," aguinaldo would say; "do you propose to retire?" "no." "do you propose to grant us independence?" "no, not now." "well, why, then, an armistice?" the president would doubtless be expected to reply: "some distinguished gentlemen in the united states, members of the united states senate, and others, have discovered a doubt about our right to be here at all, some question whether we have acquired the philippines, some question as to whether we have correctly read the declaration of independence; and i want an armistice until we can consult and determine finally whether we have acquired the philippines or not, whether we are violating the declaration of independence or not, whether we are trampling upon the constitution or not." that is practically the proposition. no, mr. president, men may say in criticism of the president what they choose. he has been grossly insulted in this chamber, and it appears upon the record. he has gone his way patiently, exercising the utmost forbearance, all his acts characterized by a desire to do precisely what the congress had placed upon him by its ratification of the treaty and its increase of the army. he has done it in a way to impress upon the filipinos, so far as language and action could do it, his desire, and the desire of our people, to do them good, to give them the largest possible measure of liberty. britain and america from an address in the house of commons, march, 1865 by john bright why should we fear a great nation on the american continent? some people fear that, should america become a great nation, she will be arrogant and aggressive. but that does not follow. the character of a nation does not depend altogether upon its size, but upon the intelligence, instruction, and morals of its people. you fancy the supremacy of the sea will pass away from you; and the noble lord, who has had much experience, and is supposed to be wiser on the subject than any other man in the house, will say that "rule britannia," that noble old song, may become obsolete. well, inasmuch as the supremacy of the seas means arrogance and the assumption of dictatorial power on the part of this country, the sooner that becomes obsolete the better. i do not believe that it is for the advantage of this country, or of any country in the world, that any one nation should pride itself upon what is termed the supremacy of the sea; and i hope the time is coming--i believe the hour is hastening--when we shall find that law and justice will guide the councils and will direct the policy of the christian nations of the world. nature will not be baffled because we are jealous of the united states--the decrees of providence will not be overthrown by aught we can do. the population of the united states is now not less than 35,000,000. when the next parliament of england has lived to the age which this has lived to, that population will be 40,000,000, and you may calculate the increase at the rate of rather more than 1,000,000 of persons per year. who is to gainsay it? will constant snarling at a great republic alter this state of things, or swell us up in these islands to 40,000,000 or 50,000,000, or bring them down to our 30,000,000? honorable members and the country at large should consider these facts, and learn from them that it is the interest of the nations to be at one--and for us to be in perfect courtesy and amity with the great english nation on the other side of the atlantic. values and transitions king robert of sicily from "king robert of sicily," by permission of, and by special arrangement with, houghton mifflin company, authorized publishers of this author's works. by henry w. longfellow days came and went; and now returned again to sicily the old saturnian reign; under the angel's governance benign the happy island danced with corn and wine. meanwhile king robert yielded to his fate, sullen and silent and disconsolate. dressed in the motley garb that jesters wear, with look bewildered and a vacant stare, close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, by courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, his only friend the ape, his only food what others left,--he still was unsubdued. and when the angel met him on his way, and half in earnest, half in jest, would say, sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel the velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, "art thou the king?" the passion of his woe burst from him in resistless overflow, and, lifting high his forehead, he would fling the haughty answer back, "i am, i am the king!" almost three years were ended; when there came ambassadors of great repute and name from valmond, emperor of allemaine, unto king robert, saying that pope urbane by letter summoned them forthwith to come on holy thursday to his city of rome. and lo! among the menials, in mock state, upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, his cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, the solemn ape demurely perched behind, king robert rode, making huge merriment in all the country towns through which they went. the pope received them with great pomp and blare of bannered trumpets, on saint peter's square, giving his benediction and embrace fervent and full of apostolic grace. while with congratulations and with prayers he entertained the angel unawares, robert, the jester, bursting through the crowd, into their presence rushed, and cried aloud: "i am the king! look, and behold in me robert, your brother, king of sicily! this man who wears my semblance to your eyes, is an imposter in a king's disguise. do you not know me? does no voice within answer my cry, and say we are akin?" the pope in silence, but with troubled mien, gazed at the angel's countenance serene; the emperor, laughing, said, "it is strange sport to keep a madman for thy fool at court!" and the poor, baffled jester in disgrace was hustled back among the populace. laying the atlantic cable an extract from "masters of the situation," a lecture by james t. fields when i talk across an ocean of 3000 miles, with my friends on the other side of it, and feel that i may know any hour of the day if all goes well with them, i think with gratitude of the immense energy and perseverance of that one man, cyrus w. field, who spent so many years of his life in perfecting a communication second only in importance to the discovery of this country. think what that enthusiast accomplished by his untiring energy. he made fifty voyages across the atlantic. eight years more he encountered the odium of failure, but still kept plowing across the atlantic, flying from city to city, soliciting capital, holding meetings and forcing down this most colossal discouragement. at last day dawned again, and another cable was paid out--this time from the deck of the "great eastern." twelve hundred miles of it were laid down, and the ship was just lifting her head to a stiff breeze then springing up, when, without a moment's warning, the cable suddenly snapped short off, and plunged into the sea. nine days and nights they dragged the bottom of the sea for this lost treasure, and though they grappled it three times, they could not bring it to the surface. in five months another cable was shipped on board the "great eastern," and this time, by the blessing of heaven, the wires were stretched unharmed from continent to continent. then came that neverto-be-forgotten search, in four ships, for the lost cable. in the bow of one of these vessels stood cyrus field, day and night, in storm and fog, squall and calm, intensely watching the quiver of the grapnel that was dragging two miles down on the bottom of the deep. at length on the last night of august, a little before midnight, the spirit of this great man was rewarded. i shall here quote his own words, as none others could possibly convey so well the thrilling interest of that hour. he says: "all felt as if life and death hung on the issue. it was only when the cable was brought over the bow and onto the deck that men dared to breathe. even then they hardly believed their eyes. some crept toward it to feel of it to be sure it was there. then we carried it along to the electricians' room, to see if our longsought treasure was dead or alive. a few minutes of suspense and a flash told of the lightning current again set free. then the feeling long pent up burst forth. some turned away their heads and wept. others broke into cheers, and the cry ran from man to man, and was heard down in the engine rooms, deck below deck, and from the boats on the water, and the other ships, while the rockets lighted up the darkness of the sea. then, with thankful hearts, we turned our faces again to the west. but soon the wind rose, and for thirty-six hours we were exposed to all the dangers of a storm on the atlantic. yet, in the very height and fury of the gale, as i sat in the electricians' room, a flash of light came up from the deep, which, having crossed to ireland, came back to me in mid-ocean, telling me that those so dear to me, whom i had left on the banks of the hudson, were well, and following us with their wishes and their prayers. this was like a whisper of god from the sea, bidding me keep heart and hope." and now, after all those thirteen years of almost superhuman struggle and that one moment of almost superhuman victory, i think we may safely include cyrus field among the masters of the situation. o'connell, the orator from "speeches and lectures," with the permission of lothrop, lee and shepard, boston, publishers. by wendell phillips broadly considered, o'connell's eloquence has never been equaled in modern times, certainly not in english speech. do you think i am partial? i will vouch john randolph of roanoke, the virginia slaveholder, who hated an irishman almost as much as he hated a yankee, himself an orator of no mean level. hearing o'connell, he exclaimed, "this is the man, these are the lips, the most eloquent that speak the english tongue in my day!" i think he was right. i remember the solemnity of webster, the grace of everett, the rhetoric of choate; i know the eloquence that lay hid in the iron logic of calhoun; i have melted beneath the magnetism of sergeant s. prentiss of mississippi, who wielded a power few men ever had; it has been my fortune to sit at the feet of the great speakers of the english tongue on the other side of the ocean; but i think all of them together never surpassed, and no one of them ever equaled o'connell. nature intended him for our demosthenes. never, since the great greek, has she sent forth one so lavishly gifted for his work as a tribune of the people. in the first place, he had a magnificent presence, impressive in bearing, massive, like that of jupiter. webster himself hardly outdid him in the majesty of his proportions. to be sure, he had not webster's craggy face, and precipice of brow, not his eyes glowing like anthracite coal. nor had he the lion roar of mirabeau. but his presence filled the eye. a small o'connell would hardly have been an o'connell at all. these physical advantages are half the battle. i remember russell lowell telling us that mr. webster came home from washington at the time the whig party thought of dissolution, a year or two before his death, and went down to faneuil hall to protest; drawing himself up to his loftiest proportion, his brow clothed with thunder, before the listening thousands, he said, "well, gentlemen, i am a whig, a massachusetts whig, a faneuil-hall whig, a revolutionary whig, a constitutional whig. if you break the whig party, sir, where am i to go?" and says lowell, "we held our breath, thinking where he _could_ go. if he had been five feet three, we should have said, 'who cares where you go?'" so it was with o'connell. there was something majestic in his presence before he spoke; and he added to it what webster had not, what clay might have lent--infinite grace, that magnetism that melts all hearts into one. i saw him at over sixty-six years of age; every attitude was beauty, every gesture grace. you could only think of a greyhound as you looked at him; it would have been delightful to watch him, if he had not spoken a word. then he had a voice that covered the gamut. the majesty of his indignation, fitly uttered in tones of superhuman power, made him able to "indict" a nation. carlyle says, "he is god's own anointed king whose single word melts all wills into his." this describes o'connell. emerson says, "there is no true eloquence unless there is a man behind the speech." daniel o'connell was listened to because all england and all ireland knew that there was a man behind the speech. i heard him once say, "i send my voice across the atlantic, careering like the thunderstorm against the breeze, to remind the bondman that the dawn of his redemption is already breaking." you seemed to hear the tones come echoing back to london from the rocky mountains. then, with the slightest possible irish brogue, he would tell a story, while all exeter hall shook with laughter. the next moment, tears in his voice like a scotch song, five thousand men wept. and all the while no effort. he seemed only breathing. "as effortless as woodland nooks send violets up, and paint them blue." justification for impeachment against warren hastings, house of lords, february, 1788 by edmund burke in the name of the commons of england, i charge all this villainy upon warren hastings, in this last moment of my application to you. my lords, what is it that we want here to a great act of national justice? do we want a cause, my lords? you have the cause of oppressed princes, of undone women of the first rank, of desolated provinces, and of wasted kingdoms. do you want a criminal, my lords? when was there so much iniquity ever laid to the charge of any one? no, my lords, you must not look to punish any other such delinquent from india. warren hastings has not left substance enough in india to nourish such another delinquent. my lords, is it a prosecutor you want? you have before you the commons of great britain as prosecutors; and i believe, my lords, that the sun, in his beneficent progress round the world, does not behold a more glorious sight than that of men, separated from a remote people by the material bounds and barriers of nature, united by the bonds of a social and moral community--all the commons of england resenting, as their own, the indignities and cruelties that are offered to all the people of india. do we want a tribunal? my lords, no example of antiquity, nothing in the modern world, nothing in the range of human imagination, can supply us with a tribunal like this. my lords, here we see virtually, in the mind's eye, that sacred majesty of the crown, under whose authority you sit and whose power you exercise. we have here all the branches of the royal family, in a situation between majesty and subjection, between the sovereign and the subject-offering a pledge, in that situation, for the support of the rights of the crown and the liberties of the people, both of which extremities they touch. wendell phillips, the orator from "the orations and addresses of george william curtis," vol. iii. copyright, 1894, by harper and brothers. by george william curtis it was not until lovejoy fell, while defending his press at alton, in november, 1837, that an american citizen was killed by a raging mob for declaring, in a free state, the right of innocent men and women to their personal liberty. this tragedy, like the deadly blow at charles sumner in the senate chamber, twenty years afterward, awed the whole country with a sense of vast and momentous peril. never since the people of boston thronged faneuil hall on the day after the massacre in state street, had that ancient hall seen a more solemn and significant assembly. it was the more solemn, the more significant, because the excited multitude was no longer, as in the revolutionary day, inspired by one unanimous and overwhelming purpose to assert and maintain liberty of speech as the bulwark of all other liberty. it was an unwonted and foreboding scene. an evil spirit was in the air. when the seemly protest against the monstrous crime had been spoken, and the proper duty of the day was done, a voice was heard,--the voice of the high officer solemnly sworn to prosecute, in the name of massachusetts, every violation of law, declaring, in faneuil hall, sixty years after the battle of bunker hill, and amid a howling storm of applause, that an american citizen who was put to death by a mad crowd of his fellow citizens for defending his right of free speech, died as the fool dieth. boston has seen dark days, but never a moment so dark as that. seven years before, webster had said, in the famous words that massachusetts binds as frontlets between her eyes, "there are boston and concord, and lexington and bunker hill, and there they will remain forever." had they already vanished? was the spirit of the revolution quite extinct? in the very cradle of liberty did no son survive to awake its slumbering echoes? by the grace of god such a son there was. he had come with the multitude, and he had heard with sympathy and approval the speeches that condemned the wrong; but when the cruel voice justified the murderers of lovejoy, the heart of the young man burned within him. this speech, he said to himself, must be answered. as the malign strain proceeded, the boston boy, all on fire, with concord and lexington tugging at his heart, unconsciously murmured, "such a speech in faneuil hall must be answered in faneuil hall." "why not answer it yourself?" whispered a neighbor, who overheard him. "help me to the platform and i will,"--and pushing and struggling through the dense and threatening crowd, the young man reached the platform, was lifted upon it, and, advancing to speak, was greeted with a roar of hostile cries. but riding the whirlwind undismayed, as for many a year afterward he directed the same wild storm, he stood upon the platform in all the beauty and grace of imperial youth,--the greeks would have said a god descended,--and in words that touched the mind and heart and conscience of that vast multitude, as with fire from heaven, recalling boston to herself, he saved his native city and her cradle of liberty from the damning disgrace of stoning the first martyr in the great struggle for personal freedom. "mr. chairman," he said, "when i heard the gentleman lay down principles which placed the rioters, incendiaries, and murderers of alton, side by side with otis and hancock, and quincy and adams, i thought those pictured lips would have broken into voice to rebuke the recreant american--the slanderer of the dead." and even as he spoke the vision was fulfilled. once more its native music rang through faneuil hall. in the orator's own burning words, those pictured lips did break into immortal rebuke. in wendell phillips, glowing with holy indignation at the insult to america and to man, john adams and james otis, josiah quincy and samuel adams, though dead, yet spake. in the annals of american speech there had been no such scene since patrick henry's electrical warning to george the third. it was that greatest of oratorical triumphs when a supreme emotion, a sentiment which is to mold a people anew, lifted the orator to adequate expression. three such scenes are illustrious in our history: that of the speech of patrick henry at williamsburg, of wendell phillips in faneuil hall, of abraham lincoln in gettysburg,--three, and there is no fourth. on the disposal of public lands from reports of the webster-hayne debate in the united states senate, january, 1830 by robert y. hayne in 1825 the gentleman told the world that the public lands "ought not to be treated as a treasure." he now tells us that "they must be treated as so much treasure." what the deliberate opinion of the gentleman on this subject may be, belongs not to me to determine; but i do not think he can, with the shadow of justice or propriety, impugn my sentiments, while his own recorded opinions are identical with my own. when the gentleman refers to the conditions of the grants under which the united states have acquired these lands, and insists that, as they are declared to be "for the common benefit of all the states," they can only be treated as so much treasure, i think he has applied a rule of construction too narrow for the case. if, in the deeds of cession, it has been declared that the grants were intended "for the common benefit of all the states," it is clear, from other provisions, that they were not intended merely as so much property; for it is expressly declared that the object of the grants is the erection of new states; and the united states, in accepting this trust, bind themselves to facilitate the foundation of those states, to be admitted into the union with all the rights and privileges of the original states. this, sir, was the great end to which all parties looked, and it is by the fulfillment of this high trust that "the common benefit of all the states" is to be best promoted. sir, let me tell the gentleman that, in the part of the country in which i live, we do not measure political benefits by the money standard. we consider as more valuable than gold, liberty, principle, and justice. but, sir, if we are bound to act on the narrow principles contended for by the gentleman, i am wholly at a loss to conceive how he can reconcile his principles with his own practice. the lands are, it seems, to be treated "as so much treasure," and must be applied to the "common benefit of all the states." now, if this be so, whence does he derive the right to appropriate them for partial and local objects? how can the gentleman consent to vote away immense bodies of these lands for canals in indiana and illinois, to the louisville and portland canal, to kenyon college in ohio, to schools for the deaf and dumb, and other objects of a similar description? the declaration of independence from "speeches and presidential addresses," current literature publishing company, new york. by abraham lincoln i am filled with deep emotion at finding myself standing in this place, where were collected together the wisdom, the patriotism, the devotion to principle, from which sprang the institutions under which we live. you have kindly suggested to me that in my hands is the task of restoring peace to our distracted country. i can say in return, sir, that all the political sentiments i entertain have been drawn, so far as i have been able to draw them, from the sentiments which originated in, and were given to the world from, this hall. i have never had a feeling, politically, that did not spring from the sentiments embodied in the declaration of independence. i have often pondered over the dangers which were incurred by the men who assembled here and framed and adopted that declaration. i have pondered over the toils that were endured by the officers and soldiers of the army who achieved that independence. i have often inquired of myself what great principle or idea it was that kept this confederacy so long together. it was not the mere matter of separation of the colonies from the motherland, but that sentiment in the declaration of independence which gave liberty not alone to the people of this country, but hope to all the world, for all future time. it was that which gave promise that in due time the weights would be lifted from the shoulders of all men, and that all should have an equal chance. this is the sentiment embodied in the declaration of independence. now, my friends, can this country be saved on that basis? if it can, i shall consider myself one of the happiest men in the world if i can help to save it. if it cannot be saved upon that principle, it will be truly awful. but if this country cannot be saved without giving up that principle, i was about to say i would rather be assassinated on this spot than surrender it. now, in my view of the present aspect of affairs, there is no need of bloodshed and war. there is no necessity for it. i am not in favor of such a course; and i may say in advance that there will be no bloodshed unless it is forced upon the government. the government will not use force, unless force is used against it. my friends, this is wholly an unprepared speech. i did not expect to be called on to say a word when i came here. i supposed i was merely to do something toward raising a flag. i may, therefore, have said something indiscreet. but i have said nothing but what i am willing to live by, and, if it be the pleasure of almighty god, to die by. expressing the feeling northern greeting to southern veterans from "speeches and addresses," with the permission of the author and of houghton mifflin company, publishers. by henry cabot lodge i was a boy ten years old when the troops marched away to defend washington. i saw the troops, month after month, pour through the streets of boston. i saw shaw go forth at the head of his black regiment, and bartlett, shattered in body, but dauntless in soul, ride by to carry what was left of him once more to the battlefields of the republic. i saw andrew, standing bareheaded on the steps of the state house, bid the men godspeed. i cannot remember the words he said, but i can never forget the fervid eloquence which brought tears to the eyes and fire to the hearts of all who listened. to my boyish mind one thing alone was clear, that the soldiers, as they marched past, were all, in that supreme hour, heroes and patriots. other feelings have, in the progress of time, altered much, but amid many changes that simple belief of boyhood has never altered. and you, brave men who wore the gray, would be the first to hold me or any other son of the north in just contempt if i should say that now it was all over i thought the north was wrong and the result of the war a mistake. to the men who fought the battles of the confederacy we hold out our hands freely, frankly, and gladly. we have no bitter memories to revive, no reproaches to utter. differ in politics and in a thousand other ways we must and shall in all good nature, but never let us differ with each other on sectional or state lines, by race or creed. we welcome you, soldiers of virginia, as others more eloquent than i have said, to new england. we welcome you to old massachusetts. we welcome you to boston and to faneuil hall. in your presence here, and at the sound of your voices beneath this historic roof, the years roll back, and we see the figure and hear again the ringing tones of your great orator, patrick henry, declaring to the first continental congress, "the distinctions between virginians, pennsylvanians, new yorkers, and new englanders are no more. i am not a virginian, but an american." a distinguished frenchman, as he stood among the graves of arlington, said: "only a great people is capable of a great civil war." let us add with thankful hearts that only a great people is capable of a great reconciliation. side by side virginia and massachusetts led the colonies into the war for independence. side by side they founded the government of the united states. morgan and greene, lee and knox, moultrie and prescott, men of the south and men of the north, fought shoulder to shoulder, and wore the same uniform of buff and blue,--the uniform of washington. mere sentiment all this, some may say. but it is sentiment, true sentiment, that has moved the world. sentiment fought the war, and sentiment has reunited us. so i say that the sentiment manifested by your presence here, brethren of virginia, sitting side by side with those who wore the blue, tells us that if war should break again upon the country the sons of virginia and massachusetts would, as in the olden days, stand once more shoulder to shoulder, with no distinction in the colors that they wear. it is fraught with tidings of peace on earth, and you may read its meaning in the words on yonder picture, "liberty and union, now and forever, one and inseparable!" matches and overmatches from webster's reply to hayne in the united states senate, january, 1830, little, brown and company, boston, publishers. by daniel webster if, sir, the honorable member, _modestia gratia_, had chosen thus to defer to his friend and to pay him a compliment without intentional disparagement to others, it would have been quite according to the friendly courtesies of debate, and not at all ungrateful to my own feelings. i am not one of those, sir, who esteem any tribute of regard, whether light and occasional or more serious and deliberate, which may be bestowed on others, as so much unjustly withholden from themselves. but the tone and manner of the gentleman's question forbid me thus to interpret it, i am not at liberty to consider it as nothing more than a civility to his friend. it had an air of taunt and disparagement, something of the loftiness of asserted superiority, which does not allow me to pass it over without notice. it was put as a question for me to answer, and so put as if it were difficult for me to answer, whether i deemed the member from missouri an overmatch for myself in debate here. it seems to me, sir, that this is extraordinary language and an extraordinary tone for the discussions of this body. matches and overmatches! those terms are more applicable elsewhere than here, and fitter for other assemblies than this. sir, the gentleman seems to forget where and what we are. this is a senate, a senate of equals, of men of individual honor and personal character and of absolute independence. we know no masters, we acknowledge no dictators. this is a hall for mutual consultation and discussion; not an arena for the exhibitions of champions. i offer myself, sir, as a match for no man; i throw the challenge of debate at no man's feet. but then, sir, since the honorable member has put the question in a manner that calls for an answer, i will give him an answer; and tell him that, holding myself to be the humblest of the members here, i yet know nothing in the arm of his friend from missouri, either alone or when aided by the arm of _his_ friend from south carolina, that need deter even me from espousing whatever opinions i may choose to espouse, from debating whenever i may choose to debate, or from speaking whatever i may see fit to say on the floor of the senate. the coalition from the reply to hayne "the great speeches and orations of daniel webster," little, brown and company, boston, publishers. by daniel webster sir, i shall not allow myself, on this occasion, i hope on no occasion, to betray myself into any loss of temper; but if provoked, as i trust i never shall be, into crimination and recrimination, the honorable member may perhaps find that, in that contest, there will be blows to take as well as to give; that others can state comparisons as significant, at least, as his own, and that his impunity may possibly demand of him whatever powers of taunt and sarcasm he may possess. i commend him to a prudent husbandry of his resources. but, sir, the coalition! the coalition! aye, "the murdered coalition!" the gentleman asks if i were led or frighted into this debate by the specter of the coalition. "was it the ghost of the murdered coalition," he exclaims, "which haunted the member from massachusetts; and which, like the ghost of banquo, would never down?" "the murdered coalition!" sir, this charge of a coalition, in reference to the late administration, is not original with the honorable member. it did not spring up in the senate. whether as a fact, as an argument, or as an embellishment, it is all borrowed. he adopts it, indeed, from a very low origin, and a still lower present condition. it is one of the thousand calumnies with which the press teemed during an excited political canvass. it was a charge of which there was not only no proof or probability, but which was in itself wholly impossible to be true. no man of common information ever believed a syllable of it. yet it was of that class of falsehoods which, by continued repetition, through all the organs of detraction and abuse, are capable of misleading those who are already far misled, and of further fanning passion already kindling into flame. doubtless it served in its day, and in greater or less degree, the end designed by it. having done that, it has sunk into the general mass of stale and loathed calumnies. it is the very cast-off slough of a polluted and shameless press. incapable of further mischief, it lies in the sewer, lifeless and despised. it is not now, sir, in the power of the honorable member to give it dignity or decency by attempting to elevate it and to introduce it into the senate. he cannot change it from what it is, an object of general disgust and scorn. on the contrary, the contact, if he choose to touch it, is more likely to drag him down, down to the place where it lies itself. in his own defense by robert emmet i am asked what i have to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced on me, according to law. i am charged with being an emissary of france. an emissary of france! and for what end? it is alleged that i wish to sell the independence of my country; and for what end? was this the object of my ambition? and is this the mode by which a tribunal of justice reconciles contradictions? no; i am no emissary; and my ambition was to hold a place among the deliverers of my country, not in power nor in profit, but in the glory of the achievement. sell my country's independence to france! and for what? was it for a change of masters? no, but for ambition. o my country! was it personal ambition that could influence me? had it been the soul of my actions, could i not by my education and fortune, by the rank and consideration of my family, have placed myself amongst the proudest of your oppressors? my country was my idol! to it i sacrificed every selfish, every endearing sentiment; and for it i now offer up my life. my lords, you are impatient for the sacrifice. be yet patient! i have but a few more words to say--i am going to my cold and silent grave--my lamp of life is nearly extinguished--my race is run--the grave opens to receive me, and i sink into its bosom. i have but one request to ask at my departure from this world: it is--the charity of its silence. let no man write my epitaph; for, as no man who knows my motives dares now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. let them and me rest in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and other men can do justice to my character. when my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written. i have done. on resistance to great britain from a speech in the provincial convention, virginia, march, 1775 by patrick henry i ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? has great britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? no, sir, she has none. they are meant for us; they can be meant for no other. they are sent over to bind and to rivet upon us those chains which the british ministry have been so long forging. and what have we to oppose them? shall we try argument? sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. have we anything new to offer upon the subject? nothing. we have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? what terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? let us not, i beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. sir, we have done everything that could be done to avert the storm which is now coming on. we have petitioned, we have remonstrated, we have supplicated, we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and parliament. our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult; our supplications have been disregarded; and we have been spurned with contempt from the foot of the throne. in vain, after all these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. there is no longer any room for hope. if we wish to be free, if we mean to preserve inviolate these inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending; if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained, we must fight; i repeat it, sir, we must fight! an appeal to arms, and to the god of hosts, is all that is left us! invective against louis bonaparte from a reprint in "a modern reader and speaker," by george ridde, duffield and company, new york, publishers. by victor hugo i have entered the lists with the actual ruler of europe, for it is well for the world that i should exhibit the picture. louis bonaparte is the intoxication of triumph. he is the incarnation of merry yet savage despotism. he is the mad plenitude of power seeking for limits, but finding them not, neither in men nor facts. louis bonaparte holds france; and he who holds france holds the world. he is master of the votes, master of consciences, master of the people; he names his successor, does away with eternity, and places the future in a sealed envelope. thirty eager newspaper correspondents inform the world that he has frowned, and every electric wire quivers if he raises his little finger. around him is heard the clanking of the saber and the roll of the drum. he is seated in the shadow of the eagles, begirt by ramparts and bayonets. free people tremble and conceal their liberty lest he should rob them of it. the great american republic even hesitates before him, and dares not withdraw her ambassador. europe awaits his invasion. he is able to do as he wishes, and he dreams of impossibilities. well, this master, this triumphant conqueror, this vanquisher, this dictator, this emperor, this allpowerful man, one lonely man, robbed and ruined, dares to rise up and attack. yes, i attack louis napoleon; i attack him openly, before all the world. i attack him before god and man. i attack him boldly and recklessly for love of the people and for love of france. he is going to be an emperor. let him be one; but let him remember that, though you may secure an empire, you cannot secure an easy conscience! this is the man by whom france is governed! governed, do i say?-possessed in supreme and sovereign sway! and every day, and every morning, by his decrees, by his messages, by all the incredible drivel which he parades in the "moniteur," this emigrant, who knows not france, teaches france her lesson! and this ruffian tells france he has saved her! and from whom? from herself! before him, providence committed only follies; god was waiting for him to reduce everything to order; at last he has come! ii for thirty-six years there had been in france all sorts of pernicious things,--the tribune, a vociferous thing; the press, an obstreperous thing; thought, an insolent thing, and liberty, the most crying abuse of all. but he came, and for the tribune he has substituted the senate; for the press, the censorship; for thought, imbecility; and for liberty, the saber; and by the saber and the senate, by imbecility and censorship, france is saved. saved, bravo! and from whom, i repeat? from herself. for what was this france of ours, if you please? a horde of marauders and thieves, of anarchists, assassins, and demagogues. she had to be manacled, had this mad woman, france; and it is monsieur louis bonaparte who puts the handcuffs on her. now she is in a dungeon, on a diet of bread and water, punished, humiliated, garotted, safely cared for. be not disturbed; monsieur bonaparte, a policeman stationed at the élysée, is answerable for her to europe. he makes it his business to be so; this wretched france is in the straitjacket, and if she stirs--ah, what is this spectacle before our eyes? is it a dream? is it a nightmare? on one side a nation, the first of nations, and on the other, a man, the last of men; and this is what this man does to this nation. what! he tramples her under his feet, he laughs in her face, he mocks and taunts her, he disowns, insults, and flouts her! what! he says, "i alone am worthy of consideration!" what! in this land of france where none would dare to slap the face of his fellow, this man can slap the face of the nation? oh, the abominable shame of it all! every time that monsieur bonaparte spits, every face must be wiped! and this can last! and you tell me it will last! no! no! by every drop in every vein, no! it shall not last! ah, if this did last, it would be in very truth because there would no longer be a god in heaven, nor a france on earth! showing the picture mount, the doge of venice! from the play, "foscari" by mary russell mitford _doge_. what! didst thou never hear of the old prediction that was verified when i became the doge? _zeno_. an old prediction! _doge_. some seventy years ago--it seems to me as fresh as yesterday--being then a lad no higher than my hand, idle as an heir, and all made up of gay and truant sports, i flew a kite, unmatched in shape or size, over the river--we were at our house upon the brenta then; it soared aloft, driven by light vigorous breezes from the sea soared buoyantly, till the diminished toy grew smaller than the falcon when she stoops to dart upon her prey. i sent for cord, servant on servant hurrying, till the kite shrank to the size of a beetle: still i called for cord, and sent to summon father, mother, my little sisters, my old halting nurse,-i would have had the whole world to survey me and my wondrous kite. it still soared on, and i stood bending back in ecstasy, my eyes on that small point, clapping my hands, and shouting, and half envying it the flight that made it a companion of the stars, when close beside me a deep voice exclaimed-aye, mount! mount! mount!--i started back, and saw a tall and aged woman, one of the wild peculiar people whom wild hungary sends roving through every land. she drew her cloak about her, turned her black eyes up to heaven, and thus pursued: aye, like his fortunes, mount, the future doge of venice! and before for very wonder any one could speak she disappeared. _zeno_. strange! hast thou never seen that woman since? _doge_. i never saw her more. the revenge from "tennyson's poetical works," published by houghton mifflin company, boston. by alfred lord tennyson "shall we fight or shall we fly? good sir richard, tell us now, for to fight is but to die! there'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set." and sir richard said again: "we be all good englishmen. let us bang these dogs of seville, the children of the devil, for i never turned my back upon don or devil yet." sir richard spoke and he laughed, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so the little _revenge_ ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, with her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; for half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen. and the little _revenge_ ran on thro' the long sea lane between. and while now the great _san philip_ hung above us like a cloud whence the thunderbolt will fall long and loud, four galleons drew away from the spanish fleet that day, and two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, and the battle-thunder broke from them all. and the sun went down, and the stars came out, far over the summer sea, but never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame; ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame, for some were sunk, and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more-god of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before? for he said: "fight on! fight on!" tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; and it chanced that, when half of the summer night was gone, with a grisly wound to be dressed, he had left the deck, but a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, and himself he was wounded again, in the side and the head, and he said: "fight on! fight on!" and the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, and the spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; but they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting, so they watched what the end would be. and we had not fought them in vain, but in perilous plight were we, seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain and half of the rest of us maimed for life in the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; and the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, and the pikes were all broken and bent, and the powder was all of it spent; and the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; but sir richard cried in his english pride, "we have fought such a fight for a day and a night as may never be fought again! we have won great glory, my men! and a day less or more at sea or ashore, we die--does it matter when? sink me the ship, master gunner--sink her, split her in twain! fall into the hands of god, not into the hands of spain!" a vision of war from a memorial day address, with the permission of c. p. farrell, new york, publisher and owner of the ingersoll copyrighted books. by robert g. ingersoll the past rises before me like a dream. again we are in the great struggle for national life. we hear the sounds of preparation; the music of boisterous drums; the silver voices of heroic bugles. we see thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators. we see the pale cheeks of women, and the flushed faces of men; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers. we lose sight of them no more. we are with them when they enlist in the great army of freedom. we see them part with those they love. some are walking for the last time in quiet, woody places with the maidens they adore. we hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever. others are bending over cradles, kissing babes that are asleep. some are receiving the blessings of old men. some are parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their hearts again and again and say nothing. kisses and tears, tears and kisses--divine mingling of agony and joy! and some are talking with wives, and endeavoring with brave words, spoken in the old tones, to drive from their hearts the awful fear. we see them part. we see the wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms--standing in the sunlight, sobbing. at the turn in the road a hand waves--she answers by holding high in her loving arms the child. he is gone, and forever. we see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags, keeping time to the grand, wild music of war,--marching down the streets of the great cities, through the towns and across the prairies, down to the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right. a vision of the future rises:-i see our country filled with happy homes, with firesides of content-the foremost of all the earth. i see a world where thrones have crumbled and kings are dust. the aristocracy of idleness has perished from the earth. i see a world without a slave. man at last is free. nature's forces have by science been enslaved. lightning and light, wind and wave, frost and flame, and all the secret-subtle powers of earth and air are the tireless toilers for the human race. i see a world at peace, adorned with every form of art, with music's myriad voices thrilled, while lips are rich with words of love and truth; a world in which no exile sighs, no prisoner mourns; a world on which the gibbet's shadow does not fall; a world where labor reaps its full reward, where work and worth go hand in hand, where the poor girl trying to win bread with the needle--the needle that has been called "the asp for the breast of the poor"--is not driven to the desperate choice of crime or death, of suicide or shame. i see a world without the beggar's outstretched palm, the miser's heartless, stony stare, the piteous wail of want, the livid lips of lies, the cruel eyes of scorn. i see a race without disease of flesh or brain,--shapely and fair,--the married harmony of form and function,--and, as i look, life lengthens, joy deepens, love canopies the earth; and over all, in the great dome, shines the eternal star of human hope. sunset near jerusalem from an article in the _century magazine_, june, 1906, with the permission of the century company and of the author. by corwin knapp linson to our northern eyes the intense brilliancy of the tropical and semitropical sky comes as a revelation. sometimes at noon it is painfully dazzling; but the evening is a vision of prismatic light holding carnival in the air, wherein milton's "twilight gray" has no part. unless the sky is held in the relentless grip of a winter storm, the orient holds no gray in its evening tones; these are translucent and glowing from the setting of the sun until the stars appear. in greece we are dreamers in that subtle atmosphere, and in egypt visionaries under the spell of an ethereal loveliness where the filigree patterning of white dome and minaret and interlacing palm and feathery pepper tree leaves little wonder in the mind that the ornamentation of their architecture is so ravishing in its tracery. outside the walls of jerusalem on the north there is a point on a knoll which commands the venerable city that david took for his own. from here you can watch the variable glow of color spread over the whole breadth of country, from the ground at one's feet to the distant purple hilltops of bethlehem. the fluid air seems to swim, as if laden with incense. the rocks underfoot are of all tones of lavender in shadow, and of tender, warm gleams in the light, casting vivid violet shadows athwart the mottled orange of the ground. down in the little valley just below us a tiny vineyard nestles in the half-light; the gray road trails outside; and beyond rise the walls, serene and stately, catching on their highest towers the last rays of the sun. the pointed shaft of the german church lifts a gray-green finger tipped with rose into the ambient air. the sable dome of the holy sepulcher yields a little to the subtle influence, and shows a softer and more becoming purple. all the unlovely traits and the squalor of the city are lost, so delicately tender is the mass of buildings painted against the background of distance. it had been one of those days in march when the clouds of "the latter rains" had been blowing from the west. as the day drew near its close, the heavy mists assembled in great masses of ominous gray and blue, golden-edged against the turquoise sky. with such speed did they move that they seemed suddenly to leap from the horizon, and the vast dome of the heaven became filled with weird, flying monsters racing overhead. the violence of the wind tore the blue into fragments, so that what only a moment since was a colossal weight of cloud threatening to ingulf the universe, was now like a great host marshaled in splendid array, flying banners of crimson, whose ranks were ever changing, until they scattered in disordered flight across the face of the sky. as the lowering sun neared the horizon, the color grew more and more vivid, until the whole heaven was aflame with a whirlwind of scarlet and gold and crimson, of violet and blue and emerald, flecked with copper and bronze and shreds of smoky clouds in shadow, a tempestuous riot of color so wild and extraordinary as to hold one spellbound. had not david beheld a similar sky when he wrote:- o lord my god, thou art very great; thou art clothed with honor and majesty. who coverest thyself with light as with a garment: who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain: who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters: who maketh the clouds his chariot: who walketh upon the wings of the wind: who maketh winds his messengers; his ministers a flaming fire. a return in triumph from a speech before the new england society of new york, december, 1886 by t. de witt talmage i never so realized what this country was and is as on the day when i first saw some of these gentlemen of the army and navy. it was when at the close of the war our armies came back and marched in review before the president's stand at washington. i do not care whether a man was a republican or a democrat, a northern man or a southern man, if he had any emotion of nature, he could not look upon it without weeping. god knew that the day was stupendous, and he cleared the heaven of cloud and mist and chill, and sprung the blue sky as the triumphal arch for the returning warriors to pass under. from arlington heights the spring foliage shook out its welcome, as the hosts came over the hills, and the sparkling waters of the potomac tossed their gold to the feet of the battalions as they came to the long bridge and in almost interminable line passed over. the capitol never seemed so majestic as on that morning: snowy white, looking down upon the tides of men that came surging down, billow after billow. passing in silence, yet i heard in every step the thunder of conflicts through which they had waded, and seemed to see dripping from their smoke-blackened flags the blood of our country's martyrs. for the best part of two days we stood and watched the filing on of what seemed endless battalions, brigade after brigade, division after division, host after host, rank beyond rank; ever moving, ever passing; marching, marching; tramp, tramp, tramp-thousands after thousands, battery front, arms shouldered, columns solid, shoulder to shoulder, wheel to wheel, charger to charger, nostril to nostril. commanders on horses with their manes entwined with roses, and necks enchained with garlands, fractious at the shouts that ran along the line, increasing from the clapping of children clothed in white, standing on the steps of the capitol, to the tumultuous vociferation of hundreds of thousands of enraptured multitudes, crying "huzza! huzza!" gleaming muskets, thundering parks of artillery, rumbling pontoon wagons, ambulances from whose wheels seemed to sound out the groans of the crushed and the dying that they had carried. these men came from balmy minnesota, those from illinois prairies. these were often hummed to sleep by the pines of oregon, those were new england lumbermen. those came out of the coal-shafts of pennsylvania. side by side in one great cause, consecrated through fire and storm and darkness, brothers in peril, on their way home from chancellorsville and kenesaw mountain and fredericksburg, in lines that seemed infinite they passed on. we gazed and wept and wondered, lifting up our heads to see if the end had come, but no! looking from one end of that long avenue to the other, we saw them yet in solid column, battery front, host beyond host, wheel to wheel, charger to charger, nostril to nostril, coming as it were from under the capitol. forward! forward! their bayonets, caught in the sun, glimmered and flashed and blazed, till they seemed like one long river of silver, ever and anon changed into a river of fire. no end of the procession, no rest for the eyes. we turned our heads from the scene, unable longer to look. we felt disposed to stop our ears, but still we heard it, marching, marching; tramp, tramp, tramp. but hush,--uncover every head! here they pass, the remnant of ten men of a full regiment. silence! widowhood and orphanage look on and wring their hands. but wheel into line, all ye people! north, south, east, west--all decades, all centuries, all millenniums! forward, the whole line! huzza! huzza! a return in defeat from "the new south," with the permission of henry w. grady, junior by henry w. grady dr. talmage has drawn for you, with a master hand, the picture of your returning armies. he has told you how, in the pomp and circumstance of war, they came back to you, marching with proud and victorious tread, reading their glory in a nation's eyes! will you bear with me while i tell you of another army that sought its home at the close of the late war? an army that marched home in defeat and not in victory--in pathos and not in splendor, but in glory that equaled yours, and to hearts as loving as ever welcomed heroes home. let me picture to you the footsore confederate soldier, as, buttoning up in his faded gray jacket the parole which was to bear testimony to his children of his fidelity and faith, he turned his face southward from appomattox in april, 1865. think of him, as ragged, half-starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by want and wounds, having fought to exhaustion, he surrenders his gun, wrings the hands of his comrades in silence, and, lifting his tear-stained and pallid face for the last time to the graves that dot the old virginia hills, pulls his gray cap over his brow and begins the slow and painful journey. what does he find?--let me ask you who went to your homes eager to find, in the welcome you had justly earned, full payment for four years' sacrifice--what does he find when, having followed the battle-stained cross against overwhelming odds, dreading death not half so much as surrender, he reaches the home he left so prosperous and beautiful? he finds his house in ruins, his farm devastated, his slaves free, his stock killed, his barn empty, his trade destroyed, his money worthless; his social system, feudal in its magnificence, swept away; his people without law or legal status; his comrades slain, and the burdens of others heavy on his shoulders. crushed by defeat, his very traditions gone; without money, credit, employment, material training; and besides all this, confronted with the gravest problem that ever met human intelligence--the establishing of a status for the vast body of his liberated slaves. what does he do--this hero in gray, with a heart of gold? does he sit down in sullenness and despair? not for a day. surely god, who had stripped him of his prosperity, inspired him in his adversity. as ruin was never before so overwhelming, never was restoration swifter. the soldier stepped from the trenches into the furrow; horses that had charged federal guns marched before the plow, and the fields that ran red with human blood in april were green with the harvest in june; women reared in luxury cut up their dresses and made breeches for their husbands, and, with a patience and heroism that fit women always as a garment, gave their hands to work. there was little bitterness in all this. cheerfulness and frankness prevailed. i want to say to general sherman--who is considered an able man in our parts, though some people think he is kind of careless about fire--that from the ashes he left us in 1864 we have raised a brave and beautiful city; that somehow or other we have caught the sunshine in the bricks and mortar of our homes, and have builded therein not one ignoble prejudice or memory. but in all this what have we accomplished? what is the sum of our work? we have found that in the general summary the free negro counts more than he did as a slave. we have planted the schoolhouse on the hilltop and made it free to white and black. we have sowed towns and cities in the place of theories, and put business above politics. above all, we know that we have achieved in these "piping times of peace" a fuller independence for the south than that which our fathers sought to win in the forum by their eloquence, or compel on the field by their swords. expression by action in our forefathers' day from a speech before the new england society of new york, december, 1886 by t. de witt talmage i must not introduce a new habit into these new england dinners, and confine myself to the one theme. for eighty-one years your speakers have been accustomed to make the toast announced the point from which they start, but to which they never return. so i shall not stick to my text, but only be particular to have all i say my own, and not make the mistake of a minister whose sermon was a patchwork from a variety of authors, to whom he gave no credit. there was an intoxicated wag in the audience who had read about everything, and he announced the authors as the minister went on. the clergyman gave an extract without any credit to the author, and the man in the audience cried out: "that's jeremy taylor." the speaker went on and gave an extract from another author without credit for it, and the man in the audience said: "that is john wesley." the minister gave an extract from another without credit for it, and the man in the audience said: "that is george whitefield." when the minister lost his patience and cried out, "shut up, you old fool!" the man in the audience replied: "that is your own." well, what about this forefathers' day? in brooklyn they say the landing of the pilgrims was december the 21st; in new york you say it was december the 22d. you are both right. not through the specious and artful reasoning you have sometimes indulged in, but by a little historical incident that seems to have escaped your attention. you see, the forefathers landed in the morning of december the 21st, but about noon that day a pack of hungry wolves swept down the bleak american beach looking for a new england dinner and a band of savages out for a tomahawk picnic hove in sight, and the pilgrim fathers thought it best for safety and warmth to go on board the mayflower and pass the night. and during the night there came up a strong wind blowing off shore that swept the mayflower from its moorings clear out to sea, and there was a prospect that our forefathers, having escaped oppression in foreign lands, would yet go down under an oceanic tempest. but the next day they fortunately got control of their ship and steered her in, and the second time the forefathers stepped ashore. brooklyn celebrated the first landing; new york the second landing. so i say hail! hail! to both celebrations, for one day, anyhow, could not do justice to such a subject; and i only wish i could have kissed the blarney stone of america, which is plymouth rock, so that i might have done justice to this subject. ah, gentlemen, that mayflower was the ark that floated the deluge of oppression, and plymouth rock was the ararat on which it landed. but let me say that these forefathers were of no more importance than the foremothers. as i understand it, there were eight of them--that is, four fathers and four mothers--from whom all these illustrious new englanders descended. now i was not born in new england, but though not born in new england, in my boyhood i had a new england schoolmaster, whom i shall never forget. he taught us our a, b, c's. "what is that?" "i don't know, sir." "that's a" (with a slap). "what is that?" "i don't know, sir." (with a slap)--"that is b." i tell you, a boy that learned his letters in that way never forgot them; and if the boy was particularly dull, then this new england schoolmaster would take him over his knee, and then the boy got his information from both directions. but all these things aside, no one sitting at these tables has higher admiration for the pilgrim fathers than i have--the men who believed in two great doctrines, which are the foundation of every religion that is worth anything: namely, the fatherhood of god and the brotherhood of man--these men of backbone and endowed with that great and magnificent attribute of stick-to-it-iveness. cassius against cæsar from "julius cæsar" by william shakespeare i know that virtue to be in you, brutus, as well as i do know your outward favor. well, honor is the subject of my story.-i cannot tell what you and other men think of this life; but, for my single self, i had as lief not be as live to be in awe of such a thing as i myself. i was born free as cæsar; so were you: we both have fed as well; and we can both endure the winter's cold as well as he: for once, upon a raw and gusty day, the troubled tiber chafing with her shores, cæsar said to me, "dar'st thou, cassius, now leap in with me into this angry flood, and swim to yonder point?" upon the word, accoutred as i was, i plunged in, and bade him follow: so, indeed, he did. the torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it with lusty sinews, throwing it aside and stemming it with hearts of controversy; but ere we could arrive the point propos'd, cæsar cried, "help me, cassius, or i sink!" i, as aeneas, our great ancestor, did from the flames of troy upon his shoulder the old anchises bear, so from the waves of tiber did i the tired cæsar. and this man is now become a god; and cassius is a wretched creature, and must bend his body, if cæsar carelessly but nod on him. he had a fever when he was in spain, and, when the fit was on him, i did mark how he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake: his coward lips did from their color fly; and that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world, did lose his luster: i did hear him groan: ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the romans mark him, and write his speeches in their books, alas, it cried, "give me some drink, titinius," as a sick girl. ye gods, it doth amaze me a man of such a feeble temper should so get the start of the majestic world, and bear the palm alone. ii why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world like a colossus, and we petty men walk under his huge legs and peep about to find ourselves dishonourable graves. men at some time are masters of their fates; the fault, dear brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings. brutus and cæsar: what should be in that "cæsar"? why should that name be sounded more than yours? write them together, yours is as fair a name; sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with 'em, brutus will start a spirit as soon as cæsar. now, in the names of all the gods at once, upon what meat doth this our cæsar feed, that he is grown so great? age, thou art shamed! rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! when went there by an age, since the great flood, but it was fam'd with more than with one man? when could they say till now, that talked of rome, that her wide walls encompass'd but one man? now is it rome indeed, and room enough, when there is in it but one only man. o, you and i have heard our fathers say, there was a brutus once that would have brook'd the eternal devil to keep his state in rome as easily as a king. the spirit of the south from "the new south," with the permission of henry w. grady junior by henry w. grady the new south is enamored of her new work. her soul is stirred with the breath of a new life. the light of a grander day is falling fair on her face. she is thrilling with the consciousness of growing power and prosperity. as she stands upright, full-statured and equal among the people of the earth, breathing the keen air and looking out upon the expanding horizon, she understands that her emancipation came because in the inscrutable wisdom of god her honest purpose was crossed and her brave armies were beaten. this is said in no spirit of time-serving or apology. the south has nothing for which to apologize. she believes that the late struggle between the states was war and not rebellion, revolution and not conspiracy, and that her convictions were as honest as yours. i should be unjust to the dauntless spirit of the south and to my own convictions if i did not make this plain in this presence. the south has nothing to take back. in my native town of athens is a monument that crowns its central hills--a plain, white shaft. deep cut into its shining side is a name dear to me above the names of men, that of a brave and simple man who died in brave and simple faith. not for all the glories of new england--from plymouth rock all the way--would i exchange the heritage he left me in his soldier's death. to the foot of that shaft i shall send my children's children to reverence him who ennobled their name with his heroic blood. but, sir, speaking from the shadow of that memory, which i honor as i do nothing else on earth, i say that the cause in which he suffered and for which he gave his life was adjudged by higher and fuller wisdom than his or mine, and i am glad that the omniscient god held the balance of battle in his almighty hand, and that human slavery was swept forever from american soil--the american union saved from the wreck of war. this message, mr. president, comes to you from consecrated ground. every foot of the soil about the city in which i live is sacred as a battle ground of the republic. every hill that invests it is hallowed to you by the blood of your brothers, sacred soil to all of us, rich with memories that make us purer and stronger and better, speaking an eloquent witness in its white peace and prosperity to the indissoluble union of american states and the imperishable brotherhood of the american people. now what answer has new england to this message? will she permit the prejudices of war to remain in the hearts of the conquerors, when it has died in the hearts of the conquered? will she transmit this prejudice to the next generation, that in their hearts, which never felt the generous ardor of conflict, it may perpetuate itself? will she withhold, save in strained courtesy, the hand which straight from his soldier's heart grant offered to lee at appomattox? will she make the vision of a restored and happy people, which gathered above the couch of your dying captain, [footnote: general ulysses s. grant.] filling his heart with grace, touching his lips with praise and glorifying his path to the grave; will she make this vision on which the last sigh of his expiring soul breathed a benediction, a cheat and a delusion? if she does, the south, never abject in asking for comradeship, must accept with dignity a refusal; but if she does not, if she accepts in frankness and sincerity this message of good will and friendship, then will the prophecy of webster, delivered in this very society forty years ago amid tremendous applause, be verified in its fullest and final sense, when he said: "standing hand to hand and clasping hands, we should remain united as we have been for sixty years, citizens of the same country, members of the same government, united, all united now and united forever. there have been difficulties, contentions, and controversies, but i tell you that in my judgment,- "'those opposed eyes, which like the meteors of a troubled heaven, all of one nature, of one substance bred, did lately meet in th' intestine shock, shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks, march all one way.'" something rankling here from the reply to hayne, in the united states senate, january, 1830. little, brown and company, boston, publishers of "the great speeches and orations of daniel webster" by daniel webster the gentleman, sir, in declining to postpone the debate, told the senate, with the emphasis of his hand upon his heart, that there was something rankling _here_ which he wished to relieve. it would not, mr. president, be safe for the honorable member to appeal to those around him upon the question whether he did in fact make use of that word. but he may have been unconscious of it. at any rate, it is enough that he disclaims it. but still, with or without the use of that particular word, he had yet something _here_, he said, of which he wished to rid himself by an immediate reply. in this respect, sir, i have a great advantage over the honorable gentleman. there is nothing _here_, sir, which gives me the slightest uneasiness; neither fear, nor anger, nor that which is sometimes more troublesome than either, the consciousness of having been in the wrong. there is nothing, either originating _here_, or now received _here_ by the gentleman's shot. nothing originating here, for i had not the slightest feeling of unkindness towards the honorable member. some passages, it is true, had occurred since our acquaintance in this body, which i could have wished might have been otherwise; but i had used philosophy and forgotten them. i paid the honorable member the attention of listening with respect to his first speech; and when he sat down, though surprised, and i must even say astonished, at some of his opinions, nothing was farther from my intention than to commence any personal warfare. through the whole of the few remarks i made in answer, i avoided, studiously and carefully, everything which i thought possible to be construed into disrespect. and, sir, while there is thus nothing originating _here_ which i wished at any time or now wish to discharge, i must repeat also, that nothing has been received _here_ which _rankles_, or in any way gives me annoyance. i will not accuse the honorable member of violating the rules of civilized war; i will not say that he poisoned his arrows. but whether his shafts were or were not dipped in that which would have caused rankling if they had reached their destination, there was not, as it happened, quite strength enough in the bow to bring them to their mark. if he wishes now to gather up those shafts, he must look for them elsewhere; they will not be found fixed and quivering in the object at which they were aimed. but the gentleman inquires why _he_ was made the object of such a reply. why was _he_ singled out? if an attack has been made on the east, he, he assures us, did not begin it; it was made by the gentleman from missouri. sir, i answered the gentleman's speech because i happened to hear it; and because, also, i chose to give an answer to that speech, which, if unanswered, i thought most likely to produce injurious impressions. i did not stop to inquire who was the original drawer of the bill. i found a responsible indorser before me, and it was my purpose to hold him liable, and to bring him to his just responsibility, without delay. faith in the people by john bright our opponents have charged us with being the promoters of a dangerous excitement. they have the effrontery to say that i am the friend of public disorder. i am one of the people. surely, if there be one thing in a free country more clear than another, it is, that any one of the people may speak openly to the people. if i speak to the people of their rights, and indicate to them the way to secure them,--if i speak of their danger to the monopolists of power,--am i not a wise counsellor, both to the people and to their rulers? suppose i stood at the foot of vesuvius, or aetna, and, seeing a hamlet or a homestead planted on its slope, i said to the dwellers in that hamlet, or in that homestead, "you see that vapor which ascends from the summit of the mountain. that vapor may become a dense, black smoke, that will obscure the sky. you see the trickling of lava from the crevices in the side of the mountain. that trickling of lava may become a river of fire. you hear that muttering in the bowels of the mountain. that muttering may become a bellowing thunder, the voice of violent convulsion, that may shake half a continent. you know that at your feet is the grave of great cities, for which there is no resurrection, as histories tell us that dynasties and aristocracies have passed away, and their names have been known no more forever." if i say this to the dwellers upon the slope of the mountain, and if there comes hereafter a catastrophe which makes the world to shudder, am i responsible for that catastrophe? i did not build the mountain, or fill it with explosive materials. i merely warned the men that were in danger. so, now, it is not i that am stimulating men to the violent pursuit of their acknowledged constitutional rights. the class which has hitherto ruled in this country has failed miserably. it revels in power and wealth, whilst at its feet, a terrible peril for its future, lies the multitude which it has neglected. if a class has failed, let us try the nation. that is our faith, that is our purpose, that is our cry. let us try the nation. this it is which has called together these countless numbers of the people to demand a change; and from these gatherings, sublime in their vastness and their resolution, i think i see, as it were, above the hilltops of time, the glimmerings of the dawn of a better and a nobler day for the country and the people that i love so well. the french against hayti from a lecture, "toussaint l'ouverture," with the permission of lothrop, lee and shepard, boston, publishers by wendell phillips you remember when bonaparte returned from elba, and louis xviii sent an army against him, bonaparte descended from his carriage, opened his coat, offering his breast to their muskets, and saying, "frenchmen, it is the emperor!" and they ranged themselves behind him, his soldiers shouting, "vive l'empereur!" that was in 1815. twelve years before, toussaint, finding that four of his regiments had deserted and gone to leclerc, drew his sword, flung it on the grass, went across the field to them, folded his arms, and said, "children, can you point a bayonet at me?" the blacks fell on their knees, praying his pardon. it was against such a man that napoleon sent his army, giving to general leclerc, the husband of his beautiful sister pauline, thirty thousand of his best troops, with orders to reintroduce slavery. among these soldiers came all of toussaint's old mulatto rivals and foes. holland lent sixty ships. england promised by special message to be neutral; and you know neutrality means sneering at freedom, and sending arms to tyrants. england promised neutrality, and the black looked out on the whole civilized world marshaled against him. america, full of slaves, of course was hostile. only the yankee sold him poor muskets at a very high price. mounting his horse, and riding to the eastern end of the island, samana, he looked out on a sight such as no native had ever seen before. sixty ships of the line, crowded by the best soldiers of europe, rounded the point. they were soldiers who had never yet met an equal, whose tread, like cæsar's, had shaken europe,--soldiers who had scaled the pyramids, and planted the french banners on the walls of rome. he looked a moment, counted the flotilla, let the reins fall on the neck of his horse, and turning to christophe, exclaimed: "all france is come to hayti; they can only come to make us slaves; and we are lost!" he then recognized the only mistake of his life,--his confidence in bonaparte, which had led him to disband his army. returning to the hills, he issued the only proclamation which bears his name and breathes vengeance: "my children, france comes to make us slaves. god gave us liberty; france has no right to take it away. burn the cities, destroy the harvests, tear up the roads with cannon, poison the wells, show the white man the hell he comes to make";--and he was obeyed. when the great william of orange saw louis xiv cover holland with troops, he said, "break down the dikes, give holland back to ocean"; and europe said, "sublime!" when alexander saw the armies of france descend upon russia, he said, "burn moscow, starve back the invaders"; and europe said, "sublime!" this black saw all europe marshaled to crush him, and gave to his people the same heroic example of defiance. the necessity of force from a speech in the united states senate, march 24, 1898 by john m. thurston i counseled silence and moderation from this floor when the passion of the nation seemed at white heat over the destruction of the _maine_; but it seems to me the time for action has now come. no greater reason for it can exist to-morrow than exists to-day. every hour's delay only adds another chapter to the awful story of misery and death. only one power can intervene--the united states of america. ours is the one great nation of the new world, the mother of american republics. she holds a position of trust and responsibility toward the peoples and affairs of the whole western hemisphere. it was her glorious example which inspired the patriots of cuba to raise the flag of liberty in her eternal hills. we cannot refuse to accept this responsibility which the god of the universe has placed upon us as the one great power in the new world. we must act! what shall our action be? some say, the acknowledgment of the belligerency of the revolutionists. the hour and the opportunity for that have passed away. others say, let us by resolution or official proclamation recognize the independence of the cubans. it is too late for even such recognition to be of great avail. others say, annexation to the united states. god forbid! i would oppose annexation with my latest breath. the people of cuba are not our people; they cannot assimilate with us; and beyond all that, i am utterly and unalterably opposed to any departure from the declared policy of the fathers, which would start this republic for the first time upon a career of conquest and dominion utterly at variance with the avowed purposes and the manifest destiny of popular government. there is only one action possible, if any is taken; that is, intervention for the independence of the island. we cannot intervene and save cuba without the exercise of force, and force means war; war means blood. the lowly nazarene on the shores of galilee preached the divine doctrine of love, "peace on earth, good will toward men." not peace on earth at the expense of liberty and humanity. not good will toward men who despoil, enslave, degrade, and starve to death their fellow-men. i believe in the doctrine of christ. i believe in the doctrine of peace; but men must have liberty before there can come abiding peace. when has a battle for humanity and liberty ever been won except by force? what barricade of wrong, injustice, and oppression has ever been carried except by force? force compelled the signature of unwilling royalty to the great magna charta; force put life into the declaration of independence and made effective the emancipation proclamation; force waved the flag of revolution over bunker hill and marked the snows of valley forge with bloodstained feet; force held the broken line of shiloh, climbed the flame-swept hill at chattanooga, and stormed the clouds on lookout heights; force marched with sherman to the sea, rode with sheridan in the valley of the shenandoah, and gave grant victory at appomattox; force saved the union, kept the stars in the flag, made "niggers" men. the time for god's force has come again. let the impassioned lips of american patriots once more take up the song:- in the beauty of the lilies christ was born across the sea, with a glory in his bosom that transfigured you and me. as he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, for god is marching on. others may hesitate, others may procrastinate, others may plead for further diplomatic negotiation, which means delay, but for me, i am ready to act now, and for my action, i am ready to answer to my conscience, my country, and my god. against war with mexico from a speech to the united states senate, february 11, 1847 by thomas corwin the president has said he does not expect to hold mexican territory by conquest. why, then, conquer it? why waste thousands of lives and millions of money fortifying towns and creating governments, if, at the end of the war, you retire from the graves of your soldiers and the desolated country of your foes, only to get money from mexico for the expense of all your toil and sacrifice? who ever heard, since christianity was propagated among men, of a nation taxing its people, enlisting its young men, and marching off two thousand miles to fight a people merely to be paid for it in money? what is this but hunting a market for blood, selling the lives of your young men, marching them in regiments to be slaughtered and paid for like oxen and brute beasts? sir, this is, when stripped naked, that atrocious idea first promulgated in the president's message, and now advocated here, of fighting on till we can get our indemnity for the past as well as the present slaughter. we have chastised mexico, and if it were worth while to do so, we have, i dare say, satisfied the world that we can fight. sir, i have read in some account of your battle of monterey, of a lovely mexican girl, who, with the benevolence of an angel in her bosom and the robust courage of a hero in her heart, was busily engaged during the bloody conflict, amid the crash of falling houses, the groans of the dying, and the wild shriek of battle, in carrying water to slake the burning thirst of the wounded of either host. while bending over a wounded american soldier, a cannonball struck her and blew her to atoms! sir, i do not charge my brave, generous-hearted countrymen who fought that fight with this. no, no! we who send them-we who know what scenes like this, which might send tears of sorrow "down pluto's iron cheek," are the invariable, inevitable attendants on war--we are accountable for this. and this--this is the way we are to be made known to europe. this--this is to be the undying renown of free, republican america! "she has stormed a city--killed many of its inhabitants of both sexes--she has room"! so it will read. sir, if this were our only history, then may god of his mercy grant that its volume may speedily come to a close. why is it, sir, that we, the united states, a people of yesterday compared with the older nations of the world, should be waging war for territory--for "room?" look at your country, extending from the alleghany mountains to the pacific ocean, capable itself of sustaining in comfort a larger population than will be in the whole union for one hundred years to come. over this vast expanse of territory your population is now so sparse that i believe we provided, at the last session, a regiment of mounted men to guard the mail from the frontier of missouri to the mouth of the columbia; and yet you persist in the ridiculous assertion, "i want room." one would imagine, from the frequent reiteration of the complaint, that you had a bursting, teeming population, whose energy was paralyzed, whose enterprise was crushed, for want of space. why should we be so weak or wicked as to offer this idle apology for ravaging a neighboring republic? it will impose on no one at home or abroad. do we not know, mr. president, that it is a law never to be repealed that falsehood shall be short-lived? was it not ordained of old that truth only shall abide for ever? whatever we may say to-day, or whatever we may write in our books, the stern tribunal of history will review it all, detect falsehood, and bring us to judgment before that posterity which shall bless or curse us, as we may act now, wisely or otherwise. we may hide in the grave (which awaits us all) in vain; we may hope there, like the foolish bird that hides its head in the sand, in the vain belief that its body is not seen; yet even there this preposterous excuse of want of "room" shall be laid bare and the quickcoming future will decide that it was a hypocritical pretense under which we sought to conceal the avarice which prompted us to covet and to seize by force that which was not ours. the murder of lovejoy from "speeches and lectures," with the permission of lothrop, lee and shepard, boston, publishers. by wendell phillips mr. chairman: we have met for the freest discussion of these resolutions, and the events which gave rise to them. i hope i shall be permitted to express my surprise at the sentiments of the last speaker,--surprise not only at such sentiments from such a man, but at the applause they have received within these walls. a comparison has been drawn between the events of the revolution and the tragedy at alton. we have heard it asserted here, in faneuil hall, that great britain had a right to tax the colonies, and we have heard the mob at alton, the drunken murderers of lovejoy, compared to those patriot fathers who threw the tea overboard! fellow citizens, is this faneuil hall doctrine? the mob at alton were met to wrest from a citizen his just rights,--met to resist the laws. we have been told that our fathers did the same; and the glorious mantle of revolutionary precedent has been thrown over the mobs of our day. to make out their title to such defense, the gentleman says that the british parliament had a _right_ to tax these colonies. it is manifest that, without this, his parallel falls to the ground; for lovejoy had stationed himself within constitutional bulwarks. he was not only defending the freedom of the press, but he was under his own roof, in arms with the sanction of the civil authority. the men who assailed him went against and over the laws. the _mob_, as the gentleman terms it,--mob, forsooth! certainly we sons of the tea-spillers are a marvelously patient generation!--the "orderly mob" which assembled in the old south to destroy the tea were met to resist, not the laws, but illegal exactions. shame on the american who calls the tea tax and stamp act _laws!_ our fathers resisted, not the king's prerogative, but the king's usurpation. to find any other account, you must read our revolutionary history upside down. our state archives are loaded with arguments of john adams to prove the taxes laid by the british parliament unconstitutional,--beyond its power. it was not till this was made out that the men of new england rushed to arms. the arguments of the council chamber and the house of representatives preceded and sanctioned the contest. to draw the conduct of our ancestors into a precedent for mobs, for a right to resist laws we ourselves have enacted, is an insult to their memory. the difference between the excitements of those days and our own, which the gentleman in kindness to the latter has overlooked, is simply this: the man of that day went for the right, as secured by the laws. they were the people rising to sustain the laws and constitution of the province. the rioters of our day go for their own wills, right or wrong. sir, when i heard the gentleman lay down principles which place the murderers of alton side by side with otis and hancock, with quincy and adams, i thought those pictured lips [pointing to the portraits in the hall] would have broken into voice to rebuke the recreant american,--the slanderer of the dead. the gentleman said that he should sink into insignificance if he dared to gainsay the principles of these resolutions. sir, for the sentiments he has uttered, on soil consecrated by the prayers of puritans and the blood of patriots, the earth should have yawned and swallowed him up. i am glad, sir, to see this crowded house. it is good for us to be here. when liberty is in danger, faneuil hall has the right, it is her duty, to strike the keynote for these united states. depicting character a tale of the plains from "hunting the grizzly," with the permission of g. p. putnam's sons, new york and london, publishers. by theodore roosevelt one of my valued friends in the mountains, and one of the best hunters with whom i ever traveled, was a man who had a peculiarly light-hearted way of looking at conventional social obligations. though in some ways a true backwoods donatello, he was a man of much shrewdness and of great courage and resolution. moreover, he possessed what only a few men do possess, the capacity to tell the truth. he saw facts as they were, and could tell them as they were, and he never told an untruth unless for very weighty reasons. he was preeminently a philosopher, of a happy, skeptical turn of mind. he had no prejudices. on one occasion when we were out together we killed a bear, and after skinning it, took a bath in a lake. i noticed he had a scar on the side of his foot, and asked him how he got it, to which he responded, with indifference:-"oh, that? why, a man shoo tin' at me to make me dance, that was all." i expressed some curiosity in the matter, and he went on: "well, the way of it was this: it was when i was keeping a saloon in new mexico, and there was a man there by the name of fowler, and there was a reward on him of three thousand dollars--" "put on him by the state?" "no, put on by his wife," said my friend; "and there was this--" "hold on," i interrupted; "put on by his wife, did you say?" "yes, by his wife. him and her had been keepin' a faro bank, you see, and they quarreled about it, so she just put a reward on him, and so--" "excuse me," i said, "but do you mean to say that this reward was put on publicly?" to which my friend answered with an air of gentlemanly boredom at being interrupted to gratify my thirst for irrelevant detail:-"oh, no, not publicly. she just mentioned it to six or eight intimate personal friends." "go on," i responded, somewhat overcome by this instance of the primitive simplicity with which new mexican matrimonial disputes were managed, and he continued:-"well, two men come ridin' in to see me to borrow my guns. my guns was colt's self-cockers. it was a new thing then, and they was the only ones in town. these come to me, and 'simpson,' says they, 'we want to borrow your guns; we are goin' to kill fowler.' "'hold on for a moment,' said i, 'i am willin' to lend you them guns, but i ain't goin' to know what you'r' goin' to do with them, no, sir; but of course you can have the guns.'" here my friend's face lightened pleasantly, and he continued:-"well, you may easily believe i felt surprised next day when fowler come ridin' in, and, says he, 'simpson, here's your guns!' he had shot them two men! 'well, fowler,' says i, 'if i had known them men was after you, i'd never have let them have the guns nohow,' says i. that wasn't true, for i did know it, but there was no cause to tell him that." i murmured my approval of such prudence, and simpson continued, his eyes gradually brightening with the light of agreeable reminiscence:-"well, they up and they took fowler before the justice of peace. the justice of the peace was a turk." "now, simpson, what do you mean by that?" i interrupted. "well, he come from turkey," said simpson, and i again sank back, wondering briefly what particular variety of mediterranean outcast had drifted down to mexico to be made a justice of the peace. simpson laughed and continued: "that fowler was a funny fellow. the turk, he committed fowler, and fowler, he riz up and knocked him down and tromped all over him and made him let him go!" "that was an appeal to a higher law," i observed. simpson assented cheerily, and continued:-"well, that turk, he got nervous for fear fowler was goin' to kill him, and so he comes to me and offers me twenty-five dollars a day to protect him from fowler; and i went to fowler, and 'fowler,' says i, 'that turk's offered me twenty-five dollars a day to protect him from you. now, i ain't goin' to get shot for no twenty-five dollars a day, and if you are goin' to kill the turk, just say so and go and do it; but if you ain't goin' to kill the turk, there's no reason why i shouldn't earn that twenty-five dollars a day!' and fowler, says he, 'i ain't goin' to touch the turk; you just go right ahead and protect him.'" so simpson "protected" the turk from the imaginary danger of fowler, for about a week, at twenty-five dollars a day. then one evening he happened to go out and meet fowler, "and," said he, "the moment i saw him i know he felt mean, for he begun to shoot at my feet," which certainly did seem to offer presumptive evidence of meanness. simpson continued:-"i didn't have no gun, so i just had to stand there and take it until something distracted his attention, and i went off home to get my gun and kill him, but i wanted to do it perfectly lawful; so i went up to the mayor (he was playin' poker with one of the judges), and says i to him, 'mr. mayor,' says i, 'i am goin' to shoot fowler.' and the mayor he riz out of his chair and he took me by the hand, and says he, 'mr. simpson, if you do i will stand by you'; and the judge he says, 'i'll go on your bond.'" fortified by this cordial approval of the executive and judicial branches of the government, mr. simpson started on his quest. meanwhile, however, fowler had cut up another prominent citizen, and they already had him in jail. the friends of law and order, feeling some little distrust as to the permanency of their own zeal for righteousness, thought it best to settle the matter before there was time for cooling, and accordingly, headed by simpson, the mayor, the judge, the turk, and other prominent citizens of the town, they broke into the jail and hanged fowler. the point in the hanging which especially tickled my friend's fancy as he lingered over the reminiscence was one that was rather too ghastly to appeal to our own sense of humor. in the turk's mind there still rankled the memory of fowler's very unprofessional conduct while figuring before him as a criminal. said simpson, with a merry twinkle of the eye: "do you know, that turk, he was a right funny fellow too after all. just as the boys were going to string up fowler, says he, 'boys, stop; one moment, gentlemen,--mr. fowler, good-by,' and he blew a kiss to him!" gunga din from "departmental ditties," with the permission of a. p. watt and son, london, and doubleday, page and company, new york. by rudyard kipling you may talk o' gin and beer when you're quartered safe out 'ere, an' you're sent to penny-fights an' aldershot it; but when it comes to slaughter you will do your work on water, an' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. now in injia's sunny clime, where i used to spend my time a-servin' of 'er majesty the queen, of all them blackfaced crew the finest man i knew was our regimental bhisti, gunga din. he was "din! din! din! you limping lump o' brick-dust, gunga din! hi! slippery hitherao! water, get it! panee lao! [footnote: bring water swiftly.] you squidgy-nosed old idol, gunga din." the uniform 'e wore was nothin' much before, an' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, for a piece o' twisty rag an' a goatskin water-bag was all the field-equipment 'e could find. when the sweatin' troop-train lay in a sidin' through the day, where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, we shouted "harry by!" [footnote: o brother] till our throats were bricky-dry, then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all. it was "din! din! din! you 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? you put some juldee in it or i'll marrow you this minute, [footnote: hit you] if you don't fill up my helmet, gunga din!" 'e would dot an' carry one till the longest day was done; an' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. if we charged or broke or cut, you could bet your bloomin' nut, 'e'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. with 'is mussick [footnote: water skin] on 'is back, 'e would skip with our attack, an' watch us till the bugles made "retire," an' for all 'is dirty 'ide 'e was white, clear white, inside when 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! it was "din! din! din!" with the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. when the cartridges ran out, you could hear the front-files shout, "hi! ammunition-mules an' gunga din!" i sha'n't forgit the night when i dropped be'ind the fight with a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. i was chokin' mad with thirst, an' the man that spied me first was our good old grinnin', gruntin' gunga din. 'e lifted up my 'ead, an' he plugged me where i bled, an' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green: it was crawlin' and it stunk, but of all the drinks i've drunk, i'm gratefullest to one from gunga din. it was "din! din! din!" 'ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 'e's chawin' up the ground, an' 'e's kickin' all around: "for gawd's sake git the water, gunga din!" 'e carried me away to where a dooli lay, an' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 'e put me safe inside, an' just before 'e died: "i 'ope you liked your drink," sez gunga din. so i'll meet 'im later on at the place where 'e is gone-where it's always double drill and no canteen; 'e'll be squattin' on the coals, givin' drink to poor damned souls, an' i'll get a swig in hell from gunga din! yes, din! din! din! you lazarushian-leather gunga din! though i've belted you and flayed you, by the living gawd that made you, you're a better man than i am, gunga din! address of sergeant buzfuz from "the pickwick papers" by charles dickens sergeant buzfuz rose with all the majesty and dignity which the grave nature of the proceedings demanded, and having whispered to dodson, and conferred briefly with fogg, pulled his gown over his shoulders, settled his wig, and addressed the jury. sergeant buzfuz began by saying that never, in the whole course of his professional experience,--never, from the very first moment of his applying himself to the study and practice of the law, had he approached a case with such a heavy sense of the responsibility imposed upon him,--a responsibility he could never have supported, were he not buoyed up and sustained by a conviction, so strong that it amounted to positive certainty, that the cause of truth and justice, or, in other words, the cause of his much-injured and most oppressed client, _must_ prevail with the high-minded and intelligent dozen of men whom he now saw in that box before him. counsel always begin in this way, because it puts the jury on the best terms with themselves, and makes them think what sharp fellows they must be. a visible effect was produced immediately; several jurymen beginning to take voluminous notes. "the plaintiff is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. the late mr. bardell, after enjoying, for many years, the esteem and confidence of his sovereign, as one of the guardians of his royal revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from the world, to seek elsewhere for that repose and peace which a custom-house can never afford." this was a pathetic description of the decease of mr. bardell, who had been knocked on the head with a quart-pot in a public-house cellar. "of this man pickwick i will say little; the subject presents but few attractions; and i, gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men, to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness and of systematic villainy." here mr. pickwick, who had been writhing in silence, gave a violent start, as if some vague idea of assaulting sergeant buzfuz, in the august presence of justice and law, suggested itself to his mind. "i say systematic villainy, gentlemen," said sergeant buzfuz, looking through mr. pickwick, and talking _at_ him, "and when i say systematic villainy, let me tell the defendant, pickwick,--if he be in court, as i am informed he is,--that it would have been more decent in him, more becoming, in better judgment, and in better taste, if he had stopped away. "i shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years pickwick continued to reside without interruption or intermission at mrs. bardell's house. i shall show you that, on many occasions, he gave halfpence, and on some occasions even sixpences, to her little boy; and i shall prove to you, by a witness whose testimony it will be impossible for my learned friend to weaken or controvert, that on one occasion he patted the boy on the head, and, after inquiring whether he had won any _alley tors_ or _commoneys_ lately (both of which i understand to be a particular species of marbles much prized by the youth of this town), made use of this remarkable expression: 'how should you like to have another father?' i shall prove to you, gentlemen, on the testimony of three of his own friends,--most unwilling witnesses, gentlemen,--most unwilling witnesses,--that on that morning he was discovered by them holding the plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her agitation by his caresses and endearments. "and now, gentlemen, but one word more. two letters have passed between these parties,--letters which are admitted to be in the handwriting of the defendant. let me read the first:--'garraway's, twelve o'clock. dear mrs. b.--chops and tomato sauce. yours, pickwick.' gentlemen, what does this mean? chops! gracious heavens! and tomato sauce! gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away by such shallow artifices as these? the next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicious. 'dear mrs. b., i shall not be at home till to-morrow. slow coach.' and then follows this very remarkable expression. 'don't trouble yourself about the warming-pan.' why, gentlemen, who _does_ trouble himself about a warming-pan? why is mrs. bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this warming-pan, unless it is, as i assert it to be, a mere cover for hidden fire,--a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully contrived by pickwick with a view to his contemplated desertion, and which i am not in a condition to explain? "enough of this. my client's hopes and prospects are ruined. but pickwick, gentlemen,--pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert of goswell street,--pickwick, who has choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward,--pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless tomato sauce and warming-pans,--pickwick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made. damages, gentlemen, heavy damages, are the only punishment with which you can visit him, the only recompense you can award to my client. and for those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative jury of her civilized countrymen." a natural philosopher by maccabe ladies and gentlemen: i see so many foine-lookin' people sittin' before me that if you'll excuse me i'll be after takin' a seat meself. you don't know me, i'm thinking, as some of yees 'ud be noddin' to me afore this. i'm a walkin' pedestrian, a travelin' philosopher. terry o'mulligan's me name. i'm from dublin, where many philosophers before me was raised and bred. oh, philosophy is a foine study! i don't know anything about it, but it's a foine study! before i kirn over i attended an important meetin' of philosophers in dublin, and the discussin' and talkin' you'd hear there about the world 'ud warm the very heart of socrates or aristotle himself. well, there was a great many _imminent_ and learned _min_ there at the meetin', and i was there too, and while we was in the very thickest of a heated argument, one comes to me and says he, "do you know what we're talkin' about?" "i do," says i, "but i don't understand yees." "could ye explain the sun's motion around the earth?" says he. "i could," says i, "but i'd not know could you understand or not." "well," says he, "we'll see," says he. sure'n i didn't know anything, how to get out of it then, so i piled in, "for," says i to myself, "never let on to any one that you don't know anything, but make them believe that you do know all about it." so says i to him, takin' up me shillalah this way (holding a very crooked stick perpendicular), "we'll take that for the straight line of the earth's equator"--how's that for gehography? (to the audience). ah, that was straight till the other day i bent it in an argument. "wery good," says he. "well," says i, "now the sun rises in the east" (placing the disengaged hand at the eastern end of the stick). well, he couldn't deny that. "and when he gets up he darts his rosy beams through the mornin' gleams." do you moind the poetry there? (to the audience with a smile). "and he keeps on risin' and risin' till he reaches his meriden." "what's that?" says he. "his dinner-toime," says i; "sure'n that's my latin for dinner-toime, and when he gets his dinner he sinks to rest behind the glorious hills of the west." oh, begorra, there's more poetry! i fail it creepin' out all over me. "there," says i, well satisfied with myself, "will that do for ye?" "you haven't got done with him yet," says he. "done with him," says i, kinder mad like; "what more do you want me to do with him? didn't i bring him from the east to the west? what more do you want?" "oh," says he, "you'll have to bring him back again to the east to rise next mornin'." by saint patrick! and wasn't i near betrayin' me ignorance, sure'n i thought there was a large family of suns, and they rise one after the other. but i gathered meself quick, and, says i to him, "well," says i, "i'm surprised you axed me that simple question. i thought any man 'ud know," says i, "when the sun sinks to rest in the west--when the sun--" says i. "you said that before," says he. "well, i want to press it stronger upon you," says i. "when the sun sinks to rest in the east--no--west, why he--why he waits till it grows dark, and then he goes _back in the noight toime_!" response to a toast from "a charity dinner" by litchfield moseley "milors and gentlemans!" commences the frenchman, elevating his eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders. "milors and gentlemans--you excellent chairman, m. le baron de mount-stuart, he have say to me, 'make de toast.' den i say to him dat i have no toast to make; but he nudge my elbow ver soft, and say dat dere is von toast dat nobody but von frenchman can make proper; and, derefore, wid your kind permission, i vill make de toast. 'de brevete is de sole of de feet,' as you great philosophere, dr. johnson, do say, in dat amusing little vork of his, de pronouncing dictionnaire; and, derefore, i vill not say ver moch to de point. ven i vas a boy, about so moch tall, and used for to promenade de streets of marseilles et of rouen, vid no feet to put onto my shoe, i nevare to have expose dat dis day vould to have arrive. i vas to begin de vorld as von garçon--or, vat you call in dis countrie, von vaitaire in a café--vere i vork ver hard, vid no habillemens at all to put onto myself, and ver little food to eat, excep' von old blue blouse vat vas give to me by de proprietaire, just for to keep myself fit to be showed at; but, tank goodness, tings dey have change ver moch for me since dat time, and i have rose myself, seulement par mon industrie et perseverance. ah! mes amis! ven i hear to myself de flowing speech, de oration magnifique of you lor' maire, monsieur gobbledown, i feel dat it is von great privilege for von étrangé to sit at de same table, and to eat de same food, as dat grand, dat majestique man, who are de terreur of de voleurs and de brigands of de metropolis; and who is also, i for to suppose, a halterman and de chef of you common scoundrel. milors and gentlemans, i feel dat i can perspire to no greatare honneur dan to be von common scoundrelman myself; but, hélas! dat plaisir are not for me, as i are not freeman of your great cité, not von liveryman servant of von of you compagnies joint-stock. but i must not forget de toast. milors and gentlemans! de immortal shakispeare he have write, 'de ting of beauty are de joy for nevermore.' it is de ladies who are de toast. vat is more entrancing dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, der vinking eye of de beautiful lady! it is de ladies who do sweeten de cares of life. it is de ladies who are de guiding stars of our existence. it is de ladies who do cheer but not inebriate, and, derefore, vid all homage to de dear sex, de toast dat i have to propose is, "de ladies! god bless dem all!" partridge at the play from "tom jones" by henry fielding in the first row of the first gallery did mr. jones, mrs. miller, her youngest daughter, and partridge, take their places. partridge immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. when the first music was played, he said, "it was a wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time, without putting one another out." while the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to mrs. miller, "look, look, madam, the very picture of the man in the end of the common-prayer book before the gunpowder-treason service." nor could he help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles were lighted, "that here were candles enough burnt in one night, to keep an honest poor family for a whole twelvemonth." as soon as the play, which was hamlet, prince of denmark, began, partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till the entrance of the ghost; upon which he asked jones, "what man that was in the strange dress; something," said he, "like what i have seen in a picture. sure it is not armor, is it?" jones answered, "that is the ghost." to which partridge replied with a smile, "persuade me to that, sir, if you can. ... no, no, sir, ghosts don't appear in such dresses as that, neither." in this mistake, which caused much laughter in the neighborhood of partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the scene between the ghost and hamlet, when partridge gave that credit to mr. garrick, which he had denied to jones, and fell into so violent a trembling, that his knees knocked against each other. jones asked him what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the stage? "o la! sir," said he, "i perceive now it is what you told me. ... nay, you may call me coward if you will; but if that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, i never saw any man frightened in my life. ay, ay: go along with you: ay, to be sure! who's fool then? will you? lud have mercy upon such foolhardiness!--whatever happens, it is good enough for you.--follow you? i'd follow the devil as soon. nay, perhaps it is the devil--for they say he can put on what likeness he pleases.--oh! here he is again.--no farther! no, you have gone far enough already; farther than i'd have gone for all the king's dominions." jones offered to speak, but partridge cried, "hush, hush! dear sir, don't you hear him?" and during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly on hamlet, and with his mouth open; the same passions which succeeded each other in hamlet, succeeding likewise in him. during the second act, partridge made very few remarks. he greatly admired the fineness of the dresses; nor could he help observing upon the king's countenance. "well," said he, "how people may be deceived by faces! _nulla fides fronti_ is, i find, a true saying. who would think, by looking into the king's face, that he had ever committed a murder?" he then inquired after the ghost; but jones, who intended he should be surprised, gave him no other satisfaction than "that he might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire." partridge sat in a fearful expectation of this; and now, when the ghost made his next appearance, partridge cried out, "there, sir, now; what say you now? is he frightened now or no? as much frightened as you think me, and, to be sure, nobody can help some fears. i would not be in so bad a condition as what's his name, squire hamlet, is there, for all the world. bless me! what's become of the spirit! as i am a living soul, i thought i saw him sink into the earth." "indeed, you saw right," answered jones, "well, well," cries partridge, "i know it is only a play: and besides, if there was any thing in all this, madam miller would not laugh so; for as to you, sir, you would not be afraid, i believe, if the devil was here in person.--there, there--aye, no wonder you are in such a passion; shake the vile wicked wretch to pieces. if she was my own mother, i would serve her so. to be sure all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked doings.--aye, go about your business, i hate the sight of you." little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end of which jones asked him which of the players he had liked best? to this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the question, "the king, without doubt." "indeed, mr. partridge," says mrs. miller, "you are not of the same opinion with the town; for they are all agreed, that hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on the stage." "he the best player!" cries partridge, with a contemptuous sneer, "why, i could act as well as he myself. i am sure, if i had seen a ghost, i should have looked in the very same manner, and done just as ne did. and then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it, between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why, lord help me, any man, that is, any good man, that had such a mother, would have done exactly the same. i know you are only joking with me; but indeed, madam, though i was never at a play in london, yet i have seen acting before in the country; and the king for my money; he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the other.--anybody may see he is an actor." a man's a man for a' that by robert burns is there for honest poverty that hings his head, an' a' that? 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 [footnote: gold] for a' that! what tho' on hamely [footnote: homely, plain] fare we dine, wear hoddin [footnote: homespun] 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, though e'er sae poor, is king o' men for a' that! ye see yon birkie [footnote: fellow], ca'd a lord, wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; tho' hundreds worship at his word, he's but a coof [footnote: fool (pronounce like german _o_ or _oe_)] for a' that; for a' that, an' a' that, his riband, star, an' a' that; the man of independent mind, he looks an' laughs at a' that. a prince can mak a belted knight, a marquis, duke, an' a' that; but an honest man's aboon [footnote: above] his might- gude faith, he maunna fa' [footnote: must not claim (to make the honest man)] that! for a' that, an' a' that, their dignities, an' a' that, the pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, are higher ranks than a' that. then let us pray that come it may, as come it will for a' that, that sense an' worth, o'er a' the earth, shall bear the gree, [footnote: prize] an' a' that. for a' that, an' a' that, it's comin' yet, for a' that-that man to man, the warld o'er, shall brothers be for a' that. artemus ward's lecture from "complete works of artemus ward" with the permission of the g. w. dillingham company, new york, publishers. by charles farrar brown (artemus ward) i don't expect to do great things here--but i have thought that if i could make money enough to buy me a passage to new zealand i should feel that i had not lived in vain. i don't want to live in vain. i'd rather live in texas--or here. if you should be dissatisfied with anything here to-night--i will admit you all free in new zealand--if you will come to me there for the orders. any respectable cannibal will tell you where i live. this shows that i have a forgiving spirit. i really don't care for money. i only travel round to see the world and to exhibit my clothes. these clothes i have on have been a great success in america. how often do large fortunes ruin young men! i should like to be ruined, but i can get on very well as i am. i am not an artist. i don't paint myself--though perhaps if i were a middle-aged single lady i should--yet i have a passion for pictures.--i have had a great many pictures--photographs--taken of myself. some of them are very pretty--rather sweet to look at for a short time--and as i said before, i like them. i've always loved pictures. i could draw on wood at a very tender age. when a mere child i once drew a small cartload of raw turnips over a wooden bridge.--the people of the village noticed me. i drew their attention. they said i had a future before me. up to that time i had an idea it was behind me. time passed on. it always does, by the way. you may possibly have noticed that time passes on.--it is a kind of way time has. i became a man. i haven't distinguished myself at all as an artist--but i have always been more or less mixed up with art. i have an uncle who takes photographs--and i have a servant who--takes anything he can get his hands on. when i was in rome--rome in new york state, i mean--a distinguished sculpist wanted to sculp me. but i said "no." i saw through the designing man. my model once in his hands--he would have flooded the market with my busts--and i couldn't stand it to see everybody going round with a bust of me. everybody would want one of course--and wherever i should go i should meet the educated classes with my bust, taking it home to their families. this would be more than my modesty could stand--and i should have to return home--where my creditors are. i like art. i admire dramatic art--although i failed as an actor. it was in my schoolboy days that i failed as an actor.--the play was "the ruins of pompeii."--i played the ruins. it was not a very successful performance--but it was better than the "burning mountain." he was not good. he was a bad vesuvius. the remembrance often makes me ask--"where are the boys of my youth?" i assure you this is not a conundrum. some are amongst you here--some in america--some are in jail. hence arises a most touching question--"where are the girls of my youth?" some are married--some would like to be. oh, my maria! alas! she married another. they frequently do. i hope she is happy--because i am.--some people are not happy. i have noticed that. a gentleman friend of mine came to me one day with tears in his eyes. i said, "why these weeps?" he said he had a mortgage on his farm--and wanted to borrow $200. i lent him the money--and he went away. some time afterward he returned with more tears. he said he must leave me forever. i ventured to remind him of the $200 he borrowed. he was much cut up. i thought i would not be hard upon him--so told him i would throw off $100. he brightened--shook my hand--and said,--"old friend-i won't allow you to outdo me in liberality--i'll throw off the other hundred." i like music.--i can't sing. as a singist i am not a success. i am saddest when i sing. so are those who hear me. they are sadder even than i am. i met a man in oregon who hadn't any teeth--not a tooth in his head-yet that man could play on the bass drum better than any man i ever met. he kept a hotel. they have queer hotels in oregon. i remember one where they gave me a bag of oats for a pillow--i had nightmares of course. in the morning the landlord said,--"how do you feel--old hoss-hay?"--i told him i felt my oats. as a manager i was always rather more successful than as an actor. some years ago i engaged a celebrated living american skeleton for a tour through australia. he was the thinnest man i ever saw. he was a splendid skeleton. he didn't weigh anything scarcely--and i said to myself--the people of australia will flock to see this tremendous curiosity. it is a long voyage--as you know--from new york to melbourne-and to my utter surprise the skeleton had no sooner got out to sea than he commenced eating in the most horrible manner. he had never been on the ocean before--and he said it agreed with him--i thought so!--i never saw a man eat so much in my life. beef, mutton, pork--he swallowed them all like a shark--and between meals he was often discovered behind barrels eating hard-boiled eggs. the result was that, when we reached melbourne, this infamous skeleton weighed sixty-four pounds more than i did! i thought i was ruined--but i wasn't. i took him on to california-another very long sea voyage--and when i got him to san francisco i exhibited him as a fat man. this story hasn't anything to do with my entertainment, i know--but one of the principal features of my entertainment is that it contains so many things that don't have anything to do with it. jim bludso, of the prairie belle by permission of, and by special arrangement with, houghton mifflin company, authorized publishers of this author's work. by john hay wall, no! i can't tell whar he lives, because he don't live, you see; leastways, he's got out of the habit of livin' like you and me. whar have you been for the last three year that you haven't heard folks tell how jimmy bludso passed in his checks the night of the "prairie belle"? he weren't no saint,--them engineers is all pretty much alike,-one wife in natchez-under-the-hill and another one here, in pike; a keerless man in his talk was jim, and an awkward hand in a row, but he never flunked, and he never lied,-i reckon he never knowed how. and this was all the religion he had,-to treat his engine well; never be passed on the river; to mind the pilot's bell; and if ever the "prairie belle" took fire,-a thousand times he swore, he'd hold her nozzle agin the bank till the last soul got ashore. all boats has their day on the mississip, and her day come at last,-the "movastar" was a better boat, but the "belle" she _wouldn't_ be passed. and so she come tearin' along that night-the oldest craft on the line-with a nigger squat on her safety valve, and her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. the fire bust out as she cleared the bar, and burnt a hole in the night, and quick as a flash she turned, and made for that willer-bank on the right. there was runnin' and cursing but jim yelled out, over all the infernal roar, "i'll hold her nozzle agin the bank till the last galoot's ashore." through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat jim bludso's voice was heard, and they all had trust in his cussedness, and knowed he would keep his word. and, sure's you're born, they all got off afore the smokestacks fell,-and bludso's ghost went up alone in the smoke of the "prairie belle." he weren't no saint,--but at jedgment i'd run my chance with jim, 'longside of some pious gentlemen that wouldn't shake hands with him. he seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,-and he went for it thar and then; and christ ain't agoing to be too hard on a man that died for men. the trial of abner barrow from "the boy orator of zepata city" in "the exiles and other stories." copyrighted, 1894, harper and brothers. reprinted with permission. by richard harding davis abe barrow had been closely associated with the early history of zepata; he had killed in his day several of the zepata citizens. his fight with thompson had been a fair fight--as those said who remembered it--and thompson was a man they could well spare; but the case against barrow had been prepared by the new and youthful district attorney, and the people were satisfied and grateful. harry harvey, "the boy orator of zepata city," as he was called, turned slowly on his heels, and swept the court room carelessly with a glance of his clever black eyes. the moment was his. "this man," he said, and as he spoke even the wind in the corridors hushed for the moment, "is no part or parcel of zepata city of to-day. he comes to us a relic of the past--a past that was full of hardships and glorious efforts in the face of daily disappointments, embitterments and rebuffs. but the part _this_ man played in that past lives only in the court records of that day. this man, abe barrow, enjoys, and has enjoyed, a reputation as a 'bad man,' a desperate and brutal ruffian. free him to-day, and you set a premium on such reputations; acquit him of this crime, and you encourage others to like evil. let him go, and he will walk the streets with a swagger, and boast that you were afraid to touch him--_afraid_, gentlemen--and children and women will point after him as the man who has sent nine others into eternity, and who yet walks the streets a free man. and he will become, in the eyes of the young and the weak, a hero and a god. "for the last ten years, your honor, this man, abner barrow, has been serving a term of imprisonment in the state penitentiary; i ask you to send him back there again for the remainder of his life. abe barrow is out of date. this rip van winkle of the past returns to find a city where he left a prairie town; a bank where he spun his roulette-wheel; this magnificent courthouse instead of a vigilance committee! he is there, in the prisoner's pen, a convicted murderer and an unconvicted assassin, the last of his race,--the bullies and bad men of the border,--a thing to be forgotten and put away forever from the sight of men. and i ask you, gentlemen, to put him away where he will not hear the voice of man nor children's laughter, nor see a woman's smile. bury him with the bitter past, with the lawlessness that has gone--that has gone, thank god--and which must not return." the district attorney sat down suddenly, and was conscious of nothing until the foreman pronounced the prisoner at the bar guilty of murder in the second degree. judge truax leaned across his desk and said, simply, that it lay in his power to sentence the prisoner to not less than two years' confinement in the state penitentiary, or for the remainder of his life. "before i deliver sentence on you, abner barrow," he said with an old man's kind severity, "is there anything you have to say on your own behalf?" barrow's face was white with the prison tan, and pinched and holloweyed and worn. when he spoke his voice had the huskiness which comes from non-use, and cracked and broke like a child's. "i don't know, judge," he said, "that i have anything to say in my own behalf. i guess what the gentleman said about me is all there is to say. i _am_ a back number, i _am_ out of date; i _was_ a loafer and a blackguard. he told you i had no part or parcel in this city, or in this world; that i belonged to the past; that i ought to be dead. now that's not so. i have just one thing that belongs to this city, and to this world--and to me; one thing that i couldn't take to jail with me, and i'll have to leave behind me when i go back to it. i mean my wife. you, sir, remember her, sir, when i married her twelve years ago. she gave up everything a woman ought to have, to come to me. she thought she was going to be happy with me; that's why she come, i guess. maybe she was happy for about two weeks. after that first two weeks her life, sir, was a hell, and i made it a hell. respectable women wouldn't speak to her because she was my wife--and she had no children. that was her life. she lived alone over the dance-hall, and sometimes when i was drunk--i beat her. "at the end of two years i killed welsh, and they sent me to the pen for ten years, and she was free. she could have gone back to her folks and got a divorce if she'd wanted to, and never seen me again. it was an escape most women'd gone down on their knees and thanked their maker for. "but what did this woman do--my wife, the woman i misused and beat and dragged down in the mud with me? she was too mighty proud to go back to her people, or to the friends who shook her when she was in trouble; and she sold out the place, and bought a ranch with the money, and worked it by herself, worked it day and night, until in ten years she had made herself an old woman, as you see she is to-day. "and for what? to get _me_ free again; to bring _me_ things to eat in jail, and picture papers, and tobacco--when she was living on bacon and potatoes, and drinking alkali water--working to pay for a lawyer to fight for _me_--to pay for the _best_ lawyer. "and what i want to ask of you, sir, is to let me have two years out of jail to show her how i feel about it. it's all i've thought of when i was in jail, to be able to see her sitting in her own kitchen with her hands folded, and me working and sweating in the fields for her, working till every bone ached, trying to make it up to her. "and i can't, i can't! it's too late! it's too late! don't send me back for life! give me a few years to work for her--to show her what i feel here, what i never felt for her before. look at her, gentlemen, look how worn she is, and poorly, and look at her hands, and you men must feel how i feel--i don't ask you for myself. i don't want to go free on my own account. my god! judge, don't bury me alive, as that man asked you to. give me this last chance. let me prove that what i'm saying is true." judge truax looked at the papers on his desk for some seconds, and raised his head, coughing as he did so. "it lies--it lies at the discretion of this court to sentence the prisoner to a term of imprisonment of two years, or for an indefinite period, or for life. owing to--on account of certain circumstances which were--have arisen--this sentence is suspended. this court stands adjourned." part three platform practice the speech of formal occasion the benefits of a college education from an address by the president to the students of harvard university, at the announcement of academic distinctions, 1909 by abbott lawrence lowell this meeting is held not merely to honor the men who have won prizes, attained high rank, or achieved distinction in studies. in a larger sense it is a tribute paid by the university to the ideals of scholarship. it is a public confession of faith in the aims for which the university was established. we may, therefore, not inappropriately consider here the nature and significance of scholarship. without attempting an exhaustive catalogue of the benefits of education, we may note three distinct objects of college study. the first is the development of the mental powers with a view to their use in any subsequent career. in its broadest sense this may be called training for citizenship, for we must remember that good citizenship does not consist exclusively in rendering public service in political and philanthropic matters. it includes also conducting an industrial or professional career so as not to leave the public welfare out of sight. popular government is exacting. it implies that in some form every man shall voluntarily consecrate a part of his time and force to the state, and the better the citizen, the greater the effort he will make. on the function of colleges in fitting men for citizenship and for active work, much emphasis has been laid of late. yet it is not the only aim of college studies. another object is cultivation of the mind, refinement of taste, a development of the qualities that distinguish the civilized man from the barbarian. nor does the value of these things lie in personal satisfaction alone. there is a culture that is selfish and exclusive, that is self-centered and conceited. the intellectual snob is quite as repellant as any other. but this is true of the moral distortion of all good qualities. the culture that narrows the sympathies, instead of enlarging them, has surely missed the object that should give its chief worth and dignity. the culture that reveals beauty in all its forms, that refines the sensibilities, and expands the mental horizon, that, without a sense of superiority, desires to share these things with others, and makes the lives of all men better worth living, is like the glow of fire in a cold room. it is a form of social service of a high order. a third benefit of college education is the contact it affords with the work of creative imagination. the highest type of scholar is the creative scholar, just as the highest type of citizen is the statesman. the greatest figures in history, as almost every one will admit, are the thinkers and the rulers of men. people will always differ in the relative value they ascribe to these two supreme forms of human power. but if one may indulge in apocalyptic visions, i should prefer in another world to be worthy of the friendship of aristotle rather than of alexander, of shakespeare or newton than of napoleon or frederick the great. when i spoke of the benefit of college life in training for citizenship, and in imparting culture, i was obviously dealing with things which lie within the reach of every student; but in speaking of creative scholarship you may think that i am appealing only to the few men who have the rare gift of creative genius. but happily the progress of the world is not in the exclusive custody of the occasional men of genius. great originality is, indeed, rare; but on a smaller scale it is not uncommon, and the same principles apply to the production of all creative work. the great scholar and the lesser intellectual lights differ in brilliancy, but the same process must be followed to bring them to their highest splendor. nor is it the genius alone, or even the man of talent, who can enjoy and aid productive thought. it is not given to all men to possess creative scholarship themselves; but most men by following its footsteps can learn to respect it and feel its charm; and for any man who passes through college without doing so, college education has been in one of its most vital elements a failure. if he has not recognized the glowing imagination, the lofty ideals, the patience and the modesty, that characterize the true scholar, his time here has been spent, not perhaps without profit, but without inspiration. all productive work is largely dependent upon appreciation by the community. the great painters of italy would have been sterile had not the citizens of florence been eager to carry cimabue's masterpiece in triumph through the streets. kant would never have written among a people who despised philosophy; and the discoveries of our own day would have been impossible in an unscientific age. every man who has learned to respect creative scholarship can enter into its spirit, and by respecting it he helps to foster it. what the college gives from "girls and education," a commencement address, bryn mawr college, 1911, by permission of, and by special arrangement with, houghton mifflin company, authorized publishers of this author's works. by le baron russell briggs one of the best gifts that a college can bestow is the power of taking a new point of view through putting ourselves into another's place. to many students this comes hard, but come it must, as they hope to be saved. to the american world the name of charles eliot norton stands for all that is fastidious, even for what is over-fastidious; but charles eliot norton's collection of verse and prose called "the heart of oak books" shows a catholicity which few of his critics could approach, a refined literary hospitality not less noteworthy than the refined human hospitality of his christmas eve at shady hill. as an old man this interpreter of dante saw and hailed with delight the genius of mr. kipling. if you leave college without catholicity of taste, something is wrong either with the college or with you. as in literature, so in life. the greatest teachers--even christ himself--have taught nothing greater than the power of seeing with the eyes of another soul. "browning," said a woman who loves poetry, "seems to me not so much man as god." for browning, beyond all men in the past century, beyond nearly all men of all time, could throw himself into the person of another. "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," said this same great poet, writing to his wife. but browning has as many soul-sides as humanity. hence it has been truly called a new life, like conversion, or marriage, or the mystery of a great sorrow,--a change and a bracing change in our outlook on the whole world, to discover browning. the college should be our browning, revealing the motive power of every life, the poetry of good and bad. it is only the "little folk of little soul" who come out of college as the initiated members of an exclusive set. justify yourself and your college years by your catholic democracy. it is the duty of the college not to train only, but to inspire; to inspire not to learning only, but to a disciplined appreciation of the best in literature, in art, and in life, to a catholic taste, to a universal sympathy. it is the duty of the student to take the inspiration, to be not disobedient to the heavenly vision, but to justify four years of delight, by scholarship at once accurate and sympathetic, by a finer culture, by a leadership without self-seeking or pride, by a whole-souled democracy. how simple and how old it all is! yet it is not so simple that any one man or woman has done it to perfection; nor so old that any one part of it fails to offer fresh problems and fresh stimulus to the most ambitious of you all. nothing is harder than to take freely and eagerly the best that is offered us, and never turn away to the pursuit of false gods. now the best that is offered in college is the inspiration to learn, and having learned, to do:- "friends of the great, the high, the perilous years, upon the brink of mighty things we stand- of golden harvests and of silver tears, and griefs and pleasures that like grains of sand gleam in the hourglass, yield their place and die." so said the college poet. "art without an ideal," said a great woman, "is neither nature nor art. the question involves the whole difference between phidias and mme. tussaud." let us never forget that the chief business of college teachers and college taught is the giving and receiving of ideals, and that the ideal is a burning and a shining light, not now only, or now and a year or two more, but for all time. what else is the patriot's love of country, the philosopher's love of truth, the poet's love of beauty, the teacher's love of learning, the good man's love of an honest life, than keeping the ideal, not merely to look at, but to see by? in its light, and only in its light, the greatest things are done. thus the ideal is not merely the most beautiful thing in the world; it is the source of all high efficiency. in every change, in every joy or sorrow that the coming years may bring, do you who graduate to-day remember that nothing is so practical as a noble ideal steadily and bravely pursued, and that now, as of old, it is the wise men who see and follow the guiding star. memorial day address from "after-dinner and other speeches," with the permission of the author. by john d. long in memory of the dead, in honor of the living, for inspiration to our children, we gather to-day to deck the graves of our patriots with flowers, to pledge commonwealth and town and citizen to fresh recognition of the surviving soldier, and to picture yet again the romance, the reality, the glory, the sacrifice of his service. as if it were but yesterday, you recall him. he had but turned twenty. the exquisite tint of youthful health was in his cheek. his pure heart shone from frank, outspeaking eyes. his fair hair clustered from beneath his cap. he had pulled a stout oar in the college race, or walked the most graceful athlete on the village green. he had just entered on the vocation of his life. the doorway of his home at this season of the year was brilliant in the dewy morn with the clambering vine and fragrant flower, as in and out he went, the beloved of mother and sisters, and the ideal of a new england youth:- "in face and shoulders like a god he was; for o'er him had the goddess breathed the charm of youthful locks, the ruddy glow of youth, a generous gladness in his eyes: such grace as carver's hand to ivory gives, or when silver or parian stone in yellow gold is set." and when the drum beat, when the first martyr's blood sprinkled the stones of baltimore, he took his place in the ranks and went forward. you remember his ingenuous and glowing letters to his mother, written as if his pen were dipped in his very heart. how novel seemed to him the routine of service, the life of camp and march! how eager the wish to meet the enemy and strike his first blow for the good cause! what pride at the promotion that came and put its chevron on his arm or its strap upon his shoulder! they took him prisoner. he wasted in libby and grew gaunt and haggard with the horror of his sufferings and with pity for the greater horror of the sufferings of his comrades who fainted and died at his side. he tunneled the earth and escaped. hungry and weak, in terror of recapture, he followed by night the pathway of the railroad. he slept in thickets and sank in swamps. he saw the glitter of horsemen who pursued him. he knew the bloodhound was on his track. he reached the line; and, with his hand grasping at freedom, they caught and took him back to his captivity. he was exchanged at last; and you remember, when he came home on a short furlough, how manly and war-worn he had grown. but he soon returned to the ranks and to the welcome of his comrades. they recall him now alike with tears and pride. in the rifle pits around petersburg you heard his steady voice and firm command. some one who saw him then fancied that he seemed that day like one who forefelt the end. but there was no flinching as he charged. he had just turned to give a cheer when the fatal ball struck him. there was a convulsion of the upward hand. his eyes, pleading and loyal, turned their last glance to the flag. his lips parted. he fell dead, and at nightfall lay with his face to the stars. home they brought him, fairer than adonis over whom the goddess of beauty wept. they buried him in the village churchyard under the green turf. year by year his comrades and his kin, nearer than comrades, scatter his grave with flowers. do you ask who he was? he was in every regiment and every company. he went out from every massachusetts village. he sleeps in every massachusetts burying ground. recall romance, recite the names of heroes of legend and song, but there is none that is his peer. william mckinley from an address in the united states senate by john hay for the third time the congress of the united states are assembled to commemorate the life and the death of a president slain by the hand of an assassin. the attention of the future historian will be attracted to the features which reappear with startling sameness in all three of these awful crimes: the uselessness, the utter lack of consequence of the act; the obscurity, the insignificance of the criminal; the blamelessness--so far as in our sphere of existence the best of men may be held blameless--of the victim. not one of our murdered presidents had an enemy in the world; they were all of such preeminent purity of life that no pretext could be given for the attack of passional crime; they were all men of democratic instincts, who could never have offended the most jealous advocates of equality; they were of kindly and generous nature, to whom wrong or injustice was impossible; of moderate fortune, whose slender means nobody could envy. they were men of austere virtue, of tender heart, of eminent abilities, which they had devoted with single minds to the good of the republic. if ever men walked before god and man without blame, it was these three rulers of our people. the only temptation to attack their lives offered was their gentle radiance--to eyes hating the light that was offense enough. the obvious elements which enter into the fame of a public man are few and by no means recondite. the man who fills a great station in a period of change, who leads his country successfully through a time of crisis; who, by his power of persuading and controlling others, has been able to command the best thought of his age, so as to leave his country in a moral or material condition in advance of where he found it,--such a man's position in history is secure. if, in addition to this, his written or spoken words possess the subtle qualities which carry them far and lodge them in men's hearts; and, more than all, if his utterances and actions, while informed with a lofty morality, are yet tinged with the glow of human sympathy,--the fame of such a man will shine like a beacon through the mists of ages--an object of reverence, of imitation, and of love. it should be to us an occasion of solemn pride that in the three great crises of our history such a man was not denied us. the moral value to a nation of a renown such as washington's and lincoln's and mckinley's is beyond all computation. no loftier ideal can be held up to the emulation of ingenuous youth. with such examples we cannot be wholly ignoble. grateful as we may be for what they did, let us be still more grateful for what they were. while our daily being, our public policies, still feel the influence of their work, let us pray that in our spirits their lives may be voluble, calling us upward and onward. there is not one of us but feels prouder of his native land because the august figure of washington presided over its beginnings; no one but vows it a tenderer love because lincoln poured out his blood for it; no one but must feel his devotion for his country renewed and kindled when he remembers how mckinley loved, revered, and served it, showed in his life how a citizen should live, and in his last hour taught us how a gentleman could die. robert e. lee from an address at the unveiling of a statue of general lee, at washington and lee university, 1883 by john w. daniel mounted in the field and at the head of his troops, a glimpse of lee was an inspiration. his figure was as distinctive as that of napoleon. the black slouch hat, the cavalry boots, the dark cape, the plain gray coat without an ornament but the three stars on the collar, the calm, victorious face, the splendid, manly figure on the gray war horse,--he looked every inch the true knight--the grand, invincible champion of a great principle. the men who wrested victory from his little band stood wonder-stricken and abashed when they saw how few were those who dared oppose them, and generous admiration burst into spontaneous tribute to the splendid leader who bore defeat with the quiet resignation of a hero. the men who fought under him never revered or loved him more than on the day he sheathed his sword. had he but said the word, they would have died for honor. it was because he said the word that they resolved to live for duty. plato congratulated himself, first, that he was born a man; second, that he had the happiness of being a greek; and third, that he was a contemporary of sophocles. and in this audience to-day, and here and there the wide world over, is many an one who wore the gray, who rejoices that he was born a man to do a man's part for his suffering country; that he had the glory of being a confederate; and who feels a justly proud and glowing consciousness in his bosom when he says unto himself: "i was a follower of robert e. lee. i was a soldier in the army of northern virginia." as president of washington and lee university, general lee exhibited qualities not less worthy and heroic than those displayed on the broad and open theater of conflict when the eyes of nations watched his every action. in the quiet walks of academic life, far removed from "war or battle's sound," came into view the towering grandeur, the massive splendor, and the loving-kindness of his character. there he revealed in manifold gracious hospitalities, tender charities, and patient, worthy counsels, how deep and pure and inexhaustible were the fountains of his virtues. and loving hearts delight to recall, as loving lips will ever delight to tell, the thousand little things he did which sent forth lines of light to irradiate the gloom of the conquered land and to lift up the hopes and cheer the works of his people. come we then to-day in loyal love to sanctify our memories, to purify our hopes, to make strong all good intent by communion with the spirit of him who, being dead, yet speaketh. let us crown his tomb with the oak, the emblem of his strength, and with the laurel, the emblem of his glory. and as we seem to gaze once more on him we loved and hailed as chief, the tranquil face is clothed with heaven's light, and the mute lips seem eloquent with the message that in life he spoke, "there is a true glory and a true honor; the glory of duty done, the honor of the integrity of principle." farewell address to the united states senate by henry clay from 1806, the period of my entrance upon this noble theater, with short intervals, to the present time, i have been engaged in the public councils, at home or abroad. of the services rendered during that long and arduous period of my life it does not become me to speak; history, if she deign to notice me, and posterity, if the recollection of my humble actions shall be transmitted to posterity, are the best, the truest, and the most impartial judges. i have not escaped the fate of other public men, nor failed to incur censure and detraction of the bitterest, most unrelenting, and most malignant character. but i have not meanwhile been unsustained. everywhere throughout the extent of this great continent i have had cordial, warmhearted, faithful, and devoted friends, who have known me, loved me, and appreciated my motives. in the course of a long and arduous public service, especially during the last eleven years in which i have held a seat in the senate, from the same ardor and enthusiasm of character, i have no doubt, in the heat of debate, and in an honest endeavor to maintain my opinions against adverse opinions alike honestly entertained, as to the best course to be adopted for the public welfare, i may have often inadvertently and unintentionally, in moments of excited debate, made use of language that has been offensive, and susceptible of injurious interpretation towards my brother senators. if there be any here who retain wounded feelings of injury or dissatisfaction produced on such occasions, i beg to assure them that i now offer the most ample apology for any departure on my part from the established rules of parliamentary decorum and courtesy. on the other hand, i assure senators, one and all, without exception and without reserve, that i retire from this chamber without carrying with me a single feeling of resentment or dissatisfaction toward the senate or any one of its members. in retiring, as i am about to do, forever, from the senate, suffer me to express my heartfelt wishes that all the great and patriotic objects of the wise framers of our constitution may be fulfilled; that the high destiny designed for it may be fully answered; and that its deliberations, now and hereafter, may eventuate in securing the prosperity of our beloved country, in maintaining its rights and honor abroad, and upholding its interests at home. i retire, i know, at a period of infinite distress and embarrassment. i wish i could take my leave of you under more favorable auspices; but, without meaning at this time to say whether on any or on whom reproaches for the sad condition of the country should fall, i appeal to the senate and to the world to bear testimony to my earnest and continued exertions to avert it, and to the truth that no blame can justly attach to me. may the most precious blessings of heaven rest upon the whole senate and each member of it, and may the labors of every one redound to the benefit of the nation and the advancement of his own fame and renown. and when you shall retire to the bosom of your constituents, may you receive that most cheering and gratifying of all human rewards--their cordial greeting of "well done, good and faithful servant." and now, mr. president, and senators, i bid you all a long, a lasting, and a friendly farewell. the death of garfield from an address before both houses of congress, february, 1882 by james g. blaine surely, if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this world, on that quiet july morning james a. garfield may well have been a happy man. no foreboding of evil haunted him, no slightest premonition of danger clouded his sky. his terrible fate was upon him in an instant. one moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching peacefully out before him. the next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence and the grave. great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. for no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of murder he was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from its hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death. and he did not quail. not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned and dazed, he could give up life, hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony that was not less agony because silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage he looked into his open grave. what blight and ruin met his anguished eyes whose lips may tell--what brilliant broken plans, what baffled high ambitions, what sundering of strong, warm, manhood's friendships, what bitter rending of sweet household ties! behind him a proud, expectant nation; a great host of sustaining friends; a cherished and happy mother wearing the full, rich honors of her early toil and tears; the wife of his youth, whose whole life lay in his; the little boys not yet emerged from childhood's day of frolic; the fair young daughter; the sturdy sons just springing into closest companionship, claiming every day, and every day rewarding, a father's love and care; and in his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet all demand. before him desolation and great darkness! and his soul was not shaken. his countrymen were thrilled with instant, profound, and universal sympathy. masterful in his mortal weakness, he became the center of a nation's love, enshrined in the prayers of a world. but all the love and all the sympathy could not share with him his suffering. he trod the winepress alone. with unfaltering front he faced death. with unfailing tenderness he took leave of life. above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard the voice of god. with simple resignation he bowed to the divine decree. as the end drew near, his early craving for the sea returned. the stately mansion of power had been to him the wearisome hospital of pain, and he begged to be taken from its prison walls, from its oppressive, stifling air, from its homelessness and its hopelessness. gently, silently, the love of a great people bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for healing of the sea, to live or to die, as god should will, within sight of its heaving billows, within sound of its manifold voices. with wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze he looked out wistfully upon the ocean's changing wonders--on its far sails whitening in the morning light; on its restless waves rolling shoreward to break and die beneath the noonday sun; on the red clouds of evening arching low to the horizon; on the serene and shining pathway of the stars. let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only the rapt and parting soul may know. let us believe that in the silence of the receding world he heard the great waves breaking on a farther shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal morning. the second inaugural address delivered from the steps of the capitol at washington, 1865. by abraham lincoln fellow countrymen,--at this second appearing to take the oath of the presidential office there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at first. then a statement, somewhat in detail, of a course to be pursued seemed very fitting and proper. now, at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. the progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to myself, and it is, i trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. with high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured. on the occasion corresponding to this four years ago, all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. all dreaded it, all sought to avoid it. while the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it with war-seeking to dissolve the union and divide the effects by negotiation. both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came. one eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the union, but localized in the southern part of it. these slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. all knew that this interest was somehow the cause of the war. to strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the union by war, while the government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease when, or even before, the conflict itself should cease. each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. both read the same bible, and pray to the same god, and each invokes his aid against the other. it may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just god's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces; but let us judge not, that we be not judged. the prayer of both could not be answered. that of neither has been answered fully. the almighty has his own purposes. woe unto the world because of offenses, for it must needs be that offenses come, but woe to that man by whom the offense cometh. if we shall suppose that american slavery is one of those offenses which, in the providence of god, must needs come, but which having continued through his appointed time, he now wills to remove, and that he gives to both north and south this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offense came, shall we discern there any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living god always ascribe to him? fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. yet if god wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be repaid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, that the judgments of the lord are true and righteous altogether. with malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as god gives us to see the right, let us finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphans, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations. the death of prince albert from an address in the house of commons, february, 1862 by benjamin disraeli no person can be insensible to the fact that the house meets to-night under circumstances very much changed from those which have attended our assembling for many years. of late years--indeed, for more than twenty years past--whatever may have been our personal rivalries, and whatever our party strife, there was at least one sentiment in which we all coincided, and that was a sentiment of admiring gratitude to that throne whose wisdom and whose goodness had so often softened the acerbities of our free public life, and had at all times so majestically represented the matured intelligence of an enlightened people. sir, all that is changed. he is gone who was "the comfort and support" of that throne. it has been said that there is nothing which england so much appreciates as the fulfillment of duty. the prince whom we have lost not only was eminent for the fulfillment of duty, but it was the fulfillment of the highest duty under the most difficult circumstances. prince albert was the consort of his sovereign--he was the father of one who might be his sovereign--he was the prime councillor of a realm, the political constitution of which did not even recognize his political existence. sir, it is sometimes deplored by those who admired and loved him that he was thwarted occasionally in his undertakings, and that he was not duly appreciated. but these are not circumstances for regret, but for congratulation. they prove the leading and original mind which has so long and so advantageously labored for this country. had he not encountered these obstacles, had he not been subject to this occasional distrust and misconception, it would only have shown that he was a man of ordinary mold and temper. those who improve must change, those who change must necessarily disturb and alarm men's prejudices. what he had to encounter was only a demonstration that he was a man superior to his age, and therefore admirably adapted for the work of progress. there is one other point, and one only, on which i will presume for a moment to dwell, and it is not for the sake of you, sir, or those who now hear me, or of the generation to which we belong, but it is that those who come after us may not misunderstand the nature of this illustrious man. prince albert was not a mere patron; he was not one of those who by their gold or by their smiles reward excellence or stimulate exertion. his contributions to the cause of state were far more powerful and far more precious. he gave to it his thought, his time, his toil; he gave to it his life. on both sides and in all parts of the house i see many gentlemen who occasionally have acted with the prince at those council boards where they conferred and consulted upon the great undertakings with which he was connected. i ask them, without fear of a denial, whether he was not the leading spirit, whether his was not the mind which foresaw the difficulty, his not the resources that supplied the remedy; whether his was not the courage which sustained them under apparently overpowering difficulties; whether every one who worked with him did not feel that he was the real originator of those plans of improvement which they assisted in carrying into effect? but what avail these words? this house to-night has been asked to condole with the crown upon this great calamity. no easy office. to condole, in general, is the office of those who, without the pale of sorrow, still feel for the sorrowing. but in this instance the country is as heart-stricken as its queen. yet in the mutual sensibility of a sovereign and a people there is something ennobling--something which elevates the spirit beyond the level of mere earthly sorrow. the counties, the cities, the corporations of the realm--those illustrious associations of learning and science and art and skill, of which he was the brightest ornament and the inspiring spirit, have bowed before the throne. it does not become the parliament of the country to be silent. the expression of our feelings may be late, but even in that lateness may be observed some propriety. to-night the two houses sanction the expression of the public sorrow, and ratify, as it were, the record of a nation's woe. an appreciation of mr. gladstone from an address in the house of commons by arthur j. balfour i feel myself unequal even to dealing with what is, perhaps, more strictly germane to this address--i mean, mr. gladstone as a politician, as a minister, as a leader of public thought, as an eminent servant of the queen; and if i venture to say anything, it is rather of mr. gladstone, the greatest member of the greatest deliberative assembly, which, so far, the world has seen. sir, i think it is the language of sober and unexaggerated truth to say that there is no gift which would enable a man to move, to influence, to adorn an assembly like this that mr. gladstone did not possess in a supereminent degree. debaters as ready there may have been, orators as finished. it may have been given to others to sway as skillfully this assembly, or to appeal with as much directness and force to the simpler instincts of the great masses in the country; but, sir, it has been given to no man to combine all these great gifts as they were combined in the person of mr. gladstone. from the conversational discussion appropriate to our work in committees, to the most sustained eloquence befitting some great argument, and some great historic occasion, every weapon of parliamentary warfare was wielded by him with the success and ease of a perfect, absolute, and complete mastery. i would not venture myself to pronounce an opinion as to whether he was most excellent in the exposition of a somewhat complicated budget of finance or legislation, or whether he showed it most in the heat of extemporary debate. at least this we may say, that from the humbler arts of ridicule or invective to the subtlest dialectic, the most persuasive eloquence, the most cogent appeals to everything that was highest and best in the audience that he was addressing, every instrument which could find place in the armory of a member of this house, he had at his command without premeditation, without forethought, at the moment and in the form which appeared best suited to carry out his purpose. it may, perhaps, be asked whether i have nothing to say about mr. gladstone's place in history, about the judgment we ought to pass upon the great part which he has played in the history of his country and the history of the world during the many years in which he held a foremost place in this assembly. these questions are legitimate questions. but they are not to be discussed by me to-day. nor, indeed, do i think that the final answer can be given to them--the final judgment pronounced--in the course of this generation. but one service he did--in my opinion incalculable--which is altogether apart from the judgment which we may be disposed to pass on the particular opinions, the particular views, or the particular lines of policy which mr. gladstone may from time to time have adopted. sir, he added a dignity and he added a weight to the deliberations of this house by his genius which i think it is impossible adequately to express. it is not enough, in my opinion, to keep up simply a level, though it be a high level, of probity and of patriotism. the mere virtue of civic honesty is not sufficient to preserve this assembly from the fate which has overcome so many other assemblies, the products of democratic forces. more than this is required, more than this was given to us by mr. gladstone. those who seek to raise in the public estimation the level of our proceedings will be the most ready to admit the infinite value of those services, and realize how much the public prosperity is involved in the maintenance of the work of public life. sir, that is a view which, it seems to me, places the services of mr. gladstone to this assembly, which he loved so well, and of which he was so great a member, in as clear a light and on as firm a basis as it is possible to place them. william e. gladstone from an address in the house of lords, may, 1898 by lord rosebery my lords, this is, as has been pointed out, an unique occasion. mr. gladstone always expressed a hope that there might be an interval left to him between the end of his political and of his natural life. that period was given to him, for it is more than four years since he quitted the sphere of politics. those four years have been with him a special preparation for his death, but have they not also been a preparation for his death with the nation at large? had he died in the plenitude of his power as prime minister, would it have been possible for a vigorous and convinced opposition to allow to pass to him, without a word of dissent, the honors which are now universally conceded? hushed for the moment are the voices of criticism; hushed are the controversies in which he took part; hushed for the moment is the very sound of party conflict. i venture to think that this is a notable fact in our history. it was not so with the elder pitt. it was not so with the younger pitt. it was not so with the elder pitt--in spite of his tragic end, of his unrivaled services, and of his enfeebled old age. it was not so with the younger pitt--in spite of his long control of the country and his absolute and absorbed devotion to the state. i think that we should remember this as creditable not merely to the man, but to the nation. my lords, there is one deeply melancholy feature of mr. gladstone's death--by far the most melancholy--to which i think none of my noble friends have referred. i think that all our thoughts must be turned, now that mr. gladstone is gone, to that solitary and pathetic figure who, for sixty years, shared all the sorrows and all the joys of mr. gladstone's life; who received his every confidence and every aspiration; who shared his triumphs with and cheered him under his defeats; who, by her tender vigilance, i firmly believe, sustained and prolonged his years. i think that the occasion ought not to pass without letting mrs. gladstone know that she is in all our thoughts today. and yet, my lords--putting that one figure aside--to me, at any rate, this is not an occasion for absolute and entire and unreserved lamentation. were it, indeed, possible so to protract the inexorable limits of human life that we might have hoped that future years, and even future generations, might see mr. gladstone's face and hear his matchless voice, and receive the lessons of his unrivaled experience-we might, perhaps, grieve to-day as those who have no hope. but that is not the case. he had long exceeded the span of mortal life; and his latter months had been months of unspeakable pain and distress. he is now in that rest for which he sought and prayed, and which was to give him relief from an existence which had become a burden to him. surely this should not be an occasion entirely for grief; when a life prolonged to such a limit, so full of honor, so crowned with glory, had come to its termination. the nation lives that produced him. the nation that produced him may yet produce others like him; and, in the meantime, it is rich in his memory, rich in his life, and rich, above all, in his animating and inspiring example. nor do i think that we should regard this heritage as limited to our own country or to our own race. it seems to me that, if we may judge from the papers of to-day, that it is shared by, that it is the possession of, all civilized mankind, and that generations still to come, through many long years, will look for encouragement in labor, for fortitude in adversity, for the example of a sublime christianity, with constant hope and constant encouragement, to the pure, the splendid, the dauntless figure of william ewart gladstone. the soldier's creed from a centennial address at the united states military academy at west point, with the author's permission. by horace porter as we stand here to-day a hundred years of history pass in review before us. the present permanent academy was founded in 1802. the class that year contained two cadets. during the ten years following the average number was twenty. we might say of the cadets of those days what curran said of the books in his library--"not numerous, but select." and now a word to the corps of cadets, the departure of whose graduating class marks the close of the first century of the academy's life. the boy is father to the man. the present is the mold in which the future is cast. the dominant characteristics of the cadet are seen in the future general. you have learned here how to command, and a still more useful lesson, how to obey. you have been taught obedience to the civil, as well as to the military, code, for in this land the military is always subordinate to the civil law. not the least valuable part of your education is your service in the cadet ranks, performing the duties of a private soldier. that alone can acquaint you with the feelings and the capabilities of the soldiers you will command. it teaches you just how long a man can carry a musket in one position without overfatigue, just how hard it is to keep awake on sentry duty after an exhausting day's march. you will never forget this part of your training. when marshal lannes's grenadiers had been repulsed in an assault upon the walls of a fortified city, and hesitated to renew the attack, lannes seized a scaling ladder and, rushing forward, cried: "before i was a marshal i was a grenadier, and i have not forgotten my training." inspired by his example, the grenadiers carried the walls and captured everything before them. courage is the soldier's cardinal virtue. you will seldom go amiss in following general grant's instructions to his commanders, "when in doubt move to the front." a generous country has with fostering care equipped you for your career. it is entitled to your undivided allegiance. in closing, let me mention, by way of illustration, a most touching and instructive scene which i once witnessed at the annual meeting in the great hall of the sorbonne in paris for the purpose of awarding medals of honor to those who had performed acts of conspicuous bravery in saving human life at sea. a bright-eyed boy of scarcely fourteen summers was called to the platform. the story was recounted of how one winter's night when a fierce tempest was raging on the rude normandy coast, he saw signals of distress at sea and started with his father, the captain of a small vessel, and the mate to attempt a rescue. by dint of almost superhuman effort the crew of a sinking ship was safely taken aboard. a wave then washed the father from the deck. the boy plunged into the seething waves to save him, but the attempt was in vain, and the father perished. the lad struggled back to the vessel to find that the mate had also been washed overboard. then lashing himself fast, he took the wheel and guided the boat, with its precious cargo of human souls, through the howling storm safely into port. the minister of public instruction, after paying a touching tribute to the boy's courage in a voice broken with emotion, pinned the medal on his breast, placed in his hands a diploma of honor, and then, seizing the brave lad in his arms, imprinted a kiss on each cheek. for a moment the boy seemed dazed, not knowing which way to turn, as he stood there with the tears streaming down his bronzed cheeks while every one in that vast hall wept in sympathy. suddenly his eyes turned toward his old peasant mother, she to whom he owed his birth and his training, as she sat at the back of the platform with bended form and wearing her widow's cap. he rushed to her, took the medal from his breast, and, casting it and his diploma into her lap, threw himself on his knees at her feet. men of west point, in the honorable career which you have chosen, whatever laurels you may win, always be ready to lay them at the feet of your country to which you owe your birth and your education. competition in college from an address at columbia university, june, 1909 by abbott lawrence lowell we have seen that the sifting out of young men capable of scholarship is receiving to-day less attention than it deserves; and that this applies not only to recruiting future leaders of thought, but also to prevailing upon every young man to develop the intellectual powers he may possess. we have seen also that, while the graduate school can train scholars, it cannot create love of scholarship. that work must be done in undergraduate days. we have found reasons to believe that during the whole period of training, mental and physical, which reaches its culmination in college, competition is not only a proper but an essential factor; and we have observed the results that have been achieved at oxford and cambridge by its use. in this country, on the other hand, several causes, foremost among them the elective system, have almost banished competition in scholarship from our colleges; while the inadequate character of our tests, and the corporate nature of self-interest in these latter times, raise serious difficulties in making it effective. nevertheless, i have faith that these obstacles can be overcome, and that we can raise intellectual achievement in college to its rightful place in public estimation. we are told that it is idle to expect young men to do strenuous work before they feel the impending pressure of earning a livelihood; that they naturally love ease and selfindulgence, and can be aroused from lethargy only by discipline, or by contact with the hard facts of a struggle with the world. if i believed that, i would not be president of a college for a moment. it is not true. a normal young man longs for nothing so much as to devote himself to a cause that calls forth his enthusiasm, and the greater the sacrifice involved, the more eagerly will he grasp it. if we were at war and our students were told that two regiments were seeking recruits, one of which would be stationed at fortress monroe, wellhoused and fed, living in luxury, without risk of death or wounds, while the other would go to the front, be starved and harassed by fatiguing marches under a broiling sun, amid pestilence, with men falling from its ranks killed or suffering mutilation, not a single man would volunteer for the first regiment, but the second would be quickly filled. who is it that makes football a dangerous and painful sport? is it the faculty or the players themselves? a young man wants to test himself on every side, in strength, in quickness, in skill, in courage, in endurance; and he will go through much to prove his merit. he wants to test himself, provided he has faith that the test is true, and that the quality tried is one that makes for manliness; otherwise he will have none of it. now we have not convinced him that high scholarship is a manly thing worthy of his devotion, or that our examinations are faithful tests of intellectual power; and in so far as we have failed in this we have come short of what we ought to do. universities stand for the eternal worth of thought, for the preeminence of the prophet and the seer; but instead of being thrilled by the eager search for truth, our classes too often sit listless on the bench. it is not because the lecturer is dull, but because the pupils do not prize the end enough to relish the drudgery required for skill in any great pursuit, or indeed in any sport. to make them see the greatness of that end, how fully it deserves the price that must be paid for it, how richly it rewards the man who may compete for it, we must learn--and herein lies the secret--we must learn the precious art of touching their imagination. a master of the situation from a lecture, entitled "masters of the situation" by james t. fields there was once a noble ship full of eager passengers, freighted with a rich cargo, steaming at full speed from england to america. two thirds of a prosperous voyage thus far were over, as in our mess we were beginning to talk of home. fore and aft the songs of good cheer and hearty merriment rose from deck to cabin. "as if the beauteous ship enjoyed the beauty of the sea, she lifteth up her stately head, and saileth joyfully, a lovely path before her lies, a lovely path behind; she sails amid the loveliness like a thing of heart and mind." suddenly, a dense fog came, shrouding the horizon, but as this was a common occurrence in the latitude we were sailing, it was hardly mentioned in our talk that afternoon. there are always croakers on board ship, if the weather changes however slightly, but the _britannia_ was free, that voyage, of such unwelcome passengers. a happier company never sailed upon an autumn sea! the storytellers are busy with their yarns to audiences of delighted listeners in sheltered places; the ladies are lying about on couches, and shawls, reading or singing; children in merry companies are taking hands and racing up and down the decks,--when a quick cry from the lookout, a rush of officers and men, and we are grinding on a ledge of rocks off cape race! one of those strong currents, always mysterious, and sometimes impossible to foresee, had set us into shore out of our course, and the ship was blindly beating on a dreary coast of sharp and craggy rocks. i heard the order given, "every one on deck!" and knew what that meant--the masts were in danger of falling. looking over the side, we saw bits of the keel, great pieces of plank, floating out into the deep water. a hundred pallid faces were huddled together near the stern of the ship where we were told to go and wait. i remember somebody said that a little child, the playfellow of passengers and crew, could not be found, and that some of us started to find him; and that when we returned him to his mother she spake never a word, but seemed dumb with terror at the prospect of separation and shipwreck, and that other specter so ghastly when encountered at sea. suddenly we heard a voice up in the fog in the direction of the wheelhouse, ringing like a clarion above the roar of the waves, and the clashing sounds on shipboard, and it had in it an assuring, not a fearful tone. as the orders came distinctly and deliberately through the captain's trumpet, to "ship the cargo," to "back her," to "keep her steady," we felt somehow that the commander up there in the thick mist on the wheelhouse knew what he was about, and that through his skill and courage, by the blessing of heaven, we should all be rescued. the man who saved us so far as human aid ever saves drowning mortals, was one fully competent to command a ship; and when, after weary days of anxious suspense, the vessel leaking badly, and the fires in danger of being put out, we arrived safely in halifax, old mr. cunard, agent of the line, on hearing from the mail officer that the steamer had struck on the rocks and had been saved only by the captain's presence of mind and courage, simply replied, "just what might have been expected in such a disaster; captain harrison is always master of the situation." now, no man ever became master of the situation by accident or indolence. i believe with shelley, that the almighty has given men and women arms long enough to reach the stars if they will only put them out! it was an admirable saying of the duke of wellington, "that no general ever blundered into a great victory." st. hilaire said, "i ignore the existence of a blind chance, accident, and haphazard results." "he happened to succeed," is a foolish, unmeaning phrase. no man happens to succeed. wit and humor reprinted from "american wit and humor," copyrighted in "modern eloquence," geo. l. shuman and company, chicago, publishers. by minot j. savage wit may take many forms, but it resides essentially in the thought or the imagination. in its highest forms it does not deal in things but with ideas. it is the shock of pleased surprise which results from the perception of unexpected likeness between things that differ or of an unexpected difference between things that are alike. or it is where utterly incongruous things are apparently combined in the expression of one idea. wit may be bitter or kindly or entirely neutral so far as the feelings are concerned. when extremes of feeling, one way or the other, are concerned, then it takes on other names which will be considered by themselves. but not to stop any longer with definition, it is almost pure wit when some one said of an endless talker that he had "occasional brilliant flashes of silence." so of the saying of mr. henry clapp. you know it is said of shakespeare, "he is not for a day, but for all time." speaking of the bore who calls when you are busy and never goes, mr. clapp said, "he is not for a time, but for all day." and what could be more deliciously perfect than the following: senator beck of kentucky was an everlasting talker. one day a friend remarked to senator hoar, "i should think beck would wear his brain all out talking so much." whereupon mr. hoar replied, "oh, that doesn't affect him any: he rests his mind when he is talking." this has, indeed, a touch of sarcasm; but it is as near the pure gold of wit as you often get. or, take this. there being two houses both of which are insisted on as the real birthplace of the great philosopher and statesman, mark twain gravely informs us that "franklin was twins, having been born simultaneously in two different houses in boston." one of the finest specimens of clear-cut wit is the saying of the hon. carroll d. wright. referring to the common saying, he once keenly remarked: "i know it is said that figures won't lie, but, unfortunately, liars will figure." in contradistinction from wit, humor deals with incidents, characters, situations. true humor is altogether kindly; for, while it points out and pictures the weaknesses and foibles of humanity, it feels no contempt and leaves no sting. it has its root in sympathy and blossoms out in toleration. it would take too long at this point in my lecture to quote complete specimens of humor; for that would mean spreading out before you detailed scenes or full descriptions. but fortunately it is not necessary. cervantes, shakespeare, charles lamb, dickens, and a host of others will readily occur to you. but what could be better of its kind than this? general joe johnston was one day riding leisurely behind his army on the march. food had been scarce and rations limited. he spied a straggler in the brush beside the road. he called out sharply, "what are you doing here?" being caught out of the ranks was a serious offense, but the soldier was equal to the emergency. so to the general's question he replied, "pickin' 'simmons." the persimmon, as you know, has the quality of puckering the mouth, as a certain kind of wild cherry used to mine when i was a boy. "what are you picking 'simmons for?" sharply rejoined the general. then came the humorous reply that disarmed all of the officer's anger and appealed to his sympathy, while it hinted all "the boys" were suffering for the cause. "well, the fact of it is, general, i'm trying to shrink up my stomach to the size of my rations, so i won't starve to death." a message to garcia from an article in the philistine, with the permission of the author by elbert hubbard when war broke out between spain and the united states, it was very necessary to communicate quickly with the leader of the insurgents. garcia was somewhere in the mountain fastnesses of cuba--no one knew where. no mail or telegraph message could reach him. the president must secure his cooperation, and quickly. what to do! some one said to the president, "there's a fellow by the name of rowan will find garcia for you if anybody can." rowan was sent for and given a letter to be delivered to garcia. how "the fellow by the name of rowan" took the letter, sealed it up in an oilskin pouch, strapped it over his heart, in four days landed by night off the coast of cuba from an open boat, disappeared into the jungle, and in three weeks came out on the other side of the island, having traversed a hostile country on foot, and delivered his letter to garcia, are things i have no special desire now to tell in detail. the point i wish to make is this: mckinley gave rowan a letter to be delivered to garcia; rowan took the letter and did not ask, "where is he at?" by the eternal! there is a man whose form should be cast in deathless bronze and the statue placed in every college of the land. it is not book learning young men need, nor instruction about this and that, but a stiffening of the vertebrae which will cause them to be loyal to a trust, to act promptly, concentrate their energies; do the thing--"carry a message to garcia!" general garcia is dead now, but there are other garcias. no man who has endeavored to carry out an enterprise where many hands were needed, but has been well-nigh appalled at times by the imbecility of the average man--the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it. slipshod assistance, foolish inattention, dowdy indifference, and half-hearted work seem the rule; and no man succeeds, unless by hook or crook, or threat, he forces or bribes other men to assist him; or mayhap, god in his goodness performs a miracle, and sends him an angel of light for an assistant. and this incapacity for independent action, this moral stupidity, this infirmity of the will, this unwillingness to catch hold and lift, are the things that put pure socialism so far into the future. if men will not act for themselves, what will they do when the benefit of the effort is for all? my heart goes out to the man who does his work when the "boss" is away as well as when he is at home. and the man, who, when given a letter for garcia, quietly takes the missive, without asking any idiotic questions, and with no lurking intention of chucking it into the nearest sewer, or of doing aught else but deliver it, never gets "laid off," nor has to go on a strike for higher wages. civilization is one long anxious search for just such individuals. anything such a man asks shall be granted; his kind is so rare that no employer can afford to let him go. he is wanted in every city, town, and village--in every office, shop, store, and factory. the world cries out for such; he is needed, and needed badly-the man who can carry a message to garcia. shakespeare's "mark antony" anonymous a roman, an orator, and a triumvir, a conqueror when all rome seemed armed against him only to have his glory "false played" by a woman "unto an enemy's triumph,"--such is shakespeare's story of mark antony. passion alternates with passion, purpose with purpose, good with evil, and strength with weakness, until his whole nature seems changed, and we find the same and yet another man. in "julius cæsar" antony is seen at his best. he is the one triumphant figure of the play. cæsar falls. brutus and cassius are in turn victorious and defeated, but antony is everywhere a conqueror. antony weeping over cæsar's body, antony offering his breast to the daggers which have killed his master, is as plainly the sovereign power of the moment as when over cæsar's corpse he forces by his magnetic oratory the prejudiced populace to call down curses on the heads of the conspirators. cæsar's spirit still lives in antony,--a spirit that dares face the conspirators with swords still red with cæsar's blood and bid them, whilst their purple hands do reek and smoke, fulfill their pleasure,--a spirit that over the dead body of cæsar takes the hand of each and yet exclaims:- "had i as many eyes as thou hast wounds, weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood, it would become me better than to close in terms of friendship with thine enemies." permission is granted antony to speak a farewell word over the body of cæsar in the crowded market place. before the populace, hostile and prejudiced, antony stands as the friend of cæsar. slowly, surely, making his approach step by step, with consummate tact he steals away their hearts and paves the way for his own victory. the honorable men gradually turn to villains of the blackest dye. cæsar's mantle, which but a moment before had called forth bitter curses, now brings tears to every roman's eye. the populace fast yields to his eloquence. he conquers every vestige of distrust as he says:- "i am no orator, as brutus is; but, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man, that love my friend; and that they know full well that gave me public leave to speak of him." and now the matchless orator throws off his disguise. with resistless vehemence he pours forth a flood of eloquence which bears the fickle mob like straws before its tide:- "i tell you that which you yourselves do know; show you sweet cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, and bid them speak for me; but were i brutus, and brutus antony, there were an antony would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue in every wound of cæsar, that would move the stones of rome to rise and mutiny." the effect is magical. the rage of the populace is quickened to a white heat; and, baffled, beaten by a plain, blunt man, the terror-stricken conspirators ride like madness through the gates of rome. andr. and hale from "orations and after-dinner speeches," the cassell publishing company, new york, publishers. by chauncey m. depew andré's story is the one overmastering romance of the revolution. american and english literature is full of eloquence and poetry in tribute to his memory and sympathy for his fate. after the lapse of a hundred years, there is no abatement of absorbing interest. what had this young man done to merit immortality? the mission whose tragic issue lifted him out of the oblivion of other minor british officers, in its inception was free from peril or daring, and its objects and purposes were utterly infamous. had he succeeded by the desecration of the honorable uses of passes and flags of truce, his name would have been held in everlasting execration. in his failure the infant republic escaped the dagger with which he was feeling for its heart, and the crime was drowned in tears for his untimely end. his youth and beauty, the brightness of his life, the calm courage in the gloom of his death, his early love and disappointment, surrounded him with a halo of poetry and pity which have secured for him what he most sought and could never have won in battles and sieges,--a fame and recognition which have outlived that of all the generals under whom he served. are kings only grateful, and do not republics forget? is fame a travesty, and the judgment of mankind a farce? america had a parallel case in captain nathan hale. of the same age as andré, he, after graduation at yale college with high honors, enlisted in the patriot cause at the beginning of the contest, and secured the love and confidence of all about him. when none else would go upon a most important and perilous mission, he volunteered, and was captured by the british. while andré received every kindness, courtesy, and attention, and was fed from washington's table, hale was thrust into a noisome dungeon in the sugarhouse. while andré was tried by a board of officers and had ample time and every facility for defense, hale was summarily ordered to execution the next morning. while andré's last wishes and bequests were sacredly followed, the infamous cunningham tore from hale his cherished bible and destroyed before his eyes his last letter to his mother and sister, and asked him what he had to say. "all i have to say," was his reply, "is, i regret i have but one life to lose for my country." the dying declarations of andre and hale express the animating spirit of their several armies, and teach why, with all her power, england could not conquer america. "i call upon you to witness that i die like a brave man," said andré, and he spoke from british and hessian surroundings, seeking only glory and pay. "i regret i have but one life to lose for my country," said hale; and, with him and his comrades, self was forgotten in that absorbing, passionate patriotism which pledges fortune, honor, and life to the sacred cause. the battle of lexington by theodore parker one raw morning in spring--it will be eighty years the nineteenth day of this month--hancock and adams, the moses and aaron of that great deliverance, were both at lexington; they also had "obstructed an officer" with brave words. british soldiers, a thousand strong, came to seize them and carry them over sea for trial, and so nip the bud of freedom auspiciously opening in that early spring. the town militia came together before daylight, "for training." a great, tall man, with a large head and a high, wide brow, their captain,--one who had "seen service,"--marshaled them into line, numbering but seventy, and bade "every man load his piece with powder and ball." "i will order the first man shot that runs away," said he, when some faltered. "don't fire unless fired upon, but if they want to have a war, let it begin here." gentlemen, you know what followed; those farmers and mechanics "fired the shot heard round the world." a little monument covers the bones of such as before had pledged their fortune and their sacred honor to the freedom of america, and that day gave it also their lives. i was born in that little town, and bred up amid the memories of that day. when a boy, my mother lifted me up, on sunday, in her religious, patriotic arms, and held me while i read the first monumental line i ever saw-"sacred to liberty and the rights of mankind." since then i have studied the memorial marbles of greece and rome, in many an ancient town; nay, on egyptian obelisks, have read what was written before the eternal roused up moses to lead israel out of egypt, but no chiseled stone has ever stirred me to such emotion as these rustic names of men who fell "in the sacred cause of god and their country." gentlemen, the spirit of liberty, the love of justice, was early fanned into a flame in my boyish heart. the monument covers the bones of my own kinsfolk; it was their blood which reddened the long, green grass at lexington. it was my own name which stands chiseled on that stone; the tall captain who marshaled his fellow farmers and mechanics into stern array, and spoke such brave and dangerous words as opened the war of american independence,--the last to leave the field,--was my father's father. i learned to read out of his bible, and with a musket he that day captured from the foe, i learned also another religious lesson, that "rebellion to tyrants is obedience to god." i keep them both "sacred to liberty and the rights of mankind," to use them both "in the sacred cause of god and my country." the homes of the people reprinted with the permission of henry w. grady, jr. by henry w. grady i went to washington the other day, and i stood on the capitol hill; my heart beat quick as i looked at the towering marble of my country's capitol, and the mist gathered in my eyes as i thought of its tremendous significance, and the armies and the treasury, and the judges and the president, and the congress and the courts, and all that was gathered there. and i felt that the sun in all its course could not look down on a better sight than that majestic home of a republic that had taught the world its best lessons of liberty. and i felt that if honor and wisdom and justice abided therein, the world would at last owe that great house in which the ark of the covenant of my country is lodged, its final uplifting and its regeneration. two days afterward, i went to visit a friend in the country, a modest man, with a quiet country home. it was just a simple, unpretentious house, set about with big trees, encircled in meadow and field rich with the promise of harvest. inside was quiet, cleanliness, thrift, and comfort. outside, there stood my friend, the master, a simple, upright man, with no mortgage on his roof, no lien on his growing crops, master of his own land and master of himself. there was his old father, an aged, trembling man, but happy in the heart and home of his son. they started to their home, and as they reached the door the old mother came with the sunset falling fair on her face, and lighting up her deep, patient eyes, while her lips, trembling with the rich music of her heart, bade her husband and son welcome to their home. beyond was the housewife, busy with her household cares, clean of heart and conscience, the buckler and helpmeet of her husband. down the lane came the children, trooping home after the cows, seeking as truant birds do the quiet of their home nest. and i saw the night come down on that house, falling gently as the wings of the unseen dove. and the old man--while a startled bird called from the forest, and the trees were shrill with the cricket's cry, and the stars were swarming in the sky--got the family around him, and, taking the old bible from the table, called them to their knees, the little baby hiding in the folds of its mother's dress, while he closed the record of that simple day by calling down god's benediction on that family and on that home. and while i gazed, the vision of that marble capitol faded. forgotten were its treasures and its majesty, and i said, "oh, surely here in the homes of the people are lodged at last the strength and the responsibility of this government, the hope and the promise of this republic." general ulysses s. grant by canon g. w. farrar when abraham lincoln sat, book in hand, day after day, under the tree, moving round it as the shadow crossed, absorbed in mastering his task; when james garfield rang the bell at hiram institute on the very stroke of the hour and swept the schoolroom as faithfully as he mastered his greek lesson; when ulysses grant, sent with his team to meet some men who came to load his cart with logs, and, finding no men, loaded the cart with his own boy's strength, they showed in the conscientious performance of duty the qualities which were to raise them to become kings of men. when john adams was told that his son, john quincy adams, had been elected president of the united states, he said, "he has always been laborious, child and man, from infancy." but the youth was not destined to die in the deep valley of obscurity and toil, in which it is the lot--and perhaps the happy lot--of most of us to spend our little lives. the hour came; the man was needed. in 1861 there broke out that most terrible war of modern days. grant received a commission as colonel of volunteers, and in four years the struggling toiler had been raised to the chief command of a vaster army than has ever been handled by any mortal man. who could have imagined that four years would make that enormous difference? but it is often so. the great men needed for some tremendous crisis have stepped often, as it were, out of a door in the wall which no man had noticed; and, unannounced, unheralded, without prestige, have made their way silently and single-handed to the front. and there was no luck in it. it was a work of inflexible faithfulness, of indomitable resolution, of sleepless energy, and iron purpose and tenacity. in the campaigns at fort donelson; in the desperate battle at shiloh; in the siege of corinth; in battle after battle, in seige after seige; whatever grant had to do, he did it with his might. other generals might fail--he would not fail. he showed what a man could do whose will was strong. he undertook, as general sherman said of him, what no one else would have ventured and his very soldiers began to reflect something of his indomitable determination. his sayings revealed the man. "i have nothing to do with opinions," he said at the outset," and shall only deal with armed rebellion." "in riding over the field," he said at shiloh, "i saw that either side was ready to give way, if the other showed a bold front. i took the opportunity, and ordered an advance along the whole line." "no terms," he wrote to general buckner at fort donelson (and it is pleasant to know that general buckner stood as a warm friend beside his dying bed); "no terms other than unconditional surrender can be accepted." "my headquarters," he wrote from vicksburg, "will be on the field." with a military genius which embraced the vastest plans while attending to the smallest details, he defeated, one after another, every great general of the confederates except stonewall jackson. the southerners felt that he held them as in the grasp of a vise; that this man could neither be arrested nor avoided. for all this he has been severely blamed. he ought not to be blamed. he has been called a butcher, which is grossly unjust. he loved peace; he hated bloodshed; his heart was generous and kind. his orders were to save lives, to save treasure, but at all costs to save his country--and he did save his country. after the surrender at appomattox court house, the war was over. he had put his hand to the plow and had looked not back. he had made blow after blow, each following where the last had struck; he had wielded like a hammer the gigantic forces at his disposal, and had smitten opposition into the dust. it was a mighty work, and he had done it well. surely history has shown that for the future destinies of a mighty nation it was a necessary and blessed work! american courage from the copyrighted print in "a modern reader and speaker," by george riddle, with the permission of duffield and company, new york, publishers. by sherman hoar i fear we undervalue the devotion to country which comes from a contemplation of what has been done and suffered in her name. i feel that we teach those who are to make or mar the future of this nation too much of what has been done elsewhere, and too little of what has been done here. courage is the characteristic of no one land or time. the world's history is full of it and the lessons it teaches. american courage, however, is of this nation; it is ours, and if the finest national spirit is worth the creating; if patriotism is still a quality to be engendered in our youth; if love of country is still to be a strong power for good, those acts of devotion and of heroic personal sacrifice with which our history is filled, are worthy of earnest study, of continued contemplation, and of perpetual consideration. "let him who will, sing deeds done well across the sea, here, lovely land, men bravely live and die for thee." the particular example i desire to speak about is of that splendid quality of courage which dares everything not for self or country, but for an enemy. it is of that kind which is called into existence not by dreams of glory, or by love of land, but by the highest human desire; the desire to mitigate suffering in those who are against us. in the afternoon of the day after the battle of fredericksburg, general kershaw of the confederate army was sitting in his quarters when suddenly a young south carolinian named kirkland entered, and, after the usual salutations, said: "general, i can't stand this." the general, thinking the statement a little abrupt, asked what it was he could not stand, and kirkland replied: "those poor fellows out yonder have been crying for water all day, and i have come to you to ask if i may go and give them some." the "poor fellows" were union soldiers who lay wounded between the union and confederate lines. to go to them, kirkland must go beyond the protection of the breastworks and expose himself to a fire from the union sharpshooters, who, so far during that day, had made the raising above the confederate works of so much as a head an act of extreme danger. general kershaw at first refused to allow kirkland to go on his errand, but at last, as the lad persisted in his request, declined to forbid him, leaving the responsibility for action with the boy himself. kirkland, in perfect delight, rushed from the general's quarters to the front, where he gathered all the canteens he could carry, filled them with water, and going over the breastworks, started to give relief to his wounded enemies. no sooner was he in the open field than our sharpshooters, supposing he was going to plunder their comrades, began to fire at him. for some minutes he went about doing good under circumstances of most imminent personal danger. soon, however, those to whom he was taking the water recognized the character of his undertaking. all over the field men sat up and called to him, and those too hurt to raise themselves, held up their hands and beckoned to him. soon our sharpshooters, who luckily had not hit him, saw that he was indeed an angel of mercy, and stopped their fire, and two armies looked with admiration at the young man's pluck and lovingkindness. with a beautiful tenderness, kirkland went about his work, giving of the water to all, and here and there placing a knapsack pillow under some poor wounded fellow's head, or putting in a more comfortable position some shattered leg or arm. then he went back to his own lines and the fighting went on. tell me of a more exalted example of personal courage and self-denial than that of that confederate soldier, or one which more clearly deserves the name of christian fortitude. in that terrible war of the rebellion, kirkland gave up his life for a mistaken cause in the battle of chickamauga, but i cannot help thanking god that, in our reunited country, we are joint heirs with the men from the south in the glory and inspiration that come from such heroic deeds as his. the minutemen of the revolution reprinted, with permission, from "the orations and addresses of george william curtis," vol. iii. copyright, 1894, by harper and brothers. by george william curtis the minuteman of the revolution! and who was he? he was the old, the middle-aged, and the young. he was the husband and the father, who left his plow in the furrow and his hammer on the bench, and marched to die or be free. he was the son and lover, the plain, shy youth of the singing school and the village choir, whose heart beat to arms for his country, and who felt, though he could not say with the old english cavalier:- "i could not love thee, dear, so much, loved i not honor more." he was the man who was willing to pour out his life's blood for a principle. intrenched in his own honesty, the king's gold could not buy him; enthroned in the love of his fellow citizens, the king's writ could not take him; and when, on the morning of lexington, the king's troops marched to seize him, his sublime faith saw, beyond the clouds of the moment, the rising sun of the america we behold, and, careless of himself, mindful only of his country, he exultingly exclaimed, "oh, what a glorious morning!" and then, amid the flashing hills, the ringing woods, the flaming roads, he smote with terror the haughty british column, and sent it shrinking, bleeding, wavering, and reeling through the streets of the village, panic-stricken and broken. him we gratefully recall to-day; him we commit in his immortal youth to the reverence of our children. and here amid these peaceful fields,-here in the heart of middlesex county, of lexington and concord and bunker hill, stand fast, son of liberty, as the minuteman stood at the old north bridge. but should we or our descendants, false to justice or humanity, betray in any way their cause, spring into life as a hundred years ago, take one more step, descend, and lead us, as god led you in saving america, to save the hopes of man. no hostile fleet for many a year has vexed the waters of our coast; nor is any army but our own likely to tread our soil. not such are our enemies to-day. they do not come, proudly stepping to the drumbeat, their bayonets flashing in the morning sun. but wherever party spirit shall strain the ancient guarantees of freedom; or bigotry and ignorance shall lay their fatal hands on education; or the arrogance of caste shall strike at equal rights; or corruption shall poison the very springs of national life,--there, minuteman of liberty, are your lexington green and concord bridge. and as you love your country and your kind, and would have your children rise up and call you blessed, spare not the enemy. over the hills, out of the earth, down from the clouds, pour in resistless might. fire from every rock and tree, from door and window, from hearthstone and chamber. hang upon his flank from morn to sunset, and so, through a land blazing with indignation, hurl the hordes of ignorance and corruption and injustice back--back in utter defeat and ruin. paul revere's ride reprinted with permission from "the orations and addresses of george william curtis," vol. iii. copyright 1894, by harper and brothers. by george william curtis on tuesday, april 18, 1775, gage, the royal governor, who had decided to send a force to concord to destroy the stores, picketed the roads from boston into middlesex, to prevent any report of the intended march from spreading into the country. but the very air was electric. in the tension of the popular mind, every sound and sight was significant. in the afternoon, one of the governor's grooms strolled into a stable where john ballard was cleaning a horse. john ballard was a son of liberty; and when the groom idly remarked in nervous english "about what would occur to-morrow," john's heart leaped and his hand shook, and, asking the groom to finish cleaning the horse, he ran to a friend, who carried the news straight to paul revere. gage thought that his secret had been kept, but lord percy, who had heard the people say on the common that the troops would miss their aim, undeceived him. gage instantly ordered that no one should leave the town. but dr. warren was before him, and, as the troops crossed the river, paul revere was rowing over the river farther down to charlestown, having agreed with his friend, robert newman, to show lanterns from the belfry of the old north church,- "one, if by land, and two, if by sea," as a signal of the march of the british. it was a brilliant april night. the winter had been unusually mild and the spring very forward. the hills were already green; the early grain waved in the fields, and the air was sweet with blossoming orchards. under the cloudless moon the soldiers silently marched, and paul revere swiftly rode, galloping through medford and west cambridge, rousing every house as he went, spurring for lexington and hancock and adams, and evading the british patrols, who had been sent out to stop the news. stop the news! already the village church bells were beginning to ring the alarm, as the pulpits beneath them had been ringing for many a year. in the awakening houses lights flashed from window to window. drums beat faintly far away and on every side. signal guns flashed and echoed. the watchdogs barked; the cocks crew. stop the news! stop the sunrise! the murmuring night trembled with the summons so earnestly expected, so dreaded, so desired. and as, long ago, the voice rang out at midnight along the syrian shore, wailing that great pan was dead, but in the same moment the choiring angels whispered, "glory to god in the highest, for christ is born," so, if the stern alarm of that april night seemed to many a wistful and loyal heart to portend the passing glory of british dominion and the tragical chance of war, it whispered to them with prophetic inspiration, "good will to men; america is born!" there is a tradition that long before the troops reached lexington an unknown horseman thundered at the door of captain joseph robbins in acton, waking every man and woman and babe in the cradle, shouting that the regulars were marching to concord and that the rendezvous was the old north bridge. captain robbins' son, a boy of ten years, heard the summons in the garret where he lay, and in a few minutes was on his father's old mare, a young paul revere, galloping along the road to rouse captain isaac davis, who commanded the minutemen of acton. the company assembled at his shop, formed, and marched a little way, when he halted them and returned for a moment to his house. he said to his wife, "take good care of the children," kissed her, turned to his men, gave the order to march, and saw his home no more. such was the history of that night in how many homes! the hearts of those men and women of middlesex might break, but they could not waver. they had counted the cost. they knew what and whom they served; and, as the midnight summons came, they started up and answered, "here am i!" the arts of the ancients from "speeches and lectures," with the permission of lothrop, lee and shepard, boston, publishers. by wendell phillips we have a pitying estimate, a tender compassion, for the narrowness, ignorance, and darkness of the bygone ages. we seem to ourselves not only to monopolize, but to have begun, the era of light. in other words, we are all running over with a fourth-day-of-july spirit of self-content. i am often reminded of the german whom the english poet coleridge met at frankfort. he always took off his hat with profound respect when he ventured to speak of himself. it seems to me, the american people might be painted in the chronic attitude of taking off its hat to itself. considering their employment of the mechanical forces, and their movement of large masses from the earth, we know that the egyptians had the five, seven, or three mechanical powers; but we cannot account for the multiplication and increase necessary to perform the wonders they accomplished. there is a book telling how domenico fontana of the sixteenth century set up the egyptian obelisk at rome on end, in the papacy of sixtus v. wonderful! yet the egyptians quarried that stone, and carried it a hundred and fifty miles, and the romans brought it seven hundred and fifty miles, and never said a word about it. take canals. the suez canal absorbs half its receipts in cleaning out the sand which fills it continually, and it is not yet known whether it is a pecuniary success. the ancients built a canal at right angles to ours; because they knew it would not fill up if built in that direction, and they knew such a one as ours would. there were magnificent canals in the land of the jews, with perfectly arranged gates and sluices. we have only just begun to understand ventilation properly for our houses; yet late experiments at the pyramids in egypt show that those egyptian tombs were ventilated in the most perfect and scientific manner. again, cement is modern, for the ancients dressed and joined their stones so closely, that, in buildings thousands of years old the thin blade of a penknife cannot be forced between them. the railroad dates back to egypt. arago has claimed that they had a knowledge of steam. a painting has been discovered of a ship full of machinery, and a could only be accounted for by supposing the motive power to have been steam. bramah acknowledges that he took the idea of his celebrated lock from an ancient egyptian pattern. de tocqueville says that there was no social question that was not discussed to rags in egypt. "well," say you, "franklin invented the lightning rod." i have no doubt he did; but years before his invention, and before muskets were invented, the old soldiers on guard on the towers used franklin's invention to keep guard with; and if a spark passed between them and the spearhead, they ran and bore the warning of the state and condition of affairs. after that you will admit that benjamin franklin was not the only one that knew of the presence of electricity, and the advantages derived from its use. solomon's temple you will find was situated on an exposed point of the hill: the temple was so lofty that it was often in peril, and was guarded by a system exactly like that of benjamin franklin. well, i may tell you a little of ancient manufactures. the duchess of burgundy took a necklace from the neck of a mummy, and wore it to a ball given at the tuileries; and everybody said they thought it was the newest thing there. a hindoo princess came into court; and her father, seeing her, said, "go home, you are not decently covered,--go home;" and she said, "father, i have seven suits on;" but the suits were of muslin so thin that the king could see through them, a roman poet says, "the girl was in the poetic dress of the country." i fancy the french would be rather astonished at this. four hundred and fifty years ago the first spinning machine was introduced into europe. i have evidence to show that it made its first appearance two thousand years before. why have i groped among these ashes? i have told you these facts to show you that we have not invented everything--that we do not monopolize the encyclopedia. the past had knowledge. but it was the knowledge of the classes, not of the masses. "the beauty that was greece and the grandeur that was rome" were exclusive, the possession of the few. the science of egypt was amazing; but it meant privilege-the privilege of the king and the priest. it separated royalty and priesthood from the people, and was the engine of oppression. when cambyses came down from persia and thundered across egypt, treading out royalty and priesthood, he trampled out at the same time civilization itself. the distinctive glory of the nineteenth century is that it distributes knowledge; that it recognizes the divine will, which is that every man has a right to know whatever may be serviceable to himself or to his fellows; that it makes the church, the schoolhouse, and the town hall, its symbols, and humanity its care. this democratic spirit will animate our arts with immortality, if god means that they shall last. a man without a country an extract from "a man without a country" by edward everett hale philip nolan was as fine a young officer as there was in the "legion of the west," as the western division of our army was then called. when aaron burr made his first dashing expedition down to new orleans in 1805, at fort massac, or somewhere above on the river, he met, as the devil would have it, this gay, dashing, bright young fellow; at some dinner party, i think. burr marked him, talked to him, walked with him, took him a day or two's voyage in his flatboat, and, in short, fascinated him. for the next year, barrack life was very tame to poor nolan. he occasionally availed himself of the permission the great man had given him to write to him. long, high-worded, stilted letters the poor boy wrote and rewrote and copied. but never a line did he have in reply from the gay deceiver. the other boys in the garrison sneered at him, because he sacrificed in this unrequited affection for a politician the time which they devoted to monongahela, hazard, and high-low-jack. but one day nolan had his revenge. this time burr came down the river, not as an attorney seeking a place for his office, but as a disguised conquerer. he had defeated i know not how many district attorneys; he had dined at i know not how many public dinners; he had been heralded in i don't know how many "weekly arguses," and it was rumored that he had an army behind him and an empire before him. it was a great day--his arrival--to poor nolan. burr had not been at the fort an hour before he sent for him. that evening he asked nolan to take him out in his skiff, to show him a canebrake or a cottonwood tree, as he said--really to seduce him; and by the time the sail was over, nolan was enlisted body and soul. from that time, though he did not yet know it, he lived as a man without a country. what burr meant to do i know no more than you. it is none of our business just now. only, when the grand catastrophe came, and jefferson and the house of virginia of that day undertook to break on the wheel all the possible clarences of the then house of york, by the great treason trial at richmond, some of the lesser fry in that distant mississippi valley, which was farther from us than puget's sound is today, introduced the like novelty on their provincial stage; and, to while away the monotony of the summer at fort adams, got up, for "spectacles," a string of court-martials on the officers there. one and another of the colonels and majors were tried, and, to fill out the list, little nolan, against whom, heaven knows, there was evidence enough--that he was sick of the service, had been willing to be false to it, and would have obeyed any order to march any-whither with any one who would follow him had the order been signed, "by command of his exc. a. burr." the courts dragged on. the big flies escaped--rightly for all i know. nolan was proved guilty enough, as i say; yet you and i would never have heard of him, but that, when the president of the court asked him at the close whether he wished to say anything to show that he had always been faithful to the united states, he cried out, in a fit of frenzy:--"damn the united states! i wish i may never hear of the united states again!" i suppose he did not know how the words shocked old colonel morgan, who was holding the court. he, on his part, had grown up in the west of those days, in the midst of "spanish plot," "orleans plot," and all the rest. he had spent half his youth with an older brother, hunting horses in texas; and, in a word, to him "united states" was scarcely a reality. yet he had been fed by "united states" for all the years since he had been in the army. he had sworn on his faith as a christian to be true to "united states." it was "united states" which gave him the uniform he wore, and the sword by his side. i do not excuse nolan; i only explain to the reader why he damned his country, and wished he might never hear her name again. he never did hear her name but once again. from that moment, september 23, 1807, till the day he died, may 11, 1863, he never heard her name again. for that half century and more he was a man without a country. old morgan, as i said, was terribly shocked. he called the court into his private room, and returned in fifteen minutes, with a face like a sheet, to say:-"prisoner, hear the sentence of the court! the court decides, subject to the approval of the president, that you never hear the name of the united states again." nolan laughed. but nobody else laughed. old morgan was too solemn, and the whole room was hushed dead as night for a minute. even nolan lost his swagger in a moment. then morgan added:-"mr. marshal, take the prisoner to orleans in an armed boat, and deliver him to the naval commander there." the marshal gave his orders and the prisoner was taken out of court. "mr. marshal," continued old morgan, "see that no one mentions the united states to the prisoner. mr. marshal, make my respects to lieutenant mitchell at orleans, and request him to order that no one shall mention the united states to the prisoner while he is on board ship. you will receive your written orders from the officer on duty here this evening. the court is adjourned without day." the plan then adopted was substantially the same which was necessarily followed ever after. the secretary of the navy was requested to put nolan on board a government vessel bound on a long cruise, and to direct that he should be only so far confined there as to make it certain that he never saw or heard of the country. one afternoon a lot of the men sat on the deck smoking and reading aloud. well, so it happened that in his turn nolan took the book and read to the others; and he read very well. nobody in the circle knew a line of the poem, only it was all magic and border chivalry, and was ten thousand years ago. poor nolan read steadily through the fifth canto without a thought of what was coming:- "breathes there the man with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said,"-it seems impossible to us that anybody ever heard this for the first time; but all these fellows did then, and poor nolan himself went on, still unconsciously or mechanically:- "this is my own, my native land!" then they all saw something was to pay; but he expected to get through, i suppose, turned a little pale, but plunged on:- "whose heart hath ne'er within him burned as home his footsteps he hath turned from wandering on a foreign strand?- if such there breathe, go, mark him well,"-by this time the men were all beside themselves, wishing there was any way to make him turn over two pages; but he had not quite presence of mind for that; he gagged a little, colored crimson, and staggered on:- "for him no minstrel raptures swell; high though his titles, proud his name, boundless his wealth as wish can claim, despite these titles, power, and pelf, the wretch, concentred all in self,"-and here the poor fellow choked, could not go on, but started up, swung the book into the sea, vanished into his stateroom, and we did not see him for two months again. he never entered in with the young men exactly as a companion again; but generally he had the nervous, tired look of a heart-wounded man. and when nolan died, there was found in his bible a slip of paper at the place where he had marked the text:-"they desire a country, even a heavenly; wherefore god is not ashamed to be called their god; for he hath prepared for them a city." on this slip of paper he had written:-"bury me in the sea; it has been my home, and i love it. but will not some one set up a stone for my memory at fort adams or at orleans, that my disgrace may not be more than i ought to bear? say on it:- "in memory of "philip nolan, "_lieutenant in the army of the united states_. "he loved his country as no other man has loved her; but no man deserved less at her hands." the execution of rodriguez from "cuba in war time," with the author's permission by richard harding davis adolfo rodriguez was the only son of a cuban farmer. when the revolution broke out, young rodriguez joined the insurgents, leaving his father and mother and two sisters at the farm. he was taken by the spanish, was tried by a military court for bearing arms against the government, and sentenced to be shot by a fusillade some morning before sunrise. his execution took place a half mile distant from the city, on the great plain that stretches from the forts out to the hills, beyond which rodriguez had lived for nineteen years. there had been a full moon the night preceding the execution, and when the squad of soldiers marched out from town, it was still shining brightly through the mists. it lighted a plain two miles in extent broken by ridges and gullies and covered with thick, high grass and with bunches of cactus and palmetto. the execution was quickly finished with rough, and, but for one frightful blunder, with merciful swiftness. the crowd fell back when it came to the square of soldiery, and the condemned man, the priests, and the firing squad of six young volunteers passed in and the lines closed behind them. rodriguez bent and kissed the cross which the priest held up before him. he then walked to where the officer directed him to stand, and turned his back to the square and faced the hills and the road across them which led to his father's farm. as the officer gave the first command he straightened himself as far as the cords would allow, and held up his head and fixed his eyes immovably on the morning light which had just begun to show above the hills. the officer had given the order, the men had raised their pieces, and the condemned man had heard the clicks of the triggers as they were pulled back, and he had not moved. and then happened one of the most cruelly refined, though unintentional, acts of torture that one can very well imagine. as the officer slowly raised his sword, preparatory to giving the signal, one of the mounted officers rode up to him and pointed out silently--the firing squad were so placed that when they fired they would shoot several of the soldiers stationed on the extreme end of the square. their captain motioned his men to lower their pieces, and then walked across the grass and laid his hand on the shoulder of the waiting prisoner. it is not pleasant to think what that shock must have been. the man had steeled himself to receive a volley of bullets in the back. he believed that in the next instant he would be in another world; he had heard the command given, had heard the click of the mausers as the locks caught--and then, at that supreme moment, a human hand had been laid upon his shoulder and a voice spoke in his ear. you would expect that any man who had been snatched back to life in such a fashion would start and tremble at the reprieve, or would break down altogether, but this boy turned his head steadily, and followed with his eyes the direction of the officer's sword, then nodded his head gravely, and with his shoulders squared, took up a new position, straightened his back again, and once more held himself erect. as an exhibition of self-control this should surely rank above feats of heroism performed in battle, where there are thousands of comrades to give inspiration. this man was alone, in sight of the hills he knew, with only enemies about him, with no source to draw on for strength but that which lay within himself. the officer of the firing squad, mortified by his blunder, hastily whipped up his sword, the men once more leveled their rifles, the sword rose, dropped, and the men fired. at the report the cuban's head snapped back almost between his shoulders, but his body fell slowly, as though some one had pushed him gently forward from behind and he had stumbled. he sank on his side in the wet grass without a struggle or sound, and did not move again. at that moment the sun, which had shown some promise of its coming in the glow above the hills, shot up suddenly from behind them in all the splendor of the tropics, a fierce, red disk of heat, and filled the air with warmth and light. the informal discussion the flood of books from "essays in application," with the permission of charles scribner's sons, new york, publishers. by henry van dyke there is the highest authority for believing that a man's life, even though he be an author, consists not in the abundance of things that he possesses. rather is its real value to be sought in the quality of the ideas and feelings that possess him, and in the effort to embody them in his work. the work is the great thing. the delight of clear and steady thought, of free and vivid imagination, of pure and strong emotion; the fascination of searching for the right words, which sometimes come in shoals like herring, so that the net can hardly contain them, and at other times are more shy and fugacious than the wary trout which refuse to be lured from their hiding places; the pleasure of putting the fit phrase in the proper place, of making a conception stand out plain and firm with no more and no less than is needed for its expression, of doing justice to an imaginary character so that it shall have its own life and significance in the world of fiction, of working a plot or an argument clean through to its inevitable close: these inward and unpurchasable joys are the best wages of the men and women who write. what more will they get? well, unless history forgets to repeat itself, their additional wages, their personal dividends under the profitsharing system, so to speak, will be various. some will probably get more than they deserve, others less. the next best thing to the joy of work is the winning of gentle readers and friends who find some good in your book, and are grateful for it, and think kindly of you for writing it. the next best thing to that is the recognition, on the part of people who know, that your work is well done, and of fine quality. that is called fame, or glory, and the writer who professes to care nothing for it is probably deceiving himself, or else his liver is out of order. real reputation, even of a modest kind and of a brief duration, is a good thing; an author ought to be able to be happy without it, but happier with it. effectiveness in speaking from the introduction to "the world's famous orations," with the permission of funk and wagnalls company, new york and london, publishers. by william jennings bryan while it is absolutely necessary for the orator to master his subject and to speak with earnestness, his speech can be made more effective by the addition of clearness, brevity and apt illustrations. clearness of statement is of very great importance. it is not sufficient to say that there are certain self-evident truths; it is more accurate to say that all truth is self-evident. because truth is self-evident, the best service that one can render a truth is to state it so clearly that it can be comprehended, needs no argument in its support. in debate, therefore, one's first effort should be to state his own side so clearly and concisely as to make the principles involved easily understood. his second object should be so to divest his opponent's argument of useless verbiage as to make it stand forth clearly; for as truth is self-evident, so error bears upon its face its own condemnation. error needs only to be exposed to be overthrown. brevity of statement also contributes to the force of a speaker. it is possible so to enfold a truth in long-drawn-out sentences as practically to conceal it. the epigram is powerful because it is full of meat and short enough to be remembered. to know when to stop is almost as important as to know where to begin and how to proceed. the ability to condense great thoughts into small words and brief sentences is an attribute of genius. often one lays down a book with the feeling that the author has "said nothing with elaboration," while in perusing another book one finds a whole sermon in a single sentence, or an unanswerable argument couched in a well-turned phrase. the interrogatory is frequently employed by the orator, and when wisely used is irresistible. what dynamic power for instance, there is in that question propounded by christ, "what shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" volumes could not have presented so effectively the truth that he sought to impress upon his hearers. the illustration has no unimportant place in the equipment of the orator. we understand a thing more easily when we know that it is like something which we have already seen. illustrations may be drawn from two sources--nature and literature--and of the two, those from nature have the greater weight. all learning is valuable; all history is useful. by knowing what has been we can better judge the future; by knowing how men have acted heretofore we can understand how they will act again in similar circumstances. but people know nature better than they know books, and the illustrations drawn from everyday life are the most effective. if the orator can seize upon something within the sight or hearing of his audience,--something that comes to his notice at the moment and as if not thought of before,--it will add to the effectiveness of the illustration. for instance, paul's speech to the athenians derived a large part of its strength from the fact that he called attention to an altar near by, erected "to the unknown god," and then proceeded to declare unto them the god whom they ignorantly worshiped. abraham lincoln used scripture quotations very frequently and very powerfully. probably no bible quotation, or, for that matter, no quotation from any book ever has had more influence upon a people than the famous quotation made by lincoln in his springfield speech of 1858,--"a house divided against itself cannot stand." it is said that he had searched for some time for a phrase which would present in the strongest possible way the proposition he intended to advance--namely, that the nation could not endure half slave and half free. it is a compliment to a public speaker that the audience should discuss what he says rather than his manner of saying it; more complimentary that they should remember his arguments, than that they should praise his rhetoric. the orator should seek to conceal himself behind his subject. if he presents himself in every speech he is sure to become monotonous, if not offensive. if, however, he focuses attention upon his subject, he can find an infinite number of themes and, therefore, give variety to his speech. books, literature, and the people from "essays in application," with the permission of charles scribner's sons, new york, publishers. by henry van dyke every one knows what books are. but what is literature? it is the ark on the flood. it is the light on the candlestick. it is the flower among the leaves; the consummation of the plant's vitality, the crown of its beauty, and the treasure house of its seeds. it is hard to define, easy to describe. literature is made up of those writings which translate the inner meanings of nature and life, in language of distinction and charm, touched with the personality of the author, into artistic forms of permanent interest. the best literature, then, is that which has the deepest significance, the most lucid style, the most vivid individuality, and the most enduring form. on the last point contemporary judgment is but guess-work, but on the three other points it should not be impossible to form, nor improper to express, a definite opinion. literature has its permanent marks. it is a connected growth, and its life history is unbroken. masterpieces have never been produced by men who have had no masters. reverence for good work is the foundation of literary character. the refusal to praise bad work, or to imitate it, is an author's personal chastity. good work is the most honorable and lasting thing in the world. four elements enter into good work in literature:--an original impulse--not necessarily a new idea, but a new sense of the value of an idea. a first-hand study of the subject and the material. a patient, joyful, unsparing labor for the perfection of form. a human aim--to cheer, console, purify, or ennoble the life of the people. without this aim literature has never sent an arrow close to the mark. it is only by good work that men of letters can justify their right to a place in the world. the father of thomas carlyle was a stonemason, whose walls stood true and needed no rebuilding. carlyle's prayer was, "let me write my books as he built his houses." education for business from an address before the new york chamber of commerce, 1890 by charles william eliot before we can talk together to advantage about the value of education in business, we ought to come to a common understanding about the sort of education we mean and the sort of business. we must not think of the liberal education of to-day as dealing with a dead past--with dead languages, buried peoples, exploded philosophies; on the contrary, everything which universities now teach is quick with life and capable of application to modern uses. they teach indeed the languages and literature of judea, greece, and rome; but it is because those literatures are instinct with eternal life. they teach mathematics, but it is mathematics mostly created within the lifetime of the older men here present. in teaching english, french, and german, they are teaching the modern vehicles of all learning--just what latin was in medieval times. as to history, political science, and natural science, the subjects, and all the methods by which they are taught, may properly be said to be new within a century. liberal education is not to be justly regarded as something dry, withered, and effete; it is as full of sap as the cedars of lebanon. and what sort of business do we mean? surely the larger sorts of legitimate and honorable business; that business which is of advantage both to buyer and seller, and to producer, distributor, and consumer alike, whether individuals or nations, which makes common some useful thing which has been rare, or makes accessible to the masses good things which have been within reach only of the few--i wish i could say simply which make dear things cheap; but recent political connotations of the word cheap forbid. we mean that great art of production and exchange which through the centuries has increased human comfort, cherished peace, fostered the fine arts, developed the pregnant principle of associated action, and promoted both public security and public liberty. with this understanding of what we mean by education on the one hand and business on the other, let us see if there can be any doubt as to the nature of the relations between them. the business man in large affairs requires keen observation, a quick mental grasp of new subjects, and a wide range of knowledge. whence come these powers and attainments--either to the educated or to the uneducated--save through practice and study? but education is only early systematic practice and study under guidance. the object of all good education is to develop just these powers--accuracy in observation, quickness and certainty in seizing upon the main points of new subjects, and discrimination in separating the trivial from the important in great masses of facts. this is what liberal education does for the physician, the lawyer, the minister, and the scientist. this is what it can do also for the man of business; to give a mental power is one of the main ends of the higher education. is not active business a field in which mental power finds full play? again, education imparts knowledge, and who has greater need to know economics, history, and natural science than the man of large business? further, liberal education develops a sense of right, duty, and honor; and more and more, in the modern world, large business rests on rectitude and honor, as well as on good judgment. education does this through the contemplation and study of the moral ideals of our race; not in drowsiness or dreaminess or in mere vague enjoyment of poetic and religious abstractions, but in the resolute purpose to apply spiritual ideals to actual life. the true university fosters ideals, but always to urge that they be put into practice in the real world. when the universities hold up before their youth the great semitic ideals which were embodied in the decalogue, they mean that those ideals should be applied in politics. when they teach their young men that asiatic ideal of unknown antiquity, the golden rule, they mean that their disciples shall apply it to business; when they inculcate that comprehensive maxim of christian ethics, "ye are all members of one another," they mean that this moral principle is applicable to all human relations, whether between individuals, families, states, or nations. the beginnings of american oratory from the author's lectures on oratory, with his permission by thomas wentworth higginson it is a singular fact that the three leaders of the revolution, in the massachusetts colony, john adams, sam adams, and oxenbridge thatcher, were all trained originally to be clergymen, and all afterwards determined to be lawyers, and get their legal training in addition. john adams did it; oxenbridge thatcher did it. sam adams's parents held so hard to the doctrine that the law was a disreputable profession that they never allowed him to enter it. he went into business, but before he got through, mixed himself up with legal questions more than the two others put together. and what is more, and what has only lately been brought out distinctly, there existed in the southern colonies represented by virginia very much the same feeling, only coming from a different source. it was not a question of church membership or of ecclesiastical training--the southern colonies never troubled themselves very much about those things--but turned upon a wholly different thing. the southern colonies were based on land ownership; the aim was to build up a type of society like the english type, an aristocratic system of landowners as in england. and these miscellaneous men who, without owning large estates or large numbers of slaves, came forward to try cases in court, were regarded with the same sort of suspicion which the same class had to meet in massachusetts. patrick henry, the greatest of virginians for the purpose for which providence had marked him out, was always regarded by jefferson in very much the same light in which sam adams was by his uncles, who were afraid he wanted to be a lawyer. henry was regarded as a man from the people, an irregularly trained man. jefferson, you will find, criticizes his pronunciation severely. he talked about "yearth" instead of "earth." he said that a man's "nateral" parts needed to be improved by "eddication." jefferson had traveled in europe and talked with cultivated men in other countries. he did not do that sort of thing, and he, not being a man of the most generous or candid nature, always tries to make us think that patrick henry was a nobody who had very little practice. and it was not until the admirable life of him written for the "american statesmen" series by my predecessor in this lectureship, moses coit tyler, whose loss we so greatly mourn, that it was clearly made out that, on the contrary, he had an immense legal practice and was wonderfully successful in a great variety of cases. so, both north and south, there was this antagonism to this new class coming forward; and yet that new class stepped forward and took the leadership of the american revolution. not that the clergy were false to their duty. they did their duty well. there is a book by j. wingate thornton, called "the clergy of the american revolution," which contains an admirable and powerful series of sermons by those very clergymen whom i have criticized for their limitations. they did their part admirably, and yet one sees as time goes on that the lawyers are taking matters into their own hands. but the change was not always a benefit to the style of oratory. it was a period of somewhat formal style; it was not a period when the english language was reaching to its highest sources. you will be surprised to find, for instance, in the books and addresses of that period how little shakespeare is quoted, how much oftener much inferior poets. in edmund burke's orations he quotes shakespeare very little; and edmund burke's orations are interesting especially for this, that they are not probably the original addresses which he gave, are literature rather than oratory, and are now generally supposed to have been written out afterwards. like burke most of the orators of that period have a certain formal style. when all is said and done, the clergy got a certain pithiness from that terrific habit they had of going back every little while and pinning down their thought with a text. one english clergyman of the period compared his text to a horse block on which he ascended when he wished to mount his horse, and then he rode his horse as long as he wished and might or might not come back to that horse block again. therefore we see in the oratory of that time a certain formality. moreover, in the absence of the modern reporter, we really do not know exactly what was said in the greatest speeches of that day. the modern reporter, whose aim is to report everything that is said, and who generally succeeds in putting in a great many fine things which haven't occurred to the orators--the modern reporter was not known, and we have but very few descriptions even of the great orations. daniel webster, the man from the author's lectures on oratory, with his permission by thomas wentworth higginson it happened to me, when i was in college, to be once on some business at an office on state street in boston, then as now the central business street of the place, in a second-story office where there were a number of young men writing busily at their desks. presently one of the youths, passing by accident across the room, stopped suddenly and said,-"there is daniel webster!" in an instant every desk in that room was vacated, every pane in every window was filled with a face looking out, and i, hastening up behind them, found it difficult to get a view of the street so densely had they crowded round it. and once looking out, i saw all up and down the street, in every window i could see, just the same mass of eager faces behind the windows. those faces were all concentrated on a certain figure, a farmer-like, sunburned man who stood, roughly clothed, with his hands behind him, speaking to no one, looking nowhere in particular; waiting, so far as i could see, for nothing, with broad shoulders and heavy muscles, and the head of a hero above. such a brow, such massive formation, such magnificent black eyes, such straight black eyebrows i had never seen before. that man, it appeared, was daniel webster! i saw people go along the street sidling along past him, looking up at him as if he were the statue of liberty enlightening the world in new york harbor. nobody knew what he wanted, it never was explained; he may have been merely waiting for some companion to go fishing. but there he was, there he stands in my memory. i don't know what happened afterwards, or how these young men ever got back to their desks--if they ever did. for me, however, that figure was revealed by one brief duplicate impression, which came in a few months afterwards when i happened to be out in brookline, a suburb of boston, where people used to drive then, as they drive now, on summer afternoons for afternoon tea--only, afternoon tea not having been invented, they drove out to their neighbors' houses for fruit or a cup of chocolate. you have heard boston perhaps called the "hub of the universe." a lady, not a bostonian, once said that if boston were the hub of the universe, brookline ought to be called the "sub-hub." in the "sub-hub" i was sitting in the house of a kinsman who had a beautiful garden; who was the discoverer, in fact, of the boston nectarine, which all the world came to his house to taste. i heard voices in the drawing-room and went in there. and there i saw again before me the figure of that day on state street, but it was the figure of a man with a beamingly goodnatured face, seated in a solid chair brought purposely to accommodate his weight, sitting there with the simple culinary provision of a cup of chocolate in his hand. it so happened that the great man, the godlike daniel, as the people used to call him, had expressed the very mortal wish for a little more sugar in his chocolate; and i, if you please, was the fortunate youth who, passing near him, was selected as the ganymede to bring to him the refreshment desired. i have felt ever since that i, at least, was privileged to put one drop of sweetness into the life of that great man, a life very varied and sometimes needing refreshment. and i have since been given by my classmates to understand--i find they recall it to this day--that upon walking through the college yard for a week or two after that opportunity, i carried my head so much higher than usual as to awaken an amount of derision which undoubtedly, if it had been at west point, would have led to a boxing match. that was daniel webster, one of the two great lawyers of boston--i might almost say, of the american bar at that time. the enduring value of speech from the author's lectures on oratory, with his permission by thomas wentworth higginson the englishman, as far as i have observed, as a rule gets up with reluctance, and begins with difficulty. just as you are beginning to feel seriously anxious for him, you gradually discover that he is on the verge of saying some uncommonly good thing. before you are fully prepared for it he says that good thing, and then to your infinite amazement he sits down! the american begins with an ease which relieves you of all anxiety. the anxiety begins when he talks a while without making any special point. he makes his point at last, as good perhaps as the englishman's, possibly better. but then when he has made it, you find that he goes on feeling for some other good point, and he feels and feels so long, that perhaps he sits down at last without having made it. my ideal of a perfect speech in public would be that it should be conducted by a syndicate or trust, as it were, of the two nations, and that the guaranty should be that an american should be provided to begin every speech and an englishman provided to end it. then, when we go a little farther and consider the act of speech itself, and its relation to the word, we sometimes meet with a doubt that we see expressed occasionally in the daily papers provided for us with twenty pages per diem and thirty-two on sunday, whether we will need much longer anything but what is called sometimes by clergymen "the printed word"--whether the whole form of communication through oral speech will not diminish or fade away. it seems to me a truly groundless fear--like wondering whether there will ever be a race with only one arm or one leg, or a race of people who live only by the eye or by the ear. the difference between the written word and the spoken word is the difference between solitude and companionship, between meditation and something so near action that it is at least halfway to action and creates action. it is perfectly supposable to imagine a whole race of authors of whom not one should ever exchange a word with a human being while his greatest work is being produced. the greatest work of american literature, artistically speaking, hawthorne's "scarlet letter," was thus produced. his wife records that during the year that he was writing it, he shut himself up in his study every day. she asked no questions; he volunteered no information. she only knew that something was going on by the knot in his forehead which he carried all that year. at the end of the year he came from his study and read over to her the whole book; a work of genius was added to the world. it was the fruit of solitude. and sometimes solitude, i regret as an author to say, extends to the perusal of the book, for i have known at least one volume of poems of which not a copy was ever sold; and i know another of which only one copy was sold through my betraying the secret of the author and mentioning the book to a classmate, who bought that one copy. therefore, in a general way, we may say that literature speaks in a manner the voice of solitude. as soon as the spoken word comes in, you have companionship. there can be no speech without at least one person present, if it is only the janitor of the church. dean swift in reading the church of england service to his manservant only, adapted the service as follows: "dearly beloved roger, the scripture moveth thee and me in sundry places," etc.; but in that very economy of speech he realized the presence of an audience. it takes a speaker and an audience together to make a speech--i can say to you what i could not first have said to myself. "the sea of upturned faces," as daniel webster said, borrowing the phrase, however, from scott's "rob roy"-"the sea of upturned faces makes half the speech." and therefore we may assume that there will always be this form of communication. it has, both for the speaker and for the audience, this one vast advantage. to college girls from "girls and education," by permission of, and by special arrangement with, houghton mifflin company, authorized publishers of this author's works. by le baron russell briggs i doubt whether any one has told more effectively what a college may do for a girl's mind than dr. thomas fuller. in his "church history of britain" he gives a short chapter to "the conveniency of she-colleges." (i once quoted this chapter at smith college, and was accused of making it up.) "nunneries also," he observes, "were good she-schools, wherein the girls and maids of the neighborhood were taught to read and work; and sometimes a little latin was taught them therein. yea, give me leave to say, if such feminine foundations had still continued, haply the weaker sex might be heightened to a higher perfection than hitherto hath been attained. that sharpness of their wits, and suddenness of their conceits, which their enemies must allow unto them, might by education be improved into a judicious solidity." the feminine mind, with its quick intuitions and unsteady logic, may keep the intuitions and gain a firmness which makes it more than transiently stimulating. the emotional mind has its charm, especially if its emotions are favorable to ourselves. in some things it may be well that emotion is greater than logic; but emotion _in logic_ is sad to contend with, sad even to contemplate--and such is too often the reasoning of the untrained woman. do not for a moment suppose that i believe such reasoning peculiar to women; but from the best men it has been in great measure trained out. in a right-minded, sound-hearted girl, college training tends toward control of the nervous system; and control of the nervous system-making it servant and not master--is almost the supreme need of women. without such control they become helpless; with it they know scarcely a limit to their efficiency. the world does not yet understand that for the finest and highest work it looks and must look to the naturally sensitive, whether women or men. i remember expressing to the late professor greenough regret that a certain young teacher was nervous. his answer has been a comfort to me ever since. "i wouldn't give ten cents for any one who isn't." the nervous man or woman is bound to suffer; but the nervous man or woman may rise to heights that the naturally calm can never reach and can seldom see. to whom do you go for counsel? to the calm, no doubt; but never to the phlegmatic-never to the calm who are calm because they know no better (like the man in ruskin "to whom the primrose is very accurately the primrose because he does not love it"). you go to the calm who have fought for their calmness, who have known what it is to quiver in every nerve, but have put through whatever they have taken in hand. there are numberless sweet and patient women who never studied beyond the curriculum of the district school, women who help every one near them by their own unselfish loveliness; but the intelligently patient, the women who can put themselves into the places of all sorts of people, who can sympathize not merely with great and manifest griefs, but with every delicate jarring of the human soul--hardest of all, with the ambitions of the dull--these women, who must command a respect intellectual as well as moral, reach their highest efficiency through experience based on college training. college life, designed as it is to strengthen a girl's intellect and character, should teach her to understand better, and not worse, herself as distinguished from other beings of her own sex or the opposite, should fortify her individuality, her power of resisting, and her determination to resist, the contagion of the unwomanly. exaggerated study may lessen womanly charm; but there is nothing loud or masculine about it. nor should we judge mental training or anything else by scattered cases of its abuse. the only characteristics of women that the sensible college girl has lost are feminine frivolity, and that kind of headless inaccuracy in thought and speech which once withheld from the sex--or from a large part of it--the intellectual respect of educated men. at college, if you have lived rightly, you have found enough learning to make you humble, enough friendship to make your hearts large and warm, enough culture to teach you the refinement of simplicity, enough wisdom to keep you sweet in poverty and temperate in wealth. here you have learned to see great and small in their true relation, to look at both sides of a question, to respect the point of view of every honest man or woman, and to recognize the point of view that differs most widely from your own. here you have found the democracy that excludes neither poor nor rich, and the quick sympathy that listens to all and helps by the very listening. here too, it may be at the end of a long struggle, you have seen--if only in transient glimpses--that after doubt comes reverence, after anxiety peace, after faintness courage, and that out of weakness we are made strong. suffer these glimpses to become an abiding vision, and you have the supreme joy of life. the art of acting from an address to the students of harvard university, 1885. published in "the drama; addresses by henry irving," william heinemann, london, publisher, 1893 by henry irving what is the art of acting? i speak of it in its highest sense, as the art to which roscius, betterton, and garrick owed their fame. it is the art of embodying the poet's creations, of giving them flesh and blood, of making the figures which appeal to your mind's eye in the printed drama live before you on the stage. "to fathom the depths of character, to trace its latent motives, to feel its finest quiverings of emotion, to comprehend the thoughts that are hidden under words, and thus possess one's self of the actual mind of the individual man"--such was macready's definition of the player's art; and to this we may add the testimony of talma. he describes tragic acting as "the union of grandeur without pomp and nature without triviality." it demands, he says, the endowment of high sensibility and intelligence. you will readily understand from this that to the actor the well-worn maxim that art is long and life is short has a constant significance. the older we grow the more acutely alive we are to the difficulties of our craft. i cannot give you a better illustration of this fact than a story which is told of macready. a friend of mine, once a dear friend of his, was with him when he played hamlet for the last time. the curtain had fallen, and the great actor was sadly thinking that the part he loved so much would never be his again. and as he took off his velvet mantle and laid it aside, he muttered almost unconsciously the words of horatio, "good-night, sweet prince" then turning to his friend, "ah," said he, "i am just beginning to realise the sweetness, the tenderness, the gentleness of this dear hamlet!" believe me, the true artist never lingers fondly upon what he has done. he is ever thinking of what remains undone: ever striving toward an ideal it may never be his fortune to attain. it is often supposed that great actors trust to the inspiration of the moment. nothing can be more erroneous. there will, of course, be such moments, when an actor at a white heat illumines some passage with a flash of imagination (and this mental condition, by the way, is impossible to the student sitting in his armchair); but the great actor's surprises are generally well weighed, studied, and balanced. we know that edmund kean constantly practiced before a mirror effects which startled his audience by their apparent spontaneity. it is the accumulation of such effects which enables an actor, after many years, to present many great characters with remarkable completeness. i do not want to overstate the case, or to appeal to anything that is not within common experience, so i can confidently ask you whether a scene in a great play has not been at some time vividly impressed on your minds by the delivery of a single line, or even of one forcible word. has not this made the passage far more real and human to you than all the thought you have devoted to it? an accomplished critic has said that shakespeare himself might have been surprised had he heard the "fool, fool, fool!" of edmund kean. and though all actors are not keans, they have in varying degree this power of making a dramatic character step out of the page, and come nearer to our hearts and our understandings. after all, the best and most convincing exposition of the whole art of acting is given by shakespeare himself: "to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature, to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure." thus the poet recognized the actor's art as a most potent ally in the representation of human life. he believed that to hold the mirror up to nature was one of the worthiest functions in the sphere of labor, and actors are content to point to his definition of their work as the charter of their privileges. address to the freshman class at harvard university from "the harvard graduates magazine" by charles william eliot just in the last few years we have had a striking illustration of strong reaction against prevailing educational policies. there has come upon us right here on these grounds and among harvard's constituents, and widespread over the country as well, a distrust of freedom for students, of freedom for citizens, of freedom for backward races of men. this is one of the striking phenomena of our day, a distrust of freedom. now, there is no moment in life when there comes a greater sudden access of freedom than this moment in which you find yourselves. when young men come to an american college, i care not at all which college--to any american college from the parents' home or from school, they experience a tremendous access of freedom. is it an injury? is it a danger? are you afraid of it? has society a right to be afraid of it? what is freedom for? what does it do for us? does it hurt us or help us? do we grow in it, or do we shrink in it? that is quite an important question in the management of harvard university. it is the important question in modern government. it is pretty clear that when young men or old men are free, they make mistakes, and they go wrong; having freedom to do right or wrong, they often do right and they often do wrong. when you came hither, you found yourselves in possession of a new freedom. you can overeat yourselves, for example; you can overdrink; you can take no care for sleep; you can take no exercise or too much; you can do little work or too much; you can indulge in harmful amusements: in short, you have a great new freedom here. is it a good thing for you or a bad thing? clearly you can go astray, for the road is not fenced. you can make mistakes; you can fall into sin. have you learned to control yourselves? have you got the will-power in you to regulate your own conduct? can you be your own taskmaster? you have been in the habit of looking to parents, perhaps, or to teachers, or to the heads of your boarding schools or your day schools for control in all these matters. have you got it in yourselves to control yourselves? that is the prime question which comes up with regard to every one of you when you come to the university. have you the sense and the resolution to regulate your own conduct? it is pretty clear that in other spheres freedom is dangerous. how is it with free political institutions? do they always yield the best government? look at the american cities and compare them with the cities of europe. clearly, free institutions do not necessarily produce the best government. are then free institutions wrong or inexpedient? what is freedom for? why has god made men free, as he has not made the plants and the animals? is freedom dangerous? yes! but it is necessary to the growth of human character, and that is what we are all in the world for, and that is what you and your like are in college for. that is what the world was made for, for the occupation of men who in freedom through trial win character. it is choice which makes the dignity of human nature. it is habitual choosing after examination, consideration, reflection, and advice, which makes the man of power. it is through the internal motive power of the will that men imagine, invent, and thrust thoughts out into the obscure beyond, into the future. the will is the prime motive power; and you can only train your wills, in freedom. that is what freedom is for, in school and college, in society, industries, and governments. fine human character is the ultimate object, and freedom is the indispensable condition of its development. now, there are some clear objects for choice here in college, for real choice, for discreet choice. i will mention only two. in the first place, choose those studies--there is a great range of them here--which will, through your interest in them, develop your working power. you know it is only through work that you can achieve anything, either in college or in the world. choose those studies on which you can work intensely with pleasure, with real satisfaction and happiness. that is the true guide to a wise choice. choose that intellectual pursuit which will develop within you the power to do enthusiastic work, an internal motive power, not an external compulsion. then choose an ennobling companionship. you will find out in five minutes that this man stirs you to good, that man to evil. shun the latter; cling to the former. choose companionship rightly, choose your whole surroundings so that they shall lift you up and not drag you down. make these two choices wisely, and be faithful in labor, and you will succeed in college and in after life. with tennyson at farringford from "alfred lord tennyson, a memoir by his son," with the permission of the macmillan company, new york and london, publishers. before leaving for aldworth we spent some delightful sunny days in the farringford gardens. in the afternoons my father sat in his summerhouse and talked to us and his friends. this spring he had enjoyed seeing the unusually splendid blossom of apple and pear tree, of white lilacs, and of purple aubretia that bordered the walks. at intervals he strolled to the bottom of the kitchen garden to look at the roses, or at the giant fig tree ("like a breaking wave," as he said) bursting into leaf; or he marked the "branching grace" of the stately line of elms, between the boles of which, from his summerhouse, he caught a glimpse of far meadows beyond. he said that he did not believe in emerson's pretty lines:- "only to children children sing, only to youth the spring is spring." "for age does feel the joy of spring, though age can only crawl over the bridge while youth skips the brook." his talk was grave and gay together. in the middle of anecdotes he would stop short and say something of what he felt to be the sadness and mystery of life. what impressed all his friends was his choice of language, the felicity of his turns of expression, his imagery, the terseness of his unadorned english, and his simple directness of manner, which none will ever be able to reproduce, however many notes they may have taken. his dignity and repose of manner, his low musical voice, and the power of his magnetic dark eye kept the attention riveted. his argument was clear and logical and never wandered from the point except by way of illustration, and his illustrations were the most various i have ever heard, and were taken from nature and science, from high and low life, from the rich and from the poor, and his analysis of character was always subtle and powerful. while he talked of the mysteries of the universe, his face, full of the strong lines of thought, was lighted up; and his words glowed as it were with inspiration. when conversing with my brother and myself or our college friends, he was, i used to think, almost at his best, for he would quote us the fine passages from ancient or modern literature and show us why they are fine, or he would tell us about the great facts and discoveries in astronomy, geology, botany, chemistry, and the great problems in philosophy, helping us toward a higher conception of the laws which govern the world and of "the law behind the law." he was so sympathetic that the enthusiasm of youth seemed to kindle his own. he spoke out of the fullness of his heart, and explained more eloquently than ever where his own difficulties lay, and what he, as an old man, thought was the true mainspring of human life and action; and "how much of act at human hands the sense of human will demands by which we dare to live or die." the truth is that real genius, unless made shallow by prejudice, is seldom frozen by age, and that, until absolute physical decay sets in, the powers of the mind may become stronger and stronger. on one of these june mornings, miss l--, who was a stranger to us, but whose brother we had known for some time, called upon us. my father took her over the bridge to the summerhouse looking on the down. after a little while he said: "miss l--, my son says i am to read to you," and added, "i will read whatever you like." he read some of "maud," "the spinster's sweet-arts," and some "enoch arden." his voice, as miss l-noticed, was melodious and full of change, and quite unimpaired by age. there was a peculiar freshness and passion in his reading of "maud," giving the impression that he had just written the poem, and that the emotion which created it was fresh in him. this had an extraordinary influence on the listener, who felt that the reader had been _present_ at the scenes he described, and that he still felt their bliss or agony. he thoroughly enjoyed reading his "the spinster's sweet-arts," and when he was reading "enoch arden" he told miss l-to listen to the sound of the sea in the line, "the league-long roller thundering on the reef," and to mark miriam lane's chatter in "he ceased; and miriam lane made such a voluble answer promising all." notes on speech-making from "notes on speech-making," with the permission of longmans, green and company, new york and london, publishers. by brander matthews we are told that the five-minute speeches with which judge hoar year after year delighted the harvard chapter of the phi beta kappa contained but one original idea, clearly stated, and but one fresh story, well told. this is indeed a model to be admired of all men; yet how few of us will take the trouble of copying it! the speaker who rambles and ambles along, saying nothing, and his fellow, the speaker who links jest to jest, saying little more, are both of them unabashed in the presence of an audience. they are devoid of all shyness. they are well aware that they have "the gift of the gab"; they rejoice in its possession; they lie in wait for occasions to display it. they have helped to give foreigners the impression that every american is an oratorical revolver, ready with a few remarks whenever any chairman may choose to pull the trigger. and yet there are americans not a few to whom the making of an after-dinner speech is a most painful ordeal. when the public dinner was given to charles dickens in new york, on his first visit to america, washington irving was obviously the predestined presiding officer. curtis tells us that irving went about muttering: "i shall certainly break down; i know i shall break down." when the dinner was eaten, and irving arose to propose the health of dickens, he began pleasantly and smoothly in two or three sentences; then hesitated, stammered, smiled, and stopped; tried in vain to begin again; then gracefully gave it up, announced the toast, "charles dickens, the guest of the nation," and sank into his chair amid immense applause, whispering to his neighbor, "there! i told you i should break down, and i've done it." when thackeray came, later, irving "consented to preside at a dinner, if speeches were absolutely forbidden; the condition was faithfully observed" (so curtis records), "but it was the most extraordinary instance of american self-command on record." thackeray himself had no fondness for after-dinner speaking, nor any great skill in the art. he used to complain humorously that he never could remember all the good things he had thought of in the cab; and in "philip" he went so far as to express a hope that "a day will soon arrive (but i own, mind you, that i do not carve well) when we shall have the speeches done by a skilled waiter at a side table, as we now have the carving." hawthorne was as uncomfortable on his feet as were thackeray and irving; but his resolute will steeled him for the trial. when he dined with the mayor of liverpool, he was called upon for the toast of the united states. "being at bay, and with no alternative, i got upon my legs and made a response," he wrote in his notebook, appending this comment: "anybody may make an after-dinner speech who will be content to talk onward without saying anything. my speech was not more than two or three inches long; ... but, being once started, i felt no embarassment, and went through it as coolly as if i were going to be hanged." he also notes that his little speech was quite successful, "considering that i did not know a soul there, except the mayor himself, and that i am wholly unpracticed in all sorts of oratory, and that i had nothing to say." to each of these three considerations of hawthorne's it would be instructive to add a comment, for he spoke under a triple disadvantage. a speech cannot really be successful when the speaker has nothing to say. it is rarely successful unless he knows the tastes and the temper of those he is addressing. it can be successful only casually unless he has had some practice in the simpler sort of oratory. hunting the grizzly from "hunting the grizzly" with the permission of g. p. putnam's sons, new york and london, publishers. by theodore roosevelt for half a mile i walked quickly and silently over the pine needles, across a succession of slight ridges separated by narrow, shallow valleys. the forest here was composed of lodge-pole pines, which on the ridges grew close together, with tall slender trunks, while in the valleys the growth was more open. though the sun was behind the mountains, there was yet plenty of light by which to shoot, but it faded rapidly. at last, as i was thinking of turning toward camp, i stole up to the crest of one of the ridges, and looked over into the valley some sixty yards off. immediately i caught the loom of some large, dark object; and another glance showed me a big grizzly walking slowly off with his head down. he was quartering to me, and i fired into his flank, the bullet, as i afterward found, ranging forward and piercing one lung. at the shot he uttered a loud, moaning grunt and plunged forward at a heavy gallop, while i raced obliquely down the hill to cut him off. after going a few hundred feet, he reached a laurel thicket, some thirty yards broad, and two or three times as long, which he did not leave. i ran up to the edge and there halted, not liking to venture into the mass of twisted, close-growing stems and glossy foliage. moreover, as i halted, i heard him utter a peculiar, savage kind of whine from the heart of the brush. accordingly, i began to skirt the edge, standing on tiptoe and gazing earnestly to see if i could not catch a glimpse of his hide. when i was at the narrowest part of the thicket, he suddenly left it directly opposite, and then wheeled and stood broadside to me on the hillside, a little above. he turned his head stiffly toward me; scarlet strings of froth hung from his lips; his eyes burned like embers in the gloom. i held true, aiming at the shoulder, and my bullet shattered the point or lower end of his heart, taking out a big nick. instantly the great bear turned with a harsh roar of fury and challenge, blowing the bloody foam from his mouth, so that i saw the gleam of his white fangs; and then he charged straight at me, crashing and bounding through the laurel bushes, so that it was hard to aim. i waited till he came to a fallen tree, raking him as he topped it with a ball, which entered his chest and went through the cavity of his body, but he neither swerved nor flinched, and at the moment i did not know that i had struck him. he came steadily on, and in another second was almost upon me. i fired for his forehead, but my bullet went low, entering his open mouth, smashing his lower jaw and going into the neck. i leaped to one side almost as i pulled the trigger; and through the hanging smoke the first thing i saw was his paw as he made a vicious side blow at me. the rush of his charge carried him past. as he struck he lurched forward, leaving a pool of bright blood where his muzzle hit the ground; but he recovered himself and made two or three jumps onward, while i hurriedly jammed a couple of cartridges into the magazine, my rifle holding only four, all of which i had fired. then he tried to pull up, but as he did so his muscles seemed suddenly to give way, his head dropped, and he rolled over and over like a shot rabbit. each of my first three bullets had inflicted a mortal wound. it was already twilight, and i merely opened the carcass, and then trotted back to camp. next morning i returned and with much labor took off the skin. the fur was very fine, the animal being in excellent trim, and unusually bright colored. unfortunately, in packing it out i lost the skull, and had to supply its place with one of plaster. the beauty of the trophy, and the memory of the circumstances under which i produced it, make me value it perhaps more highly than any other in my house. argument and persuasion debates and campaign speeches on retaining the philippine islands speech of george f. hoar a famous orator once imagined the nations of the world uniting to erect a column to jurisprudence in some stately capital. each country was to bring the name of its great jurist to be inscribed on the side of the column, with a sentence stating what he and his country through him had done toward establishing the reign of law and justice for the benefit of mankind. i have sometimes fancied that we might erect here in the capital of the country a column to american liberty which alone might rival in height the beautiful and simple shaft which we have erected to the fame of the father of the country. i can fancy each generation bringing its inscription, which should recite its own contribution to the great structure of which the column should be but the symbol. the generation of the puritan and the pilgrim and the huguenot claims the place of honor at the base. "i brought the torch of freedom across the sea. i cleared the forest. i subdued the savage and the wild beast. i laid in christian liberty and law the foundations of empire." the next generation says: "what my fathers founded i builded. i left the seashore to penetrate the wilderness. i planted schools and colleges and churches." then comes the generation of the great colonial day: "i stood by the side of england on many a hard-fought field. i helped humble the power of france." then comes the generation of the revolutionary time: "i encountered the power of england. i declared and won the independence of my country. i placed that declaration on the eternal principles of justice and righteousness which all mankind have read, and on which all mankind will one day stand. i affirmed the dignity of human nature and the right of the people to govern themselves." the next generation says: "i encountered england again. i vindicated the right of an american ship to sail the seas the wide world over without molestation. i made the american sailor as safe at the ends of the earth as my fathers had made the american farmer safe in his home." then comes the next generation: "i did the mighty deeds which in your younger years you saw and which your fathers told. i saved the union. i freed the slave. i made of every slave a freeman, and of every freeman a citizen, and of every citizen a voter." then comes another who did the great work in peace, in which so many of you had an honorable share: "i kept the faith. i paid the debt. i brought in conciliation and peace instead of war. i built up our vast domestic commerce. i made my country the richest, freest, strongest, happiest people on the face of the earth." and now what have we to say? what have we to say? are we to have a place in that honorable company? must we engrave on that column: "we repealed the declaration of independence. we changed the munroe doctrine from a doctrine of eternal righteousness and justice, resting on the consent of the governed, to a doctrine of brutal selfishness, looking only to our own advantage. we crushed the only republic in asia. we made war on the only christian people in the east. we converted a war of glory into a war of shame. we vulgarized the american flag. we introduced perfidy into the practice of war. we inflicted torture on unarmed men to extort confession. we put children to death. we established reconcentrado camps. we devastated provinces. we baffled the aspirations of a people for liberty"? no, mr. president. never! never! other and better counsels will yet prevail. the hours are long in the life of a great people. the irrevocable step is not yet taken. let us at least have this to say: "we, too, have kept the faith of the fathers. we took cuba by the hand. we delivered her from her age-long bondage. we welcomed her to the family of nations. we set mankind an example never beheld before of moderation in victory. we led hesitating and halting europe to the deliverance of their beleaguered ambassadors in china. we marched through a hostile country--a country cruel and barbarous--without anger or revenge. we returned benefit for injury, and pity for cruelty. we made the name of america beloved in the east as in the west. we kept faith with the philippine people. we kept faith with our own history. we kept our national honor unsullied. the flag which we received without a rent we handed down without a stain." speech of william mckinley i do not know why in the year 1899 this republic has unexpectedly had placed before it mighty problems which it must face and meet. they have come and are here, and they could not be kept away. we have fought a war with spain. the philippines, like cuba and porto rico, were intrusted to our hands by the war, and to that great trust, under the providence of god and in the name of human progress and civilization, we are committed. it is a trust we have not sought; it is a trust from which we will not flinch. the american people will hold up the hands of their servants at home to whom they commit its execution, while dewey and otis and the brave men whom they command will have the support of the country in upholding our flag where it now floats, the symbol and assurance of liberty and justice. there is universal agreement that the philippines shall not be turned back to spain. no true american consents to that. even if unwilling to accept them ourselves, it would have been a weak evasion of manly duty to require spain to transfer them to some other power or powers, and thus shirk our own responsibility. even if we had had, as we did not have, the power to compel such a transfer, it could not have been made without the most serious international complications. such a course could not be thought of. and yet had we refused to accept the cession of them, we should have had no power over them even for their own good. we could not discharge the responsibilities upon us until these islands became ours, either by conquest or treaty. there was but one alternative, and that was either spain or the united states in the philippines. the other suggestions--first, that they should be tossed into the arena of contention for the strife of nations; or, second, be left to the anarchy and chaos of no protectorate at all--were too shameful to be considered. the treaty gave them to the united states. could we have required less and done our duty? could we, after freeing the filipinos from the domination of spain, have left them without government and without power to protect life or property or to perform the international obligations essential to an independent state? could we have left them in a state of anarchy and justified ourselves in our own consciences or before the tribunal of mankind? could we have done that in the sight of god or man? no imperial designs lurk in the american mind. they are alien to american sentiment, thought, and purpose. our priceless principles undergo no change under a tropical sun. they go with the flag. they are wrought in every one of its sacred folds, and are indistinguishable as its shining stars. "why read ye not the changeless truth, the free can conquer but to save?" if we can benefit these remote peoples, who will object? if in the years of the future they are established in government under law and liberty, who will regret our perils and sacrifices? who will not rejoice in our heroism and humanity? always perils, and always after them safety; always darkness and clouds, but always shining through them the light and the sunshine; always cost and sacrifice, but always after them the fruition of liberty, education, and civilization. i have no light or knowledge not common to my countrymen. i do not prophesy. the present is all-absorbing to me, but i cannot bound my vision by the blood-stained trenches around manila, where every red drop, whether from the veins of an american soldier or a misguided filipino, is anguish to my heart; but by the broad range of future years, when that group of islands, under the impulse of the year just past, shall have become the gems and glories of those tropical seas; a land of plenty and of increasing possibilities; a people redeemed from savage indolence and habits, devoted to the arts of peace, in touch with the commerce and trade of all nations, enjoying the blessings of freedom, of civil and religious liberty, of education and of homes, and whose children and children's children shall for ages hence bless the american republic because it emancipated and redeemed their fatherland and set them in the pathway of the world's best civilization. debate on the tariff speech of thomas b. reed whether the universal sentiment in favor of protection as applied to every country is sound or not, i do not stop to discuss. whether it is best for the united states of america alone concerns me now, and the first thing i have to say is, that after thirty years of protection, undisturbed by any menace of free trade, up to the very year now last past, this country was the greatest and most flourishing nation on the face of this earth. moreover, with the shadow of this unjustifiable bill resting cold upon it, with mills closed, with hundreds of thousands of men unemployed, industry at a standstill, and prospects before it more gloomy than ever marked its history--except once--this country is still the greatest and the richest that the sun shines on, or ever did shine on. according to the usual story that is told, england had been engaged with a long and vain struggle with the demon of protection, and had been year after year sinking farther into the depths until at a moment when she was in her distress and saddest plight her manufacturing system broke down, "protection, having destroyed home trade by reducing," as mr. atkinson says, "the entire population to beggary, destitution, and want." mr. cobden and his friends providentially appeared, and after a hard struggle established a principle for all time and for all the world, and straightway england enjoyed the sum of human happiness. hence all good nations should do as england has done and be happy ever after. suppose england, instead of being a little island in the sea, had been the half of a great continent full of raw material, capable of an internal commerce which would rival the commerce of all the rest of the world. suppose every year new millions were flocking to her shores, and every one of those new millions in a few years, as soon as they tasted the delights of a broader life, would become as great a consumer as any one of her own people. suppose that these millions, and the 70,000,000 already gathered under the folds of her flag, were every year demanding and receiving a higher wage and therefore broadening her market as fast as her machinery could furnish production. suppose she had produced cheap food beyond all her wants, and that her laborers spent so much money that whether wheat was sixty cents a bushel or twice that sum hardly entered the thoughts of one of them, except when some democratic tariff bill was paralyzing his business. suppose that she was not only but a cannon shot from france, but that every country in europe had been brought as near to her as baltimore is to washington--for that is what cheap ocean freights mean between us and european producers. suppose all those countries had her machinery, her skilled workmen, her industrial system, and labor forty per cent cheaper. suppose under that state of facts, with all her manufacturers proclaiming against it, frantic in their disapproval, england had been called upon by cobden to make the plunge into free trade, would she have done it? not if cobden had been backed by the angelic host. history gives england credit for great sense. speech of charles f. crisp i assume that the cause of protection has no more able advocate than the gentleman from maine. i assume that the argument for protection can be put in no more alluring form than that to which we have listened today. so assuming, i shall ask you calmly and dispassionately to examine with me that argument, to see upon what it is based, and then i shall invoke the unprejudiced judgment of this house as to whether the cause attempted to be sustained by the gentleman from maine has been sustained, or can be before any tribunal where the voice of reason is heard or the sense of justice is felt. the gentleman from maine, with a facility that is unequaled, when he encounters an argument which he is unable to answer passes it by with some bright and witty saying and thereby invites and receives the applause of those who believe as he does. but the gentleman does not attempt, the gentleman has not to-day attempted, to reply to the real arguments that are made in favor of freer trade and greater liberty of commerce. the gentleman points to the progress of the united states, he points to the rate of wages in the united states, he points to the aggregated wealth of the united states, and claims all this is due to protection. but he does not explain how we owe these blessings to protection. he says, we have protection in the united states, wages are high in the united states; therefore protection makes high wages. when we ask the gentleman from maine to give us a reason why a high protective tariff increases the rate of wages he points to the glory, the prosperity, and the honor of our country. we on this side unite with him in every sentiment, in every purpose, in every effort that has for its object the advancement of the general welfare of the people of the united states, but we differ from him as to the method of promoting their welfare. the gentleman belongs to that school who believe that scarcity is a blessing, and that abundance should be prohibited by law. we belong to that school who believe that scarcity is a calamity to be avoided, and that abundance should be, if possible, encouraged by law. the gentleman belongs to that class who believe that by a system of taxation we can make the country rich. he believes that it is possible by tax laws to advance the prosperity of all the industries and all the people in the united states. either, mr. speaker, that statement is an absurdity upon its face, or it implies that in some way we have the power to make some persons not resident of the united states pay the taxes that we impose. i insist that you do not increase the taxable wealth of the united states when you tax a gentleman in illinois and give the benefit of that tax to a gentleman in maine. such a course prevents the natural and honest distribution of wealth, but it does not create or augment it. south carolina and massachusetts delivered in the united states senate, january, 1830 by robert y. hayne the gentleman has made a great flourish about his fidelity to massachusetts. i shall make no profession of zeal for the interests and honor of south carolina; of that my constituents shall judge. if there be one state in the union, mr. president (and i say it not in a boastful spirit), that may challenge comparison with any other for a uniform, zealous, ardent, and uncalculating devotion to the union, that state is south carolina. sir, from the very commencement of the revolution up to this hour there is no sacrifice, however great, she has not cheerfully made, no service she has ever hesitated to perform. she has adhered to you in your prosperity; but in your adversity she has clung to you with more than filial affection. no matter what was the condition of her domestic affairs, though deprived of her resources, divided by parties, or surrounded with difficulties, the call of the country has been to her as the voice of god. domestic discord ceased at the sound; every man became at once reconciled to his brethren, and the sons of carolina were all seen crowding together to the temple, bringing their gifts to the altar of their common country. what, sir, was the conduct of the south during the revolution? sir, i honor new england for her conduct in that glorious struggle. but great as is the praise which belongs to her, i think at least equal honor is due to the south. they espoused the quarrel of their brethren with a generous zeal, which did not suffer them to stop to calculate their interest in the dispute. favorites of the mother country, possessed of neither ships nor seamen to create a commercial rivalship, they might have found in their situation a guaranty that their trade would be forever fostered and protected by great britain. but, trampling on all considerations either of interest or of safety, they rushed into the conflict, and, fighting for principle, periled all in the sacred cause of freedom. never were there exhibited in the history of the world higher examples of noble daring, dreadful suffering, and heroic endurance than by the whigs of carolina during the revolution. the whole state, from the mountains to the sea, was overrun by an overwhelming force of the enemy. the fruits of industry perished on the spot where they were produced, or were consumed by the foe. the "plains of carolina" drank up the most precious blood of her citizens. black and smoking ruins marked the places where had been the habitations of her children. driven from their homes into the gloomy and almost impenetrable swamps, even there the spirit of liberty survived, and south carolina (sustained by the example of her sumters and her marions) proved by her conduct that, though her soil might be overrun, the spirit of her people was invincible. reply by daniel webster the eulogium pronounced by the honorable gentleman on the character of the state of south carolina for her revolutionary and other merits meets my hearty concurrence. i shall not acknowledge that the honorable member goes before me in regard for whatever of distinguished talent, or distinguished character, south carolina has produced. i claim part of the honor, i partake in the pride, of her great names. i claim them for countrymen, one and all,--the laurenses, the rutledges, the pinckneys, the sumters, the marions, americans all, whose fame is no more to be hemmed in by state lines than their talents and patriotism were capable of being circumscribed within the same narrow limits. in their day and generation they served and honored the country, and the whole country; and their renown is of the treasures of the whole country. him whose honored name the gentleman himself bears,--does he esteem me less capable of gratitude for his patriotism, or sympathy for his sufferings, than if his eyes had first opened upon the light of massachusetts instead of south carolina? sir, does he suppose it in his power to exhibit a carolina name so bright as to produce envy in my bosom? no, sir, increased gratification and delight, rather. i thank god that, if i am gifted with little of the spirit which is able to raise mortals to the skies, i have yet none, as i trust, of that other spirit which would drag angels down. when i shall be found, sir, in my place here in the senate or elsewhere, to sneer at public merit because it happens to spring up beyond the little limits of my own state or neighborhood; when i refuse, for any such cause, or for any cause, the homage due to american talent, to elevated patriotism, to sincere devotion to liberty and the country; or, if i see an uncommon endowment of heaven, if i see extraordinary capacity and virtue in any son of the south, and if, moved by local prejudice or gangrened by state jealousy, i get up here to abate the tithe of a hair from his just character and just fame,--may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth! sir, let me recur to pleasing recollections; let me indulge in refreshing remembrance of the past; let me remind you that, in early times, no states cherished greater harmony, both of principle and feeling, than massachusetts and south carolina. would to god that harmony might again return! shoulder to shoulder they went through the revolution; hand in hand they stood round the administration of washington, and felt his own great arm lean on them for support. unkind feeling, if it exist, alienation and distrust, are the growth, unnatural to such soils, of false principles since sown. they are weeds, the seeds of which that same great arm never scattered. mr. president, i shall enter on no encomium upon massachusetts; she needs none. there she is. behold her, and judge for yourselves. there is her history; the world knows it by heart. the past, at least, is secure. there is boston, and concord, and lexington, and bunker hill; and there they will remain forever. the bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every state from new england to georgia; and there they will lie forever. and, sir, where american liberty raised its first voice, and where its youth was nurtured and sustained, there it still lives in the strength of its manhood and full of its original spirit. if discord and party strife shall succeed in separating it from that union by which alone its existence is made sure,--it will stand in the end by the side of that cradle in which its infancy was rocked, and it will fall at last, if fall it must, amidst the proudest monuments of its own glory and on the very spot of its origin. the republican party by john hay our platform is before the country. perhaps it is lacking in novelty. there is certainly nothing sensational about it. its principles have been tested by eight years of splendid success and have received the approval of the country. it is in line with all our platforms of the past, except where prophecy and promise in those days have become history in these. we stand by the ancient ways which have proved good. we come before the country in a position which cannot be successfully attacked in front, or flank, or rear. what we have done, what we are doing, and what we intend to do--on all three we confidently challenge the verdict of the american people. the record of fifty years will show whether as a party we are fit to govern; the state of our domestic and foreign affairs will show whether as a party we have fallen off; and both together will show whether we can be trusted for a while longer. i want to say a word to the young men whose political life is beginning. any one entering business would be glad of the chance to become one of an established firm with years of success behind it, with a wide connection, with unblemished character, with credit founded on a rock. how infinitely brighter the future when the present is so sure, the past so glorious! everything great done by this country in the last fifty years has been done under the auspices of the republican party. is not this consciousness a great asset to have in your mind and memory? as a mere item of personal comfort is it not worth having? lincoln and grant, hayes and garfield, harrison and mckinley--names secure in the heaven of fame--they all are gone, leaving small estates in worldly goods, but what vast possessions in principles, memories, sacred associations! it is a start in life to share that wealth. who now boasts that he opposed lincoln? who brags of his voting against grant? though both acts may have been from the best of motives. in our form of government there must be two parties, and tradition, circumstances, temperament, will always create a sufficient opposition. but what young man would not rather belong to the party that does things, instead of one that opposes them; to the party that looks up, rather than down; to the party of the dawn, rather than of the sunset? for fifty years the republican party has believed in the country and labored for it in hope and joy; it has reverenced the flag and followed it; it has carried it under strange skies and planted it on farreceding horizons. it has seen the nation grow greater every year and more respected; by just dealing, by intelligent labor, by a genius for enterprise, it has seen the country extend its intercourse and its influence to regions unknown to our fathers. yet it has never abated one jot or tittle of the ancient law imposed on us by our god-fearing ancestors. we have fought a good fight, but also we have kept the faith. the constitution of our fathers has been the light to our feet; our path is, and will ever remain, that of ordered progress, of liberty under the law. the country has vastly increased, but the great-brained statesmen who preceded us provided for infinite growth. the discoveries of science have made miraculous additions to our knowledge. but we are not daunted by progress; we are not afraid of the light. the fabric our fathers builded on such sure foundations will stand all shocks of fate or fortune. there will always be a proud pleasure in looking back on the history they made; but, guided by their example, the coming generation has the right to anticipate work not less important, days equally memorable to mankind. we who are passing off the stage bid you, as the children of israel encamping by the sea were bidden, to go forward; we whose hands can no longer hold the flaming torch pass it on to you that its clear light may show the truth to the ages that are to come. nominating ulysses s. grant by roscoe conkling in obedience to instructions i should never dare to disregard-expressing, also, my own firm convictions--i rise to propose a nomination with which the country and the republican party can grandly win. the election before us is to be the austerlitz of american politics. it will decide, for many years, whether the country shall be republican or cossack. the supreme need of the hour is not a candidate who can carry michigan. all republican candidates can do that. the need is not of a candidate who is popular in the territories, because they have no vote. the need is of a candidate who can carry doubtful states. not the doubtful states of the north alone, but doubtful states of the south, which we have heard, if i understand it aright, ought to take little or no part here, because the south has nothing to give, but everything to receive. no, gentlemen, the need that presses upon the conscience of this convention is of a candidate who can carry doubtful states both north and south. and believing that he, more surely than any other man, can carry new york against any opponent, and can carry not only the north, but several states of the south, new york is for ulysses s. grant. never defeated in peace or in war, his name is the most illustrious borne by living man. his services attest his greatness, and the country--nay, the world-knows them by heart. his fame was earned not alone in things written and said, but by the arduous greatness of things done. and perils and emergencies will search in vain in the future, as they have searched in vain in the past, for any other on whom the nation leans with such confidence and trust. never having had a policy to enforce against the will of the people, he never betrayed a cause or a friend, and the people will never desert nor betray him. standing on the highest eminence of human distinction, modest, firm, simple, and self-poised, having filled all lands with his renown, he has seen not only the highborn and the titled, but the poor and the lowly, in the uttermost ends of the earth, rise and uncover before him. he has studied the needs and the defects of many systems of government, and he has returned a better american than ever. his integrity, his common-sense, his courage, his unequaled experience, are the qualities offered to his country. the only argument, the only one that the wit of man or the stress of politics has devised is one that would have dumbfounded solomon, because he thought there was nothing new under the sun. having tried grant twice and found him faithful, we are told that we must not, even after an interval of years, trust him again. my countrymen! my countrymen! what stultification does not such a fallacy involve! is this an electioneering juggle, or is it hypocrisy's masquerade? there is no field of human activity, responsibility, or reason, in which rational beings object to an agent because he has been weighed in the balance and not found wanting. there is, i say, no department of human reason in which sane men reject an agent because he has had experience making him exceptionally competent and fit. this convention is master of a supreme opportunity. it can name the next president. it can make sure of his election. it can make sure not only of his election, but of his certain and peaceful inauguration. gentlemen, we have only to listen above the din and look beyond the dust of an hour to behold the republican party advancing with its ensigns resplendent with illustrious achievements, marching to certain and lasting victory with its greatest marshal at its head. the choice of a party from a speech delivered in new york, 1880. depew's "library of oratory," e. j. bowen and company, new york, publishers. by roscoe conkling we are citizens of a republic. we govern ourselves. here no pomp of eager array in chambers of royalty awaits the birth of boy or girl to wield an hereditary scepter. we know no scepter save a majority's constitutional will. to wield that scepter in equal share is the duty and the right, nay, the birthright, of every citizen. the supreme, the final, the only peaceful arbiter here, is the ballot box; and in that urn should be gathered and from it should be sacredly recorded the conscience, the judgment, the intelligence of all. the right of free self-government has been in all ages the bright dream of oppressed humanity,--the sighed-for privilege to which thrones, dynasties, and power have so long blocked the way. in the fullness of freedom the republic of america is alone in the earth; alone in its grandeur; alone in its blessings; alone in its promises and possibilities, and therefore alone in the devotion due from its citizens. the time has come when law, duty, and interest require the nation to determine for at least four years its policy in many things. two parties exist; parties should always exist in a government of majorities, and to support and strengthen the party which most nearly holds his views is among the most laudable, meritorious acts of an american citizen; and this whether he be in official or in private station. two parties contend for the management of national affairs. the question is, which of the two is it safer and wiser to trust? it is not a question of candidates. a candidate, if he be an honest, genuine man, will not seek and accept a party nomination to the presidency, vice presidency, or congress, and after he is elected become a law unto himself. the higher obligations among men are not set down in writing and signed or sealed; they reside in honor and good faith. the fidelity of a nominee belongs to this exalted class, and therefore the candidate of a party is but the exponent of a party. the object of political discussion and action is to settle principles, policies, and issues. it is a paltry incident of an election affecting fifty million people that it decides for an occasion the aspirations of individual men. the democratic party is the democratic candidate, and i am against the ticket and all its works. a triumphant nationality--a regenerated constitution--a free republic-an unbroken country--untarnished credit--solvent finances--unparalleled prosperity--all these are ours despite the policy and the efforts of the democratic party. along with the amazing improvement in national finances, we have amazing individual thrift on every side. in every walk of life new activity is felt. labor, agriculture, manufactures, commerce, enterprises, and investments, all are flourishing, content and hopeful. but in the midst of this harmony and encouragement comes a harsh discord crying, "give us a change--anything for a change." this is not a bearing year for "a change." every other crop is good, but not the crop of "change"--that crop is good only when the rest are bad. the country does not need nor wish the change proposed, and to the pressing invitation of our democratic friends a good-natured but firm "no, i thank you," will be the response at the polls. upon its record and its candidates the republican party asks the country's approval, and stands ready to avow its purposes for the future. it proposes to rebuild our commercial marine. it proposes to foster labor, industry, and enterprise. it proposes to stand for education, humanity, and progress. it proposes to administer the government honestly, to preserve amity with all the world, observing our own obligations with others and seeing that others observe theirs with us, to protect every citizen in his rights and equality before the law, to uphold the public credit and the sanctity of engagements; and by doing these things the republican party proposes to assure to industry, humanity, and civilization in america the amplest welcome and the safest home. nominating john sherman from a speech nominating a candidate for president of the united states at the republican national convention, 1880 by james a. garfield i have witnessed the extraordinary scenes of this convention with deep solicitude. nothing touches my heart more quickly than a tribute of honor to a great and noble character; but as i sat in my seat and witnessed this demonstration, this assemblage seemed to me a human ocean in tempest. i have seen the sea lashed into fury and tossed into spray, and its grandeur moves the soul of the dullest man; but i remember that it is not the billows, but the calm level of the sea, from which all heights and depths are measured. when the storm has passed and the hour of calm settles on the ocean, when the sunlight bathes its peaceful surface, then the astronomer and surveyor take the level from which they measure all terrestrial heights and depths. gentlemen of the convention, your present temper may not mark the healthful pulse of our people. not here, in this brilliant circle, where fifteen thousand men and women are gathered, is the destiny of the republic to be decreed for the next four years. not here, where i see the enthusiastic faces of seven hundred and fifty-six delegates, waiting to cast their lots into the urn and determine the choice of the republic, but by four millions of republican firesides, where the thoughtful voters, with wives and children about them, with the calm thoughts inspired by love of home and country, with the history of the past, the hopes of the future, and reverence for the great men who have adorned and blessed our nation in days gone by, burning in their hearts,--there god prepares the verdict which will determine the wisdom of our work to-night. not in chicago, in the heat of june, but at the ballot boxes of the republic, in the quiet of november, after the silence of deliberate judgment, will this question be settled. now, gentlemen, i am about to present a name for your consideration,-the name of one who was the comrade, associate, and friend of nearly all the noble dead, whose faces look down upon us from these walls tonight; a man who began his career of public service twenty-five years ago. you ask for his monument. i point you to twenty-five years of national statutes. not one great, beneficent law has been placed on our statute books without his intelligent and powerful aid. he aided in formulating the laws to raise the great armies and navies which carried us through the war. his hand was seen in the workmanship of those statutes that restored and brought back "the unity and married calm of states." his hand was in all that great legislation that created the war currency, and in all the still greater work that redeemed the promises of the government and made the currency equal to gold. when at last he passed from the halls of legislation into a high executive office, he displayed that experience, intelligence, firmness, and poise of character, which have carried us through a stormy period of three years, with one half the public press crying "crucify him!" and a hostile congress seeking to prevent success. in all this he remained unmoved until victory crowned him. the great fiscal affairs of the nation, and the vast business interests of the country, he guarded and preserved while executing the law of resumption, and effected its object without a jar and against the false prophecies of one half of the press and of all the democratic party. he has shown himself able to meet with calmness the great emergencies of the government. for twenty-five years he has trodden the perilous heights of public duty, and against all the shafts of malice has borne his breast unharmed. he has stood in the blaze of "that fierce light that beats against the throne"; but its fiercest ray has found no flaw in his armor, no stain upon his shield. i do not present him as a better republican or a better man than thousands of others that we honor; but i present him for your deliberate and favorable consideration. i nominate john sherman, of ohio. the democratic party from "the speeches and addresses of william e. russell." copyrighted 1893, by little, brown and company, boston, publishers. by william e. russell as i stand here to-night, a democrat, speaking to democrats, and to men whose conscience party could not bind,--men who carry their sovereignty each under his own hat,--there comes vividly back to me the stirring words with which the chairman opened a similar meeting on the eve of the great battle of 1884, "this is a union meeting;" and, as he spoke, the minds of his hearers went back to war days, when principle was placed above party, and patriotism above partisanship. our union is not for the triumph of any man, but for the triumph of ideas; for a living faith, a progressive spirit. it is of that to-night i speak. it has often been said that there was little difference between the two parties. perhaps that was the criticism of honest men, whose earnest desire for honest candidates led them to look no farther. to-day every intelligent man in massachusetts knows that there is a wide difference between the parties,--all the difference that there is between standing still and moving forward. i do not believe that this difference is accidental. it is the natural evolution of the history and purpose of the parties. a political prophet of a generation ago, who knew this history, who had studied the democratic faith, had seen the birth of the republican party and its purpose, could have predicted the position of the parties to-day. the democratic party is old enough to have outlived and defeated all other parties, young enough to represent the progressive spirit of to-day. it must be founded on vital principles and have a living faith. its creed from its first to its thirty-ninth article is an abiding trust in the people, a belief that men, irrespective of the accident of birth or fortune, have a right to a voice in the government that rules them. its principles are the equality and freedom of all men in affairs of state and before the altar of their god,--that there should be allowed the greatest possible personal liberty, that a government least felt is best, that it should lightly and never unnecessarily impose its burdens of taxation and restriction, that in its administration there should be simplicity, purity, and economy, and in its form it should be closely within the reach and control of the people. progress, merely as progress, is nothing; but progress that sees the changes of a generation,--a blessed, lasting peace in place of the horrors and burdens of civil war, a reunited, loyal country; progress that hears the demand of the people for pure and economic administration, for relief from restrictions and taxation; progress that feels the discontent and suffering of great masses of the people,--this progress, if willing and ready to shape into legislation the new wishes and the new wants, rises to the height of statesmanship. the call to democrats from a speech opening the national democratic convention, at baltimore, maryland, june, 1912. by alton b. parker it is not the wild and cruel methods of revolution and violence that are needed to correct the abuses incident to our government as to all things human. neither material nor moral progress lies that way. we have made our government and our complicated institutions by appeals to reason, seeking to educate all our people that, day after day, year after year, century after century, they may see more clearly, act more justly, become more and more attached to the fundamental ideas that underlie our society. if we are to preserve undiminished the heritage bequeathed us, and add to it those accretions without which society would perish, we shall need all the powers that the school, the church, the court, the deliberative assembly, and the quiet thought of our people can bring to bear. we are called upon to do battle against the unfaithful guardians of our constitution and liberties and the hordes of ignorance which are pushing forward only to the ruin of our social and governmental fabric. too long has the country endured the offenses of the leaders of a party which once knew greatness. too long have we been blind to the bacchanal of corruption. too long have we listlessly watched the assembling of the forces that threaten our country and our firesides. the time has come when the salvation of the country demands the restoration to place and power of men of high ideals who will wage unceasing war against corruption in politics, who will enforce the law against both rich and poor, and who will treat guilt as personal and punish it accordingly. what is our duty? to think alike as to men and measures? impossible! even for our great party! there is not a reactionary among us. all democrats are progressives. but it is inevitably human that we shall not all agree that in a single highway is found the only road to progress, or each make the same man of all our worthy candidates his first choice. it is possible, however, and it is our duty to put aside all selfishness, to consent cheerfully that the majority shall speak for each of us, and to march out of this convention shoulder to shoulder, intoning the praises of our chosen leader--and that will be his due, whichever of the honorable and able men now claiming our attention shall be chosen. nominating woodrow wilson at the national democratic convention, baltimore, maryland, june, 1912. by john w. wescott the new jersey delegation is commissioned to represent the great cause of democracy and to offer you as its militant and triumphant leader a scholar, not a charlatan; a statesman, not a doctrinaire; a profound lawyer, not a splitter of legal hairs; a political economist, not an egotistical theorist; a practical politician, who constructs, modifies, restrains, without disturbance and destruction; a resistless debater and consummate master of statement, not a mere sophist; a humanitarian, not a defamer of characters and lives; a man whose mind is at once cosmopolitan and composite of america; a gentleman of unpretentious habits, with the fear of god in his heart and the love of mankind exhibited in every act of his life; above all a public servant who has been tried to the uttermost and never found wanting--matchless, unconquerable, the ultimate democrat, woodrow wilson. new jersey has reasons for her course. let us not be deceived in our premises. campaigns of vilification, corruption and false pretence have lost their usefulness. the evolution of national energy is towards a more intelligent morality in politics and in all other relations. the situation admits of no compromise. the temper and purpose of the american public will tolerate no other view. the indifference of the american people to politics has disappeared. any platform and any candidate not conforming to this vast social and commercial behest will go down to ignominious defeat at the polls. men are known by what they say and do. they are known by those who hate and oppose them. many years ago woodrow wilson said, "no man is great who thinks himself so, and no man is good who does not try to secure the happiness and comfort of others." this is the secret of his life. the deeds of this moral and intellectual giant are known to all men. they accord, not with the shams and false pretences of politics, but make national harmony with the millions of patriots determined to correct the wrongs of plutocracy and reestablish the maxims of american liberty in all their regnant beauty and practical effectiveness. new jersey loves woodrow wilson not for the enemies he has made. new jersey loves him for what he is. new jersey argues that woodrow wilson is the only candidate who can not only make democratic success a certainty, but secure the electoral vote of almost every state in the union. new jersey will indorse his nomination by a majority of 100,000 of her liberated citizens. we are not building for a day, or even a generation, but for all time. new jersey believes that there is an omniscience in national instinct. that instinct centers in woodrow wilson. he has been in political life less than two years. he has had no organization; only a practical ideal--the reestablishment of equal opportunity. not his deeds alone, not his immortal words alone, not his personality alone, not his matchless powers alone, but all combined compel national faith and confidence in him. every crisis evolves its master. time and circumstance have evolved woodrow wilson. the north, the south, the east, and the west unite in him. new jersey appeals to this convention to give the nation woodrow wilson, that he may open the gates of opportunity to every man, woman, and child under our flag, by reforming abuses, and thereby teaching them, in his matchless words, "to release their energies intelligently, that peace, justice and prosperity may reign." new jersey rejoices, through her freely chosen representatives, to name for the presidency of the united states the princeton schoolmaster, woodrow wilson. democratic faith from "the speeches and addresses of william e. russell." copyrighted, 1894, by little, brown and company, boston, publishers by william e. russell for the honor and privilege of addressing this gathering of young democracy i am deeply grateful. with earnestness and enthusiasm, with devotion to the party and its principles, and with unflinching loyalty to its glorious leaders, young democracy meets to-day for organization and action. gladly it volunteers in a campaign where its very faith is at stake; impatiently it awaits the coming of the battle. we fight for measures, not men; the principles of government, not men's characters, are to be discussed; a nation's policy, not personal ambition, is to be determined. thank god, we enter the fight with a living faith, founded upon principles that are just, enduring, as old as the nation itself, yet ever young, vigorous, and progressive, because there is ever work for them to do. our party was not founded for a single mission, which accomplished, left it drifting with no fixed star of principle to guide it. it was born and has lived to uphold great truths of government that need always to be enforced. the influence of the past speaks to us in the voice of the present. jefferson and jackson still lead us, not because they are glorious reminiscences, but because the philosophy of the one, the courage of the other, the democracy of both, are potent factors in determining democracy to-day. we believe that a government which controls the lives, liberties, and property of a people in its administration should be honest, economical, and efficient; and in its form a local self-government kept near to the power that makes and obeys it. to safeguard the rights and liberty of the individual, the democratic party demands home rule. democracy stands beside the humblest citizen to protect him from oppressive government; it is the bulwark of the silent people to resist having the power and purpose of government warped by the clamorous demands of selfish interests. its greatest good, its highest glory, is that it is, and is to be, the people's party. to it government is a power to protect and encourage men to make the most of themselves, and not something for men to make the most out of. and, lastly, we believe in the success, the glory, and the splendid destiny of this great republic. it leaped into life from the hands of democrats. more than three-quarters of a century it has been nurtured and strengthened by democratic rule. under democratic administrations, in its mighty sweep, it has stretched from ocean to ocean, not as a north and south and east and west, but now as a glorious union of sovereign states, reunited in love and loyalty, a great nation of millions of loyal subjects. the faith we profess is distinctly an american faith; the principles we proclaim are distinctly american principles, and have been from their first utterance in the declaration of independence to their latest in the platform of the st. louis convention; the policy they demand of us as democrats is emphatically an american policy. our great leader lives in the faith we profess. he speaks in the principles we assert. he leads because we follow democracy, its faith, its principles, and its policy and hail him as the foremost democrat of the nation. thus comes victory. thus victory means something. thus power and responsibility go together, and the only influence behind him are the wishes, the rights, and the welfare of the great american people. in such a cause, with such a leader, there is no room for failure. "to doubt would be disloyalty, to falter would be sin." england and america by john bright what can be more monstrous than that we, as we call ourselves, to some extent, an educated, a moral, and a christian nation--at a moment when an accident of this kind occurs, before we have made a representation to the american government, before we have heard a word from it in reply--should be all up in arms, every sword leaping from its scabbard, and every man looking about for his pistols and his blunderbusses? i think the conduct pursued--and i have no doubt just the same is pursued by a certain class in america--is much more the conduct of savages than of christian and civilized men. no, let us be calm. you recollect how we were dragged into the russian war--how we "drifted" into it. you know that i, at least, have not upon my head any of the guilt of that fearful war. you know that it cost one hundred millions of money to this country; that it cost at least the lives of forty thousand englishmen; that it disturbed your trade; that it nearly doubled the armies of europe; that it placed the relations of europe on a much less peaceful footing than before; and that it did not effect a single thing of all those that it was promised to effect. now, then, before i sit down, let me ask you what is this people, about which so many men in england at this moment are writing, and speaking, and thinking, with harshness, i think with injustice, if not with great bitterness? two centuries ago, multitudes of the people of this country found a refuge on the north american continent, escaping from the tyranny of the stuarts and from the bigotry of laud. many noble spirits from our country made great experiments in favor of human freedom on that continent. bancroft, the great historian of his own country, has said, in his own graphic and emphatic language, "the history of the colonization of america is the history of the crimes of europe." at this very moment, then, there are millions in the united states who personally, or whose immediate parents have at one time been citizens of this country. they found a home in the far west; they subdued the wilderness; they met with plenty there, which was not afforded them in their native country; and they have become a great people. there may be persons in england who are jealous of those states. there may be men who dislike democracy, and who hate a republic; there may be those whose sympathies warm only toward an oligarchy or a monarchy. but of this i am certain, that only misrepresentation the most gross, or calumny the most wicked, can sever the tie which unites the great mass of the people of this country with their friends and brethren beyond the atlantic. now, whether the union will be restored or not, or the south achieve an unhonored independence or not, i know not, and i predict not. but this i think i know--that in a few years, a very few years, the twenty millions of freemen in the north will be thirty millions, or even fifty millions--a population equal to or exceeding that of this kingdom. when that time comes, i pray that it may not be said among them, that in the darkest hour of their country's trials, england, the land of their fathers, looked on with icy coldness and saw unmoved the perils and calamities of her children. as for me, i have but this to say: i am but one in this audience, and but one in the citizenship of this country; but if all other tongues are silent, mine shall speak for that policy which tends, and which always shall tend, to generous thoughts, and generous words, and generous deeds, between the two great nations who speak the english language, and from their origin are alike entitled to the english name. on home rule in ireland by william e. gladstone there has been no great day of hope for ireland, no day when you might hope completely and definitely to end the controversy till now--more than ninety years. the long periodic time has at last run out, and the star has again mounted into the heavens. what ireland was doing for herself in 1795 we at length have done. the roman catholics have been emancipated--emancipated after a woeful disregard of solemn promises through twenty-nine years, emancipated slowly, sullenly, not from good will, but from abject terror, with all the fruits and consequences which will always follow that method of legislation. the second problem has been also solved, and the representation of ireland has been thoroughly reformed; and i am thankful to say that the franchise was given to ireland on the readjustment of last year with a free heart, with an open hand; and the gift of that franchise was the last act required to make the success of ireland in her final effort absolutely sure. we have given ireland a voice; we must all listen for a moment to what she says. we must all listen, both sides, both parties--i mean as they are divided on this question--divided, i am afraid, by an almost immeasurable gap. we do not undervalue or despise the forces opposed to us. i have described them as the forces of class and its dependents; and that as a general description--as a slight and rude outline of a description--is, i believe, perfectly true. you have power, you have wealth, you have rank, you have station, you have organization. what have we? we think that we have the people's heart; we believe and we know we have the promise of the harvest of the future. as to the people's heart, you may dispute it, and dispute it with perfect sincerity. let that matter make its own proof. as to the harvest of the future, i doubt if you have so much confidence; and i believe that there is in the breast of many a man who means to vote against us tonight a profound misgiving, approaching even to a deep conviction, that the end will be as we foresee, and not as you do--that the ebbing tide is with you, and the flowing tide with us. ireland stands at your bar, expectant, hopeful, almost suppliant. her words are the words of truth and soberness. she asks a blessed oblivion of the past, and in that oblivion our interest is deeper than even hers. my right honorable friend, the member for east edinburgh, asks us tonight to abide by the traditions of which we are the heirs. what traditions? by the irish traditions? go into the length and breadth of the world, ransack the literature of all countries, find, if you can, a single voice, a single book--find, i would almost say, as much as a single newspaper article, unless the product of the day,--in which the conduct of england towards ireland is anywhere treated except with profound and bitter condemnation. are these the traditions by which we are exhorted to stand? no; they are a sad exception to the glory of our country. they are a broad and black blot upon the pages of its history; and what we want to do is to stand by the traditions of which we are the heirs in all matters except our relations with ireland, and to make our relations with ireland to conform to the other traditions of our country. so we treat our traditions, so we hail the demand of ireland for what i call a blessed oblivion of the past. she asks also a boon for the future; and that boon for the future, unless we are much mistaken, will be a boon to us in respect of honor, no less than a boon to her in respect of happiness, prosperity, and peace. such, sir, is her prayer. think, i beseech you, think well, think wisely, think, not for the moment, but for the years that are to come, before you reject this bill. the legal plea the dartmouth college case by daniel webster the case before the court is not of ordinary importance, nor of everyday occurrence. it affects not this college only, but every college, and all the literary institutions of the country. they have flourished hitherto, and have become in a high degree respectable and useful to the community. they have all a common principle of existence, the inviolability of their charters. it will be a dangerous, a most dangerous experiment to hold these institutions subject to the rise and fall of popular parties, and the fluctuations of political opinions. if the franchise may be at any time taken away, or impaired, the property also may be taken away, or its use perverted. benefactors will have no certainty of effecting the object of their bounty; and learned men will be deterred from devoting themselves to the service of such institutions, from the precarious title of their offices. colleges and halls will be deserted by all better spirits, and become a theater for the contentions of politics. party and faction will be cherished in the places consecrated to piety and learning. when the court in north carolina declared the law of the state, which repealed a grant to its university, unconstitutional and void, the legislature had the candor and the wisdom to repeal the law. this example, so honorable to the state which exhibited it, is most fit to be followed on this occasion. and there is good reason to hope that a state which has hitherto been so much distinguished for temperate counsels, cautious legislation, and regard to law, will not fail to adopt a course which will accord with her highest and best interests, and in no small degree elevate her reputation. it was for many and obvious reasons most anxiously desired that the question of the power of the legislature over this charter should have been finally decided in the state court. an earnest hope was entertained that the judges of the court might have reviewed the case in a light favorable to the rights of the trustees. that hope has failed. it is here that those rights are now to be maintained, or they are prostrated forever. this, sir, is my case. it is the case, not merely of that humble institution, it is the case of every college in the land. it is more. it is the case of every eleemosynary institution throughout our country--of all those great charities formed by the piety of our ancestors, to alleviate human misery, and scatter blessings along the pathway of life. it is more! it is, in some sense, the case of every man among us who has property, of which he may be stripped, for the question is simply this: shall our state legislatures be allowed to take that which is not their own; to turn it from its original use, and to apply it to such ends or purposes as they in their discretion shall see fit? sir, you may destroy this little institution; it is weak; it is in your hands! i know it is one of the lesser lights in the literary horizon of our country. you may put it out. but, if you do so, you must carry through your work! you must extinguish, one after another, all those greater lights of science, which, for more than a century, have thrown their radiance over our land! it is, sir, as i have said, a small college, and yet there are those who love it. sir, i know not how others may feel, but for myself, when i see my alma mater surrounded, like cæsar, in the senate house, by those who are reiterating stab after stab, i would not, for this right hand, have her turn to me, and say, _et tu quoque, mi fili! and thou too, my son!_ in defense of the kennistons by daniel webster gentlemen of the jury,--it is true that the offense charged in the indictment in this case is not capital; but perhaps this can hardly be considered as favorable to the defendants. to those who are guilty, and without hope of escape, no doubt the lightness of the penalty of transgression gives consolation. but if the defendants are innocent, it is more natural for them to be thinking upon what they have lost by that alteration of the law which has left highway robbery no longer capital, than what the guilty might gain by it. they have lost those great privileges in their trial, which the law allows, in capital cases, for the protection of innocence against unfounded accusation. they have lost the right of being previously furnished with a copy of the indictment, and a list of the government witnesses. they have lost the right of peremptory challenge; and, notwithstanding the prejudices which they know have been excited against them, they must show legal cause of challenge, in each individual case, or else take the jury as they find it. they have lost the benefit of assignment of counsel by the court. they have lost the benefit of the commonwealth's process to bring in witnesses in their behalf. when to these circumstances it is added that they are strangers, almost wholly without friends, and without the means for preparing their defense, it is evident they must take their trial under great disadvantages. but without dwelling on these considerations, i proceed, gentlemen of the jury, to ask your attention to those circumstances which cannot but cast doubts on the story of the prosecutor. the jury will naturally look to the appearances exhibited on the field after the robbery. the portmanteau was there. the witnesses say that the straps which fastened it to the saddle had been neither cut nor broken. they were carefully unbuckled. this was very considerate for robbers. it had been opened, and its contents were scattered about the field. the pocket book, too, had been opened, and many papers it contained found on the ground. nothing valuable was lost but money. the robbers did not think it well to go off at once with the portmanteau and the pocket book. the place was so secure, so remote, so unfrequented; they were so far from the highway, at least one full rod; there were so few persons passing, probably not more than four or five then in the road, within hearing of the pistols and the cries of goodridge; there being, too, not above five or six dwelling-houses, full of people, within the hearing of the report of a pistol; these circumstances were all so favorable to their safety, that the robbers sat down to look over the prosecutor's papers, carefully examined the contents of his pocket book and portmanteau, and took only the things which they needed! there was money belonging to other persons. the robbers did not take it. they found out it was not the prosecutor's, and left it. it may be said to be favorable to the prosecutor's story, that the money which did not belong to him, and the plunder of which would seem to be the most probable inducement he could have to feign a robbery, was not taken. but the jury will consider whether this circumstance does not bear quite as strongly the other way, and whether they can believe that robbers could have left this money, either from accident or design. ii the witnesses on the part of the prosecution have testified that the defendants, when arrested, manifested great agitation and alarm; paleness overspread their faces, and drops of sweat stood on their temples. this satisfied the witnesses of the defendants' guilt, and they now state the circumstances as being indubitable proof. this argument manifests, in those who use it, an equal want of sense and sensibility. it is precisely fitted to the feeling and the intellect of a bum-bailiff. in a court of justice it deserves nothing but contempt. is there nothing that can agitate the frame or excite the blood but the consciousness of guilt? if the defendants were innocent, would they not feel indignation at this unjust accusation? if they saw an attempt to produce false evidence against them, would they not be angry? and, seeing the production of such evidence, might they not feel fear and alarm? and have indignation, and anger, and terror no power to affect the human countenance or the human frame? miserable, miserable, indeed, is the reasoning which would infer any man's guilt from his agitation when he found himself accused of a heinous offense; when he saw evidence which he might know to be false and fraudulent brought against him; when his house was filled, from the garret to the cellar, by those whom he might esteem as false witnesses; and when he himself, instead of being at liberty to observe their conduct and watch their motions, was a prisoner in close custody in his own house, with the fists of a catchpoll clenched upon his throat. from the time of the robbery to the arrest, five or six weeks, the defendants were engaged in their usual occupations. they are not found to have passed a dollar of money to anybody. they continued their ordinary habits of labor. no man saw money about them, nor any circumstance that might lead to a suspicion that they had money. nothing occurred tending in any degree to excite suspicion against them. when arrested, and when all this array of evidence was brought against them, and when they could hope in nothing but their innocence, immunity was offered them again if they would confess. they were pressed, and urged, and allured, by every motive which could be set before them, to acknowledge their participation in the offense, and to bring out their accomplices. they steadily protested that they could confess nothing because they knew nothing. in defiance of all the discoveries made in their house, they have trusted to their innocence. on that, and on the candor and discernment of an enlightened jury, they still rely. if the jury are satisfied that there is the highest improbability that these persons could have had any previous knowledge of goodridge, or been concerned in any previous concert to rob him; if their conduct that evening and the next day was marked by no circumstance of suspicion; if from that moment until their arrest nothing appeared against them; if they neither passed money, nor are found to have had money; if the manner of the search of their house, and the circumstances attending it, excite strong suspicions of unfair and fraudulent practices; if, in the hour of their utmost peril, no promises of safety could draw from the defendants any confession affecting themselves or others, it will be for the jury to say whether they can pronounce them guilty. in defence of john e. cook published in depew's "library of oratory," e. j. bowen and company, new york, publishers. by d. w. voorhees who is john e. cook? he has the right himself to be heard before you; but i will answer for him. sprung from an ancestry of loyal attachment to the american government, he inherits no blood of tainted impurity. his grandfather, an officer of the revolution, by which your liberty, as well as mine, was achieved, and his gray-haired father, who lived to weep over him, a soldier of the war of 1812, he brings no dishonored lineage into your presence. born of a parent stock occupying the middle walks of life, and possessed of all those tender and domestic virtues which escape the contamination of those vices that dwell on the frozen peaks, or in the dark and deep caverns of society, he would not have been here had precept and example been remembered in the prodigal wanderings of his short and checkered life. poor deluded boy! wayward, misled child! an evil star presided over thy natal hour and smote it with gloom. in an evil hour--and may it be forever accursed!--john e. cook met john brown on the prostituted plains of kansas. on that field of fanaticism, three years ago, this fair and gentle youth was thrown into contact with the pirate and robber of civil warfare. now look at john cook, the follower. he is in evidence before you. never did i plead for a face that i was more willing to show. if evil is there, i have not seen it. if murder is there, i am to learn to mark the lines of the murderer anew. if the assassin is in that young face, then commend me to the look of an assassin. no, gentlemen, it is a face for a mother to love, and a sister to idolize, and in which the natural goodness of his heart pleads trumpet-tongued against the deep damnation that estranged him from home and its principles. john brown was the despotic leader and john e. cook was an ill-fated follower of an enterprise whose horror be now realizes and deplores. i defy the man, here or elsewhere, who has ever known john e. cook, who has ever looked once fully into his face, and learned anything of his history, to lay his hand on his heart and say that he believes him guilty of the origin or the results of the outbreak at harper's ferry. here, then, are the two characters whom you are thinking to punish alike. can it be that a jury of christian men will find no discrimination should be made between them? are the tempter and the tempted the same in your eyes? is the beguiled youth to die the same as the old offender who has pondered his crimes for thirty years? are there no grades in your estimations of guilt? is each one, without respect to age or circumstances, to be beaten with the same number of stripes? such is not the law, human or divine. we are all to be rewarded according to our works, whether in punishment for evil, or blessings for good that we have done. you are here to do justice, and if justice requires the same fate to befall cook that befalls brown, i know nothing of her rules, and do not care to learn. they are as widely asunder, in all that constitutes guilt, as the poles of the earth, and should be dealt with accordingly. it is in your power to do so, and by the principles by which you yourselves are willing to be judged hereafter, i implore you to do it! in defense of the soldiers published in "depew's library of oratory," e. j. bowen and company, new york, publishers by josiah quincy, jr. may it please your honors, and you gentlemen of the jury,--we have at length gone through the evidence in behalf of the prisoners. the witnesses have now placed before you that state of facts from which results our defense. i stated to you, gentlemen, your duty in opening this cause--do not forget the discharge of it. you are paying a debt you owe the community for your own protection and safety: by the same mode of trial are your own rights to receive a determination; and in your turn a time may come when you will expect and claim a similar return from some other jury of your fellow subjects. how much need was there for my desire that you should suspend your judgment till the witnesses were all examined? how different is the complexion of the cause? will not all this serve to show every honest man the little truth to be attained in partial hearings? in the present case, how great was the prepossession against us? and i appeal to you, gentlemen, what cause there now is to alter our sentiments? will any sober, prudent man countenance the proceedings of the people in king street,--can any one justify their conduct,--is there any one man or any body of men who are interested to espouse and support their conduct? surely, no! but our inquiry must be confined to the legality of their conduct, and here can be no difficulty. it was certainly illegal, unless many witnesses are directly perjured: witnesses, who have no apparent interest to falsify,--witnesses who have given their testimony with candor and accuracy,--witnesses whose credibility stands untouched,--whose credibility the counsel for the king do not pretend to impeach or hint a suggestion to their disadvantage. i say, gentlemen, by the standard of the law are we to judge the actions of the people who were the assailants and those who were the assailed and then on duty. and here, gentlemen, the rule we formerly laid down takes place. to the facts, gentlemen, apply yourselves. consider them as testified; weigh the credibility of the witnesses-balance their testimony--compare the several parts of it--see the amount of it; and then, according to your oath, "make true deliverance according to your evidence." that is, gentlemen, having settled the facts, bring them truly to the standard of the law; the king's judges, who are acquainted with it, who are presumed best to know it, will then inspect this great standard of right and wrong, truth and justice; and they are to determine the degree of guilt to which the fact rises. ii may it please your honors, and you gentlemen of the jury,--after having thus gone through the evidence and considered it as applicatory to all and every one of the prisoners, let us take once more a brief and cursory survey of matters supported by the evidence. and here let me ask in sober reason, what language more opprobrious, what actions more exasperating, than those used on this occasion? words, i am sensible, are no justification of blows, but they serve as the grand clew to discover the temper and the designs of the agents; they serve also to give us light in discerning the apprehensions and thoughts of those who are the objects of abuse. "you lobsters!"--"you bloody-back!"--"you coward!"--"you dastard!" are but some of the expressions proved. what words more galling? what more cutting and provoking to a soldier? but accouple these words with the succeeding actions,--"you dastard!"--"you coward!" a soldier and a coward! this was touching "the point of honor and the pride of virtue." but while these are as yet fomenting the passions and swelling the bosom, the attack is made; and probably the latter words were reiterated at the onset; at least, were yet sounding in the ear. gentlemen of the jury, for heaven's sake, let us put ourselves in the same situation! would you not spurn at that spiritless institution of society which tells you to be a subject at the expense of your manhood? but does the soldier step out of his ranks to seek his revenge? not a witness pretends it. did not the people repeatedly come within the points of their bayonets and strike on the muzzles of the guns? you have heard the witnesses. does the law allow one member of the community to behave in this manner towards his fellow citizen, and then bid the injured party be calm and moderate? the expressions from one party were--"stand off, stand off!"--"i am upon my station."--"if they molest me upon my post, i will fire."--"keep off!" these words were likely to produce reflection and procure peace. but had the words on the other hand a similar tendency? consider the temper prevalent among all parties at this time. consider the situation of the soldiery; and come to the heat and pressure of the action. the materials are laid, the spark is raised, the fire enkindles, all prudence and true wisdom are utterly consumed. does common sense, does the law expect impossibilities? here, to expect equanimity of temper, would be as irrational as to expect discretion in a madman. but was anything done on the part of the assailants similar to the conduct, warnings, and declarations of the prisoners? answer for yourselves, gentlemen! the words reiterated all around stabbed to the heart; the actions of the assailants tended to a worse end,--to awaken every passion of which the human breast is susceptible; fear, anger, pride, resentment, revenge, alternately take possession of the whole man. to expect, under these circumstances, that such words would assuage the tempest, that such actions would allay the flames,--you might as rationally expect the inundations of a torrent would suppress a deluge, or rather that the flames of aetna would extinguish a conflagration! iii gentlemen of the jury,--this case has taken up much of your time, and is likely to take up so much more that i must hasten to a close. indeed, i should not have troubled you, by being thus lengthy, but from a sense of duty to the prisoners; they who in some sense may be said to have put their lives in my hands; they whose situation was so peculiar that we have necessarily taken up more time than ordinary cases require. they, under all these circumstances, placed a confidence it was my duty not to disappoint, and which i have aimed at discharging with fidelity. i trust you, gentlemen, will do the like; that you will examine and judge with a becoming temper of mind; remembering that they who are under oath to declare the whole truth think and act very differently from bystanders, who, being under no ties of this kind, take a latitude which is by no means admissible in a court of law. i cannot close this cause better than by desiring you to consider well the genius and spirit of the law which will be laid down, and to govern yourselves by this great standard of truth. to some purposes, you may be said, gentlemen, to be ministers of justice; and "ministers," says a learned judge, "appointed for the ends of public justice, should have written on their hearts the solemn engagements of his majesty, at his coronation, to cause law and justice in mercy to be executed in all his judgments." "the quality of mercy is not strained; it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven:... it is twice blessed; it blesseth him that gives, and him that takes." i leave you, gentlemen, hoping you will be directed in your inquiry and judgment to a right discharge of your duty. we shall all of us, gentlemen, have an hour of cool reflection when the feelings and agitations of the day shall have subsided; when we shall view things through a different and a much juster medium. it is then we all wish an absolving conscience. may you, gentlemen, now act such a part as will hereafter insure it; such a part as may occasion the prisoners to rejoice. may the blessing of those who were in jeopardy of life come upon you--may the blessing of him who is "not faulty to die" descend and rest upon you and your posterity. in defense of lord george gordon before the court of king's bench, 1781 by lord thomas erskine gentlemen,--you have now heard, upon the solemn oaths of honest, disinterested men, a faithful history of the conduct of lord george gordon, from the day that he became a member of the protestant association to the day that he was committed a prisoner to the tower. and i have no doubt, from the attention with which i have been honored from the beginning, that you have still kept in your minds the principles to which i entreated you would apply it, and that you have measured it by that standard. you have, therefore, only to look back to the whole of it together; to reflect on all you have heard concerning him; to trace him in your recollection through every part of the transaction; and, considering it with one manly, liberal view, to ask your own honest hearts, whether you can say that this noble and unfortunate youth is a wicked and deliberate traitor, who deserves by your verdict to suffer a shameful and ignominious death, which will stain the ancient honors of his house forever. the crime which the crown would have fixed upon him is, that he assembled the protestant association round the house of commons, not merely to influence and persuade parliament by the earnestness of their supplications, but actually to coerce it by hostile, rebellious force; that, finding himself disappointed in the success of that coercion, he afterward incited his followers to abolish the legal indulgences to papists, which the object of the petition was to repeal, by the burning of their houses of worship, and the destruction of their property, which ended, at last, in a general attack on the property of all orders of men, religious and civil, on the public treasures of the nation, and on the very being of the government. to support a charge of so atrocious and unnatural a complexion, the laws of the most arbitrary nations would require the most incontrovertible proof. and what evidence, gentlemen of the jury, does the crown offer to you in compliance with these sound and sacred doctrines of justice? a few broken, interrupted, disjointed words, without context or connection--uttered by the speaker in agitation and heat--heard, by those who relate them to you, in the midst of tumult and confusion--and even those words, mutilated as they are, in direct opposition to, and inconsistent with, repeated and earnest declarations delivered at the very same time and on the very same occasion, related to you by a much greater number of persons, and absolutely incompatible with the whole tenor of his conduct. which of us all, gentlemen, would be safe, standing at the bar of god or man, if we were not to be judged by the regular current of our lives and conversations, but by detached and unguarded expressions, picked out by malice, and recorded, without context or circumstances, against us? yet such is the only evidence on which the crown asks you to dip your hands, and to stain your consciences, in the innocent blood of the noble and unfortunate youth who stands before you. i am sure you cannot but see, notwithstanding my great inability, increased by a perturbation of mind (arising, thank god! from no dishonest cause), that there has been not only no evidence on the part of the crown to fix the guilt of the late commotions upon the prisoner, but that, on the contrary, we have been able to resist the probability, i might almost say the possibility of the charge, not only by living witnesses, whom we only ceased to call because the trial would never have ended, but by the evidence of all the blood that has paid the forfeit of that guilt already; since, out of all the felons who were let loose from prisons, and who assisted in the destruction of our property, not a single wretch was to be found who could even attempt to save his own life by the plausible promise of giving evidence to-day. what can overturn such a proof as this? surely a good man might, without superstition, believe that such a union of events was something more than natural, and that a divine providence was watchful for the protection of innocence and truth. i may now, therefore, relieve you from the pain of hearing me any longer, and be myself relieved from speaking on a subject which agitates and distresses me. since lord george gordon stands clear of every hostile act or purpose against the legislature of his country, or the properties of his fellow-subjects--since the whole tenor of conduct repels the belief of the _traitorous intention_ charged by the indictment--my task is finished. i shall make no address to your passions. i will not remind you of the long and rigorous imprisonment he has suffered; i will not speak to you of his great youth, of his illustrious birth, and of his uniformly animated and generous zeal in parliament for the constitution of his country. such topics might be useful in the balance; yet, even then, i should have trusted to the honest hearts of englishmen to have felt them without excitation. at present, the plain and rigid rules of justice and truth are sufficient to entitle me to your verdict. pronouncing sentence for high treason by sir alfred wills arthur alfred lynch, otherwise arthur lynch, the jury have found you guilty of the crime of high treason, a crime happily so rare that in the present day a trial for treason seems to be almost an anachronism-a thing of the past. the misdeeds which have been done in this case, and which have brought you to the lamentable pass in which you stand, must surely convince the most skeptical and apathetic of the gravity and reality of the crime. what was your action in the darkest hour of your country's fortunes, when she was engaged in the deadly struggle from which she has just emerged? you joined the ranks of your country's foes. born in australia, a land which has nobly shown its devotion to its parent country, you have indeed taken a different course from that which was adopted by her sons. you have fought against your country, not with it. you have sought, as far as you could, to dethrone great britain from her place among the nations, to make her name a byword and a reproach, a synonym for weakness and irresolution. nor can i forget that you have shed the blood, or done your best to shed the blood, of your countrymen who were fighting for their country. how many wives have been made widows, how many children orphans, by what you and those who acted under your command have done, heaven only knows! you thought it safe at that dark hour of the empire's fate, when ladysmith, when kimberley, when mafeking, were in the very jaws of deadly peril--you thought it safe, no doubt, to lift the parricidal hand against your country. you thought she would shrink from the costly struggle wearied out by her gigantic efforts, and that, at the worst, a general peace would be made which would comprehend a general amnesty and cover up such acts as yours and save you from personal peril. you misjudged your country and failed to appreciate that, though slow to enter into a quarrel, however slow to take up arms, it has yet been her wont that in the quarrel she shall bear herself so that the opposer may beware of her, and that she is seldom so dangerous to her enemies as when the hour of national calamity has raised the dormant energies of her people--knit together every nerve and fiber of the body politic, and has made her sons determined to do all, to sacrifice all on behalf of the country that gave them birth. and against what a sovereign and what a country did you lift your hand! a sovereign the best beloved and most deeply honored of all the long line of english kings and queens, and whose lamented death was called back to my remembrance only yesterday as a fresh sorrow to many an english household. against a country which has been the home of progress and freedom, and under whose beneficent sway, whenever you have chosen to stay within her dominions, you have enjoyed a liberty of person, a freedom of speech and action, such as you can have in no other country in europe, and it is not too much to say in no other country in the world. the only--i will not say excuse, but palliation that i can find for conduct like yours is that it has been for some years past the fashion to treat lightly matters of this kind, so that men have been perhaps encouraged to play with sedition and to toy with treason, wrapt in a certain proud consciousness of strength begotten of the deep-seated and well-founded conviction that the loyalty of her people is supreme, and true authority in this country has slumbered or has treated with contemptuous indifference speeches and acts of sedition. it may be that you have been misled into the notion that, no matter what you did, so long as your conduct could be called a political crime, it was of no consequence. but it is one thing to talk sedition and to do small seditious acts, it is quite another thing to bear arms in the ranks of the foes of your country, and against it. between the two the difference is immeasurable. but had you and those with whom you associated yourself succeeded, what fatal mischief might have been done to the great inheritance which has been bequeathed to us by our forefathers--that inheritance of power which it must be our work to use nobly and for good things; an inheritance of influence which will be of little effect even for good unless backed by power, and of duty which cannot be effectually performed if our power be shattered and our influence impaired. he who has attempted to do his country such irreparable wrong must be prepared to submit to the sentence which it is now my duty to pronounce upon you. the sentence of this court--and it is pronounced in regard to each count of the indictment--is that you be taken hence to the place from which you came, and from thence to a place of execution, there to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. the impeachment of andrew johnson from the official records of the trial in the united states senate, 1868 by george s. boutwell andrew johnson has disregarded and violated the laws and constitution of his own country. under his administration the government has not been strengthened, but weakened. its reputation and influence at home and abroad have been injured and diminished. ten states of this union are without law, without security, without safety; public order everywhere violated, public justice nowhere respected; and all in consequence of the evil purposes and machinations of the president. forty millions of people have been rendered anxious and uncertain as to the preservation of public peace and the perpetuity of the institutions of freedom in this country. all classes are oppressed by the private and public calamities which he has brought upon them. they appeal to you for relief. the nation waits in anxiety for the conclusion of these proceedings. forty millions of people, whose interest in public affairs is in the wise and just administration of the laws, look to this tribunal as a sure defense against the encroachments of a criminally minded chief magistrate. will any one say that the heaviest judgment which you can render is any adequate punishment for these crimes? your office is not punishment, but to secure the safety of the republic. but human tribunals are inadequate to punish those criminals who, as rulers or magistrates, by their example, conduct, policy, and crimes, become the scourge of communities and nations. no picture, no power of the imagination, can illustrate or conceive the suffering of the poor but loyal people of the south. a patriotic, virtuous, law-abiding chief magistrate would have healed the wounds of war, soothed private and public sorrows, protected the weak, encouraged the strong, and lifted from the southern people the burdens which now are greater than they can bear. travelers and astronomers inform us that in the southern heavens, near the southern cross, there is a vast space which the uneducated call the hole in the sky, where the eye of man, with the aid of the powers of the telescope, has been unable to discover nebulae, or asteroid, or comet, or planet, or star, or sun. in that dreary, cold, dark region of space, which is only known to be less than infinite by the evidences of creation elsewhere, the great author of celestial mechanism has left the chaos which was in the beginning. if this earth were capable of the sentiments and emotions of justice and virtue, which in human mortal beings are the evidences and the pledge of our divine origin and immortal destiny, it would heave and throw, with the energy of the elemental forces of nature, and project this enemy of two races of men into that vast region, there forever to exist in a solitude eternal as life, or as the absence of life, emblematical of, if not really, that "outer darkness" of which the savior of man spoke in warning to those who are the enemies of themselves, of their race, and of their god. but it is yours to relieve, not to punish. this done and our country is again advanced in the intelligent opinion of mankind. in other governments an unfaithful ruler can be removed only by revolution, violence, or force. the proceeding here is judicial, and according to the forms of law. your judgment will be enforced without the aid of a policeman or a soldier. what other evidence will be needed of the value of republican institutions? what other test of the strength and vigor of our government? what other assurance that the virtue of the people is equal to any emergency of national life? by william m. evarts mr. chief justice and senators,--if indeed we have arrived at a settled conclusion that this is a court, that it is governed by the law, that it is to confine its attention to the facts applicable to the law, and regard the sole evidence of those facts to be embraced within the testimony of witnesses or documents produced in court, we have made great progress in separating, at least, from your further consideration much that has been impressed upon your attention heretofore. it follows from this that the president is to be tried upon the charges which are produced here, and not upon common fame. i may as conveniently at this point of the argument as at any other pay some attention to the astronomical punishment which the learned and honorable manager, mr. boutwell, thinks should be applied to this novel case of impeachment of the president. cicero i think it is who says that a lawyer should know everything, for sooner or later there is no fact in history, in science, or of human knowledge that will not come into play in his arguments. painfully sensible of my ignorance, being devoted to a profession which "sharpens and does not enlarge the mind," i yet can admire without envy the superior knowledge evinced by the honorable manager. indeed, upon my soul, i believe he is aware of an astronomical fact which many professors of that science are wholly ignorant of. but nevertheless, while some of his honorable colleagues were paying attention to an unoccupied and unappropriated island on the surface of the seas, mr. manager boutwell, more ambitious, had discovered an untenanted and unappropriated region in the skies, reserved, he would have us think, in the final councils of the almighty, as the place of punishment for convicted and deposed american presidents. at first i thought that his mind had become so "enlarged" that it was not "sharp" enough to discover the constitution had limited the punishment; but on reflection i saw that he was as legal and logical as he was ambitious and astronomical, for the constitution has said "removal from office," and has put no limit to the distance of the removal, so that it may be, without shedding a drop of his blood, or taking a penny of his property, or confining his limbs, instant removal from office and transportation to the skies. truly, this is a great undertaking; and if the learned manager can only get over the obstacles of the laws of nature the constitution will not stand in his way. he can contrive no method but that of a convulsion of the earth that shall project the deposed president to this infinitely distant space; but a shock of nature of so vast an energy and for so great a result on him might unsettle even the footing of the firm members of congress. we certainly need not resort to so perilous a method as that. how shall we accomplish it? why, in the first place, nobody knows where that space is but the learned manager himself, and he is the necessary deputy to execute the judgment of the court. let it then be provided that in case of your sentence of deposition and removal from office the honorable and astronomical manager shall take into his own hands the execution of the sentence. with the president made fast to his broad and strong shoulders, and, having already essayed the flight by imagination, better prepared than anybody else to execute it in form, taking the advantage of ladders as far as ladders will go to the top of this great capitol, and spurning then with his foot the crest of liberty, let him set out upon his flight, while the two houses of congress and all the people of the united states shall shout, "_sic itur ad astra_." ii but here a distressing doubt strikes me; how will the manager get back? he will have got far beyond the reach of gravitation to restore him, and so ambitious a wing as his could never stoop to a downward flight. indeed, as he passes through the constellations, that famous question of carlyle by which he derides the littleness of human affairs upon the scale of the measure of the heavens, "what thinks bœotes as he drives his dogs up the zenith in their race of sidereal fire?" will force itself on his notice. what, indeed, would bœotes think of this new constellation? besides, reaching this space, beyond the power of congress even "to send for persons and papers," how shall he return, and how decide in the contest, there become personal and perpetual, the struggle of strength between him and the president? in this new revolution, thus established forever, who shall decide which is the sun and which is the moon? who determine the only scientific test which reflects the hardest upon the other? mr. chief justice and senators, we have come all at once to the great experiences and trials of a full-grown nation, all of which we thought we should escape--the distractions of civil strife, the exhaustions of powerful war. we could summon from the people a million of men and inexhaustible treasure to help the constitution in its time of need. can we summon now resources enough of civil prudence and of restraint of passion to carry us through this trial, so that whatever result may follow, in whatever form, the people may feel that the constitution has received no wound! to this court, the last and best resort for this determination, it is to be left. and oh, if you could only carry yourselves back to the spirit and the purpose and the wisdom and the courage of the framers of the government, how safe would it be in your hands? how safe is it now in your hands, for you who have entered into their labors will see to it that the structure of your work comports in durability and excellence with theirs. indeed, so familiar has the course of the argument made us with the names of the men of the convention and of the first congress that i could sometimes seem to think that the presence even of the chief justice was replaced by the serene majesty of washington, and that from massachusetts we had adams and ames, from connecticut, sherman and ellsworth, from new jersey, paterson and boudinot, and from new york, hamilton and benson, and that they were to determine this case for us. act, then, as if under this serene and majestic presence your deliberations were to be conducted to their close, and the constitution was to come out from the watchful solicitude of these great guardians of it as if from their own judgment in this court of impeachment. the after-dinner speech at a university club dinner reprinted, with the author's permission, from a speech at a dinner of the harvard club of new york city. by henry e. howland there should be a proper amount of modesty in one called upon to address such an intelligent audience of educated men as i see before me, and i am conscious of it in the same sense as the patient who said to his physician, "i suffer a great deal from nervous dyspepsia, and i attribute it to the fact that i attend so many public dinners." "ah, i see," said the doctor, "you are often called upon to speak, and the nervous apprehension upsets your digestion." "not at all; my apprehension is entirely on account of the other speakers; i never say a thing;" and it is with some hesitation that i respond to your call. following out that line of thought, there is a great deal that is attractive in a gathering of college men. they have such a winsome and a winning way with them. richest in endowments, foremost in progress, honored by the renown of a long line of distinguished sons, the university that claims you is worthy of the homage and respect which it receives from the educated men of america. the study of the development of the human race by educational processes which change by necessity under changing conditions and environment, is one of the most interesting that we can engage in. the greatest men of this country, or any other, have not always been made by the university, however it may be with the average. you cannot always tell by a man's degree what manner of man he is likely to be. but the value of a technical or academic training is apparent as time goes on, population increases, occupations multiply and compete, and the strife of life becomes more fierce and strenuous. many in these days seem to prefer notoriety to fame, because it runs along the line of least resistance. a man has to climb for fame, but he can get notoriety by an easy tumble. and others forget the one essential necessary to success, of personal effort, and, assuming there is a royal road to learning, are content with the distinction of a degree from a university, without caring for what it implies, and answer as the son did to his father who asked him: "why don't you work, my son? if you only knew how much happiness work brings, you would begin at once." "father, i am trying to lead a life of self-denial in which happiness cuts no figure; do not tempt me." but notwithstanding all these tendencies, the level of mankind is raised at these fountains of learning, the tone is higher, and the standards are continually advanced. the discipline and the training reaches and acts upon a willing and eager army of young recruits and works its salutary effect, like that upon a man who listened with rapt attention to a discourse from the pulpit and was congratulated upon his devotion, and asked if he was not impressed. "yes," he replied, "for it is a mighty poor sermon that doesn't hit me somewhere." however discouraging the action of our governing bodies through the obstruction and perverse action of an ignorant or corrupt majority or minority in them may be in the administration of great public affairs, the time at last comes when the nation arouses from its lethargy, shakes off its torpor, shows the strain of its blood, and follows its trained and intelligent leaders, like the man who, in a time of sore distress, after the ancient fashion, put ashes on his head, rent his garments, tore off his coat, his waistcoat, his shirt, and his undershirt, and at last came to himself. at such times, by the universal voice of public opinion and amid hearty applause of the whole people, we welcome to public office and the highest responsible stations such men as our universities have given to the country. it matters not to what family we belong--harvard, yale, columbia, or princeton--we are all of us one in our welcome to them, for they represent the university spirit and what it teaches--honor, highmindedness, intelligence, truthfulness, unselfishness, courage, and patriotism. the evacuation of new york reprinted with the author's permission by joseph h. choate mr. president and gentlemen,--i came here to-night with some notes for a speech in my pocket, but i have been sitting next to general butler, and in the course of the evening they have mysteriously disappeared. the consequence is, gentlemen, that you may expect a very good speech from him and a very poor one from me. when i read this toast which you have just drunk in honor of her gracious majesty, the queen of great britain, and heard how you received the letter of the british minister that was read in response, and how heartily you joined in singing "god save the queen," when i look up and down these tables and see among you so many representatives of english capital and english trade, i have my doubts whether the evacuation of new york by the british was quite as thorough and lasting as history would fain have us believe. if george iii, who certainly did all he could to despoil us of our rights and liberties and bring us to ruin--if he could rise from his grave and see how his granddaughter is honored at your hands to-night, why, i think he would return whence he came, thanking god that his efforts to enslave us, in which for eight long years he drained the resources of the british empire, were not successful. the truth is, the boasted triumph of new york in getting rid of the british once and forever has proved, after all, to be but a dismal failure. we drove them out in one century only to see them return in the next to devour our substance and to carry off all the honors. we have just seen the noble chief justice of england, the feasted favorite of all america, making a triumphal tour across the continent and carrying all before him at the rate of fifty miles an hour. night after night at our very great cost we have been paying the richest tribute to the reigning monarch of the british stage, and nowhere in the world are english men and women of character and culture received with a more hearty welcome, a more earnest hospitality, than in this very state of new york. the truth is, that this event that we celebrate to-day, which sealed the independence of america and seemed for a time to give a staggering blow to the prestige and the power of england, has proved to be no less a blessing to her own people than to ours. the latest and best of the english historians has said that, however important the independence of america might be in the history of england, it was of overwhelming importance in the history of the world, and that though it might have crippled for a while the supremacy of the english nation, it founded the supremacy of the english race. and in the same spirit we welcome the fact that those social, political, and material barriers that separated the two nations a century ago have now utterly vanished; that year by year we are being drawn closer and closer together, and that this day may be celebrated with equal fitness on both sides of the atlantic and by all who speak the english tongue. ties of kinship from "modern eloquence," vol. i, geo. l. shuman and company, chicago, publishers. by sir edwin arnold when i was conversing recently with lord tennyson, he said to me: "it is bad for us that english will always be a spoken speech, since that means that it will always be changing, and so the time will come when you and i will be as hard to read for the common people as chaucer is to-day." you remember what opinion your brilliant humorist, artemus ward, let fall concerning that ancient singer. "mr. chaucer," he observed casually, "is an admirable poet, but as a spellist, a very decided failure." to the treasure house of that noble tongue the united states has splendidly contributed. it would be far poorer to-day without the tender lines of longfellow, the serene and philosophic pages of emerson, the convincing wit and clear criticism of my illustrious departed friend, james russell lowell, the catullus-like perfection of the lyrics of edgar allan poe, and the glorious, large-tempered dithyrambs of walt whitman. these stately and sacred laurel groves grow here in a garden forever extending, ever carrying further forward, for the sake of humanity, the irresistible flag of our saxon supremacy, leading one to falter in an attempt to eulogize america and the idea of her potency and her promise. the most elaborate panegyric would seem but a weak impertinence, which would remind you, perhaps too vividly, of sydney smith, who, when he saw his grandchild pat the back of a large turtle, asked her why she did so. the little maid replied: "grandpa, i do it to please the turtle." "my child," he answered, "you might as well stroke the dome of st. paul's to please the dean and chapter" i myself once heard, in our zoological gardens in london, another little girl ask her mamma whether it would hurt the elephant if she offered him a chocolate drop. in that guarded and respectful spirit is it that i venture to tell you here to-night how truly in england the peace and prosperity of your republic is desired, and that nothing except good will is felt by the mass of our people toward you, and nothing but the greatest satisfaction in your wealth and progress. between these two majestic sisters of the saxon blood the hatchet of war is, please god, buried. no cause of quarrel, i think and hope, can ever be otherwise than truly out of proportion to the vaster causes of affection and accord. we have no longer to prove to each other, or to the world, that englishmen and americans are high-spirited and fearless; that englishmen and americans alike will do justice, and will have justice, and will put up with nothing else from each other and from the nations at large. our proofs are made on both sides, and indelibly written on the page of history. not that i wish to speak platitudes about war. it has been necessary to human progress; it has bred and preserved noble virtues; it has been inevitable, and may be again; but it belongs to a low civilization. other countries have, perhaps, not yet reached that point of intimate contact and rational advance, but for us two, at least, the time seems to have come when violent decisions, and even talk of them, should be as much abolished between us as cannibalism. i ventured, when in washington, to propose to president harrison that we should some day, the sooner the better, choose five men of public worth in the united states, and five in england; give them gold coats if you please, and a handsome salary, and establish them as a standing and supreme tribunal of arbitration, referring to them the little family fallings-out of america and of england, whenever something goes wrong between us about a sealskin in behring strait, a lobster pot, an ambassador's letter, a border tariff, or an irish vote. he showed himself very well disposed toward my suggestion. mr. president, in the sacred hope that you take me to be a better poet than orator, i thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your reception to-night, and personally pray for the tranquility and prosperity of this free and magnificent republic. canada, england, and the united states from an address in brewer's "the world's best orations," vol. vii, ferd p. kaiser, st. louis, chicago, publishers. by sir wilfred laurier mr. toastmaster, mr. president, and gentlemen,--i very fully and very cordially appreciate the very kind feelings which have just now been uttered by the toastmaster in terms so eloquent, and which you gentlemen have accepted and received in so sympathetic a manner. let me say at once, in the name of my fellow-canadians who are here with me and also, i may say, in the name of the canadian people, that these feelings we shall at all times reciprocate; reciprocate, not only in words evanescent, but in actual living deeds. because i must say that i feel that, though the relations between canada and the united states are good, though they are brotherly, though they are satisfactory, in my judgment they are not as good, as brotherly, as satisfactory as they ought to be. we are of the same stock. we spring from the same races on one side of the line as on the other. we speak the same language. we have the same literature, and for more than a thousand years we have had a common history. let me recall to you the lines which, in the darkest days of the civil war, the puritan poet of america issued to england:- "oh, englishmen! oh, englishmen! in hope and creed, in blood and tongue, are brothers, we all are heirs of runnymede." brothers we are, in the language of your own poet. may i not say that while our relations are not always as brotherly as they should have been, may i not ask, mr. president, on the part of canada and on the part of the united states, if we are sometimes too prone to stand by the full conceptions of our rights, and exact all our rights to the last pound of flesh? may i not ask if there have not been too often between us petty quarrels, which happily do not wound the heart of the nation? there was a civil war in the last century. there was a civil war between england, then, and her colonies. the union which then existed between england and her colonies was severed. if it was severed, american citizens, as you know it was, through no fault of your fathers, the fault was altogether the fault of the british government of that day. if the british government of that day had treated the american colonies as the british government for the last twenty or fifty years has treated its colonies; if great britain had given you then the same degree of liberty which it gives to canada, my country; if it had given you, as it has given us, legislative independence absolute,--the result would have been different; the course of victory, the course of history, would have been very different. but what has been done cannot be undone. you cannot expect that the union which was then severed shall ever be restored; but can we not expect--can we not hope that the banners of england and the banners of the united states shall never, never again meet in conflict, except those conflicts provided by the arts of peace, such as we see to-day in the harbor of new york in the contest between the _shamrock_ and the _columbia_ for the supremacy of naval architecture and naval prowess? can we not hope that if ever the banners of england and the banners of the united states are again to meet on the battlefield, they shall meet entwined together in the defense of some holy cause, in the defense of holy justice, for the defense of the oppressed, for the enfranchisement of the downtrodden, and for the advancement of liberty, progress, and civilization? monsieur and madame from a speech in "modern eloquence," vol. i, geo. l. shuman and company, chicago, publishers. by paul blouet (max o'rell) now, the attitude of men towards women is very different, according to the different nations to which they belong. you will find a good illustration of that different attitude of men toward women in france, in england, and in america, if you go to the dining-rooms of their hotels. you go to the dining-room, and you take, if you can, a seat near the entrance door, and you watch the arrival of the couples, and also watch them as they cross the room and go to the table that is assigned to them by the head waiter. now, in europe, you would find a very polite head waiter, who invites you to go in, and asks you where you will sit; but in america the head waiter is a most magnificent potentate who lies in wait for you at the door, and bids you to follow him sometimes in the following respectful manner, beckoning, "there." and you have got to do it, too. i traveled six times in america, and i never saw a man so daring as not to sit there. in the tremendous hotels of the large cities, where you have got to go to number 992 or something of the sort, i generally got a little entertainment out of the head waiter. he is so thoroughly persuaded that it would never enter my head not to follow him, he will never look round to see if i am there. why, he knows i am there, but i'm not. i wait my time, and when he has got to the end i am sitting down waiting for a chance to be left alone. he says, "you cannot sit here." i say: "why not? what is the matter with this seat?" he says, "you must not sit there." i say, "i don't want a constitutional walk; don't bother, i'm all right." once, indeed, after an article in the _north american review_--for your head waiter in america reads reviews--a head waiter told me to sit where i pleased. i said, "now, wait a minute, give me time to realize that; do i understand that in this hotel i am going to sit where i like?" he said, "certainly!" he was in earnest. i said, "i should like to sit over there at that table near the window." he said, "all right, come with me." when i came out, there were some newspaper people in the hotel waiting for me, and it was reported in half a column in one of the papers, with one of those charming headlines which are so characteristic of american journalism, "max sits where he likes!" well, i said, you go to the dining-room, you take your seat, and you watch the arrival of the couples, and you will know the position of men. in france monsieur and madame come in together abreast, as a rule arm in arm. they look pleasant, smile, and talk to each other. they smile at each other, even though married. in england, in the same class of hotel, john bull comes in first. he does not look happy. john bull loves privacy. he does not like to be obliged to eat in the presence of lots of people who have not been introduced to him, and he thinks it very hard he should not have the whole dining-room to himself. that man, though, mind you, in his own house undoubtedly the most hospitable, the most kind, the most considerate of hosts in the world, that man in the dining-room of a hotel always comes in with a frown. he does not like it, he grumbles, and mild and demure, with her hands hanging down, modestly follows mrs. john bull. but in america, behold the arrival of mrs. jonathan! behold her triumphant entry, pulling jonathan behind! well, i like my own country, and i cannot help thinking that the proper and right way is the french. ladies, you know all our shortcomings. our hearts are exposed ever since the rib which covered them was taken off. yet we ask you kindly to allow us to go through life with you, like the french, arm in arm, in good friendship and camaraderie. the typical american from "the new south," with the permission of henry w. grady, jr. by henry w. grady pardon me one word, mr. president, spoken for the sole purpose of getting into the volumes that go out annually freighted with the rich eloquence of your speakers--the fact that the cavalier as well as the puritan was on the continent in its early days, and that he was "up and able to be about." i have read your books carefully and i find no mention of that fact, which seems to me an important one for preserving a sort of historical equilibrium if for nothing else. let me remind you that the virginia cavalier first challenged france on this continent-that cavalier, john smith, gave new england its very name, and was so pleased with the job that he has been handing his own name around ever since--and that while miles standish was cutting off men's ears for courting a girl without her parents' consent, and forbade men to kiss their wives on sunday, the cavalier was courting everything in sight, and that the almighty had vouchsafed great increase to the cavalier colonies, the huts in the wilderness being full as the nests in the woods. but having incorporated the cavalier as a fact in your charming little books, i shall let him work out his own salvation, as he always has done with engaging gallantry, and we will hold no controversy as to his merits. why should we? neither puritan nor cavalier long survive as such. the virtues and traditions of both happily still live for the inspiration of their sons and the saving of the old fashion. but both puritan and cavalier were lost in the storm of the first revolution; and the american citizen, supplanting both and stronger than either, took possession of the republic bought by their common blood and fashioned to wisdom, and charged himself with teaching men government and establishing the voice of the people as the voice of god. my friend dr. talmage has told you that the typical american has yet to come. let me tell you that he has already come. great types, like valuable plants, are slow to flower and fruit. but from the union of these colonist puritans and cavaliers, from the straightening of their purposes and the crossing of their blood, slow perfecting through a century, came he who stands as the first typical american, the first who comprehended within himself all the strength and gentleness, all the majesty and grace, of this republic--abraham lincoln. he was the sum of puritan and cavalier, for in his ardent nature were fused the virtues of both, and in the depths of his great soul the faults of both were lost. he was greater than puritan, greater than cavalier, in that he was american, and in that in his homely form were first gathered the vast and thrilling forces of his ideal government--charging it with such tremendous meaning and so elevating it above human suffering that martyrdom, though infamously aimed, came as a fitting crown to a life consecrated from the cradle to human liberty. let us, each cherishing the traditions and honoring his fathers, build with reverent hands to the type of this simple but sublime life, in which all types are honored; and in our common glory as americans there will be plenty and to spare for your forefathers and for mine. the pilgrim mothers reprinted with the author's permission by joseph h. choate i really don't know, at this late hour, mr. chairman, how you expect me to treat this difficult and tender subject. i might take up the subject etymologically, and try and explain how woman ever acquired that remarkable name. but that has been done before me by a poet with whose stanzas you are not familiar, but whom you will recognize as deeply versed in this subject, for he says:- "when eve brought woe to all mankind, old adam called her woe-man, but when she woo'd with love so kind, he then pronounced her woman. "but now, with folly and with pride, their husbands' pockets trimming, the ladies are so full of whims that people call them w(h)imen." mr. chairman, i believe you said i should say something about the pilgrim mothers. well, sir, it is rather late in the evening to venture upon that historic subject. but, for one, i pity them. the occupants of the galleries will bear me witness that even these modern pilgrims-these pilgrims with all the modern improvements--how hard it is to put up with their weaknesses, their follies, their tyrannies, their oppressions, their desire of dominion and rule. but when you go back to the stern horrors of the pilgrim rule, when you contemplate the rugged character of the pilgrim fathers, why, you give credence to what a witty woman of boston said--she had heard enough of the glories and sufferings of the pilgrim fathers; for her part, she had a world of sympathy for the pilgrim mothers, because they not only endured all that the pilgrim fathers had done, but they also had to endure the pilgrim fathers to boot. well, sir, they were afraid of woman. they thought she was almost too refined a luxury for them to indulge in. miles standish spoke for them all, and i am sure that general sherman, who so much resembles miles standish, not only in his military renown but in his rugged exterior and in his warm and tender heart, will echo his words when he says:-"i can march up to a fortress, and summon the place to surrender, but march up to a woman with such a proposal, i dare not. i am not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon, but of a thundering 'no!' point-blank from the mouth of a woman, that i confess i'm afraid of, nor am i ashamed to confess it." mr. president, did you ever see a more self-satisfied or contented set of men than these that are gathered at these tables this evening? i never come to the pilgrim dinner and see these men, who have achieved in the various departments of life such definite and satisfactory success, but that i look back twenty or thirty or forty years, and see the lantern-jawed boy who started out from the banks of the connecticut, or some more remote river of new england, with five dollars in his pocket and his father's blessing on his head and his mother's bible in his carpetbag, to seek those fortunes which now they have so gloriously made. and there is one woman whom each of these, through all his progress and to the last expiring hour of his life, bears in tender remembrance. it is the mother who sent him forth with her blessing. a mother is a mother still--the holiest thing alive; and if i could dismiss you with a benediction to-night, it would be by invoking upon the heads of you all the blessing of the mothers that we left behind us. bright land to westward from "modern eloquence," vol. iii, geo. l. shuman and company, chicago, publishers. by e. o. wolcott mr. president and gentlemen,--it was with great diffidence that i accepted the invitation of your president to respond to a toast tonight. i realized my incapacity to do justice to the occasion, while at the same time i recognized the high compliment conveyed. i felt somewhat as the man did respecting the shakespeare-bacon controversy; he said he didn't know whether lord bacon wrote shakespeare's works or not, but if he didn't, he missed the greatest opportunity of his life. we are a plain people, and live far away. we are provincial; we have no distinctive literature and no great poets; our leading personage abroad of late seems to be the honorable "buffalo bill"; and we use our adjectives so recklessly that the polite badinage indulged in toward each other by your new york editors to us seems tame and spiritless. in mental achievement we may not have fully acquired the use of the fork, and are "but in the gristle and not yet hardened into the bone of manhood." we stand toward the east somewhat as country to city cousin; about as new to old england, only we don't feel half so badly about it, and on the whole are rather pleased with ourselves. there is not in the whole broad west a ranch so lonely or so remote that a public school is not within reach of it. with generous help from the east, western colleges are elevating and directing western thought, and men busy making states yet find time to live manly lives and to lend a hand. all this may not be aesthetic, but it is virile, and it leads up and not down. there are some things more important than the highest culture. the west is the almighty's reserve ground, and as the world is filling up, he is turning even the old arid plains and deserts into fertile acres, and is sending there the rain as well as the sunshine. a high and glorious destiny awaits us; soon the balance of population will lie the other side of the mississippi, and the millions that are coming must find waiting for them schools and churches, good government, and a happy people:- "who love the land because it is their own, and scorn to give aught other reason why; would shake hands with a king upon his throne, and think it kindness to his majesty." in everything which pertains to progress in the west, the yankee reënforcements step rapidly to the front. every year she needs more of them, and as the country grows the annual demand becomes greater. genuine new englanders are to be had on tap only in six small states, and remembering this we feel that we have the right to demand that in the future, even more than in the past, the heads of the new england households weary not in the good work. in these days of "booms" and new souths and great wests, when everybody up north who fired a gun is made to feel that he ought to apologize for it, and good fellowship everywhere abounds, there is a sort of tendency to fuse; only big and conspicuous things are much considered; and new england being small in area and most of her distinguished people being dead, she is just now somewhat under an eclipse. but in her past she has undying fame. you of new england and her borders live always in the atmosphere of her glories; the scenes which tell of her achievements are ever near at hand, and familiarity and contact may rob them of their charms, and dim to your eyes their sacredness. the sons of new england in the west revisit her as men who make pilgrimage to some holy shrine, and her hills and valleys are still instinct with noble traditions. in her glories and her history we claim a common heritage, and we never wander so far away from her that, with each recurring anniversary of this day, our hearts do not turn to her with renewed love and devotion for our beloved new england; yet- "not by eastern windows only, when daylight comes, comes in the light; in front the sun climbs slow, how slowly, but westward, look, the land is bright!" woman from "modern eloquence," vol. ill, geo. l. shuman and company, chicago, publishers. by theodore tilton you must not forget, mr. president, in eulogizing the early men of new england, who are your clients to-night, that it was only through the help of the early women of new england, who are mine, that your boasted heroes could ever have earned their title of the pilgrim fathers. a health, therefore, to the women in the cabin of the mayflower! a cluster of mayflowers themselves, transplanted from summer in the old world to winter in the new! counting over those matrons and maidens, they numbered, all told, just eighteen. their names are now written among the heroines of history! for as over the ashes of cornelia stood the epitaph "the mother of the gracchi," so over these women of the pilgrimage we write as proudly "the mothers of the republic." there was good mistress bradford, whose feet were not allowed of god to kiss plymouth rock, and who, like moses, came only near enough to see but not to enter the promised land. she was washed overboard from the deck--and to this day the sea is her grave and cape cod her monument! there was mistress carver, wife of the first governor, who, when her husband fell under the stroke of sudden death, followed him first with heroic grief to the grave, and then, a fortnight after, followed him with heroic joy up into heaven! there was mistress white--the mother of the first child born to the new england pilgrims on this continent. and it was a good omen, sir, that this historic babe was brought into the world on board the mayflower between the time of the casting of her anchor and the landing of her passengers--a kind of amphibious prophecy that the newborn nation was to have a birthright inheritance over the sea and over the land. there also was rose standish, whose name is a perpetual june fragrance, to mellow and sweeten those december winds. then, after the first vessel with these women, there came other women-loving hearts drawn from the olden land by those silken threads which afterwards harden into golden chains. for instance, governor bradford, a lonesome widower, went down to the seabeach, and, facing the waves, tossed a love letter over the wide ocean into the lap of alice southworth in old england, who caught it up, and read it, and said, "yes, i will go." and she went! and it is said that the governor, at his second wedding, married his first love! which, according to the new theology, furnishes the providential reason why the first mrs. bradford fell overboard! now, gentlemen, as you sit to-night in this elegant hall, think of the houses in which the _mayflower_ men and women lived in that first winter! think of a cabin in the wilderness--where winds whistled--where wolves howled--where indians yelled! and yet, within that log house, burning like a lamp, was the pure flame of christian faith, love, patience, fortitude, heroism! as the star of the east rested over the rude manger where christ lay, so--speaking not irreverently--there rested over the roofs of the pilgrims a star of the west--the star of empire; and to-day that empire is the proudest in the world! and now, to close, let me give you just a bit of good advice. the cottages of our forefathers had few pictures on the walls, but many families had a print of "king charles's twelve good rules," the eleventh of which was, "make no long meals." now king charles lost his head, and you will have leave to make a long meal. but when, after your long meal, you go home in the wee small hours, what do you expect to find? you will find my toast--"woman, a beautiful rod!" now my advice is, "kiss the rod!" abraham lincoln reprinted with the author's permission by horace porter the story of the life of abraham lincoln savors more of romance than reality. it is more like a fable of the ancient days than the story of a plain american of the nineteenth century. the singular vicissitudes in the life of our martyred president surround him with an interest which attaches to few men in history. he sprang from that class which he always alluded to as the "plain people," and never attempted to disdain them. he believed that the government was made for the people, not the people for the government. he felt that true republicanism is a torch--the more it is shaken in the hands of the people the brighter it will burn. he was transcendently fit to be the first successful standard bearer of the progressive, aggressive, invincible republican party. he might well have said to those who chanced to sneer at his humble origin what a marshal of france raised from the ranks said to the haughty nobles of vienna boasting of their long line of descent, when they refused to associate with him: "i am an ancestor; you are only descendants!" he was never guilty of any posing for effect, any attitudinizing in public, any mawkish sentimentality, any of that puppyism so often bred by power, that dogmatism which johnson said was only puppyism grown to maturity. he made no claim to knowledge he did not possess. he felt with addison that pedantry and learning are like hypocrisy in religion--the form of knowledge without the power of it. he had nothing in common with those men of mental malformation who are educated beyond their intellects. the names of washington and lincoln are inseparably associated, and yet as the popular historian would have us believe one spent his entire life in chopping down acorn trees and the other splitting them up into rails. washington could not tell a story. lincoln always could. and lincoln's stories always possessed the true geometrical requisites, they were never too long, and never too broad. but his heart was not always attuned to mirth; its chords were often set to strains of sadness. yet throughout all his trials he never lost the courage of his convictions. when he was surrounded on all sides by doubting thomases, by unbelieving saracens, by discontented catilines, his faith was strongest. as the danes destroyed the hearing of their war horses in order that they might not be affrighted by the din of battle, so lincoln turned a deaf ear to all that might have discouraged him, and exhibited an unwavering faith in the justice of the cause and the integrity of the union. it is said that for three hundred years after the battle of thermopylæ every child in the public schools of greece was required to recite from memory the names of the three hundred martyrs who fell in the defense of that pass. it would be a crowning triumph in patriotic education if every school child in america could contemplate each day the grand character and utter the inspiring name of abraham lincoln, who has handed down unto a grateful people the richest legacy which man can leave to man--the memory of a good name, the inheritance of a great example! to athletic victors from a speech at a dinner of graduates of yale university, in new york, 1889. by the kindness of the author. by henry e. howland on boston common, under the shadow of the state house, and within the atmosphere of harvard university, there is an inscription on a column, in honor of those who, on land and sea, maintained the cause of their country during four years of civil war. the visitor approaches it with respect and reverently uncovers as he reads. with similar high emotions we, as citizens of the world of letters, and acknowledging particular allegiance to the province thereof founded by elihu yale, are assembled to pour libations, to partake of a sacrificial feast, and to crown with honors and with bays those who, on land and sea, with unparalleled courage and devotion, have borne their flag to victory in desperate encounters. peace hath her victories no less renowned than war. on large fields of strife, the record of success like that which we are called upon to commemorate would give the victors a high place in history and liken their country to ancient thebes,- "which spread her conquest o'er a thousand states, and poured her heroes through a hundred gates." there are many reasons why yale men win. one is that which was stated by lord beaconsfield, "the secret of success is constancy of purpose." that alone sufficiently accounts for it. we are here present in no vain spirit of boasting, though if our right to exalt ourselves were questioned, we might reply in the words of the american girl who was shown some cannon at woolwich arsenal, the sergeant in charge remarking, "you know we took them from you at bunker hill." "yes," she replied, "i see you've got the cannon, but i guess we've got the hill." we come rather in a spirit of true modesty to recognize the plaudits of an admiring world, to tell you how they were won. it was said in the days of athenian pride and glory that it was easier to find a god in athens than a man. we must be careful in these days of admiration of athletic effort that no such imputation is laid upon us, and that the deification of the human form divine is not carried to extremes. it is a curious coincidence that a love of the classics and proficiency in intellectual pursuits should coexist with admiration for physical perfection and with athletic superiority during all the centuries of which the history is written. the youth who lisped in attic numbers and was brought up on the language we now so painfully and imperfectly acquire, who was lulled to sleep by songs of æschylus and sophocles, who discussed philosophy in the porches of plato, aristotle, and epicurus, was a more accomplished classical scholar than the most learned pundit of modern times, and was a model of manly beauty, yet he would have died to win the wreath of parsley at the olympian games, which all esteemed an immortal prize. while, in our time, to be the winning crew on the isis, the cam, the english or american thames, is equal in honor and influence to the position of senior wrangler, valedictorian, or deforest prize man. the man who wins the world's honors to-day must not be overtrained mentally or physically; not, as john randolph said of the soil of virginia,--"poor by nature and ruined by cultivation," hollow-chested, convex in back, imperfect in sight, shuffling in gait, and flabby in muscle. the work of such a man will be musty like his closet, narrow as the groove he moves in, tinctured with the peculiarities that border on insanity, and out of tune with nature. no man can work in the world unless he knows it, struggles with it, and becomes a part of it, and the statement of the english statesman that the undergraduate of oxford or cambridge who had the best stomach, the hardest muscles, and the greatest ambition would be the future lord chancellor of england, had a solid basis of truth. gentlemen of the bat, the oar, the racquet, the cinder path, and the leathern sphere, never were conquerors more welcome guests, in palace or in hall, at the tables of their friends than you are here. you come with your laurels fresh from the fields you have won, to receive the praise which is your due and which we so gladly bestow. your self-denial, devotion, skill, and courage have brought honor to your university, and for it we honor you. the babies at a banquet in honor of general grant, chicago, 1877 by samuel l. clemens (mark twain) mr. chairman and gentlemen,--"the babies." now, that's something like. we haven't all had the good fortune to be ladies; we have not all been generals, or poets, or statesmen; but when the toast works down to the babies, we stand on common ground--for we've all been babies. it is a shame that for a thousand years the world's banquets have utterly ignored the baby, as if he didn't amount to anything! if you, gentlemen, will stop and think a minute--if you will try to go back fifty or a hundred years, to your early married life, and recontemplate your first baby--you will remember that he amounted to a good deal--and even something over. you soldiers all know that when that little fellow arrived at family headquarters, you had to hand in your resignation. he took entire command. you had to execute his order whether it was possible or not. and there was only one form of marching in his manual of tactics, and that was the double-quick. when he called for soothing syrup, did you venture to throw out any remarks about certain services unbecoming to an officer and a gentleman? no; you got up and got it! if he ordered his pap bottle, and it wasn't warm, did you talk back? not you; you went to work and warmed it. you even descended so far in your menial office as to take a suck at that warm, insipid stuff yourself, to see if it was right!--three parts water to one of milk, a touch of sugar to modify the colic, and a drop of peppermint to kill those immortal hiccoughs. i can taste that stuff yet. and how many things you learned as you went along! sentimental young folks still take stock in that beautiful old saying, that when a baby smiles in his sleep it is because the angels are whispering to him. very pretty, but "too thin"--simply wind on the stomach, my friends. i like the idea that a baby doesn't amount to anything! why, one baby is just a house and a front yard full by itself; one baby can furnish more business than you and your whole interior department can attend to; he is enterprising, irrepressible, brimful of lawless activities. do what you please you can't make him stay on the reservation. sufficient unto the day is one baby. as long as you are in your right mind don't ever pray for twins. twins amount to a permanent riot; and there ain't any real difference between triplets and insurrections. among the three or four million cradles now rocking in the land there are some which this nation would preserve for ages as sacred things, if we could know which ones they are. for in one of these cradles the unconscious farragut of the future is at this moment teething; in another the future great historian is lying, and doubtless he will continue to lie until his earthly mission is ended. and in still one more cradle, somewhere under the flag, the future illustrious commander-in-chief of the american armies is so little burdened with his approaching grandeurs and responsibilities as to be giving his whole strategic mind at this moment, to trying to find out some way to get his own big toe into his mouth, an achievement to which (meaning no disrespect) the illustrious guest of this evening also turned his attention some fifty-six years ago! and if the child is but the prophecy of the man, there are mighty few will doubt that he succeeded. the occasional poem charles dickens read by mr. watson in new york, at the celebration of the dickens centenary, 1912. reprinted from the public press. by william watson when nature first designed in her all-procreant mind the man whom here tonight we are met to honor-when first the idea of dickens flashed upon her-"where, where" she said, "upon my populous earth shall this prodigious child be brought to birth? where shall we have his earliest wondering look into my magic book? shall he be born where life runs like a brook, pleasant and placid as of old it ran, far from the sound and shock of mighty deeds, among soft english meads? or shall he first my pictured volume scan where london lifts its hot and fevered brow for cooling night to fan?" "nay, nay," she said, "i have a happier plan for where at portsmouth, on the embattled tides the ships of war step out with thundering prow and shake their stormy sides-in yonder place of arms, whose gaunt sea wall flings to the clouds the far-heard bugle call-he shall be born amid the drums and guns, he shall be born among my fighting sons, perhaps the greatest warrior of them all." ii so there, where from the forts and battle gear and all the proud sea babbles nelson's name, into the world this later hero came-he, too, a man that knew all moods but fear-he, too, a fighter. yet not his the strife that leaves dark scars on the fair face of life. he did not fight to rend the world apart; he fought to make it one in mind and heart, building a broad and noble bridge to span the icy chasm that sunders man from man. wherever wrong had fixed its bastions deep, there did his fierce yet gay assault surprise some fortress girt with lucre or with lies; there his light battery stormed some ponderous keep; there charged he up the steep, a knight on whom no palsying torpor fell, keen to the last to break a lance with hell. and still undimmed his conquering weapons shine; on his bright sword no spot of rust appears, and still across the years his soul goes forth to battle, and in the face of whatso'er is false, or cruel, or base, he hurls his gage and leaps among the spears, being armed with pity and love and scorn divine, immortal laughter and immortal tears. the mariners of england by thomas campbell ye mariners of england that guard our native seas! whose flag has braved, a thousand years, the battle and the breeze! your glorious standard launch again to match another foe: and sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long and the stormy winds do blow. the spirit of your fathers shall start from every wave, for the deck it is our field of fame, and ocean was their grave: where blake and mighty nelson fell your manly heart shall glow, as ye sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long and the stormy winds do blow. britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along the steep; her march is o'er the mountain waves, her home is on the deep. with thunders from her native oak she quells the floods below, as they roar on the shore, when the stormy winds do blow; when the battle rages loud and long and the stormy winds do blow. the meteor-flag of england shall yet terrific burn; till danger's troubled night depart and the star of peace return. then, then, ye ocean warriors! our song and feast shall flow to the fame of your name, when the storm has ceased to blow; when the fiery fight is heard no more, and the storm has ceased to blow. class poem read in sanders theater at the harvard class day exercises, 1903. reprinted with permission. by langdon warner not unto every one of us shall come the bugle call that sounds for famous deeds; not far lands, but the pleasant paths of home, not broad seas to traffic, but the meads of fruitful midland ways, where daily life down trellised vistas, heavy in the fall, seems but the decent way apart from strife; and love, and work, and laughter there seem all. war, and the orient sun uprising, the east, the west, and man's shrill clamorous strife, travail, disaster, flood, and far emprising, man may not reach, yet take fast hold on life. let us now praise men who are not famous, striving for good name rather than for great; hear we the quiet voice calling to claim us, heed it no less than the trumpet-call of fate! profit we to-day by the men who've gone before us, men who dared, and lived, and died, to speed us on our way. fair is their fame, who make that mighty chorus, and gentle is the heritance that comes to us to-day. they pulled with the strength that was in them, but 'twas not for the pewter cup, and not for the fame 'twould win them when the length of the race was up. for the college stood by the river, and they heard, with cheeks that glowed, the voice of the coxswain calling at the end of the course--"well rowed!" we have pulled at the sweep and run at the games, we have striven to stand to our boyhood aims, and we know the worth of our fathers' names; shall we have less care for our own? the praise of men they dared despise, they set the game above the prize, must we fear to look in our fathers' eyes, nor reap where they have sown? do we lose the zest we've known before? the joy of running?--the kick of the oar when the ash sweeps buckle and bend? is the goal too far?--too hard to gain? we know that the candle is not the play, we know the reward is not to-day, and may not come at the end. but we hear the voice of each bygone class from the river's bank when our own crews pass, and the backs of the men are bowed, with a steady lift and a squandering strength, for the heave that shall drive us a nation's length, till the coxswain calls--"well rowed." now all to the tasks that may find us- to the saddle, the home, or the sea, still hearing the voices behind us the voices that set us free; free to be bound by our honor, free to our birthright of toil, the masters, and slaves, of the nation, the serfs, and the lords, of the soil! proudly we lift the burdens that humbled the ages past, and pray to the god that gave them we may bear them on to the last; that our sons and our younger brothers, when our gaps in the front they fill, may know that the class has faltered not, and the line is even still. then out to the wind and weather! down the course our fathers showed, and finish well together, as the coxswain calls--"well rowed!" a troop of the guard harvard class poem, 1907, houghton mifflin company, boston, publishers, reprinted with permission. by hermann hagedorn, jr. there's a trampling of hoofs in the busy street, there's a clanking of sabers on floor and stair, there's a sound of restless, hurrying feet, of voices that whisper, of lips that entreat,- will they live, will they die, will they strive, will they dare?-the houses are garlanded, flags flutter gay, for a troop of the guard rides forth to-day. oh, the troopers will ride and their hearts will leap, when it's shoulder to shoulder and friend to friend-but it's some to the pinnacle, some to the deep, and some in the glow of their strength to sleep, and for all it's a fight to the tale's far end, and it's each to his goal, nor turn nor sway, when the troop of the guard rides forth to-day. the dawn is upon us, the pale light speeds to the zenith with glamour and golden dart. on, up! boot and saddle! give spurs to your steeds! there's a city beleaguered that cries for men's deeds, with the pain of the world in its cavernous heart. ours be the triumph! humanity calls! life's not a dream in the clover! on to the walls, on to the walls, on to the walls, and over! the wine is spent, the tale is spun, the revelry of youth is done. the horses prance, the bridles clink, while maidens fair in bright array with us the last sweet goblet drink, then bid us, "mount and away!" into the dawn, we ride, we ride, fellow and fellow, side by side; galloping over the field and hill, over the marshland, stalwart still, into the forest's shadowy hush, where specters walk in sunless day, and in dark pool and branch and bush the treacherous will-o'-the-wisp lights play. out of the wood 'neath the risen sun, weary we gallop, one and one, to a richer hope and a stronger foe and a hotter fight in the fields below-each man his own slave, each his lord, for the golden spurs and the victor's sword! an anxious generation sends us forth on the far conquest of the thrones of might. from west to east, from south to north, earth's children, weary-eyed from too much light, cry from their dream-forsaken vales of pain, "give us our gods, give us our gods again!" a lofty and relentless century, gazing with argus eyes, has pierced the very inmost halls of faith; and left no shelter whither man may flee from the cold storms of night and lovelessness and death. old gods have fallen and the new must rise! out of the dust of doubt and broken creeds, the sons of those who cast men's idols low must build up for a hungry people's needs new gods, new hopes, new strength to toil and grow; knowing that nought that ever lived can die,-no act, no dream but spreads its sails, sublime, sweeping across the visible seas of time into the treasure-haven of eternity. the portals are open, the white road leads through thicket and garden, o'er stone and sod. on, up! boot and saddle! give spurs to your steeds! there's a city beleaguered that cries for men's deeds, for the faith that is strength and the love that is god! on, through the dawning! humanity calls! life's not a dream in the clover! on to the walls, on to the walls, on to the walls, and over! the boys at a class reunion. by permission of, and by special arrangement with, houghton mifflin company, authorized publishers of this author's works. by oliver wendell holmes has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? if there has, take him out, without making a noise. hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite! old time is a liar! we're twenty to-night! we're twenty! we're twenty! who says we are more? he's tipsy, young jackanapes!--show him the door! 'gray temples at twenty?'--yes! _white_ if we please; where the snowflakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze! was it snowing i spoke of? excuse the mistake! look close,--you will see not a sign of a flake! we want some new garlands for those we have shed,-and these are white roses in place of the red. we've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, of talking (in public) as if we were old:-that boy we call 'doctor,' and this we call 'judge'; it's a neat little fiction,--of course it's all fudge. that fellow's the 'speaker,'--the one on the right: 'mr. mayor,' my young one, how are you to-night? that's our 'member of congress,' we say when we chaff; there's the 'reverend' what's his name?--don't make me laugh. that boy with the grave mathematical look made believe he had written a wonderful book, and the royal society thought it was _true_! so they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too! there's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, that could harness a team with a logical chain; when he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, we called him 'the justice,' but now he's 'the squire.' and there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,-fate tried to conceal him by naming him smith; but he shouted a song for the brave and the free,-just read on his medal, 'my country,' 'of thee!' you hear that boy laughing?--you think he's all fun; but the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; the children laugh loud as they troop to his call, and the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all! yes, we're boys,--always playing with tongue or with pen,-and i sometimes have asked,--shall we ever be men? shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, till the last dear companion drops smiling away? then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! the stars of its winter, the dews of its may! and when we have done with our life-lasting toys, dear father, take care of thy children, the boys! the anecdote the mob conquered from "the orations and addresses of george william curtis," vol. 1 copyright 1893, by harper and brothers. reprinted with permission. by george william curtis it is especially necessary for us to perceive the vital relation of individual courage and character to the common welfare, because ours is a government of public opinion, and public opinion is but the aggregate of individual thought. we have the awful responsibility as a community of doing what we choose; and it is of the last importance that we choose to do what is wise and right. in the early days of the antislavery agitation a meeting was called at faneuil hall, in boston, which a good-natured mob of sailors was hired to suppress. they took possession of the floor and danced breakdowns and shouted choruses and refused to hear any of the orators upon the platform. the most eloquent pleaded with them in vain. they were urged by the memories of the cradle of liberty, for the honor of massachusetts, for their own honor as boston boys, to respect liberty of speech. but they still laughed and sang and danced, and were proof against every appeal. at last a man suddenly arose from among themselves, and began to speak. struck by his tone and quaint appearance, and with the thought that he might be one of themselves, the mob became suddenly still, "well, fellow-citizens," he said, "i wouldn't be quiet if i didn't want to." the words were greeted with a roar of delight from the mob, which supposed it had found its champion, and the applause was unceasing for five minutes, during which the strange orator tranquilly awaited his chance to continue. the wish to hear more hushed the tumult, and when the hall was still he resumed: "no, i certainly wouldn't stop if i hadn't a mind to; but then, if i were you, i _would_ have a mind to!" the oddity of the remark and the earnestness of the tone, held the crowd silent, and the speaker continued, "not because this is faneuil hall, nor for the honor of massachusetts, nor because you are boston boys, but because you are men, and because honorable and generous men always love fair play." the mob was conquered. free speech and fair play were secured. public opinion can do what it has a mind to in this country. if it be debased and demoralized, it is the most odious of tyrants. it is nero and caligula multiplied by millions. can there then be a more stringent public duty for every man--and the greater the intelligence the greater the duty--than to take care, by all the influence he can command, that the country, the majority, public opinion, shall have a mind to do only what is just and pure and humane? an example of faith from "the new south." reprinted with permission by henry w. grady permitted, through your kindness, to catch my second wind, let me say that i appreciate the significance of being the first southerner to speak at this board, which bears the substance, if it surpasses the semblance, of original new england hospitality--and honors the sentiment that in turn honors you, but in which my personality is lost, and the compliment to my people made plain. i bespeak the utmost stretch of your courtesy to-night. i am not troubled about those from whom i come. you remember the man whose wife sent him to a neighbor with a pitcher of milk, and who, tripping on the top step, fell with such casual interruptions as the landings afforded into the basement, and, while picking himself up, had the pleasure of hearing his wife call out: "john, did you break the pitcher?" "no, i didn't," said john, "but i'll be dinged if i don't." so, while those who call me from behind may inspire me with energy, if not with courage, i ask an indulgent hearing from you. i beg that you will bring your full faith in american fairness and frankness to judgment upon what i shall say. there was an old preacher once who told some boys of the bible lesson he was going to read in the morning. the boys, finding the place, glued together the connecting pages. the next morning he read on the bottom of one page, "when noah was one hundred and twenty years old he took unto himself a wife, who was--" then turning the page--"140 cubits long, 40 cubits wide, built of gopher wood--and covered with pitch inside and out." he was naturally puzzled at this. he read it again, verified it, and then said, "my friends, this is the first time i ever met this in the bible, but i accept this as an evidence of the assertion that we are fearfully and wonderfully made." if i could get you to hold such faith to-night i could proceed cheerfully to the task i otherwise approach with a sense of consecration. the rail-splitter from "the lincoln story book," with the permission of g. w. dillingham and co., new york, publishers. by h. l. williams the illinois republican state convention of 1860 met at decatur, in a wigwam built for the purpose, a type of that noted in the lincoln annals as at chicago. a special welcome was given to abraham lincoln as a "distinguished citizen of illinois, and one she will ever be delighted to honor." the session was suddenly interrupted by the chairman saying: "there is an old democrat outside who has something to present to the convention." the present was two old fence rails, carried on the shoulder of an elderly man, recognized by lincoln as his cousin john hanks, and by the sangamon folks as an old settler in the bottoms. the rails were explained by a banner reading: "two rails from a lot made by abraham lincoln and john hanks, in the sangamon bottom, in the year 1830." thunderous cheers for "the rail-splitter" resounded, for this slur on the statesman had recoiled on aspersers and was used as a title of honor. the call for confirmation of the assertion led lincoln to rise, and blushing--so recorded--said: "gentlemen,--i suppose you want to know something about those things. well, the truth is, john and i did make rails in the sangamon bottom." he eyed the wood with the knowingness of an authority on "stumpage," and added: "i don't know whether we made those rails or not; the fact is, i don't think they are a credit to the makers!" it was john hanks' turn to blush. "but i do know this: i made rails then, and, i think, i could make better ones now!" whereupon, by acclamation, abraham lincoln was declared to be "first choice of the republican party in illinois for the presidency." riding a man in on a rail became of different and honorable meaning from that out. this incident was a prepared theatrical effect. governor oglesby arranged with lincoln's stepbrother, john d. johnston, to provide two rails, and with lincoln's mother's cousin, dennis hanks, for the latter to bring in the rails at the telling juncture. lincoln's guarded manner about identifying the rails, and sly slap at his ability to make better ones, show that he was in the scheme, though recognizing that the dodge was of value politically. o'connell's wit from a lecture on daniel o'connell in "speeches and lectures," with the permission of lothrop, lee and shepard, boston, publishers. by wendell phillips we used to say of webster, "this is a great effort"; of everett, "it is a beautiful effort"; but you never used the word "effort" in speaking of o'connell. it provoked you that he would not make an effort. i heard him perhaps a score of times, and i do not think more than three times he ever lifted himself to the full sweep of his power. and this wonderful power, it was not a thunderstorm: he flanked you with his wit, he surprised you out of yourself; you were conquered before you knew it. he was once summoned to court out of the hunting field, when a young friend of his of humble birth was on trial for his life. the evidence gathered around a hat found next the body of the murdered man, which was recognized as the hat of the prisoner. the lawyers tried to break down the evidence, confuse the testimony, and get some relief from the directness of the circumstances, but in vain, until at last they called for o'connell. he came in, flung his riding-whip and hat on the table, was told the circumstances, and, taking up the hat, said to the witness, "whose hat is this?" "well, mr. o'connell, that is mike's hat." "how do you know it?" "i will swear to it, sir." "and did you really find it by the body of the murdered man?" "i did that, sir." "but you're not ready to swear to that?" "i am, indeed, mr. o'connell." "pat, do you know what hangs on your word? a human soul. and with that dread burden, are you ready to tell this jury that the hat, to your certain knowledge, belongs to the prisoner?" "y-yes, mr. o'connell; yes, i am." o'connell takes the hat to the nearest window, and peers into it--"j-am-e-s, james. now, pat, did you see that name in the hat?" "i did, mr. o'connell." "you knew it was there?" "yes, sir; i read it after i picked it up."----"no name in the hat, your honor." so again in the house of commons. when he took his seat in the house in 1830, the london _times_ visited him with its constant indignation, reported his speeches awry, turned them inside out, and made nonsense of them; treated him as the new york _herald_ use to treat us abolitionists twenty years ago. so one morning he rose and said, "mr. speaker, you know i have never opened my lips in this house, and i expended twenty years of hard work in getting the right to enter it,--i have never lifted my voice in this house, but in behalf of the saddest people the sun shines on. is it fair play, mr. speaker, is it what you call 'english fair play' that the press of this city will not let my voice be heard?" the next day the _times_ sent him word that, as he found fault with their manner of reporting him, they never would report him at all, they never would print his name in their parliamentary columns. so the next day when prayers were ended o'connell rose. those reporters of the _times_ who were in the gallery rose also, ostentatiously put away their pencils, folded their arms, and made all the show they could, to let everybody know how it was. well, you know nobody has a right to be in the gallery during the session, and if any member notices them, the mere notice clears the gallery; only the reporters can stay after that notice. o'connell rose. one of the members said, "before the member from clare opens his speech, let me call his attention to the gallery and the instance of that 'passive resistance' which he is about to preach." "thank you," said o'connell. "mr. speaker, i observe the strangers in the gallery." of course they left; of course the next day, in the columns of the london _times_, there were no parliamentary debates. and for the first time, except in richard cobden's case, the london _times_ cried for quarter, and said to o'connell, "if you give up the quarrel, we will." a reliable team from "hunting the grizzly," with the permission of g. p. putnam's sons, new york and london, publishers. by theodore roosevelt in the cow country there is nothing more refreshing than the lighthearted belief entertained by the average man to the effect that any animal which by main force has been saddled and ridden, or harnessed and driven a couple of times, is a "broke horse." my present foreman is firmly wedded to this idea, as well as to its complement, the belief that any animal with hoofs, before any vehicle with wheels, can be driven across any country. one summer on reaching the ranch i was entertained with the usual accounts of the adventures and misadventures which had befallen my own men and my neighbors since i had been out last. in the course of the conversation my foreman remarked: "we had a great time out here about six weeks ago. there was a professor from ann arbor came out with his wife to see the bad lands, and they asked if we could rig them up a team, and we said we guessed we could, and foley's boy and i did; but it ran away with him and broke his leg! he was here for a month. i guess he didn't mind it, though." of this i was less certain, forlorn little medora being a "busted" cow town, concerning which i once heard another of my men remark, in reply to an inquisitive commercial traveler: "how many people lives here? eleven--counting the chickens--when they're all in town!" my foreman continued: "by george, there was something that professor said afterward that made me feel hot. i sent word up to him by foley's boy that seein' as how it had come out, we wouldn't charge him nothin' for the rig; and that professor answered that he was glad we were showing him some sign of consideration, for he'd begun to believe he'd fallen into a den of sharks, and that we gave him a runaway team apurpose. that made me hot, calling that a runaway team. why, there was one of them horses never _could_ have run away before; it hadn't never been druv but twice! and the other horse maybe had run away a few times, but there was lots of times he _hadn't_ run away. i esteemed that team full as liable not to run away as it was to run away," concluded my foreman, evidently deeming this as good a warranty of gentleness in a horse as the most exacting could possibly require. meg's marriage from a lecture entitled "clear grit," published in "modern eloquence," vol. iv, geo. l. shuman and company, chicago. by robert collyer in what we call the good old times--say, three hundred years ago--a family lived on the border between england and scotland, with one daughter of a marvelous homeliness. her name was meg. she was a capital girl, as homely girls generally are. she knew she had no beauty, so she made sure of quality and faculty. but the scotch say that "while beauty may not make the best kail, it looks best by the side of the kail-pot." so meg had no offer of a husband, and was likely to die in what we call "single blessedness." everybody on the border in those days used to steal, and their best "holt," as we say, was cattle. if they wanted meat and had no money, they would go out and steal as many beef cattle as they could lay their hands on, from somebody on the other side of the border. well, they generally had no money, and they were always wanting beef, and they could always be hung for stealing by the man they stole from if he could catch them, and so they had what an irishman would call a fine time entirely. one day a young chief, wanting some beef as usual, went out with part of his clan, came upon a splendid herd on the lands of meg's father, and went to work to drive them across to his own. but the old fellow was on the lookout, mustered his clan, bore down on the marauders, beat them, took the young chief prisoner, and then went home to his peel very much delighted. meg's mother, of course, wanted to know all about it, and then she said, "noo, laird, what are you gaun to do with the prisoner?" "i am gaun to hang him," the old man thundered, "just as soon as i have had my dinner." "but i think ye're noo wise to do that," she said. "he has got a braw place, ye ken, over the border, and he is a braw fellow. noo i'll tell ye what i would do. i would give him his chance to be hung or marry oor meg." it struck the old man as a good idea, and so he went presently down into the dungeon, told the young fellow to get ready to be hung in thirty minutes, but then got round to the alternative, and offered to spare his life if he would marry meg, and give him the beef into the bargain. he had heard something about meg's wonderful want of beauty, and so, with a fine scotch prudence, he said, "ye will let me see her, laird, before i mak' up my mind, because maybe i would rather be hung." "aye, mon, that's fair," the old chief answered, and went in to bid the mother get meg ready for the interview. the mother did her best, you may be sure, to make meg look winsome, but when the poor fellow saw his unintentional intended he turned round to the chief and said, "laird, if ye have nae objection, i think i would rather be hung." "and sae ye shall, me lad, and welcome," the old chief replied, in a rage. so they led him out, got the rope around his neck; and then the young man changed his mind, and shouted, "laird, i'll tak' her." so he was marched back into the castle, married before he had time to change his mind, if that was possible, and the tradition is that there never was a happier pair in scotland, and never a better wife in the world than meg. but i have told the story because it touches this point, of the way they hold their own over there when there are great families of children. they tell me that the family flourishes famously still; no sign of dying out or being lost about it. meg's main feature was a very large mouth, and now in the direct line in almost every generation the neighbors and friends are delighted, as they say, to get meg back. "here's meg again," they cry when a child is born with that wonderful mouth. sir walter scott was one of the descendants of the family. he had meg's mouth, in a measure, and was very proud of it when he would tell the story. outdoing mrs. partington from a speech published in brewer's "the world's best orations," vol. ix, ferd. p. kaiser, st. louis, chicago, publisher. by sidney smith i have spoken so often on this subject, that i am sure both you and the gentlemen here present will be obliged to me for saying but little, and that favor i am as willing to confer, as you can be to receive it. i feel most deeply the event which has taken place, because, by putting the two houses of parliament in collision with each other, it will impede the public business and diminish the public prosperity. i feel it as a churchman, because i cannot but blush to see so many dignitaries of the church arrayed against the wishes and happiness of the people. i feel it more than all, because i believe it will sow the seeds of deadly hatred between the aristocracy and the great mass of the people. the loss of the bill i do not feel, and for the best of all possible reasons--because i have not the slightest idea that it is lost. i have no more doubt, before the expiration of the winter, that this bill will pass, than i have that the annual tax bills will pass, and greater certainty than this no man can have, for franklin tells us there are but two things certain in this world--death and taxes. as for the possibility of the house of lords preventing ere long a reform of parliament, i hold it to be the most absurd notion that ever entered into human imagination. i do not mean to be disrespectful, but the attempt of the lords to stop the progress of reform reminds me very forcibly of the great storm of sidmouth, and of the conduct of the excellent mrs. partington on that occasion. in the winter of 1824, there set in a great flood upon that town, the tide rose to an incredible height, the waves rushed in upon the houses, and everything was threatened with destruction. in the midst of this sublime and terrible storm, dame partington, who lived upon the beach, was seen at the top of her house with mop and pattens, trundling her mop, squeezing out the water, and vigorously pushing away the atlantic ocean. the atlantic was roused. mrs. partington's spirit was up; but i need not tell you that the contest was unequal. the atlantic ocean beat mrs. partington. she was excellent at a slop or a puddle, but she should not have meddled with a tempest. gentlemen, be at your ease--be quiet and steady. you will beat mrs. partington. circumstance not a cause from the same speech as the foregoing by sidney smith an honorable member of the honorable house, much connected with this town, and once its representative, seems to be amazingly surprised, and equally dissatisfied, at this combination of king, ministers, nobles, and people, against his opinion,--like the gentleman who came home from serving on a jury very much disconcerted, and complaining he had met with eleven of the most obstinate people he had ever seen in his life, whom he found it absolutely impossible by the strongest arguments to bring over to his way of thinking. they tell you, gentlemen, that you have grown rich and powerful with these rotten boroughs, and that it would be madness to part with them, or to alter a constitution which had produced such happy effects. there happens, gentlemen, to live near my parsonage a laboring man of very superior character and understanding to his fellow laborers, and who has made such good use of that superiority that he has saved what is (for his station in life) a very considerable sum of money, and if his existence is extended to the common period he will die rich. it happens, however, that he is (and long has been) troubled with violent stomachic pains, for which he has hitherto obtained no relief, and which really are the bane and torment of his life. now, if my excellent laborer were to send for a physician and to consult him respecting this malady, would it not be very singular language if our doctor were to say to him: "my good friend, you surely will not be so rash as to attempt to get rid of these pains in your stomach. have you not grown rich with these pains in your stomach? have you not risen under them from poverty to prosperity? has not your situation since you were first attacked been improving every year? you surely will not be so foolish and so indiscreet as to part with the pains in your stomach?" why, what would be the answer of the rustic to this nonsensical monition? "monster of rhubarb! (he would say) i am not rich in consequence of the pains in my stomach, but in spite of the pains in my stomach; and i should have been ten times richer, and fifty times happier, if i had never had any pains in my stomach at all." gentlemen, these rotten boroughs are your pains in the stomach--and you would have been a much richer and greater people if you had never had them at all. your wealth and your power have been owing not to the debased and corrupted parts of the house of commons, but to the many independent and honorable members whom it has always contained within its walls. if there had been a few more of these very valuable members for close boroughs we should, i verily believe, have been by this time about as free as denmark, sweden, or the germanized states of italy. this is the greatest measure which has ever been before parliament in my time, and the most pregnant with good or evil to the country; and though i seldom meddle with political meetings, i could not reconcile it to my conscience to be absent from this. every year for this half century, the question of reform has been pressing upon us, till it has swelled up at last into this great and awful combination; so that almost every city and every borough in england are at this moment assembled for the same purpose, and are doing the same thing we are doing. more terrible than the lions from "modern eloquence," vol. x, geo. l. shuman and company, chicago, publishers. by a. a. mccormick i do not want to be in the position of a man i once heard of who was a lion tamer. he was a very brave man. there was no lion, no matter how big, or strong, or vicious, that had not succumbed to this man's fearlessness. this man had a wife, and she did not like him to stay out late at night, and big as he was, and as brave, he had never dared to disrespect his wife's wishes, until one evening, meeting some old friends, he fell to talking over old times with them, their early adventures and experiences. finally, looking at his watch, to his amazement he discovered it was midnight. what to do he knew not. he didn't dare to go home. if he went to a hotel, his wife might discover him before he discovered her. finally, in desperation, he sped to the menagerie, hurriedly passed through and went to the cage of lions. entering this he closed and locked the door, and gave a sigh of relief. he quieted the dangerous brutes, and lay down with his head resting on the mane of the largest and most dangerous of them all. his wife waited. her anger increased as the night wore on. at the first sign of dawn she went in search of her recreant lord and master. not finding him in any of the haunts that he generally frequented, she went to the menagerie. she also passed through and went to the cage of the lions. peering in she saw her husband, the fearless lion tamer, crouching at the back of the cage. a look of chagrin came over her face, closely followed by one of scorn and fine contempt, as she shook her finger and hissed, "you coward!" irving, the actor from "in lighter vein," with the permission of paul elder and company, san francisco, publishers. by john de morgan henry irving, the actor, was always fond of playing practical jokes. clement scott tells of one played by irving and harry montague upon a number of their associates. irving and montague, hitherto the best of friends, began to quarrel on their way to a picnic, and their friends feared some tragic consequences. after luncheon both of the men disappeared. business manager smale's face turned pale. he felt that his worst fears had been realized. with one cry, "they're gone! what on earth has become of them?" he made a dash down the dargle, over the rocks and bowlders, with the remainder of the picnickers at his heels. at the bottom of a "dreadful hollow behind the little wood," a fearful sight presented itself to the astonished friends. there, on a stone, sat henry irving, in his shirtsleeves, his long hair matted over his eyes, his thin hands and white face all smeared with blood, and dangling an open clasp-knife. he was muttering to himself, in a savage tone: "i've done it, i've done it! i said i would, i said i would!" tom smale, in an agony of fear, rushed up to irving. "for heaven's sake, man," he screamed, "tell us where he is!" irving, scarcely moving a muscle, pointed to a heap of dead leaves, and, in that sepulchral tone of his, cried: "he's there! i've done for him! i've murdered him!" smale literally bounded to the heap, almost paralyzed with fear, and began pulling the leaves away. presently he found montague lying face downward and nearly convulsed with laughter. never was better acting seen on any stage. wendell phillips's tact from "memories of the lyceum," in "modern eloquence," vol. vi, geo. l. shuman and company, chicago, publishers. by james burton pond wendell phillips was the most polished and graceful orator our country ever produced. he spoke as quietly as if he were talking in his own parlor and almost entirely without gestures, yet he had as great a power over all kinds of audiences as any american of whom we have any record. often called before howling mobs, who had come to the lectureroom to prevent him from being heard, and who would shout and sing to drown his voice, he never failed to subdue them in a short time. one illustration of his power and tact occurred in boston. the majority of the audience were hostile. they yelled and sang and completely drowned his voice. the reporters were seated in a row just under the platform, in the place where the orchestra plays in an ordinary theater. phillips made no attempt to address the noisy crowd, but bent over and seemed to be speaking in a low tone to the reporters. by and by the curiosity of the audience was excited; they ceased to clamor and tried to hear what he was saying to the reporters. phillips looked at them and said quietly:-"go on, gentlemen, go on. i do not need your ears. through these pencils i speak to thirty millions of people." not a voice was raised again. the mob had found its master and stayed whipped until he sat down. eloquent as he was as a lecturer, he was far more effective as a debater. debate was for him the flint and steel which brought out all his fire. his memory was something wonderful, he would listen to an elaborate speech for hours, and, without a single note of what had been said, in writing, reply to every part of it as fully and completely as if the speech were written out before him. those who heard him only on the platform, and when not confronted by an opponent, have a very limited comprehension of his wonderful resources as a speaker. he never hesitated for a word or failed to employ the word best fitted to express his thought on the point under discussion. baked beans and culture from "writings in prose and verse, by eugene field," with the permission of charles scribner's sons, new york, publishers. by eugene field the members of the boston commercial club are charming gentlemen. they are now the guests of the chicago commercial club, and are being shown every attention that our market affords. last night five or six of these boston merchants sat around the office of the hotel and discussed matters and things. pretty soon they got to talking about beans; this was the subject which they dwelt on with evident pleasure. "waal, sir," said ephraim taft, a wholesale dealer in maple sugar and flavored lozenges, "you kin talk 'bout your new-fashioned dishes an' high-falutin' vittles; but when you come right down to it, there ain't no better eatin' than a dish o' baked pork 'n' beans." "that's so, b'gosh!" chorused the others. "the truth o' the matter is," continued mr. taft, "that beans is good for everybody--'t don't make no difference whether he's well or sick. why, i've known a thousand folks--waal, mebbe not quite a thousand; but--waal, now, jest to show, take the case of bill holbrook,--you remember bill, don't ye?" "bill holbrook?" said mr. ezra eastman. "why, of course i do. used to live down to brimfield, next to moses howard farm." "that's the man," resumed mr. taft. "waal, bill fell sick--kinder moped 'round, tired-like, for a week or two, an' then tuck to his bed. his folks sent for dock smith--ol' dock smith that used to carry a pair o' leather saddlebags. gosh, they don't have no sech doctors nowadays! waal, the dock he come; an' he looked at bill's tongue, an' felt uv his pulse, an' said that bill had typhus fever." ol' dock smith was a very careful, conserv'tive man, an' he never said nothin' unless he knowed he was right. "bill began to git wuss, an' he kep' a-gittin' wuss every day. one mornin' ol' dock smith sez, 'look a-here, bill, i guess you're a goner; as i figger it, you can't hol' out till nightfall.' "bill's mother insisted on a con-sul-tation bein' held; so ol' dock smith sent over for young dock brainerd. i calc'late that, next _to_ ol' dock smith, young dock brainerd was the smartest doctor that ever lived. "waal, pretty soon along come dock brainerd; an' he an' dock smith went all over bill, an' looked at his tongue, an' felt uv his pulse, an' told him it was a gone case, an' that he had got to die. then they went on into the spare chamber to hold their con-sul-tation. "waal, bill he lay there in the front room a-pantin' an' a-gaspin', an' a wond'rin' whether it wuz true. as he wuz thinkin', up comes the girl to git a clean tablecloth out of the clothespress, an' she left the door ajar as she come in. bill he gave a sniff, an' his eyes grew more natural like; he gathered together all the strength he had, an' he raised himself up on one elbow an' sniffed again. "'sary,' says he, 'wot's that a-cookin'?' "'beans,' says she; 'beans for dinner.' "'sary,' says the dyin' man, 'i must hev a plate uv them beans!' "'sakes alive, mr. holbrook!' says she; 'if you wuz to eat any o' them beans it'd kill ye!' "'if i've got to die,' says he, 'i'm goin' to die happy; fetch me a plate uv them beans.' "waal, sary she pikes off to the doctor's. "'look a-here,' says she; 'mr. holbrook smelt the beans cookin' an' he says he's got to have some. now, what shall i do about it?' "'waal, doctor,' says dock smith, 'what do you think 'bout it?' "'he's got to die anyhow,' says dock brainerd, 'an' i don't suppose the beans 'll make any diff'rence.' "'that's the way i figger it,' says dock smith; 'in all my practice i never knew of beans hurtin' anybody.' "so sary went down to the kitchen an' brought up a plateful of hot baked beans. dock smith raised bill up in bed, an' dock brainerd put a piller under the small of bill's back. then sary sat down by the bed an' fed them beans into bill until bill couldn't hold any more. "'how air you feelin' now?' asked dock smith. "bill didn't say nuthin; he jest smiled sort uv peaceful-like and closed his eyes. "'the end hez come,'f said dock brainerd sof'ly; 'bill is dyin'.' "then bill murmured kind o' far-away like; 'i ain't dyin'; i'm dead an' in heaven.' "next mornin' bill got out uv bed an' done a big day's work on the farm, an' he ain't bed a sick spell since. them beans cured him!" secretary chase's chin-fly from "speeches and addresses of abraham lincoln," current literature publishing company, new york, publishers. by f. b. carpenter "within a month after mr. lincoln's first accession to office," says the hon. mr. raymond, "when the south was threatening civil war, and armies of office seekers were besieging him in the executive mansion, he said to a friend that he wished he could get time to attend to the southern question; he thought he knew what was wanted, and believed he could do something towards quieting the rising discontent; but the office seekers demanded all his time. 'i am,' said he, 'like a man so busy in letting rooms in one end of his house that he can't stop to put out the fire that is burning the other.' two or three years later when the people had made him a candidate for reflection, the same friend spoke to him of a member of his cabinet who was a candidate also. mr. lincoln said that he did not concern himself much about that. it was important to the country that the department over which his rival presided should be administered with vigor and energy, and whatever would stimulate the secretary to such action would do good. 'r----,' said he, 'you were brought up on a farm, were you not? then you know what a _chin-fly_ is. my brother and i,' he added, 'were once plowing corn on a kentucky farm, i driving the horse, and he holding the plow. the horse was lazy; but on one occasion rushed across the field so that i, with my long legs, could scarcely keep pace with him. on reaching the end of the furrow, i found an enormous _chin-fly_ fastened upon him, and knocked him off. my brother asked me what i did that for. i told him i didn't want the old horse bitten in that way. "why," said my brother, "_that's all that made him go!_" now,' said mr. lincoln, 'if mr. ---has a presidential _chin-fly_ biting him, i'm not going to knock him off if it will only make his department _go_.'" review exercises exercises there exercises should be practiced in only a moderately strong voice, at times perhaps in a very soft voice, and always with a good degree of ease and naturalness. they had better be memorized, and as the technique becomes more sure, less thought may be given to that and more to the true expression of the spirit of each passage--or let the spirit from the first, if it will, help the technique. tone for rounding and expanding the voice. to be given in an even sustained tone, with rather open throat and easy low breathing. suspend the speech where pauses are marked, for a momentary recovery of breath. keep the breath easily firm. don't drive the breath through the tone. 1 roll on, | thou deep and dark blue ocean, | roll! ten thousand fleets | sweep over thee | in vain; man marks the earth | with ruin--his control | stops | with the shore. 2 o tiber, | father tiber | to whom the romans pray, a roman's life, | a roman's arms, take thou in charge | this day | 3 o rome! | my country! | city of the soul! the orphans of the heart | must turn to thee, lone mother of dead empires! | and control in their shut breasts | their petty misery. 4 ring joyous chords!-| ring out again! a swifter still | and a wilder strain! and bring fresh wreaths!-| we will banish all save the free in heart | from our banquet hall. 5 o joy to the people | and joy to the throne, come to us, | love us | and make us your own: for saxon | or dane | or norman | we, teuton or celt, | or what ever we be, we are all of us danes | in our welcome of thee, alexandra! 6 liberty! | freedom! | tyranny is dead!-run hence, | proclaim, | cry it about the streets. some to the common pulpits, | and cry out, "liberty, | freedom, | and enfranchisement!" inflection give these with a rather vigorous colloquial effect, with clear-cut form, with point and spirit. 1 armed, say you? armed, my lord. from top to toe? my lord, from head to foot. then saw you not his face? oh, yes, my lord; he wore his beaver up. what, looked he frowningly? a countenance more in sorrow than in anger. pale or red? nay, very pale. and fixed his eyes upon you? most constantly. 2 but, sir, the coalition! the coalition! aye, "the murdered coalition!" the gentleman asks if i were led or frighted into this debate by the specter of the coalition. "was it the ghost of the murdered coalition," he exclaims, "which haunted the member from massachusetts; and which, like the ghost of banquo, would never down?" "the murdered coalition." 3 should he have asked aguinaldo for an armistice? if so, upon what basis should he have requested it? what should he say to him? "please stop this fighting?" "what for?" aguinaldo would say; "do you propose to retire?" "no." "do you propose to grant us independence?" "no, not now." "well, why then, an armistice?" 4 alas, poor yorick!--i knew him, horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it.--where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table in a roar? not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chop-fallen? now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favor she must come; make her laugh at that. enunciation keep first of all a good form to the vowels. make consonants definitely by sufficient action of jaw, tongue, and lips. keep the throat easy; avoid stiffening and strain. a particularly light, soft, pure tone, with fine articulation, may generally be best for practice. in these first passages, carry the tone well in the head, so as to give a pure, soft, clear sound to the _m_'s, _n_'s, _ng_'s, and _l_'s. if need be, these letters may be marked. 1 one cry of wonder, shrill as the loon's call, rang through the forest, startling the silence, startling the mourners chanting the death-song. 2 one after one, by the star-dogged moon, too quick for groan or sigh, each turned his face with a ghastly pang, and cursed me with his eye. four times fifty living men, (and i heard nor sigh nor groan,) with heavy thump, a lifeless lump, they dropped down one by one. 3 these abominable principles, and this more abominable avowal of them, demand the most decisive indignation. 4 lay the proud usurpers low! tyrants fall in every foe! liberty's in every blow! forward! let us do or die! 5 i closed my lids, and kept them close, and the balls like pulses beat; for the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky lay like a load on my weary eye, and the dead were at my feet. review exercises give clearly the _k_ and the _g_ forms, making a slight percussion in the back of the mouth. finish clearly all main words. 1 with throats unslaked, with black lips baked, we could nor laugh nor wail; through utter drought all dumb we stood! i bit my arm, i sucked the blood, and cried, a sail! a sail! with throats unslaked, with black lips baked, agape they heard me call: gramercy! they for joy did grin, and all at once their breath drew in, as they were drinking all. 2 where dwellest thou? under the canopy. under the canopy! ay! where's that? i' the city of kites and crows. i' the city of kites and crows!-then thou dwellest with daws, too? no: i serve not thy master. 3 strike | till the last armed foe | expires! strike | for your altars and your fires! strike | for the green graves of your sires! god | and your native land! for flexibility of the lips, form well the _o_'s and _w_'s. 1 blow, blow, thou winter wind, thou art not so unkind as man's ingratitude. 2 o wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful, wonderful! and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hooping! 3 water, water, everywhere, and all the boards did shrink; water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink. 4 o wedding-guest! this soul hath been alone on a wide, wide sea: so lonely 'twas, that god himself scarce seemed there to be. have care for _t_'s, _d_'s, _s_'s, the _th_ and the _st_'s. 1 day after day, day after day, we stuck, nor breath nor motion; as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean. down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'twas sad as sad could be; and we did speak only to break the silence of the sea! 2 what loud uproar bursts from that door! the wedding-guests are there: but in the garden-bower the bride and bride-maids singing are: and hark the little vesper bell, which biddeth me to prayer! 3 farewell, farewell! but this i tell to thee, thou wedding-guest! he prayeth well, who loveth well both man and bird and beast. he prayeth best, who loveth best all things both great and small; for the dear god who loveth us, he made and loveth all. attend especially to _b_'s and in passage 2 to _p_'s. give a very soft, slightly echoing continuation to the _ing_ in "dying." 1 blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 2 hop, and mop, and drop so clear, pip, and trip, and skip that were to mab their sovereign dear, her special maids of honor; fib, and tib, and pinck, and pin, tit, and nit, and wap, and win, the train that wait upon her. emphasis determine the exact sense and express it pointedly. the primary or central emphasis takes an absolute fall from a pitch above the general level; the secondary emphasis takes a circumflex inflection--a fall and a slight rise. primary, hebrew letter yod; secondary gujarati vowel sign li. in the question, the main part of the inflection is usually rising instead of falling. the effect of suspense or of forward look requires the slightly upward final turn to the inflection. note this in passages 4, 5, and 6. 1 in 1825 the gentleman told the world that the public lands "ought _not_ to be treated as a _treasure_." he now tells us that "they _must_ be treated as _so much treasure_." what the deliberate opinion of the gentleman on this subject may be, belongs not to me to determine. 2 compare the two. this i offer to give you is _plain_ and _simple;_ the other full of perplexed and intricate _mazes_. this is mild; that _harsh_. this is found by experience _effectual for its purposes_; the other is a _new project_. this is _universal_; the other calculated for _certain colonies only._ this is _immediate in its conciliatory operation_; the other _remote, contingent_, full of _hazard_. 3 as cæsar _loved me_, i _weep_ for him; as he was _fortunate_, i _rejoice_ at it; as he was _valiant_, i _honor_ him; but as he was _ambitious_, i _slew_ him. there is _tears_ for his _love_; _joy_ for his _fortune_; _honor_ for his _valor_; and _death_ for his _ambition_. 4 one moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching peacefully out before him; the next he lay wounded, bleeding, _helpless_, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence and the grave. 5 for no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of murder he was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from its hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death; and he _did not quail_. 6 there was no flinching as he charged. he had just turned to give a cheer when the fatal ball struck him. there was a convulsion of the upward hand--his eyes, pleading and loyal, turned their last glance to the flag--his lips parted--he fell _dead_, and at nightfall lay with his face to the stars. home they brought him, fairer than adonis over whom the goddess of beauty wept. 7 but the gentleman inquires why _he_ was made the object of such a reply. why was _he_ singled out? if an attack has been made on the _east, he_, he assures us, did not _begin_ it; it was made by the gentleman from _missouri_. sir, i answered the gentleman's speech because i happened to _hear_ it; and because, also, i chose to give an answer to that speech which, if _unanswered_, i thought most likely to produce _injurious impressions_. melody give musical tone and a fitting modulation, or tune, avoiding the socalled singsong. note the occasional closing cadence. observe the rhythmic movement, with beat and pause. 1 you think me a fanatic to-night, for you read history not with your eyes, but with your prejudices. but fifty years hence, when truth gets a hearing, the muse of history will put phocian for the greek, and brutus for the roman, hampden for england, fayette for france, choose washington as the bright consummate flower of our earlier civilization, and john brown the ripe fruit of our noonday, then, dipping her pen in the sunlight, will write in the clear blue, above them all, the name of the soldier, the statesman, the martyr, toussaint l'ouverture. 2 have you read in the talmud of old, in the legends the rabbins have told of the limitless realms of the air, have you read it,--the marvelous story of sandalphon, the angel of glory, sandalphon, the angel of prayer? 3 you remember king charles' twelve good rules, the eleventh of which was, "make no long meals." now king charles lost his head, and you will have leave to make a long meal. but when, after your long meal, you go home in the wee small hours, what do you expect to find? you will find my toast--"woman, a beautiful rod!" now my advice is, "kiss the rod!" 4 then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! the stars of its winter, the dews of its may! and when we have done with our life-lasting toys, dear father, take care of thy children, the boys! feeling have great care not to put any strain upon the throat. breathe low. be moderate in force. 1 o mighty cæsar! dost thou lie so low? are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, shrunk to this little measure? fare thee well. 2 yes, i attack louis napoleon; i attack him openly, before all the world. i attack him before god and man. i attack him boldly and recklessly for love of the people and for love of france. 3 i am asked what i have to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced on me according to law. i am charged with being an emissary of france! and for what end? no; i am no emissary. 4 i see a race without disease of flesh or brain,--shapely and fair,--the married harmony of form and function,--and as i look, life lengthens, joy deepens, love canopies the earth. tone color use the imagination to see and hear. suit the voice to the sound, form or movement of your image, or to the mood of mind indicated. read with melody and pause. take plenty of time. 1 there's a lurid light | in the clouds to-night, in the wind | there's a desolate moan, and the rage of the furious sea | is white, where it breaks | on the crags of stone. 2 the sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: at one stride | comes the dark; with far-heard whisper, | o'er the sea, off shot | the specter-bark. 3 is this a time to be gloomy and sad; when our mother nature | laughs around; when even the deep blue heavens | look glad, and gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? 4 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 nest | 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 | by the new wine | of the year, tells all | by his lusty | crowing! variety--in pitch, time, force, color, and modulation 1 ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky; ring out the false, ring in the true. 2 good work is the most honorable and lasting thing in the world. 3 o thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers, whence are thy beams, o sun, thy everlasting light! 4 i am thy father's spirit, doomed for a certain term to walk the night, and for the day confined to fast in fires, till the foul crimes done in my days of nature are burnt and purg'd away. 5 "well, gentlemen, i am a whig. if you break up the whig party, where am _i_ to go?" and, says lowell, we all held our breath, thinking where he _could_ go. but, says lowell, if he had been five feet three, we should have said, who _cares_ where you go? gesture have the action simple and unstudied, expressing the dominant purpose rather than illustrating mere words or phrases. avoid stiltedness and elaboration. try to judge where and how the gesture would be made. i 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, the whirlwind of passion, _you must acquire and beget a temperance_ that may give it smoothness. 2 in my native town of athens is a monument that crowns its central hills--a plain, white shaft. _deep cut into its shining side is a name_ dear to me above the names of men, that of a brave and simple man who died in brave and simple faith. not for all the glories of new england--from plymouth rock all the way--would i exchange the heritage he left me in his soldier's death. 3 sir, when i heard the gentleman lay down principles which place the murderers of alton side by side with otis and hancock, with quincy and adams, _i thought those pictured lips_ (pointing to the portraits in the hall) would have broken into voice to rebuke the recreant american,--the slanderer of the dead. 4 suppose i stood at the foot of vesuvius, or ætna, and, seeing a hamlet or a homestead planted on its slope, i said to the dwellers in that hamlet, or in that homestead, "_you see that vapor which ascends from the summit of the mountain._ that vapor may become a dense, black smoke, that will obscure the sky. _you see the trickling of lava from the crevices in the side of the mountain._ that trickling of lava may become a river of fire. _you hear that muttering in the bowels of the mountain._ that muttering may become a bellowing thunder, the voice of violent convulsion, that may shake half a continent." 5 and what have we to oppose them? shall we try argument? sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. have we anything new to offer upon the subject? nothing. we have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? what terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? let us not, i beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. characterization 1 learn from real life. don't go by the spelling. don't overdo the dialect. 'e carried me away to where a dooli lay, an' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 'e put me safe inside, an' just before 'e died: "i 'ope you liked your drink," sez gunga din. 2 sergeant buzfuz began by saying that never, in the whole course of his experience,--never, from the very first moment of his applying himself to the study and practice of the law, had he approached a case with such a heavy sense of the responsibility imposed upon him. 3 i'm a walkin' pedestrian, a travelin' philosopher. terry o'mulligan's me name. i'm from dublin, where many philosophers before me was raised and bred. oh, philosophy is a foine study! i don't know anything about it, but it's a foine study! 4 it is de ladies who do sweeten de cares of life. it is de ladies who are de guiding stars of our existence. it is de ladies who do cheer but not inebriate, and, derefore, vid all homage to de dear sex, de toast dat i have to propose is, "de ladies! god bless dem all!" 5 what tho' on hamely fare we dine, wear hoddin' 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, though e'er sae poor, is king o' men for a' that! 6 a keerless man in his talk was jim, and an awkward hand in a row, but he never flunked, and he never lied,-i reckon he never knowed how. he seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,-and he went for it thar and then; and christ ain't agoing to be too hard on a man that died for men. the canadian elocutionist designed for the use of colleges, schools and for self instruction together with a copious selection, _in prose and poetry, of_ pieces adapted for reading, recitation and practice by anna k. howard, ll.b., [miss anna halleck kelsey]. teacher of elocution and english literature. "the manner of speaking is as important as the matter."--chesterfield. preface. the principal object the author had in view in the preparation of this work, was to place in convenient form for the use, both of teachers and others, the principles, rules, illustrations and exercises, that she has found most useful and practical for the purpose of instruction, and best calculated to make good readers, and easy, graceful and correct speakers. for this purpose the rules and advices have been simplified and divested, as much as possible, of all abstruse scientific terms, and made as simple and plain as could be done, having a due regard to the proper explanations requisite to make them easy to understand and not difficult to practise. it is hoped that this system of instruction, which has been for some years very successfully employed by the compiler in her own practice, may prove a valuable aid to those who wish to pursue the study of the art. the examples chosen to illustrate the rules have been taken with a due regard to their fitness to exemplify the principles involved, and to show the various styles of reading, declamation and oratory, and the selections have been made in such a manner as to adapt them for use in schools, colleges and for public reading. toronto, _september_ 24_th_, 1885. introduction. of the importance of the study of elocution as part of a good education there can be no question. almost every one is liable to be called upon, perhaps at a few minutes notice, to explain his views and give his opinions on subjects of various degrees of importance, and to do so with effect ease in speaking is most requisite. ease implies knowledge, and address in speaking is highly ornamental as well as useful even in private life. the art of elocution held a prominent place in ancient education, but has been greatly neglected in modern times, except by a few persons--whose fame as speakers and orators is a sufficient proof of the value and necessity of the study. the ancients--particularly the greeks and the romans--were fully conscious of the benefits resulting from a close attention to and the practice of such rules as are fitted to advance the orator in his profession, and their schools of oratory were attended by all classes; nor were their greatest orators ashamed to acknowledge their indebtedness to their training in the art for a large portion of their success. the welsh triads say "many are the friends of the golden tongue," and, how many a jury has thought a speaker's arguments without force because his manner was so, and have found a verdict, against law and against evidence, because they had been charmed into delusion by the potent fascination of some gifted orator. as quintilian remarks: "a proof of the importance of delivery may be drawn from the additional force which the actors give to what is written by the best poets; so that what we hear pronounced by them gives infinitely more pleasure than when we only read it. i think, i may affirm that a very indifferent speech, well set off by the speaker, will have a greater effect than the best, if destitute of that advantage;" and henry irving, in a recent article, says: "in the practice of acting, a most important point is the study of elocution; and, in elocution one great difficulty is the use of sufficient force to be generally heard without being unnaturally loud, and without acquiring a stilted delivery. i never knew an actor who brought the art of elocution to greater perfection than the late charles mathews, whose utterance on the stage was so natural, that one was surprised to find when near him that he was really speaking in a very loud key." such are some of the testimonies to the value of this art. many persons object to the study of elocution because they do not expect to become professional readers or public speakers, but surely this is a great mistake, and they might as well object to the study of literature because they do not expect to become an author; and still more mischievous in its results is the fallacy, only too current even among persons of intelligence, that those who display great and successful oratorical powers, possess a genius or faculty that is the gift of nature, and which it would be in vain to endeavour to acquire by practice, as if orators "were born, not made," as is said of poets. the art of reading well is one of those rare accomplishments which all wish to possess, a few think they have, while others who see and believe that it is not the unacquired gift of genius, labour to obtain it, and it will be found that excellence in this, as in everything else of value, is the result of well-directed effort, and the reward of unremitting industry. a thorough knowledge of the principles of any art will enable a student to achieve perfection in it, so in elocution he may add new beauties to his own style of reading and speaking however excellent they may be naturally. but it is often said "our greatest orators were not trained." but is this true? how are we to know how much and how laborious was the preliminary training each effort of these great orators cost them, before their eloquence thrilled through the listening crowds? as henry ward beecher says: "if you go to the land which has been irradiated by parliamentary eloquence; if you go to the people of great britain; if you go to the great men in ancient times; if you go to the illustrious names that every one recalls--demosthenes and cicero--they all represent a life of work. you will not find one great sculptor, nor one great architect, nor one eminent man in any department of art, whose greatness, if you inquire, you will not find to be the fruit of study, and of the evolution which comes from study." so much for the importance of elocution and the advantages of acquiring a proficiency therein. a few remarks to those who are ambitious of excelling in the art may now be given, showing how they may best proceed in improving themselves therein. the following rules are worthy of strict attention:--1. let your articulation be distinct and deliberate. 2. let your pronunciation be bold and forcible. 3. acquire a compass and variety in the height of your voice. 4. pronounce your words with propriety and elegance. 5. pronounce every word consisting of more than one syllable with its proper accent. 6. in every sentence distinguish the more significant words by a natural, forcible and varied emphasis. 7. acquire a just variety of pause and cadence. 8. accompany the emotions and passions which your words express, by corresponding tones, looks and gestures. to follow nature is the fundamental rule in oratory, without regard to which, all other rules will only produce affected declamation not just elocution. learn to speak slowly and deliberately, almost all persons who have not studied the art have a habit of uttering their words too rapidly. it should be borne in mind that the higher degrees of excellence in elocution are to be gained, not by reading much, but by pronouncing what is read with a strict regard to the nature of the subject, the structure of the sentences, the turn of the sentiment, and a correct and judicious application of the rules of the science. it is an essential qualification of a good speaker to be able to alter the height as well as the strength and the tone of his voice as occasion requires, so accustom yourself to pitch your voice in different keys, from the highest to the lowest; but this subject is of such a nature that it is difficult to give rules for all the inflections of the voice, and it is almost, if not quite impossible to teach gesture by written instructions; a few lessons from a good and experienced teacher will do more to give a pupil ease, grace, and force of action than all the books and diagrams in the world. action is important to the orator, and changes of action must accord with the language; the lower the language the slower should be the movements and _vice versa_, observing shakespeare's rule: "suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance--that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature." study repose, without it, both in speech and action, the ears, eyes, and minds of the audience, and the powers of the speaker are alike fatigued; follow nature, consider how she teaches you to utter any sentiment or feeling of your heart. whether you speak in a private room or in a great assembly, remember that you still speak, and speak _naturally_. conventional tones and action have been the ruin of delivery in the pulpit, the senate, at the bar, and on the platform. all public speaking, but especially acting and reciting, must be heightened a little above ordinary nature, the pauses longer and more frequent, the tones weightier, the action more forcible, and the expression more highly coloured. speaking from memory admits of the application of every possible element of effectiveness, rhetorical and elocutionary, and in the delivery of a few great actors the highest excellence in this art has been exemplified. but speaking from memory requires the most minute and careful study, as well as high elocutionary ability, to guard the speaker against a merely mechanical utterance. read in the same manner you would speak, as if the matter were your own original sentiments uttered directly from the heart. action should not be used in ordinary reading. endeavour to learn something from every one, either by imitating, but not servilely, what is good, or avoiding what is bad. before speaking in public collect your thoughts and calm yourself, avoiding all hurry. be punctual with your audience, an apology for being late is the worst prologue. leave off before your hearers become tired, it is better for you that they should think your speech too short than too long. let everything be carefully finished, well-polished, and perfect. many of the greatest effects in all arts have been the results of long and patient study and hard work, however simple and spontaneous they may have appeared to be. remember, that the highest art is to conceal art, that attention to trifles makes perfection, and that perfection is no trifle. contents part i. i.--physical culture. calisthenics walking sitting kneeling ii.--breathing exercises. directions for breathing iii.--articulation. articulation iv.--elementary sounds, etc. elements pronunciation and accent v.--qualities of voice. i. pure ii. orotund iii. guttural iv. tremor v. aspirate vi. falsetto vi.--force. i. degrees. i. gentle ii. moderate iii. heavy ii. variations of force, or stress. i. radical ii. median iii. vanishing iv. compound v. thorough vi. semitone vii. monotone vii.--time. i. moderate ii. quick iii. slow viii.--pitch. i. middle ii. high iii. low iv. transition ix.--pauses, inflections, etc. i. rhetorical pause ii. emphasis iii. climax iv. inflection v. circumflex or wave x.--personation. i. personation ii. expression xi.--gesture. i. position of the hand ii. direction xii.--introduction to audience. i. introduction ii. advice to students xiii.--general examples for practice. part ii. selections for reading. a child's first impression of a star... _n. p. willis._ a legend of bregenz... _adelaide a. procter._ a modest wit a prayer... _james russell lowett._ a slip of the tongue a tarryton romance advice to a young lawyer... _story._ an autumn day... _bryant._ an order for a picture... _alice cary._ ask mamma... _a. m. bell._ aunty doleful's visit baby's visitor beethoven's moonlight sonata bells across the snow... _frances ridley havergal._ brutus on the death of caesar... _shakespeare._ calling a boy in the morning cataline's defiance... _rev'd. george croly._ christ turned and looked upon peter... _elisabeth b. browning._ cuddle doon... _alexander andersen._ curfew must not ring to-night dios te guarde domestic love and happiness... _thomson._ drifting... _t. buchanan read._ elizabeth... _h. w. longfellow._ eve's regrets on quitting paradise... _milton._ experience with european guides... _mark twain._ fashionable singing first experience gertrude of wyoming... _campell._ ginevra... _rogers._ god, the true source of consolation... _moore._ good-bye... _whyte melville._ guilty or not guilty hagar in the wilderness... _n. p. willis._ hannah binding shoes... _lucy larcom._ highland mary... _burns._ home song... _h. w. longfellow._ how we hunted a mouse... _joshua jenkins._ how women say good-bye i remember, i remember... _t. hood_ i'll take what father takes... _w. boyle._ in school days... _whittier._ jimmy butler and the owl keys... _bessie chandler_ king john... _shakespeare._ landing of columbus... _rogers._ little bennie... _annie g. ketchum._ little mary's wish... _mrs. l. m. blinn._ love in idleness... _shakespeare._ makin' an editor outen 0' him... _will. m. carleton._ malibran and the young musician marmion and douglas... _sir w. scott._ mary maloney's philosophy mary stuart... _schiler._ memory's pictures... _alice cary._ my trundle bed nay, i'll stay with the lad... _lillie e. barr._ never give up niagara... _john g. c. brainard._ no kiss ocean... _w. wetherald._ on his blindness... _milton._ on the miseries of human life... _thomson._ only sixteen oration against cataline... _cicero._ over the hill from the poor-house... _will m. carleton._ papa can't find me passing away... _pierpont._ paul's defence before agrippa... _bible._ per pacem ad lucem... _adelaide a. procter._ poor little joe... _peleg arkwright._ poor little stephen girard... _mark twain._ prayer... _tennyson._ reading the list reflections on the tomb of shakespeare... _irving._ rock of ages... _f. l. stanton._ roll call romeo and juliet... _shakespeare_ sandalphon... _h. w. longfellow._ santa claus in the mines satisfaction saved... _mary b. sleight._ scene at niagara falls... _charlei torson._ scenes from hamlet... _shakespeare._ scenes from leah the forsaken scenes from macbeth... _shakespeare._ scenes from pizarro... _sheridan._ scene from richelieu... _sir edward lytton bulwer._ sim's little girl... _mary hartwell._ slander somebody's mother song of birds... _h. w. longfellow._ sonnet... _james ritttell lowell._ st. philip neri and the youth... _dr. byrom._ temperance... _rev. john ireland._ the ague the approach to paradise... _milton._ the armada... _macaulay._ the bald-headed man the battle of agincourt... _shakespeare._ the bishop's visit... _emily huntington miller._ the bridal wine-cup... _sidney herbert._ the chimes of s. s. peter and paul the dead doll the death-bed... _thomas hood._ the engineer's story the faithful housewife the famine... _h. w. longfellow._ the field of waterloo... _lord byron._ the fireman... _george m. baker._ the foolish virgins... _tennyson._ the hired squirrel... _laura sanford._ the hypochondriac the inexperienced speaker the jester's choice... _horace smith._ the kiss the last hymn... _marianne farningham._ the last station the launch of the ship... _h. w. longfellow._ the little hatchet story... _r. n. burdette._ the little hero the little quaker sinner the miniature the model wife... _ruskin._ the modern cain... _e. evans edwards._ the newsboy's debt the old man in the model church... _john h yates._ the old soldier of the regiment... _g. newell lovejoy._ the opening of the piano... _o. w. holmes._ the painter of seville... _susan wilson._ the patriot's elysium... _montgomery._ the polish boy... _mrs. ann s. stephens._ the potion scene (romeo and juliet)... _shakespeare._ the quaker widow... _bayard taylor._ the quarrel of brutus and cassius... _shakespeare._ the retort the rift of the rock... _annie herbert._ the seasons... _thomson._ the serenade the sioux chief's daughter... _joaquin miller._ the sister of charity... _owen meredith._ the wedding fee... _b. m. streeter._ the whistler... _robert story._ the world from the sidewalk the worn wedding ring... _w. c. bennett._ the young gray head... _mrs. southey._ there's nothing true but heaven... _moore._ though lost to sight to memory dear... _ruthven jenkyns._ three words of strength... _schiller._ to her husband... _anne bradstreet._ tom... _constance fenimore woolsen._ trial scene from the merchant of venice... _shakespeare._ trusting wanted waterloo... _lady morgan._ wounded your mission testimonials. miss kelsey has given special attention to reading and elocution for a number of years. she has a powerful voice, with variety of expression. miss kelsey i know to be a lady of true christian principles, ambitions to excel, and set a good example in elocution and literature. i commend her to those interested in this branch of learning. allen a. griffith, author of "lessons in elocution," and professor of elocution at state normal school at ypsilanti, mich. i have long known professor griffith, whose communication is enclosed. such is his ability in his profession, and so large are his acquirements, and so just and broad his critical faculty, that i cannot commend miss kelsey in any way so well as by saying that i accept the professor's judgment as most satisfactory. his opinion of her is reliable beyond question. i have been pleased with miss kelsey's views on elocution, as far as i can learn them from a single interview, and hope she may be successful in the profession she has chosen. w. hogarth, _late pastor of jefferson ave. presbyterian church,_ detroit, michigan. 35 union square, new york. miss kelsey has been under my instruction in elocution, and i take pleasure in saying that she was so earnest in study, and so faithful in practice, that her proficiency was very great. i bespeak for her added success as a teacher; and from the repertoire which her recent study has given, new triumphs as a public reader. anna randall diehl, author of "randall's elocution," and "the quarterly elocutionist." ann arbour, november 3rd, 1880. _to whom it may concern:_ i have known miss kelsey (now mrs. william j. howard) for upwards of two years, and have a high respect for her as a conscientious, cultivated and agreeable lady, who is entitled to confidence and esteem. she has a good reputation as an elocutionist, and i have no doubt would give valuable and faithful instruction to any one who may seek her aid. (signed) thomas m. cooley. professor of law, michigan university, and judge of supreme court, michigan. * * * * * michigan university, ann arbor, mich. november 13th, 1880. for several years mrs. anna k. howard, (then miss kelsey) lived in ann arbor as a teacher of elocution, and also as a student in one of our professional departments, and was known to me as very earnest in all her work. i never had the pleasure of hearing her read or of witnessing any of her instructions in elocution; but of her proficiency in both directions, i frequently heard very favourable reports. moses coit tyler, professor of history in cornell university, and author of "history of american literature." * * * * * [_st. catharines (ont.) times_.] miss kelsey fairly took the audience by storm, being heartily encored. she is one of the best professional readers we have ever listened to. * * * * * [_ann arbor (mich.) courier_.] miss kelsey's manner is simple and graceful, or full of vigour and fire; her voice singularly sweet and flexible, or deep and sonorous at will. miss k. has given readings in many of our important cities, and she always holds her audience spell-bound. * * * * * [_grand rapids (mich.) press._] miss kelsey is a lady of unusual talent; evidently understands her vocation. she fully sustained her reputation acquired elsewhere, and has made many friends in this city--her professional worth and professional merit being recognized--who will be pleased with another opportunity of listening to her readings should she thus favour them. * * * * * [_st. thomas (ont.) times_.] the readings of miss kelsey were the _piece de resistance_ of the evening. this lady has a very sweet voice, and flexible, pure accentuation, and is altogether as good an elocutionist as we have ever heard. it was wonderful how distinctly her voice was heard all over the hall, though apparently making no effort. she was applauded with enthusiasm. chapter i. physical culture. gymnastic and calisthenic exercises are invaluable aids to the culture and development of the bodily organs, for purposes of vocalization. the organs of the voice require vigour and pliancy of muscle, to perform their office with energy and effect. before proceeding to the vocal gymnastics, it is indispensable, almost, to practice a series of muscular exercises, adapted to the expansion of the chest, freedom of the circulation, and general vitality of the whole system. first, stand firmly upon both feet, hands upon the hips, fingers in front, head erect, so as to throw the larynx directly over the wind-pipe in a perpendicular line; bring the arms, thus adjusted, with hands pressed firmly against the waist, back and down, six times in succession; the shoulders will be brought down and back, head up, chest thrown forward. keeping the hands in this position, breathe freely, filling the lungs to the utmost, emitting the breath slowly. now, bring the hands, clenched tightly, against the sides of the chest; thrust the right fist forward-keeping the head up and chest forward, whole body firm; bring it back, and repeat six times; left the same; then both fists; then right up six times; then left; then both; then right, down six times; left, the same; then both. now clench the fists tightly, and press them under the arm-pits, throwing the chest as well forward as possible, shoulders down and back, head erect; thrust the fists down the sides, and return, six times, with the utmost energy. now, keeping the head, shoulders, and chest still the same, extend the hands forward, palms open and facing, bring both back as far as the bones and muscles of the shoulders will admit, without bending arms at elbows. now, thrust the body to the right, knees and feet firm, and strike the left side with open palms, vigorously, repeat with body to the left. now, with arms akimbo, thrust the right foot forward (kicking) with energy, six times; left same. now, place the clenched fist in the small of the back with great force; throw the whole body backwards, feet and knees firm, tilling the lungs to the utmost and uttering, as you go over, the alphabetical element, "_a_" then long "_o_," then long "_e_" if these movements have been made with great energy and precision, the blood is circulating freely, and the whole body is aglow, and you are ready now for vocal exercises. these should be repeated daily with increasing energy. the best time for practicing gymnastic exercises is either early in the morning or in the cool of the evening; but never immediately after meals. as the feet and lower limbs are the foundation, we shall begin by giving their different positions. the student should be careful to keep the body erect. a good voice depends upon the position, and the practice of position and gesture will prove a valuable aid in physical culture, and in acquiring a graceful address. there are two primary positions of the feet in speaking: _first._--the body rests on the left foot, right a little advanced, right knee bent. _second._--the body rests on the right foot, the left a little advanced, left knee bent. there are two other positions which are called secondary. they are assumed in argument, appeal or persuasion. the first secondary position is taken from the first primary by advancing the unoccupied foot, and resting the body upon it, leaning forward, the _left_ foot brought to its support. the second secondary position is the same as the first with the body resting on the left foot. in assuming these positions the movements must be made with the utmost simplicity, avoiding all display or parade, and advancing, retiring or changing with ease and gracefulness, excepting when the action demands energy or marked decision. all changes must be made as lightly and as imperceptibly as possible, without any unnecessary sweep of the moving foot, and in all changes that foot should be moved first which does not support the weight of the body. all action should be graceful in mechanism and definite in expressiveness. the speaker should keep his place--all his motions may be easily made in one square yard, but the stage or dramatic action requires more extended movements. walking. in walking, the head and body should be carried upright, yet perfectly free and easy, with the shoulders thrown back, the knees should be straight, and the toes turned out. in the walk or march, the foot should be advanced, keeping the knee and instep straight, and the toe pointing downward; it should then be placed softly on the ground without jerking the body; and this movement should be repeated with the left foot, and the action continued until it can be performed with ease and elegance. "in a graceful human step," it has been well observed, "the heel is always raised before the foot is lifted from the ground, as if the foot were part of a wheel rolling forward, and the weight of the body, supported by the muscles of the calf of the leg, rests, for a time, on the fore part of the foot and toes. there is then a bending of the foot in a certain degree." sitting. in reading, the student should sit erect, with both feet resting on the floor, and one foot slightly advanced, the head up so as to be able to use the whole trunk in respiration. kneeling. to kneel gracefully, assume the first standing position resting the weight of the body on the right foot, then place the left knee gently down on the floor keeping the body perfectly erect, then bring the right knee down;--in rising, these motions are reversed, the right knee being raised first, the full weight of the body resting on it while rising, bring up the left knee and assume the first standing position. to be effective these motions should be very gracefully executed and a great deal of practice must be given to acquire freedom of action. holding the book. the book should be held in the right hand by the side, standing in the first position then raise it and open it to place, pass it to the left hand letting the right hand drop by the side, the book being held so that the upper part of it is below the chin, so as to show the countenance, and permit the free use of the eyes, which should frequently be raised from the book and directed to those who are listening. chapter ii. breathing exercises. deep breathing with the lips closed, inhaling as long as possible, and exhaling slowly, is very beneficial. having inflated the lungs to their utmost capacity, form the breath into the element of long _o_, in its escape through the vocal organs. this exercise should be frequently repeated, as the voice will be strengthened thereby, and the capacity of the chest greatly increased. do not raise the shoulders or the upper part of the chest alone when you breathe. breathe as a healthy child breathes, by the expansion and contraction of abdominal and intercostal muscles. such breathing will improve the health, and be of great assistance in continuous reading or speaking. great care is necessary in converting the breath into voice. do not waste breath; use it economically, or hoarseness will follow. much practice on the vocal elements, with all the varieties of pitch, then the utterance of words, then of sentences, and finally of whole paragraphs, is necessary in learning to use the breath, and in acquiring judgment and taste in vocalizing. _never speak when the lungs are exhausted. keep them well inflated._ special directions for breathing. 1. place yourself in a perfectly erect but easy posture; the weight of the body resting on one foot; the feet at a moderate distance, the one in advance of the other; the arms akimbo; the fingers pressing on the abdominal muscles, in front, and the thumbs on the dorsal muscles, on each side of the spine; the chest freely expanded and fully projected; the shoulders held backward and downward; the head perfectly vertical. 2. having thus complied with the preliminary conditions of a free and unembarrassed action of the organs, draw in and give out the breath very fully and very slowly, about a dozen times in succession. 3. draw in a very full breath, and send it forth in a prolonged sound of the letter _h_. in the act of inspiration, take in as much breath as you can contain. in that of expiration, retain all you can, and give out as little as possible, merely sufficient to keep the sound of _h_ audible. 4. draw in a very full breath, as before, and emit it with a lively, expulsive force, in the sound of _h_, but little prolonged in the style of a moderate, whispered cough. 5. draw in the breath, as already directed, and emit it with a sudden and violent explosion, in a very brief sound of the letter _h_, in the style of an abrupt and forcible, but whispered cough. the breath is, in this mode of expiration, thrown out with abrupt _violence_. 6. inflate the lungs to their utmost capacity and exhale the breath very slowly, counting rapidly up to ten, as many times as possible with one breath. each of the above exercises should be repeated often, by the student, in his room, or while walking; and may be given with the gymnastic exercises previously introduced. chapter iii. articulation. a good articulation consists in a clear, full, and distinct utterance of words, in accordance with the best standard of pronunciation, and this constitutes the basis of every other excellence in reading and oratory. care and attention, with diligent practice, will keep young persons from falling into the bad habit of imperfect articulation, for most voices are good until domestic or local habits spoil them. hence the great importance of careful training in early childhood, for if parents and instructors would direct their attention to this matter a manifest improvement would quickly follow; yet, to acquire a good articulation is not so difficult a task "as to defy the assaults of labour." "the importance of a correct enunciation in a public speaker is well known --for if he possesses only a moderate voice, if he articulates correctly, he will be better understood and heard with greater pleasure, than one who vociferates without judgment. the voice of the latter may indeed extend to a considerable distance,--but the sound is dissipated in confusion; of the former voice, not the smallest vibration is wasted, every stroke is perceived even at the utmost distance to which it reaches; and hence it often has the appearance of penetrating even farther than one which is loud, but badly articulated." in connection with this subject, a few words are necessary concerning impediment of speech, for in cases where a slight degree of hesitation breaks the fluent tenor of discourse much may be accomplished by due care and attention, and most defects of speech, voice, and manner may be modified or remedied by cultivation and diligent study and practice. in seeking for a remedy the first thing to be considered is the care of the health, for this is the foundation of every hope of cure, and all excesses should be avoided and all irregularities guarded against. all the mental powers should be enlisted in the combat with the defect, and the student should speak with deliberation and with an expiring breath, and when alone practice frequently the words and letters that he finds most difficult to pronounce, and should also furnish his mind with a copious vocabulary of synonyms, so that if he finds himself unable to utter a particular word, he may substitute some other in its place. but above all he must maintain a courageous command over himself and exert the energy of his own mind. by observing these rules, if the defect is not entirely eradicated, it will at least be palliated in a considerable degree. chapter iv. elementary sounds of the english language. the number of elements in the language is thirty-eight. they are divided into _vowels_, _sub-vowels_, and _aspirates_; or, as classified by dr. rush in his "philosophy of the human voice," into _tonics_, _sub-tonics_, and _atonics_. there are fifteen _vowels_, fourteen _sub-vowels_, and nine _aspirates_. _table of the elements._ vowels a as heard in _a_le, f_a_te, m_a_y. a " " " _a_rm, f_a_rm, h_a_rm. a " " " _a_ll, f_a_ll, _o_rb. a " " " _a_n, ide_a_, p_a_n. e " " " _e_asy, im_i_tate, m_e_. e " " " _e_nd, l_e_t, m_e_nd. i " " " _i_sle, _i_ce, fl_y_, m_i_ne. i " " " _i_n, p_i_n, _e_ngland. o " " " _o_ld, m_o_re, _o_ats. o " " " _oo_se, l_o_se, t_o_, f_oo_l o " " " _o_n, l_o_ck, n_o_t. u " " " m_ew_, f_ew_, t_u_be, p_u_pil. u " " " _u_p, t_u_b, h_e_r, h_u_rt. u " " " f_u_ll, p_u_ll, w_o_lf. ou " " " _ou_r, fl_ou_r, p_ow_er. sub-vowels. b as heard in _b_ow, _b_oat, _b_arb. d " " " _d_ay, bi_d_, _d_are. g " " " _g_ay, fi_g_, _g_ilt. l " " " _l_ight, _l_iberty, a_ll_. m " " " _m_ind, stor_m_, _m_ate. n " " " _n_o, o_n_, _n_i_n_e. ng " " " si_ng_, fi_ng_er, lo_ng_. r " " " _r_oe, _r_a_r_e, o_r_b. th " " " _th_en, wi_th_, benea_th_. v as heard in _v_ice, _v_ile, sal_v_e. w " " " _w_oe, _w_ave, _w_orld. y " " " _y_oke, _y_e, _y_onder. z " " " _z_one, hi_s_, _z_enophon. zh " " " a_z_ure, enclo_s_ure. aspirates. f as heard in _f_ame, i_f_, li_f_t. h " " " _h_e, _h_ut. k " " " _k_ite, ca_k_e. p " " " _p_it, u_p_, a_p_t. s " " " _s_in, _c_ell, ye_s_. sh " " " _sh_ade, _sh_ine, flu_sh_ed. t " " " _t_ake, oa_t_s, i_t_. th " " " _th_in, tru_th_, mon_th_s. wh " " " _wh_en, _wh_ich, _wh_at. there are many words in which there are difficult combinations of the elements; they, as well as those in which the combinations are easy, should be practiced upon until the pupil is able to articulate each element correctly. the following is a table of the _analysis of words_, in which there are easy and difficult combinations of elements. let the pupil spell the words, uttering separately each _element_, and not the _name_ of the word, as is the practice which generally obtains in our schools. _table of the analysis of words._ words. elements. ale, a-l. day, d-a. fame, f-a-m. crew, k-r-u. call, k-a-l. deeds, d-e-d-z. wool, w-u-l. isle, i-l. dare, d-a-r. ink, i-ng-k. pause, p-a-z. mow, m-o. lose, l-o-z. pray, p-r-a. spell, s-p-e-l. twists, t-w-i-s-t-s. waste, w-a-s-t. awful, a-f-u-l. up, u-p. mouths, m-ou-th-z. sky, s-k-i. lamb, l-a-m. oak, o-k. eve, e-v. once, w-u-n-s. awe, a. power, p-ou-u-r. mulcts, m-u-l-k-t-s. john, d-gh-a-n. objects, o-b-d-jh-e-k-ts. thousandth, th-ou-z-a-n-d-th. wives, w-i-v-z. softness, s-o-f-t-n-e-s. shrugged, sh-r-u-g-d. themselves, th-e-m-s-e-l-v-z. church, t-sh-u-r-t-sh. they were _wrenched_ by the hand of violence. the _strength_ of his nostrils is _terrible_. a gentle current _rippled_ by. thou _barb'd'st_ the dart by which he fell. arm'd, say ye? arm'd, my lord! he _sa_wed _six sl_eek, _sl_im _s_apling_s_. it was strongly _urged_ upon him. ami_dst_ the mi_sts_, he thru_sts_ his fi_sts_ again_st_ the po_sts_. the swan swam over the sea; well swum, swan. the swan swam back again; well swum, swan. pronunciation and accent. pronunciation is the mode of enouncing certain words and syllables. as pronunciation varies with the modes and fashions of the times, it is sometimes fluctuating in particular words, and high authorities are often so much at variance, that the correct mode is hard to be determined; hence to acquire a correct pronunciation, this irregularity, whatever be the cause, must be submitted to. be very careful to give each letter its proper sound and avoid omitting or perverting the sound of any letter or syllable of a word, without some good authority. the unaccentuated syllables of words are very liable to be either omitted, slurred or corrupted, and there is no word in the language more frequently and unjustly treated in this respect than the conjunction--_and_. it is seldom half articulated, although it is properly entitled to _three_ distinct elementary sounds. heaven _a_nd earth will witness, if rome must fall, that we are innocent. i the assyrian came down, like the wolf on the fold, and _h_is cohorts were gleaming in purple _a_nd gold. the word _and_, in these and similar examples, is commonly pronounced as if written _u_nd or _u_n, with an imperfect or partially occluded articulation of these elements; whereas, it ought always to be pronounced in such a manner that each of its own three elementary sounds, though in their combined state, may distinctly appear. in pronouncing the phrase, "and his," not only the _a_, but the _h_, is, also, frequently suppressed, and the sound of the _d_ is combined with that of the _i_ following it; as if written thus, _u_nd _diz_ cohorts, and so on. many pronounce the phrase "are innocent," in the first example, as if written _a rinesunt_. this practice of suppressing letters, and as it were melting words into indistinct masses, cannot be too cautiously guarded against. avoid the affectations and mis-pronunciations exemplified in the following list of words which are often mispronounced. do not say-g_i_t for g_e_t. h_e_v " h_a_ve. k_e_tch " c_a_tch. g_e_th'er " g_a_th'er. st_i_d'y " st_e_ad'y. good'n_i_ss " good'n_e_ss. hon'ist " hon'est. hun'd_u_rd " hund'red. sav'_i_j " sav'_a_ge. ma_w_n'ing " mo_r_n'ing. cli'm_i_t " cli'm_a_te. si'l_u_nt " si'l_e_nt. souns " soun_d_s. fiels " fiel_d_s. sof'ly " sof_t_'ly. kindl'st " kindl'_d_st. armst " arm'_d_st. gen'ral " gen'_e_ral. sep'rate " sep'_a_rate. mis'ries " mis'_e_ries. dif'frence " diff'_e_rence. ex'lent " ex'c_el_lent. comp'ny " com'p_a_ny. liv'in " liv'i_ng_. lenth'en " le_ng_th'en. chastisemunt " chastisement. bereavemunt " bereavement. contentmunt " contentment. offis " office. hevun " heaven. curosity " curiosity. absolut " absolute, etc. chapter v. qualities of voice. by quality of voice is meant the kind of voice used to express sentiment. there are two general divisions of quality: pure and impure. these are subdivided into pure, deepened or orotund, guttural, tremor, aspirate, and falsetto qualities. pure quality. the pure or natural tone is employed in ordinary speaking or descriptive language, and is expressed with less expenditure of breath than any other quality of voice. it is entirely free from any impure vocal sound. 1. "how calm, how beautiful a scene is this,-when nature, waking from her silent sleep, bursts forth in light, and harmony, and joy! when earth, and sky, and air, are glowing all with gayety and life, and pensive shades of morning loveliness are cast around! the purple clouds, so streaked with crimson light, bespeak the coming of majestic day;-mark how the crimson grows more crimson still, while, ever and anon, a golden beam seems darting out its radiance! heralds of day! where is that mighty form which clothes you all in splendour, and around your colourless, pale forms spreads the bright hues of heaven?--he cometh from his gorgeous couch, and gilds the bosom of the glowing east!" _margaret davidson._ 2. sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close up yonder hill the village murmur rose; there, as i passed with careless steps and slow the mingling notes came softened from below; the swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, the sober herd that lowed to meet their young; the noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, the playful children just let loose from school; the watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, and the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; these all in sweet confusion sought the shade, and filled each pause the nightingale had made. but now the sounds of population fail, no cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, no busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, for all the blooming flush of life is fled. all but yon widowed, solitary thing, that feebly bends beside the plashy spring; she, wretched matron--forced in age, for bread, to strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, to pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, to seek her nightly shed and weep till morn-she only left of all the harmless train, the sad historian of the pensive plain! _goldsmith._ orotund quality. the orotund is a highly improved state of the natural voice, and is the quality most used, being far more expressive, as it gives grandeur and energy to thought and expression. this voice is highly agreeable, and is more musical and flexible than the common voice. dr. rush defines the orotund as that assemblage of eminent qualities which constitute the highest characteristic of the speaking voice. he describes it to be a full, clear, strong, smooth, and ringing sound, rarely heard in ordinary speech; but which is never found in its highest excellence, except by careful cultivation. he describes the fine qualities of voice constituting the orotund in the following words:-by a fullness of voice, is meant the grave or hollow volume, which approaches to hoarseness. by a freedom from nasal murmur and aspiration. by a satisfactory loudness and audibility. by smoothness, or a freedom from all reedy or guttural harshness. by a ringing sonorous quality of voice resembling certain musical instruments. the possession of the power of this voice is greatly dependent on cultivation and management, and experiments have proved that more depends on cultivation than on natural peculiarity. much care and labour are necessary for acquiring this improved condition of the speaking voice, the lungs must be kept well supplied with breath, there must be a full expansion of the chest, causing the abdomen gently to protrude, the throat and the mouth must be kept well open so as to give free course to the sound. never waste the breath, every pause must be occupied in replenishing the lungs, and the inhalation should be done as silently as possible, and through the nostrils as well as by the mouth. excellence in this quality of voice depends on the earnest and frequent practice of reading aloud with the utmost degree of force. the voice may be exerted to a great extent without fatigue or injury, but should never be taxed beyond its powers, and as soon as this strong action can be employed without producing hoarseness, it should be maintained for half an hour at a time. this practice is very beneficial to the health, especially if prosecuted in the open air, or in a large, well ventilated room, and if pursued regularly, energetically, and systematically, the pupil will be surprised and delighted at his rapid progress in this art, and his voice, from a condition of comparative feebleness, will soon develop into one of wellmarked strength, fullness, and distinctness. 1. ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow adown enormous ravines slope amain,-torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, and stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! motionless torrents! silent cataracts! who made you glorious as the gates of heaven beneath the keen, full moon? who bade the sun clothe you with rainbows? who, with living flowers of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet!-god! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, answer! and let the ice-plains echo, god!-and they, too, have a voice,--yon piles of snow, and in their perilous fall shall thunder, god! _coleridge._ 2. the hoarse, rough voice, should like a torrent roar. 3. hurrah! the foes are moving. hark to the mingled din of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. the fiery duke is pricking fast across saint andre's plain, with all the hireling chivalry of guelders and almayne. now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of france, charge for the golden lilies--upon them with the lance! a thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, a thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest, and in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of navarre. _macaulay_. 4. "up drawbridge, grooms!--what, warder, ho! let the portcullis fall."-lord marmion turned,--well was his need!-and dashed the rowels in his steed, like arrow through the archway sprung; the ponderous gate behind him rung: to pass there was such scanty room, the bars, descending, razed his plume. _sir walter scott_. 5. fight, gentlemen of england! fight, bold yeomen! draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head! spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood! amaze the welkin with your broken staves! a thousand hearts are great within my bosom! advance our standards, set upon our foes! our ancient word of courage--fair saint george-inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons! upon them! victory sits on our helms! _shakespeare._ 6. and reckon'st thou thyself with spirits of heaven, _hell-doomed_, and breath'st defiance here and scorn, where i reign king? and to enrage the more _thy_ king and lord! _back_ to thy _pun_ishment, _false fu_gitive, and to thy speed add wings, lest with a whip of scorpions i pursue thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart strange horrors seize thee, and pangs unfelt before. _milton._ 7. these are thy glorious works, parent of good! almighty! thine this universal frame, thus wondrous fair!--thyself how wondrous, then! unspeakable! who sitt'st above these heavens, to us invisible, or dimly seen midst these, thy lowest works! yet these declare thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine! 8. an hour passed on:--the turk awoke:- that bright dream was his last;-he woke--to hear his sentries shriek, "to arms!--they come!--the greek, the greek!" he woke--to die, 'midst flame and smoke, and shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, and death-shots felling thick and fast. like forest-pines before the blast, or lightnings from the mountain-cloud; and heard, with voice as trumpet loud, bozzaris cheer his band; "strike--till the last armed foe expires, strike--for your altars and your fires, strike--for the green graves of your sires, heaven--and your native land!" they fought like brave men, long and well, they piled that ground with moslem slain, they conquered--but bozzaris fell bleeding at every vein. his few surviving comrades saw his smile, when rang their proud hurrah, and the red field was won; they saw in death his eyelids close, calmly, as to a night's repose, like flowers at set of sun. _halleck._ guttural quality. the guttural quality is used in expressing the strongest degree of contempt, disgust, aversion, revenge, etc. its characteristic is an explosive resonance in the throat, producing a harsh and grating sound, and its expression can be used in all the various tones, giving to them its own peculiar character. this quality, is, however, of rare occurrence, and needs less cultivation than the other qualities. 1. avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold: thou hast no speculation in those eyes which thou dost glare with! hence, horrible shadow! unreal mockery, hence! _shakespeare._ 2. how like a fawning publican he looks! i hate him, for he is a christian: but more, for that, in low simplicity, he lends out money gratis, and brings down the rate of usance here with us in venice: if i can catch him once upon the hip, i will feed fat the ancient grudge i bear him. he hates our sacred nation; and he rails, even there where merchants most do congregate, on me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, which he calls interest:--cursed be my tribe, if i forgive him! _shakespeare._ 3. thou stands't at length before me undisguised-of all earth's grovelling crew, the most accursed. thou worm! thou viper!--to thy native earth return! away! thou art too base for man to tread upon! thou scum! thou reptile! 4. "and, douglas, more i tell thee here, even in thy pitch of pride, here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (nay, never look upon your lord, and lay your hands upon your sword,) i tell thee, thou'rt defied! and if thou said'st i am not peer-to any lord in scotland here, lowland or highland, far or near, lord angus, thou has't lied!" _sir walter scott_. tremor quality. the tremor quality is used in expressing pity, grief, joy, mirth, etc., and its characteristic is a frequent rise and fall of the voice, and a more delicate exercise of that particular vibration in the throat, known as "gurgling." it is apparent in extreme feebleness, in age, exhaustion, sickness, fatigue, grief, and even joy, and other feelings in which ardour or extreme tenderness predominate. 1. pity the sorrows of a poor old man whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door; whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;- oh, give relief, and heaven will bless your store! 2. the king stood still till the last echo died; then, throwing off the sackcloth from his brow, and laying back the pall from the still features of his child, he bowed his head upon him, and broke forth in the resistless eloquence of woe:-"alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die! thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! that death should settle in thy glorious eye, and leave his stillness in thy clustering hair! how could he mark thee for the silent tomb, my proud boy, absalom! "cold is thy brow, my son! and i am chill, as to my bosom i have tried to press thee! how was i wont to feel my pulses thrill, like a rich harpstring, yearning to caress thee, and hear thy sweet '_my father_!' from those dumb and cold lips, absolom! "but death is on thee! i shall hear the gush of music and the voices of the young; and life will pass me in the mantling blush, and the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;--but thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come to meet me, absalom!" _n. p. willis._ 3. noble old man! he did not live to see me, and i--i--did not live to see _him_. weighed down by sorrow and disappointment, he died before i was born--six thousand brief summers before i was born. but let us try to hear it with fortitude. let us trust that he is better off where he is. let us take comfort in the thought that his loss is our gain. _mark twain._ 4. forsake me not thus, adam, witness heav'n what love sincere, and reverence in my heart i bear thee, and unweeting have offended, unhappily deceiv'd; thy suppliant i beg, and clasp thy knees; bereave me not, whereon i live, thy gentle looks, thy aid, thy counsel in this uttermost distress. my only strength and stay: forlorn of thee, whither shall i betake me, where subsist? while yet we live, scarce one short hour, perhaps between us two let there be peace, both joining, as joined in injuries, one enmity, against a foe by doom express assign'd us, that cruel serpent! _milton._ aspirate quality. the aspirate quality is used in the utterance of secrecy and fear, and discontent generally takes this quality. its characteristic is distinctness, therefore exercises on this voice will prove invaluable to the pupil and deep inhalations are indispensable. the aspirate is usually combined with other qualities and the earnestness and other expressive effects of aspiration may be spread over a whole sentence or it may be restricted to a single word. the aspirate quality is entitled to notice as a powerful agent in oratorical expression, and the whispered utterances of any well disciplined voice will be heard in the remotest parts of a large theatre, and the voice is greatly strengthened by frequent practice in this quality. 1. hark! i hear the bugles of the enemy! they are on their march along the bank of the river! we must retreat instantly, or be cut off from our boats! i see the head of their column already rising over the height! our only safety is in the screen of this hedge. keep close to it--be silent--and stoop as you run! for the boats! forward! 2. macbeth. i have done the deed:--did'st thou not hear a noise? lady macbeth. i heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry. did not you speak? macb. when? lady m. now. macb. as i descended? lady m. ay. macb. hark! who lies i' the second chamber? lady m. donaldbain. macb. this is a sorry sight. [_showing his hands._ lady m. a foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. macb. 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 addressed them again to sleep. _shakespeare_ 3. "pray you tread softly,--that the blind mole may not hear a footfall: we are now near his cell. speak softly! all's hushed as midnight yet. see'st thou here? this is the mouth o' the cell: no noise! and enter." _shakespeare._ 4. ah' mercy on my soul! what is that? my old friend's ghost? they say none but wicked folks walk; i wish i were at the bottom of a coal-pit. see; how long and pale his face has grown since his death: he never was handsome; and death has improved him very much the wrong way. pray do not come near me! i wish'd you very well when you were alive; but i could never abide a dead man, cheek by jowl with me. falsetto quality. the falsetto quality is used in expressing terror, pain, anger, affection, etc. some people speak altogether in falsetto, especially those who are not careful in pronunciation. it is harsh, rude, and grating, and is heard in the whine of peevishness, in the high pitch of mirth, and in the piercing scream of terror. 1. i was dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the good times which i hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. it was the voice of my maria ann in mortal agony. the voice came from the kitchen, and to the kitchen i rushed. the idolized form of my maria ann was perched upon a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions, and shouting "_shoo-shoo_," in a general manner to everything in the room. to my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed, "_o, joshua, a mouse, shoo--wha--shoo--a great--shoo-horrid mouse, and it ran right out of the cupboard--shoo--go away--shoo-joshua--shoo--kill it--oh, my--shoo._" 2. 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 london are accountable to nobody after they are married. sir p.--very well, ma'am, very well!--so a husband is to have no influence, no authority? lady t.--authority! no, to be sure. if you wanted authority over me, you should have adopted me, and not married me; i am sure you were old enough. _sheridan._ 3. "i've seen mair mice than you, guidman- an' what think ye o' that? sae haud your tongue an' say nae mair- i tell ye, it was a rat." chapter vi. force. force refers to the strength or power of the voice, and is divided into forms and degrees. very particular attention should be given to the subject of force, since that _expression_, which is so very important in elocution, is almost altogether dependent on some one or other modification of this attribute of the voice. it may truly be considered the light and shade of a proper intonation. force may be applied to sentences or even to single words, for the purpose of energetic expression. the degrees of force are gentle, moderate, and heavy. gentle force. the gentle force is used in expressing tenderness, love, secrecy, caution, etc., and the lungs must be kept thoroughly inflated, especially in reverberating sounds. 1. "heard you that strain of music light, borne gently on the breeze of night,-so soft and low as scarce to seem more than the magic of a dream? morpheus caught the liquid swell,-its echo broke his drowsy spell. hark! now it rises sweetly clear, prolonged upon the raptured ear;-sinking now, the quivering note seems scarcely on the air to float; it falls--'tis mute,--nor swells again;-oh! what wert thou, melodious strain?" _mrs. j. h. abbot._ 2. was it the chime of a tiny bell, that came so sweet to my dreaming ear, like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell, that he winds on the beach so mellow and clear, when the winds and the waves lie together asleep, and the moon and the fairy are watching the deep, she dispensing her silvery light, and he his notes as silvery quite, while the boatman listens and ships his oar, to catch the music that comes from the shore?- hark! the notes on my ear that play, are set to words: as they float, they say, "passing away! passing away!" _pierpont._ 3. hear the sledges with the bells--silver bells! what a world of merriment their melody foretells! how they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle in the icy air of night! while the stars that oversprinkle all the heavens, seem to twinkle with a crystalline delight-keeping time, time, time, in a sort of runic rhyme, to the tintinnabulation that so musically wells from the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,-from the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. _e. a. poe._ moderate force. the moderate force is used in ordinary conversation and unemotional utterances. 1. she stood before her father's gorgeous tent to listen for his coming. her loose hair was resting on her shoulders like a cloud floating around a statue, and the wind, just swaying her light robe, reveal'd a shape praxiteles might worship. she had clasp'd her hands upon her bosom, and had raised her beautiful dark jewish eyes to heaven, till the long lashes lay upon her brow. her lips were slightly parted, like the cleft of a pomegranate blossom; and her neck, just where the cheek was melting to its curve, with the unearthly beauty sometimes there, was shaded, as if light had fallen off, its surface was so polish'd. she was stilling her light, quick breath, to hear; and the white rose scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swell'd, like nothing but a lovely wave of light to meet the arching of her queenly neck. her countenance was radiant with love, she looked like one to die for it--a being whose whole existence was the pouring out of rich and deep affections. _n. p. willis._ 2. oh! sing unto the lord a new song, for he hath done marvellous things: his right hand and his holy arm hath gotten him the victory. make a joyful noise unto the lord, all the earth: make a loud noise, and rejoice, and sing praise. sing unto the lord with the harp; with the harp, and the voice of a psalm. 3. por. the quality of mercy is not strain'd; it droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; it blesseth him that gives, and him that takes; 'tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes the throned monarch better than his crown; his sceptre shows the force of temporal power, the attribute to awe and majesty, wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings: but mercy is above this sceptred sway, it is enthroned in the hearts of kings, it is an attribute to god himself; and earthly power doth then show likest god's, when mercy seasons justice. _shakespeare._ heavy force. heavy force, is used in giving the language of command, exultation, denunciation, defiance, etc., and in using this force the lungs must be inflated to their utmost capacity. in giving the accompanying examples the student must exert every energy of the body and mind, and by earnest practice he will increase the power and flexibility of his voice to a surprising extent, and also acquire a distinctness of tone and earnestness of manner, that will serve him well, as a public speaker. 1. banished from rome! what's banished, but set free from daily contact with the things i loathe? "tried and convicted traitor!" who says this? who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head? banished! i thank you for't! it breaks my chain! i held some slack allegiance till this hour-but now, my sword's my own. smile on, my lords! i scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs, i have within my heart's hot cells shut up, to leave you in your lazy dignities! but here i stand and scoff you! here i fling hatred and full defiance in your face! your consul's merciful--for this, all thanks: he dares not touch a hair of cataline! "traitor!" i go--but i return. this--trial? here i devote your senate! i've had wrongs to stir a fever in the blood of age, or make the infant's sinews strong as steel! this day's the birth of sorrow! this hour's work will breed proscriptions! look to your hearths, my lords! for there henceforth shall sit, for household gods, shapes hot from tartarus!--all shames and crimes!-wan treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn; suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup; naked rebellion, with the torch and axe, making his wild sport of your blazing thrones; till anarchy comes down on you like night, and massacre seals rome's eternal grave! _george croly._ 2. but douglas round him drew his cloak, folded his arms, and thus he spoke: "my manors, halls, and bowers, shall still be open, at my sovereign's will, to each one whom he lists, howe'er unmeet to be the owner's peer. my castles are my king's alone, from turret to foundation stone;-the _hand_ of douglas is his own, and never shall in friendly grasp, the hand of such as marmion clasp!" burned marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, and shook his very frame for ire- and "this to me!" he said-"and 'twere not for thy hoary beard, such hand as marmion's had not spared to cleave the douglas' head! and first i tell thee, haughty peer, he who does england's message here, although the meanest in her state, may well, proud angus, be thy mate!" _sir walter scott._ 3. what man dare, i dare! approach thou like the rugged russian bear, the armed rhinoceros, or the hyrcan tiger, take any shape but that, and my firm nerves shall never tremble: or, be alive again, and dare me to the desert with thy sword! hence, horrible shadow! unreal mockery, hence! _shakespeare._ variations of force or stress. these are known as the radical, median, vanishing, compound, and thorough stress. radical stress. this is used in expressing lively description, haste, fear, command, etc., and consists of an abrupt and forcible utterance, usually more or less explosive, and falls on the first part of a sound or upon the opening of a vowel, and its use contributes much to distinct pronounciation. it is not common to give a strong, full and clear radical stress, yet this abrupt function is highly important in elocution, and when properly used in public reading or on the stage "will startle even stupor into attention." it is this tone that prompts children to obedience, and makes animals submissive to their masters. 1. out with you!--and he went out. 2. there's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, there's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, there's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, and a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea! _bryant._ 3. but hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, as if the clouds its echo would repeat; and nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! arm! arm! it is! it is! the cannon's opening roar! ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, and gathering tears and tremblings of distress, and cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; and there were sudden partings, such as press the life from out young hearts, and choking sighs which ne'er might be repeated! who could guess if ever more should meet those mutual eyes, since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? _byron._ median stress. the median stress is used in the expression of grandeur, sublimity, reverence, etc., and smoothness and dignity are its characteristics, for it gives emphasis without abruptness or violence. in using this stress, there is a gradual increase and swell in the middle of a sound, and a subsequent gradual decrease--thus giving a greater intensity of voice and dignity of expression than radical stress. 1. _roll on_, thou dark and deep blue ocean, _roll_. _byron._ 2. we _praise_ thee, o god, we acknowledge _thee_ to be the _lord_. 3. father! thy hand hath reared these venerable columns; thou didst weave this verdant roof; thou didst look down upon the naked earth; and, forthwith, rose all these fair ranks of trees. they in thy sun budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, and shot towards heaven. the century-living crow, whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died among their branches, till, at last, they stood, as now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,-fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold communion with his maker! _bryant._ 4. how are the mighty fallen! saul and jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives; and in their death they were not divided; they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions. ye daughters of israel, weep over saul, who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights; who put on ornaments of gold upon your apparel! how are the mighty fallen in the midst of battle! o jonathan! thou wast slain in thine high places! how are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished! the vanishing stress. the vanishing stress occurs as its name implies at the end or closing of a sound or vowel, and is used in expressing disgust, complaint, fretfulness, ardour, surprise, etc. the sound is guttural, and sometimes terminates in sobbing or hic-cough. it has less dignity and grace than the gradual swell of the median stress. 1. do you hear the rain, mr. caudle? i say, do you hear it? but i don't care; i'll go to mother's to-morrow; i will; and what's more i'll walk every step of the way; and you know that will give me my death. don't call me a foolish woman; 'tis you that's the foolish man. you know i can't wear clogs; and, with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold: it always does: but what do you care for that? nothing at all. i may be laid up for what you care, as i dare say i shall; and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. i hope there will. it will teach you to lend your umbrellas again. i shouldn't wonder if i caught my death: yes, and that's what you lent the umbrella for. _douglas jerrold._ 2. cas. brutus, bay not me! i'll not endure it. you forget yourself, to hedge me in: i am a soldier, i, older in practice, abler than yourself to make conditions. bru. go to! you are not, cassius. cas. i am. bru. i say you are not! cas. urge me no more: i shall forget myself: have mind upon your health; tempt me no farther! bru. you say you are a better soldier: let it appear so; make your vaunting true, and it shall please me well. for mine own part, i shall be glad to learn of noble men. cas. you wrong me every way, you wrong me, brutus. i said, an elder soldier, not a better. did i say better? bru. if you did, i care not! cas. when caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me! bru. peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him? cas. i durst not? bru. no. cas. what! durst not tempt him? bru. for your life, you durst not! cas. do not presume too much upon my love; i may do that i shall be sorry for. _shakespeare._ compound stress. compound stress is the natural mode of expressing surprise, and also-though not so frequently--of sarcasm, contempt, mockery, etc. in using this stress the voice, with more or less explosive force, touches strongly and distinctly on both the opening and closing points of a sound or vowel, and passes slightly and almost imperceptibly over the middle part. 1. gone to be married! gone to swear a peace! false blood to false blood joined! gone to be friends! shall lewis have blanche, and blanche these provinces? it is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard,-be well advised, tell o'er thy tale again: it can not be;--thou dost but say 'tis so. _shakespeare._ 2. julia. why! do you think i'll work? duke. i think 'twill happen, wife. julia. what, rub and scrub your noble palace clean? duke. those taper fingers will do it daintily. julia. and dress your victuals (if there be any)? o, i shall go mad. _tobin._ thorough stress. thorough stress is used in expressing command, denunciation, bravado, braggadocio, etc. this stress has a degree of force a little stronger than the compound stress, and it is produced by a continuation of the full volume of the voice throughout the whole extent of the sentence. when the time is short the tone resembles that of uncouth rustic coarseness. 1. these abominable principles, and this more abominable avowal of them, demand the most decisive indignation. 2. now strike the golden lyre again; a louder yet, and yet a louder strain': break his bands of sleep asunder, and rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder'. hark! hark! the horrid sound has raised up his head, as awaked from the dead; and amazed he stares around. revenge! revenge. _dryden._ semitone. the progress of pitch through the interval of a half tone. it is called also the chromatic melody, because it expresses pity, grief, remorse, etc. it may colour a single word, or be continued through an entire passage or selection. 1. the new year comes to-night, mamma, "i lay me down to sleep, i pray the lord"--tell poor papa--"my soul to keep, if i"--how cold it seems, how dark, kiss me, i cannot see,-the new year comes to-night, mamma, the old year dies with me. the semitone is very delicate, and must be produced by the nature of the emotion. an excess, when the mood or language does not warrant it, turns pathos into burlesque, and the scale may very easily be turned from the sublime to the ridiculous. strength, flexibility, and melody of voice are of little worth if the judgment and taste are defective. monotone is a sameness of the voice, indicating solemnity, power, reverence, and dread. it is a near approach to one continuous tone of voice, but must not be confounded with monotony. much of the reading we hear is monotonous in the extreme, while the judicious use of the monotone would sufficiently vary it, to render it attractive. monotone is of great importance in reading the bible, the beautiful words of the church service, and in prayer, and the haste with which these solemn words are often slurred over, is much to be deplored. monotone is usually accompanied by slow time, and it is, in fact, a low orotund. 1. the heavens declare the glory of god, and the firmament showeth his handy work. day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge. there is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard. _bible._ 2. these, as they change, almighty father! these are but the varied god. the rolling year is full of thee.-and oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks; and oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, by brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. in winter, awful thou! with clouds and storms around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled-majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing, riding sublime, thou bidd'st the world adore, and humblest nature, with thy northern blast. _thomson._ 3. now o'er the one-half world nature seems dead; and wicked dreams abuse the curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates pale hecate's off'rings; 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, towards his design moves like a ghost.--thou sure and firm-set earth! hear not my, steps, which way they walk; for fear the very stones prate of my whereabout, and take the present horror for the time which now suits with it. _shakespeare._ chapter vii. time. the varieties of movement in utterance are expressed by time, which is the measure of the duration of the sounds heard in speech, and it is divided into three general divisions; viz.--moderate, quick and slow time, these being sub-divided by the reader, according to the predominate feeling which the subject seems to require. time and stress, properly combined and marked, possesses two essential elementary conditions of agreeable discourse, upon which other excellences may be engrafted. if either be feebly marked, other beauties will not redeem it. a well-marked stress, and a graceful extension of time, are essential to agreeable speech, and give brilliancy and smoothness to it. moderate time. 1. moderate is the rate used in narrative or conversational style. 1. o bright, beautiful, health-inspiring, heart-gladdening water! every where around us dwelleth thy meek presence--twin-angel sister of all that is good and precious here; in the wild forest, on the grassy plain, slumbering in the bosom of the lonely mountain, sailing with viewless wings through the humid air, floating over us in curtains of more than regal splendour--home of the healing angel, when his wings bend to the woes of this fallen world. _elihu burritt._ 2. but thou, o hope! with eyes so fair! what was thy delighted measure? still it whispered promised pleasure, and bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. still would her touch the strain prolong; and, from the rocks, the woods, the vale, she called on echo still through all her song; and, where her sweetest theme she chose, a soft, responsive voice, was heard at every close; and hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. _collins._ 3. tell him, for years i never nursed a thought that was not his; that on his wandering way, daily and nightly, poured a mourner's prayers. tell him ev'n now that i would rather share his lowliest lot,--walk by his side, an outcast,-work for him, beg with him,--live upon the light of one kind smile from him, than wear the crown the bourbon lost. _sir e. bulwer lytton._ quick time. quick time is used in haste, joy, humour, also in anger, and in exciting scenes of any kind. 1. look up! look up, pauline! for i can bear thine eyes! the stain is blotted from my name, i have redeemed mine honour. i can call on france to sanction thy divine forgiveness. oh, joy! oh rapture! by the midnight watchfires thus have i seen thee! thus foretold this hour! and 'midst the roar of battle, thus have heard the beating of thy heart against my own! _sir e. bulwer lytton._ 2. lord marmion turned,--well was his need!-and dashed the rowels in his steed, like arrow through the archway sprung; the ponderous gate behind him rung: to pass there was such scanty room, the bars, descending, razed his plume. the steed along the drawbridge flies, just as it trembled on the rise; not lighter does the swallow skim along the smooth lake's level brim; and when lord marmion reached his band, he halts, and turns with clenched hand, and shout of loud defiance pours, and shook his gauntlet at the towers. _sir walter scott._ 3. they bound me on, that menial throng, upon his back with many a thong; then loosed him with a sudden lash-away!--away!--and on we dash! torrents less rapid and less rash. away!--away!--my breath was gone, i saw not where he hurried on: 'twas scarcely yet the break of day, and on he foamed--away!--away! the last of human sounds which rose, as i was darted from my foes, was the wild shout of savage laughter, which on the wind came roaring after a moment from that rabble rout: _byron._ slow time. slow time is used in all subjects of a serious, deliberate, and dignified character, in solemnity, and grandeur, reverential awe, earnest prayer, denunciation, and in all the deeper emotions of the soul. 1. 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 a heat-oppressed brain? i see thee yet, in form as palpable as this which now i draw! thou marshll'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! _shakespeare._ 2. _alon._ (c.) for the last time, i have beheld the shadowed ocean close upon the light. for the last time, through my cleft dungeon's roof, i now behold the quivering lustre of the stars. for the last time, o sun! (and soon the hour) i shall behold thy rising, and thy level beams melting the pale mists of morn to glittering dew-drops. then comes my death, and in the morning of my day, i fall, which--no, alonzo, date not the life which thou hast run by the mean reck'ning of the hours and days, which thou hast breathed: a life spent worthily should be measured by a nobler line; by deeds, not years. then would'st thou murmur not, but bless the providence, which in so short a span, made thee the instrument of wide and spreading blessings, to the helpless and oppressed! though sinking in decrepit age, he prematurely falls, whose memory records no benefit conferred by him on man. they only have lived long, who have lived virtuously. _sheridan._ 3 o thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! whence are thy beams, o sun! thy everlasting light? thou comest forth in thy awful beauty: the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. but thou thyself movest alone: who can be a companion of thy course? the oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon herself is lost in the heavens; but thou art forever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. when the world is dark with tempests, when thunders roll and lightnings fly, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. but to ossian thou lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair floats on the eastern clouds or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. but thou art, perhaps, like me,--for a season; thy years will have an end. thou wilt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. _ossian._ chapter viii. pitch. pitch is the degree of elevation or depression of sound. on the proper pitching of the voice depends much of the ease of the speaker, and upon the modulation of the voice depends that variety which is so pleasing and so necessary to relieve the ear, but no definite rules can be given for the regulation of the pitch,--the nature of the sentiment and discriminating taste must determine the proper key note of delivery. he who shouts at the top of his voice is almost sure to break it, and there is no sublimity in shouting, while he who mutters below the proper key note soon wearies himself, becomes inaudible, and oppresses his hearers. pitch is distinguished as middle, high, and low. middle pitch. the middle pitch is used in conversational language, and is the note that predominates in good reading and speaking. 1 a free, wild spirit unto thee is given, bright minstrel of the blue celestial dome! for thou wilt wander to yon upper heaven, and bathe thy plumage in the sunbeam's home; and, soaring upward, from thy dizzy height, on free and fearless wing, be lost to human sight. _welby._ 2 eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, and round his dwelling guardian saints attend! blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire to pause from toil, and trim their evening fire: blest that abode, where want and pain repair, and every stranger finds a ready chair: blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned, where all the ruddy family around laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, or sigh with pity at some mournful tale; or press the bashful stranger to his food, and learn the luxury of doing good. _goldsmith._ high pitch. high pitch indicates command, joy, grief, astonishment, etc. to obtain a good control of the voice in a high pitch, practice frequently and energetically with the greatest force and in the highest key you can command. do not forget to drop the jaw, so as to keep the mouth and throat well open, and be sure to thoroughly inflate the lungs at every sentence, and if the force requires it even on words. do not allow the voice to break into an impure tone of any kind, but stop at once, rest for a short time and then begin again. the following examples are excellent for increasing the compass and flexibility of the voice, and the pupil must practice them frequently and with sustained force. 1. "the game's afoot, follow your spirit, and upon this charge cry 'god for harry, england and saint george!'" _shakespeare._ 2. ring! ring!! ring!!! 3. melnotte. look you our bond is over. proud conquerors that we are, we have won the victory over a simple girl--compromised her honour--embittered her life--blasted in their very blossoms, all the flowers of her youth. this is your triumph,--it is my shame! enjoy that triumph, but not in my sight. i _was_ her betrayer--i _am_, her protector! cross but her path-one word of scorn, one look of insult--nay, but one quiver of that mocking lip, and i will teach thee that bitter word thou hast graven eternally in this heart--_repentance!_ beauseant. his highness is most grandiloquent. melnotte. highness me no more! beware! remorse has made me a new being. away with you! there is danger in me. away! _sir e. bulwer lytton._ 4. up, comrades, up!--in rokeby's halls, ne'er be it said our courage falls! _sir walter scott._ 5. to arms! to arms!! a thousand voices cried. 6. the combat _deepens!_ on ye _brave!_ who rush to _glory_ or the _grave_. _campbell._ 7. charcoal! charcoal! charcoal! 8. hurrah! hurrah!! hurrah!!! low pitch. low pitch is used to express grave, grand, solemn, and reverential feelings, and is very effective in reading. to obtain a good control of the voice in low pitch, first practice the examples given under the high pitch, until you are fatigued, then after resting the lungs and vocal organs, practice the lowest and deepest tone you can command, giving, however, a full clear and resonant sound. 1. seems, madam! nay, it is; i know not 'seems,' 'tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, nor customary suits of solemn black, nor windy suspiration of forced breath; no, nor the fruitful river in the eye, nor the dejected 'haviour of the visage, together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, that can denote me truly: these indeed, seem, for they are actions that a man might play; but i have that within that passes show; these but the trappings and the suits of woe. _shakespeare._ 2. then the earth shook and trembled: the foundations of heaven moved and shook, because he was wroth. there went up a smoke out of his nostrils; and fire out his mouth devoured; coals were kindled by it. he bowed the heavens, also, and came down; and darkness was under his feet; and he rode upon a cherub, and did fly; and he was seen upon the wings of the wind; and he made darkness pavilions round about him, dark waters, and thick clouds of the skies. the lord thundered from heaven, and the most high uttered his voice; and he sent out arrows and scattered them; lightning and discomfited them. and the channels of the sea appeared; the foundations of the world were discovered at the rebuking of the lord, at the blast of the breath of his nostrils. 3. i am thy father's spirit; doomed for a certain term to walk the night, and for the day confined to fast in fires, till the foul crimes done in my days of nature, are burned and purged away. _shakespeare._ unchanged through time's all-devastating flight; thou only god! there is no god beside! being above all beings! three-in-one! whom none can comprehend, and none explore; who fill'st existence with thyself alone; embracing all--supporting--ruling o'er-being whom we call god--and know no more! _derzhaver._ transition. transition signifies a sudden change in the force, quality, movement, or pitch of the voice, as from a subdued to a very high tone, from a slow to a rapid rate of utterance, and also the reverse of these movements. it also refers to changes in the style of delivery, as from a persuasive to the declamatory, etc., and to the expression of passion or emotion, as from grief to joy, from fear to courage, etc. transition thus forms a very important part in vocal culture, and public speakers often ask the question: "how can i modulate my voice?" for they are well aware that nothing relieves the ear more agreeably than a well regulated transition, for who has not been bored by listening to a speaker whose voice throughout has been pitched in one monotonous tone, either too high or too low? a change of delivery is also necessary when a new train of thought is introduced, for pitch, tone, quality, time, and force should all be changed in conformity with the changes of sentiment. no definite rules can be laid down in relation to the proper management of the voice in transition which would be intelligible without the living teacher to exemplify them. constant practice must be persevered in to enable the pupil to make the necessary transitions with skill and ease. [this selection demands the entire range of the speaking voice, in pitch-all qualities, and varied force.] hark! the alarm bell, 'mid the wintry storm! hear the loud shout! the rattling engines swarm. hear that distracted mother's cry to save her darling infant from a threatened grave! that babe who lies in sleep's light pinions bound, and dreams of heaven, while hell is raging round! forth springs the fireman--stay! nor tempt thy fate!-he hears not--heeds not,--nay, it is too late! see how the timbers crash beneath his feet! o, which way now is left for his retreat? the roaring flames already bar his way, like ravenous demons raging for their prey! he laughs at danger,--pauses not for rest, till the sweet charge is folded to his breast. now, quick, brave youth, retrace your path;--but lo! a fiery gulf yawns fearfully below! one desperate leap!--lost! lost!--the flames arise and paint their triumph on the o'erarching skies! not lost! again his tottering form appears! the applauding shouts of rapturous friends he hears! the big drops from his manly forehead roll, and deep emotions thrill his generous soul. but struggling nature now reluctant yields; down drops the arm the infant's face that shields, to bear the precious burthen all too weak; when, hark!--the mother's agonising shriek! once more he's roused,--his eye no longer swims, and tenfold strength reanimates his limbs; he nerves his faltering frame for one last bound,-"your child!" he cries, and sinks upon the ground! and his reward you ask;--reward he spurns; for him the father's generous bosom burns,-for him on high the widow's prayer shall go,-for him the orphan's pearly tear-drop flow. his boon,--the richest e'er to mortals given,-approving conscience, and the smile of heaven! chapter ix. pauses. "a pause is often more eloquent than words." the common pauses necessary to be made, according to the rules of punctuation, are too well known to require any particular notice here, they serve principally for grammatical distinctions, but in public reading or speaking other and somewhat different pauses are required. the length of the pause in reading must be regulated by the mood and expression and consequently on the movement of the voice, as fast or slow; slow movements being accompanied by long pauses, and livelier movements by shorter ones, the pause often occurring where no points are found--the sense and sentiments of the passage being the best guides. "how did garrick speak the soliloquy, last night?"--"oh! against all rule, my lord, most ungrammatically! betwixt the substantive and the adjective, which should agree together in number, case, and gender, he made a breach thus----stopping, as if the point wanted settling; and betwixt the nominative case, which, your lordship knows, should govern the verb, he suspended his voice in the epilogue a dozen times, three seconds and threefifths by a stop-watch, my lord, each time." "admirable grammarian!--but, in suspending his voice,--was the sense suspended?--did no expression of attitude or countenance fill up the chasm?--was the eye silent? did you narrowly look?"--"i looked only at the stopwatch, my lord!"--"excellent observer!" _sterne._ a rhetorical pause--is one not dependent on the grammatical construction of a sentence, but is a pause made to enable the speaker to direct attention to some particular word or phrase, and is made by suspending the voice either directly before or after the utterance of the important phrase. in humorous speaking the pause is generally before the phrase, as it awakens curiosity and excites expectation; while in serious sentiments it occurs after and carries the mind back to what has already been said. a pause of greater or less duration is always required whenever an interruption occurs in the progress of a thought, or the uniform construction of a sentence, as in the case of the dash, the exclamation, the parenthesis, etc. in these cases the mind is supposed to be arrested by the sudden change of sentiment or passion. it is necessary in most cases to make a short pause just before the parenthesis, which read more rapidly, and in a more subdued tone; when the parenthesis is concluded, resume your former pitch and tone of voice. examples of rhetorical pauses. (1.) after the subject of a sentence: wine | is a mocker. (2.) after the subject-phrase: the fame of milton | will live forever. (3.) when the subject is inverted: the best of books | is the bible. (4.) before the prepositional phrase: the boat is sailing | across the river. (5.) after every emphatic word: _william_ | is an honest boy. william _is_ | an honest boy. william is an _honest_ | boy. (6.) whenever an ellipsis occurs: this | friend, that | brother, friends and brothers all. (7.) in order to arrest the attention: the cry was | peace, peace! emphasis. emphasis generally may be divided into two classes--emphasis of sense and emphasis of feeling. emphasis relates to the mode of giving expression; properly defined it includes whatever modulation of the voice or expedient the speaker may use, to render what he says significant or expressive of the meaning he desires to convey, for we may, by this means, give very different meanings to our sentences, according to the application of emphasis. for instance, take the sentence--"thou art a man." when delivered in a cool and deliberate manner, it is a very plain sentence, conveying no emotion, nor emphasis, nor interrogation. but when one of the words is emphasized, the sentence will be very different from what it was in the first instance; and very different, again, when another word is made emphatic; and so, again, whenever the emphasis is changed, the meaning is also changed: as, "thou art a man." that is _thou_ in opposition to another, or because _thou_ hast proved thyself to be one. "thou art a man." that is a _gentleman_. "thou art a man." that is, in opposition to "thou _hast been_ a man," or "thou _wilt be_ one." "thou art a man." that is, in opposition to _the_ man, or a _particular_ man. then, again, the sentence may be pronounced in a very _low_ tone of voice, and with force or without force. it may be raised uniting a good deal of stress, or without stress; and then, again, it may be heard with the greatest force, or with moderate force. each of these latter modes of intonation will make a very different impression on an audience, according to the employment of the other elements of expression, with that of the general pitch.. in addition to these, the sentence may be pronounced in a very _low and soft_ tone, implying kindness of feeling. then, in a _whisper_, intimating secrecy or mystery. it may be heard on the semitone, high or low, to communicate different degrees of pathos. and then, again, the tremor nay be heard on one or all of the words, to give greater intensity to other elements of expression which may be employed. as, also, a guttural emphasis may be applied to express anger, scorn, or loathing. these are some of the different meanings which may be given to this sentence of four words by the voice. a good reader, or speaker, then, ought not only to be able to sound every word _correctly_; he ought to know, always, the exact _meaning_ of what he reads, and _feel_ the sentiment he utters, and also to know how to give the _intended_ meaning and emotion, when he _knows_ them. by _practice_ upon the different exercises herein, the student will not fail to recognize the emotion from the sentiment, _and will be able to give it_. emphasis of feeling is suggested and governed entirely by emotion, and is not strictly necessary to the sense, but is in the highest degree expressive of sentiment. 1. _on_! on! you noble english. 2. _slaves_! traitors! have ye flown? 3. to _arms_! to arms! ye braves? 4 be _assured_, be assured, that this declaration will stand. 5. _rise_, rise, ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 6. to _arms_! to arms! to arms! they cry. 7. _hurrah_ for bright water! hurrah! hurrah! 8. i _met_ him, faced him, scorned him. 9. _horse_! horse! and chase! 10. the charge is _utterly_, totally, meanly, false. 11. ay, cluster there! cling to your master, _judges_, romans, slaves. 12. i defy the honourable _gentleman_; i defy the government; i defy the whole phalanx. 13. he has allowed us to meet you here, and in the name of the present _generation_, in the name of your country, in the name of liberty, to thank you. 14 they shouted _france_! spain! albion! victory! climax. climax, or cumulative emphasis, consists of a series of particulars or emphatic words or sentences, in which each successive particular, word, or sentence rises in force and importance to the last. inflections. the inflections of the voice, consist of those peculiar slides which it takes in pronouncing syllables, words, or sentences. there are two of these slides, the upward and the downward. the upward is called the rising inflection, and the downward the falling inflection, and when these are combined it is known as the circumflex. the rising inflection is used in cases of doubt and uncertainty, or when the sense is incomplete or dependent on something following. the falling inflection is used when the sense is finished and completed, or is independent of anything that follows. indirect questions usually require the falling inflection. falling inflections give power and emphasis to words. rising inflections give beauty and variety. rising inflections may also be emphatic, but their effect is not so great as that of falling inflections. 1. i _am_`. life is _short_`. eternity is _long_`. if they _return_`. forgive us our _sins_`. depart _thou_`. 2. what' though the field be lost`? all` is not` lost`: the unconquerable will`, and stud`y of revenge`, immor`tal hate`, and cour`age nev`er to submit` or yield`. 3. and be thou instruc`ted, oh, jeru`salem', lest my soul depart` from thee; lest i make thee' des`olate, a land not' inhab`ited. if the members of a concluding series are not emphatic, they all take the rising inflection except the _last_, which takes the falling inflection; but if emphatic, they all take the falling inflection except the _last_ but _one_, which takes the rising inflection. the dew is dried up', the star is shot', the flight is past', the man forgot`. he tried each art', reproved each dull delay', allured to brighter worlds' and led the way`. they will celebrate it with thanksgiving', with festivity' with bonfires', with illuminations`. he was so young', so intelligent', so generous', so brave so everything', that we are apt to like in a young man`. my doctrine shall drop as the rain', my speech shall distill as the dew', as the small rain upon the tender herb' and as the showers upon the grass`. the circumflex or wave. the circumflex is a union of the two inflections, and is of two kinds; viz., the rising and the falling circumflex. the rising circumflex begins with the falling, and ends with the rising inflection; the falling circumflex begins with the rising, and ends with the falling inflection. positive assertions of irony, raillery, etc., have the falling circumflex, and all negative assertions of doubled meaning will have the rising. doubt, pity, contrast, grief, supposition, comparison, irony, implication, sneering, raillery, scorn, reproach, and contempt, are all expressed by the use of the wave of the circumflex. be sure and get the right feeling and thought, and you will find no difficulty in expressing them properly, if you have mastered the voice. both these circumflex inflections may be exemplified in the word "so," in a speech of the clown, in shakespeare's "as you like it:" "i knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel; but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an if; as if you said so, then i said sã´. oh, hã´! did you say so*? so they shook hands, and were sworn friends." the queen of denmark, in reproving her son, hamlet, on account of his conduct towards his step-father, whom she married shortly after the murder of the king, her husband, says to him, "_hamlet_, you have your father _much_ offended." to which he replies, with a circumflex on _you_, "madam, yã´*u have my father much offended." _he_ meant his _own_ father; _she_ his _step_-father. he would _also_ intimate that she was _accessory_ to his father's _murder_; and his peculiar reply was like _daggers_ in her _soul_. in the following reply of death to satan, there is a frequent occurrence of circumflexes, mingled with _contempt_: "and reckon's _thou thyself_ with _spirits_ of heaven, hell-doomed, and breath'st _defiance here_, and _scorn_ where _i_ reign king*?--and, to enrage thee _more, th*y_ king and _lord!_" the voice is circumflexed on _heaven_, _hell-doomed_, _king_, and _thy_, nearly an octave. chapter x. personation. personation is the representation, by a single reader or speaker, of the words, manners, and actions of one or several persons. the change of voice in personation in public reading is of great importance, but is generally overlooked, or but little practiced. the student must practice assiduously upon such pieces as require personation in connection with narrative and descriptive sentences, and he must use the time, pitch, force, and gesture, which are appropriate to the expression of the required thought. for example, if it be the words uttered by a dying child, the pitch will be low, pure voice, slightly tremor, time slow, with a pause between the narrative and the quoted words of the child, these last being given very softly and hesitatingly. 1. "tell father, when he comes from work, i said goodnight to him; and mother --now-i'll-go-to-sleep." the last words very soft, and hesitating utterance. before this example, is another in the same selection, not quite so marked, which we give from the third verse. she gets her answer from the child; softly fall the words from him-"mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little jim! i have no pain, dear mother, now,--but oh, i am so dry! just moisten poor jim's lips again --and, mother, don't you cry." with gentle, trembling haste, she held the liquid to his lips,---that which is quoted is supposed to be uttered by the dying child, and can not be given effectively without the changes in voice, etc., referred to above. if, however, the climax of the narrative is a battle scene, and the personation represents an officer giving a command, then a most marked change must be made in the voice between the narrative and the personation, which demands full force, quick time, high pitch, and orotund quality, and the narrative portion will commence with moderate pitch and time (increasing), and medium force. 1. "forward, the light brigade! 'charge for the guns!' he said, into the valley of death rode the six hundred." 2. (_desc_.) and when peter saw it, he answered unto the people: (_per_.) "ye men of israel, why marvel ye at this? or why look ye so earnestly on us, as though by our own power or holiness, we had made this man to walk?" etc. to read the bible acceptably in public, requires the application of every principle in elocution; for nowhere is expression so richly rewarded, as in the pronunciation of the sacred text. the descriptive and personation should be so distinctly marked, that the attention will be at once attracted to the different styles, and the meaning understood. expression. the study of expression is one of the most important parts of elocution, as it is the application of all the principles that form the science of utterance. it is the art of elocution. expression then should be the chief characteristic of all public reading and speaking. the student must forget self, and throw himself entirely into the spirit of what he reads, for the art of feeling is the true art which leads to a just expression of the features: "to this one standard make you just appeal, here lies the golden secret, learn to _feel_." the voice under the influence of feeling, gives the beautiful colouring, and breathes life and reality to the mental picture. every turn in the current of feeling should be carefully observed and fully expressed. not only the varied changes of the voice, however, but the indications by all the features of the countenance, contribute a share to give a good expression, and by far the greatest is derived from the eyes. the management of the eyes is, therefore, the most important of all-"a single look more marks the eternal woe, than all the windings of the lengthened, oh! up to the face the quick sensation flies, and darts its meaning from the speaking eyes; love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair, and all the passions, all the soul is there." the eye of the orator, and the expressive movements of the muscles of his face, often _tell_ more than his words, his body or his hands, and when the eye is lighted up and glowing with meaning and intelligence, and frequently and properly directed to the person or persons addressed, it tends greatly to rivet the attention, and deepen the interest of the hearer, as well as to heighten the effect, and enforce the importance of the sentiments delivered. to the eyes belong the effusion of tears, and to give way to this proof of feeling should not be called a mark of weakness, but rather a proof of sensibility, which is the test of sincerity. next to the eyes, the mouth is the most expressive part of the countenance. "the mouth," says cresallius, "is the vestibule of the soul, the door of eloquence, and the place in which the thoughts hold their highest debates." it is the seat of grace and sweetness; smiles and good temper play around it; composure calms it; and discretion keeps the door of its lips. every bad habit defaces the soft beauty of the mouth, and leaves indelible traces of its injury, they should, therefore, be carefully avoided. the motion of the lips should be moderate, to moisten them by thrusting the tongue between them is very disagreeable, and biting the lips is equally unbecoming. we should speak with the mouth, more than with the lips. unless the pupil is very careful, he will find some difficulty in keeping the mouth sufficiently wide open, he will gradually close the mouth until the teeth are brought nearly together, before the sound is finished, the inevitable consequence of which is a smothered, imperfect and lifeless utterance of the syllable or word. a good opening of the mouth is absolutely indispensable in giving the voice the full effect of round, smooth and agreeable tone. * * * * * chapter xi. gesture. as more or less action must necessarily accompany the words of every speaker who delivers his sentiments in earnest, as they ought to be to move and persuade, it is of the utmost importance to him that that action be appropriate and natural--never forced and awkward, but easy and graceful, except where the nature of the subject requires it to be bold and vehement. if argument were necessary to enforce the importance of cultivation in gesticulation, one sufficiently cogent might be drawn from the graceful skill and power displayed in this art by the best actors on the stage. no truth is clearer than that their excellence in this is due to their own industry. but, in applying art to the aid of oratory, and especially in copying the gesture of those who excel in it, great caution is to be observed. no true orator can be formed after any model. he that copies or borrows from any one, should be careful in the first place, not to copy his peculiarities or defects: and whatever is copied, should be so completely brought under command, by long practice, as to appear perfectly natural. art should never be allowed to put any restraint upon nature; but should be so completely refined and subdued as to appear to be the work of nature herself; for whenever art is allowed to supersede nature, it is immediately detected, shows affectation, and is sure to disgust, rather than please and impress, the hearer. in general terms, force and grace may be considered the leading qualities of good action. in pleasing emotions the eye of the speaker follows the gesture, but in negative expressions the head is averted. the stroke of the hand terminates on the emphatic word. be careful not to "saw the air" with the hands, but to move them in graceful curved lines. they should move steadily, and rest on the emphatic word, returning to the side after the emotion is expressed that called them into action. the following positions and directions are as good as any, that can be expressed in a small compass, and they are given here for practice. one caution must be noted, which is, that excess of action is nearly as detrimental in oratory as no action. it becomes the speaker, therefore, in this, as well as in everything else, that pertains to elocution and oratory, to _avoid extremes_. i. position of the hand. 1. supine; open hand, fingers relaxed, palm upward; used in appeal, entreaty, in expressing light, joyous emotions, etc. 2. prone; open hand, palm downward; used in negative expressions, etc. 3. vertical; open hand, palm outward; for repelling, warding off, etc. 4. clenched; hand tightly closed; used in defiance, courage, threatening, etc. 5 pointing; prone hand, loosely closed, with index finger extended; used in pointing out, designating, etc. ii. direction. 1. front; the hand descending below the hip, extending horizontally, or ascending to a level or above the head, at right angles with the speaker's body. 2. oblique; at an angle of forty-five degrees from the speaker's body. 3. extended; direct from the speaker's side. 4. backward; reversely corresponding to the oblique. abbreviations. r. h. s. right hand supine. r. h. p. right hand prone. r. h. v. right hand vertical. b. h. s. both hands supine. b. h. p. both hands prone. b. h. v. both hands vertical. d. f. descending front. h. f. horizontal front. a. f. ascending front. d. o. descending oblique. h. o. horizontal oblique. a. o. ascending oblique. d. e. descending extended. h. e. horizontal extended. a. e. ascending extended. d. b. descending backward. h. b. horizontal backward. a. b. ascending backward. directions. the dotted words indicate where the hand is to be raised in preparation. the gesture is made upon the words in capitals. the hand drops upon the italicized word or syllable following the word in capitals. if italicized words precede the word in capitals, it indicates that the hand is to follow the line of gesture. the following examples have appeared in several works on elocution--"the new york speaker," "reading and elocution," etc. r. h. s. _d.f._ this sentiment i* will* maintain* | with the last breath of life. _h.f._ i* appeal* | to you, sir, for your de _cis_ ion. _a.f._ i* appeal* | to the great searcher of hearts for the truth of what i _ut_ ter. _d. o._ of* all* mistakes* | none are so _fa_ tal as those which we incur through prejudice. _h. o._ truth*, honour*, | jus tice were his _mo_ tives. _a. o._ fix* your* eye* | on the prize of a truly no ble am_bi_ tion. _d. e._ away* | with an idea so absurd! _h. e._ the* breeze* of* morning* | wafted in cense on the _air_. _a. e._ in dreams thro'* camp* and* court* he* bore* | the trophies of a con queror. _d. b._ away* | with an idea so abhorrent to humanity! _h. b._ search* the* records* of* the* remotest* an ti quity for a _par_allel to this. _a. b._ then* rang* their proud hurrah! r. h. p. _d. f._ put* down | the unworthy feeling! _h. f._ re* strain the unhallowed pro _pen_ sity. _d. o._ let every one who* would* merit* the* christian* name* | re press | such a feeling. _h. o._ i* charge* you* as* men* and* as* christians* | to lay a re straint on all such dispo _si_ tions! _a. o._ ye* gods* | with hold your _ven_ geance! _d. e._ the* hand* of* affection* | shall _smooth the_ turf for your last _pil_ low! _h. e._ the* cloud* of* adver* | sity threw its gloom _over all his_ pros pects. _a. e._ so* darkly* glooms* yon* thunder* cloud* that* swathes* | as with a purple shroud benledi's distant _hill_. r. h. v. _h. f._ arise!* meet* | and re pel your _foe!_ _a. f._ for* bid it, almighty _god!_ _h. o._ he generously extended* the* arm* of* power* | to ward off the _blow_. _a. o._ may* heaven* a vert the cal _am_ ity! _h. e._ out* of* my* sight, | thou serpent! _h. b._ thou* tempting* fiend,* a vaunt! b. h. s. _d. f._ all personal feeling he* de* pos ited on the _al_ tar of his country's good. _h. f._ listen,* i* im plore you, to the voice of _rea_ son! _a. f._ hail, universal _lord_! _d. o._ every* personal* advantage* | he sur ren dered to the common _good_. _h. o._ welcome!* once more to your early _home_! _a. o._ hail! holy _light_! _d. e._ i* utterly* re nounce | all the supposed advantages of such a station. _h. e._ they* yet* slept* | in the wide a byss of possi _bil_ ity. _a. e._ joy,* joy* | for ever. b. h. p. _d. f._ lie* light ly on him, _earth_--his step was light on thee. _h. f._ now* all* the* blessings* of* a* glad* father* light on _thee!_ _a. f._ blessed* be* thy* name, o lord most _high_. _d. o._ we* are* in* thy* sight* | but as the _worms_ of the dust! _h. o._ may* the* grace* of* god* | _abide with you for_ ever. _a. o._ and* let* the* triple* rainbow* rest* | _o'er all the mountain_ tops. _d. e._ here* let* the* tumults* of* passion* | _forever_ cease! _h. e._ spread* _wide_ a round the heaven-breathing _calm_! _a. e._ heaven* | _opened_ wide her ever-during _gates_. b. h. v. _h. f._ hence*, hideous _spectre_! _a. f._ avert*, o _god_, the frown of thy indignation! _h. o._ far* from* our _hearts_ be so inhuman a feeling. _a. o._ let* me* not* | name it to _you_, ye chaste stars! _h. e._ and* if* the* night* have* gathered* aught* of* evil* or* concealed*, dis perse it. _a. e._ melt* and* dis* pel, ye spectre _doubts_! * * * * * chapter xii. introduction to an audience. the speaker should present himself to the audience with modesty, and without any show of self-consequence, and should avoid everything opposed to true dignity and self respect; he should feel the importance of his subject and the occasion. he should be deliberate and calm, and should take his position with his face directed to the audience. a bow, being the most marked and appropriate symbol of respect, should be made on the last step going to his place on the platform. in making a graceful bow, there should be a gentle bend of the whole body, the eyes should not be permitted to fall below the person addressed, and the arms should lightly move forward, and a little inward. on raising himself into an erect position from the introductory bow, the speaker should fall back into the first position of the advanced foot. in this position he commences to speak. in his discourse let him appear graceful, easy, and natural, and when warmed and animated by the importance of his subject, his dignity and mien should become still more elevated and commanding, and he should assume a somewhat lofty and noble bearing. advice to students. the student must ever bear in mind that there is no royal road of attaining excellence in elocutionary art without labour. no matter under what favourable circumstances he may have been placed for observing good methods, or how much aid he may receive from good teachers, he never can make any _real_ improvement, unless he does the work for himself, and by diligence and perseverance he may achieve a great measure of success, and free himself from many blemishes and defects. as the highest attainment of art, is the best imitation of nature, to attain to excellence in art the student must study nature as it exists in the manner of the age,-"and catch the manners, living as they rise." the rules of every science, as far as they are just and useful, are founded in nature, or in good usage; hence their adoption and application tend to free us from our artificial defects, all of which may be regarded as departures from the simplicity of nature. let the student, therefore, ever bear in mind that whatever is artificial is unnatural, and that whatever is unnatural is opposed to genuine eloquence. good reading is exactly like good talking--one, therefore, who would read well or who would speak well, who would interest, rivet the attention, convince the understanding, and excite the feelings of his hearers--need not expect to do it by any extraordinary exertion or desperate effort; for genuine eloquence is not to be wooed and won by any such boisterous course of courtship, but by more gentle means. but, the pupil must not be tied down to a too slavish attention to rules, for one flash of genuine emotion, one touch of real nature, will produce a greater effect than the application of all the studied rules of rhetorical art. "he who in earnest studies o'er his part, will find true nature cling around his heart, the modes of grief are not included all in the white handkerchief and mournful drawl." before attempting to give a piece in public the pupil must practice it well in private, until the words and ideas are perfectly familiar, and it must be repeated o'er and o'er again, with perfect distinctness and clear articulation,--for more declaimers break down in consequence of forgetting the words of their piece, than from any other cause, and the pupil must practice assiduously until there is no danger of failure from this source. do not be discouraged if your early attempts are not very successful ones, but persevere; the most renowned actors and orators were not at all remarkable in the commencement of their career, they all, with scarcely an exception, attained to eminence by untiring perseverance. never rest satisfied with having done as you think--"well"--but be constantly trying to improve and to do better, and do not let the flattery of injudicious friends lead you to imagine you have a remarkable genius for oratory or for reading--such a foolish notion will be productive of great harm and effectually stop your further improvement, and those who are led to believe they are great geniuses and above the necessity of being guided by the rules suited for more commonplace mortals, rarely, if ever, attain to eminence, or become useful members of society. do not rely too much on others for instruction or advice as to the way of reading or speaking a passage, think for yourself, read it over carefully until you have formed a definite opinion as to how it ought to be delivered, then declaim it according to your own idea of its meaning and character. avoid everything like affectation; think of your subject and its requirements, not of yourself, and do not try to make a great display. let your tone, look and gestures be all in harmony--be deliberate, yet earnest and natural; let nature be the mistress with art for her handmaiden. do not be such a slavish imitator of others, that it can be said of you, as it is of many--"oh! i know who taught him elocution. every gesture and every movement is in accordance with some specific rule, and a slavish mannerism that never breaks into the slightest originality, marks his whole delivery, and all of ----'s pupils do exactly the same way." remember always that the golden rule of elocution is:-be natural and be in earnest. chapter xiii. general examples for practice. quick time--increase--high pitch--orotund. still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering south, the dust like the smoke from the cannon's mouth, or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. the heart of the steed and the heart of the master were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, impatient to be where the battle-field calls; every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, with sheridan only ten miles away! under his spurning feet, the road like an arrowy alpine river flowed; and the landscape sped away behind, like an ocean flying before the wind; and the steed, like a barque fed with furnace ire, swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire;-but, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire! he is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, with sheridan only five miles away! middle pitch--pure. how peaceful the grave--its quiet, how deep! its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, and flowerets perfume it with ether! aspirate. how ill this taper burns! ha! who comes here? i think it is the weakness of mine eyes that shapes this monstrous apparition. it comes upon me! art thou any thing? art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, that makest my blood cold, and my hair to stare? speak to me what thou art. orotund--high and varied pitch. confusion reigned below, and crowds on deck with ashen faces and wild questionings rushed to her fated side; another crash succeeded, then a pause, an awful pause of terror and dismay. they see it all! there floats the direful cause 'longside them now! "ahoy!" the seamen cry; "ahoy! ahoy! four hundred souls aboard! ahoy! ahoy!" "all will be well!" "no, no, she heeds us not!" and shrieks of awful frenzy fill the air-"we sink! we sink!" but lo! the aid so near slinks like a recreant coward out of sight. no sign of succour--none! now wild despair and cowardice, thy reign has come; the strong are weak, the weak are strong. the captain cries aloud--"launch yonder boat!" the maddened crowd press toward it, but he shouts: "stand back, and save the women!" they but laugh with curses their response. behold the waves are gaping to receive them! still he cries "back, back, or i will fire!"--their reply comes in a roar of wild defiant groans. plaintive--pure. _pauline_. thrice have i sought to speak: my courage fails me. sir, is it true that you have known--nay, are you the friend of--melnotte? _melnotte_. lady, yes!--myself and misery know the man! _pauline_. and you will see him, and you will bear to him--ay--word for word, all that this heart, which breaks in parting from him would send, ere still for ever. _melnotte_. he hath told me you have the right to choose from out the world a worthier bridegroom;--he foregoes all claim even to murmur at his doom. speak on! _pauline_. tell him, for years i never nursed a thought that was not his; that on his wandering way daily and nightly poured a mourner's prayers. tell him ev'n now that i would rather share his lowliest lot,--walk by his side, an outcast,-work for him, beg with him,--live upon the light of one kind smile from him, than wear the crown the bourbon lost! _melnotte (aside)_. am i already mad? and does delirium utter such sweet words into a dreamer's ear? (_aloud_.) you love him thus and yet desert him? _pauline_. say, that, if his eye could read this heart,--its struggles, its temptations-his love itself would pardon that desertion! look on that poor old man--he is my father; he stands upon the verge of an abyss; he calls his child to save him! shall i shrink from him who gave me birth? withhold my hand and see a parent perish? tell him this, and say--that we shall meet again in heaven! slow--low orotund. the stars--shall fade away,--the sun--himself-grow dim--with age,--and nature--sink--in years; but thou--shalt flourish--in immortal youth,-unhurt--amidst the war of elements,-the wreck of matter,--and the crash of worlds. moderate--pure. 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. astonishment and surprise. whence and what art thou, execrable shape! that dar'st, though grim and terrible, advance thy miscreated front athwart my way to yonder gates? through them, i mean to pass-that be assured--without leave asked of thee! retire, or taste thy folly; and learn by proof, hell-born! not to contend with spirits of heaven! anger. next anger rushed, his eyes on fire; in lightnings owned his secret stings; with one rude clash he struck the lyre, and swept with hurried hand, the strings. pity. the duchess marked his weary pace, his timid mien, and reverend face; and bade her page the menials tell, that they should tend the old man well; for she had known adversity, though born in such a high degree; in pride of power, in beauty's bloom, had wept o'er monmouth's bloody tomb. revenge. and longer had she sung--but, with a frown, revenge impatient rose; he threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down; and, with a withering look, the war-denouncing trumpet took, and blew a blast--so loud and dread, were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. courage. "fight on!" quoth he, undaunted, but our war-ships steered away; "she will burst," they said, "and sink us, one and all, beneath the bay;" but our captain knew his duty, and we cheered him as he cried, "to the rescue! we are brothers--let us perish side by side!" horror. avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold: thou hast no speculation in those eyes which thou dost glare with! hence, horrible shadow, unreal mockery, hence! hope. all's for the best! set this on your standard, soldier of sadness, or pilgrim of love, who to the shores of despair may have wandered, a way-wearied swallow, or heart-stricken dove; all's for the best!--be a man but confiding, providence tenderly governs the rest, and the frail barque of his creature is guiding wisely and wanly, all for the best. mercy. the quality of mercy is not strain'd; it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed; it blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: 'tis mightiest--in the mightiest; it becomes the throned monarch--better than his crown; his sceptre shows the force of temporal power, the attribute to awe--and majesty, wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; but mercy--is above this sceptered sway, it is enthroned--in the hearts of kings, it is an attribute--to god himself: and earthly power--doth then show likest god's, when mercy--seasons justice. love. in peace, love tunes the shepherd's reed; in war, he mounts the warrior's steed; in halls, in gay attire is seen; in hamlets, dances on the green. love rules the court, the camp, the grove, and men below, and saints above; for love is heaven, and heaven is love. awe, extending to fear. it thunders! sons of dust, in reverence bow! ancient of days! thou speakest from above! thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now- that hand which scatters peace and joy and love. almighty! trembling, like a timid child, i hear thy awful voice!--alarmed, afraid, i see the flashes of thy lightning wild, and in the very grave would hide my head! reverence. o lord, our lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth! who hast set thy glory above the heavens. when i consider the heavens, the work of thy fingers; the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; what is man that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him? for thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour. thou madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands: thou hast put all things under his feet. o lord, our lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth! * * * * * selections. domestic love and happiness. o happy they! the happiest of their kind! whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend. 'tis not the coarser tie of human laws, unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind, that binds their peace, but harmony itself, attuning all their passions into love; where friendship full exerts her softest power, perfect esteem, enliven'd by desire ineffable, and sympathy of soul; thought meeting thought, and will preventing will, with boundless confidence; for nought but love can answer love, and render bliss secure. let him, ungenerous, who, alone intent to bless himself, from sordid parents buys the loathing virgin, in eternal care, well-merited, consume his nights and days: let barbarous nations, whose inhuman love is wild desire, fierce as the sun they feel; let eastern tyrants from the light of heaven seclude their bosom-slaves, meanly possess'd of a mere lifeless, violated form: while those whom love cements in holy faith, and equal transport, free as nature live, disdaining fear. what is the world to them, its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all? who in each other clasp whatever fair high fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish, something than beauty dearer, should they look or on the mind, or mind-illumin'd face; truth, goodness, honour, harmony and love, the richest bounty of indulgent heaven. meantime a smiling offspring rises round, and mingles both their graces. by degrees the human blossom blows; and every day, soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm, the father's lustre, and the mother's bloom. then infant reason grows apace, and calls for the kind hand of an assiduous care. delightful task! to rear the tender thought, to teach the young idea how to shoot, to pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, to breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to fix the generous purpose in the glowing breast. oh, speak the joy! ye, whom the sudden tear surprises often, while you look around, and nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss, all various nature pressing on the heart: an elegant sufficiency, content, retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, ease and alternate labour, useful life, progressive virtue, and approving heaven. these are the matchless joys of virtuous love: and thus their moments fly. the seasons thus, as ceaseless round a jarring world they roll, still find them happy; and consenting spring sheds her own rosy garland on their heads: till evening comes at last, serene and mild; when, after the long vernal day of life, enamour'd more, as more remembrance swells with many a proof of recollected love, together down they sink in social sleep; together freed, their gentle spirits fly to scenes where love and bliss immortal reign. _thomson_. * * * * * the seasons. these, as they change, almighty father, these are but the varied god. the rolling year is full of thee. forth in the pleasing spring thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm, echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; and every sense, and every heart is joy. then comes thy glory in the summer months, with light and heat refulgent. then thy sun shoots full perfection through the swelling year, and oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks; and oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, by brooks, and groves, in hollow-whispering gales thy bounty shines in autumn unconfin'd, and spreads a common feast for all that lives. in winter, awful thou! with clouds and storms around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd. majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing, riding sublime, thou bids't the world adore, and humblest nature with thy northern blast. _thomson_. * * * * * on his blindness. when i consider how my light is spent ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, and that one talent which is death to hide lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent to serve therewith my maker, and present my true account, lest he returning chide- "doth god exact day-labor, light denied?" i fondly ask; but patience, to prevent that murmur, soon replies: "god doth not need either man's work, or his own gifts; who best bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his state is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, and post o'er land and ocean without rest; they also serve who only stand and wait." _milton_. * * * * * the patriot's elysium. there is a land, of every land the pride, beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside; where brighter suns dispense serener light, and milder moons imparadise the night: a land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth, time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth. the wandering mariner, whose eye explores the wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores; views not a realm so bountiful and fair, nor breathes the spirit of a purer air! in every clime, the magnet of his soul, touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole; for in this land of heaven's peculiar grace, the heritage of nature's noblest race, there is a spot of earth supremely blest, a dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside his sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride; while, in his softened looks, benignly blend the sire, the son, the husband, father, friend. here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life. in the clear heaven of her delightful eye, an angel guard of loves and graces lie; around her knees domestic duties meet, and fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? art thou a man?--a patriot?--look around! oh! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, that land thy country, and that spot thy home. _montgomery_. * * * * * the approach to paradise. so on he fares; and to the border comes of eden, where delicious paradise, now nearer, crowns, with her enclosure green, as with a rural mound, the champaign head of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides, with thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild, access denied; and overhead up grew insuperable height of loftiest shade, cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm,-a sylvan scene; and, as the ranks ascend, shade above shade, a woody theatre of stateliest view. yet higher than their tops the verd'rous wall of paradise up sprung; which to our general sire gave prospect large into his nether empire neighbouring round: and, higher than that wall, a circling row of goodliest trees, laden with fairest fruit, blossoms and fruits, at once, of golden hue, appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed; on which the sun more glad impressed his beams than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow, when god hath showered the earth; so lovely seemed that landscape: and of pure, now purer air meets his approach, and to the heart inspires vernal delight and joy, able to drive all sadness but despair: now gentle gales, fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole those balmy spoils;--as when, to them who sail beyond the cape of hope, and now are past mozambique, off at sea north-east winds blow sabean odours from the spicy shore of araby the blest; with such delay well pleased they slack their course; and, many a league, cheered with the grateful smell, old ocean smiles. _milton_. * * * * * love in idleness. obe. well, go thy way; thou shalt not from this grove, till i torment thee for this injury. my gentle puck, come hither: thou remember'st since once i sat upon a promontory, and heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back, uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, that the rude sea grew civil at her song; and certain stars shot madly from their spheres, to hear the sea-maid's music. puck. i remember. obe. that very time i saw (but thou could'st not), flying between the cold moon and the earth, cupid, all armed: a certain aim he took at a fair vestal, throned by the west; and loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow, as it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts; but i might see young cupid's fiery shaft quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon; and the imperial votaress passed on, in maiden meditation, fancy-free. yet mark'd i where the bolt of cupid fell: it fell upon a little western flower,-before, milk-white, now purple with love's wound,-and maidens call it love-in-idleness. fetch me that flower; the herb i show'd thee once; the juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid, will make or man or woman madly dote upon the next live creature that it sees. fetch me this herb: and be thou here again, ere the leviathan can swim a league. puck. i'll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes. _shakespeare_. * * * * * reflections on the tomb of shakespeare. as i crossed the bridge over the avon on my return, i paused to contemplate the distant church in which shakespeare lies buried, and could not but exult in the malediction, "good friend, for jesus' sake forbear, to dig the dust enclosed here. blest be the man that spares these stones; and cursed be he who moves my bones," which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. what honour could his name have derived from being mingled in dusty companionship, with the epitaphs, and escutcheons, and venal eulogiums of a titled multitude? what would a crowded corner in westminster abbey have been, compared with this reverend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole mausoleum! the solicitude about the grave, may be but the offspring of an overwrought sensibility; but human nature is made up of foibles and prejudices; and its best and tenderest affections are mingled with these factitious feelings. he who has sought renown about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favour, will find, after all, there is no love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in his native place. it is there that he seeks to be gathered in peace and honour, among his kindred and his early friends. and when the weary heart and the failing head begin to warn him that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to its mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scenes of his childhood. how would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard, when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have foreseen, that, before many years, he should return to it covered with renown; that his name would become the boast and the glory of his native place; that his ashes would be religiously guarded as its most precious treasure; and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed with tearful contemplation, would one day become the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb! _irving._ * * * * * on the miseries of human life. ah! little think the gay licentious proud, whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround; they, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, and wanton, often cruel, riot waste; ah! little think they, while they dance along, how many feel, this very moment, death and all the sad variety of pain. how many sink in the devouring flood, or more devouring flame; how many bleed, by shameful variance betwixt man and man. how many pine in want, and dungeon glooms, shut from the common air and common use of their own limbs; how many drink the cup of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread of misery. sore pierc'd by wintry winds, how many shrink into the sordid hut of cheerless poverty; how many shake with all the fiercer tortures of the mind, unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse; whence tumbling headlong from the height of life, they furnish matter for the tragic muse. even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell, with friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd, how many rack'd, with honest passions droop in deep retir'd distress; how many stand around the death-bed of their dearest friends and point the parting anguish.--thought fond man of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, that one incessant struggle render life one scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, vice in his high career would stand appall'd, and heedless rambling impulse learn to think, the conscious heart of charity would warm, and her wide wish benevolence dilate; the social tear would rise, the social sigh and into clear perfection, gradual bliss, refining still, the social passions, work. _thomson._ * * * * * paul's defence before agrippa. then agrippa said unto paul, thou art permitted to speak for thyself. then paul stretched forth his hand, and answered for himself: i think myself happy, king agrippa, because i shall answer for myself this day before thee touching all the things whereof i am accused of the jews: especially because i know thee to be expert in all customs and questions which are among the jews wherefore i beseech thee to hear me patiently. my manner of life from my youth, which was at the first among mine own nation at jerusalem, know all the jews; which knew me from the beginning, if they would testify, that after the most straightest sect of our religion i lived a pharisee. and now i stand and am judged for the hope of the promise made of god unto our fathers unto which promise our twelve tribes, instantly serving god day and night, hope to come. for which hope's sake, king agrippa, i am accused of the jews. why should it be thought a thing incredible with you, that god should raise the dead? i verily thought with myself, that i ought to do many things contrary to the name of jesus of nazareth. which thing i also did in jerusalem: and many of the saints did i shut up in prison, having received authority from the chief priests; and when they were put to death, i gave my voice against them. and i punished them oft in every synagogue, and compelled them to blaspheme; and being exceedingly mad against them, i persecuted them even unto strange cities. whereupon as i went to damascus with authority and commission from the chief priests, at mid-day, o king, i saw in the way a light from heaven, above the brightness of the sun, shining round about me and them which journeyed with me. and when we were all fallen to the earth, i heard a voice speaking to me, and saying in the hebrew tongue, saul, saul, why persecutest thou me? it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks. and i said, who art thou, lord? and he said, i am jesus whom thou persecutest. but rise, and stand upon thy feet; for i have appeared unto thee for this purpose, to make thee a minister and a witness both of these things which thou hast seen, and of those things in the which i will appear unto thee; delivering thee from the people, and from the gentiles, unto whom now i send thee, to open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of satan unto god, that they may receive forgiveness of sins, and inheritance among them which are sanctified by faith that is in me. whereupon, o king agrippa, i was not disobedient unto the heavenly vision; but shewed first unto them of damascus, and of jerusalem, and throughout all the coasts of judea, and then to the gentiles, that they should repent and turn to god, and do works meet for repentance. for these causes the jews caught me in the temple, and went about to kill me. having therefore obtained help of god, i continue unto this day witnessing both to small and great, saying none other things than those which the prophets and moses did say should come; that christ should suffer, and that he should be the first that should rise from the dead, and should shew light unto the people and to the gentiles. and as he thus spake for himself. festus said with a loud voice, paul, thou art beside thyself, much learning doth make thee mad. but he said, i am not mad, most noble festus; but speak forth the words of truth and soberness. for the king knoweth of these things, before whom also i speak freely: for i am persuaded that none of these things are hidden from him; for this thing was not done in a corner king agrippa, believest thou the prophets? i know that thou believest. then agrippa said unto paul, almost thou persuadest me to be a christian. and paul said i would to god, that not only thou, but also all that hear me this day, were both almost, and altogether such as i am, except these bonds. and when he had thus spoken, the king rose up, and the governor, and bernice, and they that sat with them and when they were gone aside, they talked between themselves, saying, this man doeth nothing worthy of death or of bonds. then said agrippa unto festus, this man might have been set at liberty, if he had not appealed unto caesar. _bible_. * * * * * malibran and the young musician. in a humble room, in one of the poorest streets of london, pierre, a fatherless french boy, sat humming by the bed-side of his sick mother. there was no bread in the closet, and for the whole day he had not tasted food. yet he sat humming, to keep up his spirits. still, at times, he thought of his loneliness and hunger, and he could scarcely keep the tears from his eyes; for he knew nothing would be so grateful to his poor invalid mother as a good sweet orange, and yet he had not a penny in the world. the little song he was singing was his own--one he had composed with air and words; for the child was a genius. he went to the window, and looking out saw a man putting up a great bill with yellow letters, announcing that madame malibran would sing that night in public. "oh, if i could only go!" thought little pierre; and then, pausing a moment, he clasped his hands; his eyes lighted with a new hope. running to the little stand, he smoothed down his yellow curls, and taking from a little box some old stained paper, gave one eager glance at his mother, who slept, and ran speedily from the house. * * * * * "who did you say is waiting for me?" said the lady to her servant. "i am already worn out with company." "it is only a very pretty little boy, with yellow curls, who says if he can just see you, he is sure you will not be sorry, and he will not keep you a moment." "oh! well, let him come," said the beautiful singer, with a smile; "i can never refuse children." little pierre came in, his hat under his arm, and in his hand a little roll of paper. with manliness unusual for a child, he walked straight to the lady, and bowing said, "i came to see you because my mother is very sick, and we are too poor to get food and medicine. i thought that, perhaps, if you would only sing my little song at some of your grand concerts, may be some publisher would buy it for a small sum, and so i could get food and medicine for my mother." the beautiful woman rose from her seat; very tall and stately she was; she took the little roll from his hand, and lightly hummed the air. "did you compose it?" she asked,--"you, a child! and the words? would you like to come to my concert?" she asked, after a few moments of thought. "oh, yes!" and the boy's eyes grew bright with happiness; "but i couldn't leave my mother." "i will send somebody to take care of your mother for the evening; and here is a crown, with which you may go and get food and medicine. here is also one of my tickets; come to-night; that will admit you to a seat near me." almost beside himself with joy, pierre bought some oranges, and many a little luxury besides, and carried them home to the poor invalid, telling her, not without tears, of his good fortune. * * * * * when evening came, and pierre was admitted to the concert-hall, he felt that never in his life had he been in so grand a place. the music, the myriad lights, the beauty, the flashing of diamonds and rustling of silk, bewildered his eyes and brain. at last she came, and the child sat with his glance riveted upon her glorious face. could he believe that the grand lady, all blazing with jewels, and whom everybody seemed to worship, would really sing his little song? breathless he waited,--the band, the whole band, struck up a little plaintive melody; he knew it, and clapped his hands for joy. and oh, how she sang it! it was so simple, so mournful, so soul-subduing;--many a bright eye dimmed with tears, and naught could be heard but the touching words of that little song,--oh, so touching! pierre walked home as if he were moving on the air. what cared he for money now? the greatest singer in all europe had sung his little song, and thousands had wept at his grief. the next day he was frightened at a visit from madame malibran. she laid her hand on his yellow curls, and turning to the sick woman said, "your little boy, madam, has brought you a fortune. i was offered, this morning, by the best publisher in london, three hundred pounds for his little song: and after he has realized a certain amount from the sale, little pierre, here, is to share the profits. madam, thank god that your son has a gift from heaven." the noble-hearted singer and the poor woman wept together. as to pierre, always mindful of him who watches over the tried and tempted, he knelt down by his mother's bedside, and uttered a simple but eloquent prayer, asking god's blessing on the kind lady who had deigned to notice their affliction. the memory of that prayer made the singer even more tender-hearted, and she who was the idol of england's nobility went about doing good. and in her early, happy death he who stood by her bed, and smoothed her pillow, and lightened her last moments by his undying affection, was the little pierre of former days--now rich, accomplished, and the most talented composer of the day. all honour to those great hearts who, from their high stations, send down bounty to the widow and to the fatherless child. * * * * * the kiss. he kissed me--and i knew 'twas wrong, for he was neither kith nor kin; need one do penance very long for such a tiny little sin? he pressed my hand--that was not right; why will men have such wicked ways? it was not for a moment quite, but in it there were days and days! there's mischief in the moon, i know; i'm positive i saw her wink when i requested him to go; i meant it, too--i think. but, after all, i'm not to blame he took the kiss; i do think men are born without a sense of shame i wonder when he'll come again! * * * * * advice to a young lawyer. whene'er you speak, remember every cause stands not on eloquence, but stands on laws-pregnant in matter, in expression brief, let every sentence stand with bold relief; on trifling points nor time nor talents waste, a sad offence to learning and to taste; nor deal with pompous phrase, nor e'er suppose poetic flights belong to reasoning prose. loose declamation may deceive the crowd, and seem more striking as it grows more loud; but sober sense rejects it with disdain, as nought but empty noise, and weak as vain. the froth of words, the schoolboy's vain parade, of books and cases--all his stock in trade-the pert conceits, the cunning tricks and play of low attorneys, strung in long array, the unseemly jest, the petulant reply, that chatters on, and cares not how, or why, strictly avoid--unworthy themes to scan, they sink the speaker and disgrace the man, like the false lights, by flying shadows cast, scarce seen when present and forgot when past. begin with dignity; expound with grace each ground of reasoning in its time and place; let order reign throughout--each topic touch, nor urge its power too little, nor too much; give each strong thought its most attractive view, in diction clear and yet severely true, and as the arguments in splendour grow, let each reflect its light on all below; when to the close arrived, make no delays by petty flourishes, or verbal plays, but sum the whole in one deep solemn strain, like a strong current hastening to the main. _judge story._ * * * * * the foolish virgins. late, late, so late! and dark the night, and chill! late, late, so late! but we can enter still.- too late, too late! ye cannot enter now! no light had we--for that do we repent; and learning this, the bridegroom will relent.- too late, too late! ye cannot enter now! no light! so late! and dark and chill the night! oh, let us in, that we may find the light!- too late, too late! ye cannot enter now! have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet? oh, let us in, though late, to kiss his feet!- no, no, too late! ye cannot enter now! _tennyson._ * * * * * somebody's mother. the woman was old, and ragged, and grey, and bent with the chill of the winter's day; the street was wet with a recent snow, and the woman's feet were aged and slow. she stood at the crossing and waited long alone, uncared for, amid the throng of human beings who passed her by, nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. down the street, with laughter and shout, glad in the freedom of school let out, came the boys, like a flock of sheep, hailing the snow piled white and deep, past the woman so old and grey, hastened the children on their way, nor offered a helping hand to her, so meek, so timid, afraid to stir, lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet should crowd her down in the slippery street. at last came one of the merry troop-the gayest laddie of all the group; he paused beside her, and whispered low, "i'll help you across if you wish to go." her aged hand on his strong, young arm she placed, and so, without hurt or harm, he guided her trembling feet along, proud that his own were firm and strong. then back again to his friends he went, his young heart happy and well content. "she's somebody's mother, boys, you know, for all she's old, and poor, and slow; "and i hope some fellow will lend a hand to help my mother, you understand, "if ever so poor, and old, and grey, when her own dear boy is far away." and "somebody's mother" bowed low her head in her home that night, and the prayer she said was--"god be kind to the noble boy, who is somebody's son, and pride, and joy!" * * * * * the famine. o the long and dreary winter! o the cold and cruel winter! ever thicker, thicker, thicker, froze the ice on lake and river; ever deeper, deeper, deeper, fell the snow o'er all the landscape, fell the covering snow, and drifted through the forest, round the village. hardly from his buried wigwam could the hunter force a passage; with his mittens and his snow-shoes vainly walk'd he through the forest, sought for bird or beast and found none; saw no track of deer or rabbit, in the snow beheld no footprints, in the ghastly, gleaming forest fell, and could not rise from weakness, perish'd there from cold and hunger. o the famine and the fever! o the wasting of the famine! o the blasting of the fever! o the wailing of the children! o the anguish of the women! all the earth was sick and famished; hungry was the air around them, hungry was the sky above them, and the hungry stars in heaven, like the eyes of wolves glared at them! into hiawatha's wigwam came two other guests, as silent as the ghosts were, and as gloomy, waited not to be invited, did not parley at the doorway, sat there without word of welcome in the seat of laughing water; looked with haggard eyes and hollow at the face of laughing water. and the foremost said: "behold me! i am famine, bukadawin!" and the other said: "behold me! i am fever, ahkosewin!" and the lovely minnehaha shudder'd as they look'd upon her, shudder'd at the words they uttered, lay down on her bed in silence, hid her face, but made no answer; lay there trembling, freezing, burning at the looks they cast upon her, at the fearful words they utter'd. forth into the empty forest rush'd the madden'd hiawatha; in his heart was deadly sorrow, in his face a stony firmness, on his brow the sweat of anguish started, but it froze and fell not. wrapp'd in furs and arm'd for hunting, with his mighty bow of ash-tree, with his quiver full of arrows, with his mittens, minjekahwun, into the vast and vacant forest, on his snow-shoes strode he forward. "gitche manito, the mighty!" cried he, with his face uplifted in that bitter hour of anguish, "give your children food, o father! give us food, or we must perish! give me food for minnehaha, for my dying minnehaha!" through the far-resounding forest, through the forest vast and vacant, rang that cry of desolation; but there came no other answer than the echo of his crying, than the echo of the woodlands, "minnehaha! minnehaha!" all day long roved hiawatha in that melancholy forest, through the shadow of whose thickets, in the pleasant days of summer, of that ne'er forgotten summer, he had brought his young wife homeward from the land of the dakotahs; when the birds sang in the thickets, and the streamlets laugh'd and glisten'd, and the air was full of fragrance, and the lovely laughing water said with voice that did not tremble, "i will follow you, my husband!" in the wigwam with nokomis, with those gloomy guests that watch'd her, with the famine and the fever, she was lying, the beloved, she the dying minnehaha. "hark!" she said, "i hear a rushing, hear a roaring and a rushing, hear the falls of minnehaha calling to me from a distance!" "no, my child!" said old nokomis, "'tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!" "look!" she said; "i see my father standing lonely in his doorway, beckoning to me from his wigwam in the land of the dakotahs!" "no, my child!" said old nokomis, "'tis the smoke that waves and beckons!" "ah!" she said, "the eyes of pauguk glare upon me in the darkness, i can feel his icy fingers clasping mine amid the darkness! hiawatha! hiawatha!" and the desolate hiawatha, far away amid the forest, miles away among the mountains, heard that sudden cry of anguish, heard the voice of minnehaha calling to him in the darkness, "hiawatha! hiawatha!" over snow-fields waste and pathless, under snow-encumber'd branches, homeward hurried hiawatha, empty-handed, heavy-hearted, heard nokomis moaning, wailing; "wahonowin! wahonowin! would that i had perish'd for you, would that i were dead as you are! wahonowin! wahonowin!" and he rush'd into the wigwam, saw the old nokomis slowly rocking to and fro and moaning, saw his lovely minnehaha lying dead and cold before him, and his bursting heart within him utter'd such a cry of anguish that the forest moan'd and shudder'd, that the very stars in heaven shook and trembled with his anguish. then he sat down still and speechless, on the bed of minnehaha, at the feet of laughing water, at those willing feet, that never more would lightly run to meet him, never more would lightly follow. with both hands his face he cover'd, seven long days and nights he sat there, as if in a swoon he sat there, speechless, motionless, unconscious of the daylight or the darkness. then they buried minnehaha; in the snow a grave they made her, in the forest deep and darksome, underneath the moaning hemlocks; cloth'd her in her richest garments: wrapp'd her in her robes of ermine, cover'd her with snow like ermine: thus they buried minnehaha. and at night a fire was lighted, on her grave four times was kindled. for her soul upon its journey to the islands of the blessed. from his doorway hiawatha saw it burning in the forest, lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; from his sleepless bed uprising, from the bed of minnehaha, stood and watch'd it at the doorway, that it might not be extinguish'd, might not leave her in the darkness. "farewell!" said he, "minnehaha! farewell, o my laughing water! all my heart is buried with you, all my thoughts go onward with you! come not back again to labour, come not back again to suffer, where the famine and the fever wear the heart and waste the body. soon my task will be completed, soon your footsteps i shall follow to the islands of the blessed, to the kingdom of ponemah, to the land of the hereafter!" _h. w. longfellow._ * * * * * a slip of the tongue. it chanced one day, so i've been told (the story is not very old), as will and tom, two servants able, were waiting at their master's table, tom brought a fine fat turkey in, the sumptuous dinner to begin: then will appeared--superbly cooked, a tongue upon the platter smoked; when, oh! sad fate! he struck the door, and tumbled flat upon the floor; the servants stared, the guests looked down, when quick uprising with a frown, the master cried, "sirra! i say begone, nor wait a single day, you stupid cur! you've spoiled the feast, how can another tongue be dressed!" while thus the master stormed and roared, will, who with wit was somewhat stored (for he by no means was a fool some latin, too, he'd learned at school), said (thinking he might change disgrace for laughter, and thus save his place), "oh! call me not a stupid cur, 'twas but a _lapsus linguae_, sir." "a _lapsus linguae_?" one guest cries, "a pun!" another straight replies. the joke was caught--the laugh went round; nor could a serious face be found. the master, when the uproar ceased, finding his guests were all well pleased, forgave the servant's slippery feet, and quick revoked his former threat. now tom had all this time stood still; and heard the applause bestowed on will; delighted he had seen the fun of what his comrade late had done, and thought, should he but do the same, an equal share of praise he'd claim. as soon as told the meat to fetch in, bolted like lightning to the kitchen, and seizing there a leg of lamb (i am not certain, perhaps 'twas ham, no matter which), without delay off to the parlour marched away, and stumbling as he turned him round, twirled joint and dish upon the ground. for this my lord was ill-prepared; again the astonished servants stared. tom grinned--but seeing no one stir, "another _lapsus linguae_, sir!" loud he exclaimed. no laugh was raised. no "clever fellow's" wit was praised. confounded, yet not knowing why _his_ wit could not one laugh supply, and fearing lest he had mistook the words, again thus loudly spoke (thinking again it might be tried): "'twas but a _lapsus linguae_," cried. my lord, who long had quiet sat, now clearly saw what he was at. in wrath this warning now he gave-"when next thou triest, unlettered knave, to give, as thine, another's wit, mind well thou knowest what's meant by it; nor let a _lapsus linguae_ slip from out thy pert assuming lip, till well thou knowest thy stolen song, nor think a leg of lamb a tongue," he said--and quickly from the floor straight kicked him through the unlucky door. moral. let each pert coxcomb learn from this true wit will never come amiss! but should a borrowed phrase appear, derision's always in the rear. * * * * * the modern cain. "am i my brother's keeper?" long ago, when first the human heart-strings felt the touch of death's cold fingers--when upon the earth shroudless and coffinless death's first-born lay, slain by the hand of violence, the wail of human grief arose:--"my son, my son! awake thee from this strange and awful sleep; a mother mourns thee, and her tears of grief are falling on thy pale, unconscious brow; awake and bless her with thy wonted smile." in vain, in vain! that sleeper never woke. his murderer fled, but on his brow was fixed a stain which baffled wear and washing. as he fled a voice pursued him to the wilderness: "where is thy brother, cain?" "am i my brother's keeper?" o black impiety! that seeks to shun the dire responsibility of sin-that cries with the ever-warning voice: "be still--away, the crime is not my own-my brother lived--is dead, when, where, or how, it matters not, but he is dead. why judge the living for the dead one's fall?" "am i my brother's keeper?" cain, cain, thou art thy brother's keeper, and his blood cries up to heaven against thee; every stone will find a tongue to curse thee; and the winds will ever wail this question in thy ear: "where is thy brother?" every sight and sound will mind thee of the lost. i saw a man deal death unto his brother. drop by drop the poison was distilled for cursã¨d gold; and in the wine cup's ruddy glow sat death, invisible to that poor trembling slave. he seized the cup, he drank the poison down, rushed forth into the streets--home had he none-staggered and fell and miserably died. they buried him--ah! little recks it where his bloated form was given to the worms. no stone marked that neglected, lonely spot; no mourner sorrowing at evening came, to pray by that unhallowed mound; no hand planted sweet flowers above his place of rest. years passed, and weeds and tangled briers grew above that sunken grave, and men forgot who slept there. once had he friends, a happy home was his, and love was his. his mary loved him, and around him played his smiling children. oh, a dream of joy were those unclouded years, and, more than all, he had an interest in the world above. the big "old bible" lay upon the stand, and he was wont to read its sacred page and then to pray: "our father, bless the poor and save the tempted from the tempter's art, save us from sin, and let us ever be united in thy love, and may we meet, when life's last scenes are o'er, around the throne." thus prayed he--thus lived he--years passed, and o'er the sunshine of that happy home, a cloud came from the pit; the fatal bolt fell from that cloud. the towering tree was shivered by the lightning's vengeful stroke, and laid its coronal of glory low. a happy home was ruined; want and woe played with his children, and the joy of youth left their sweet faces no more to return. his mary's face grew pale and paler still, her eyes were dimmed with weeping, and her soul went out through those blue portals. mary died, and yet he wept not. at the demon's call he drowned his sorrow in the maddening bowl, and when they buried her from sight, he sank in drunken stupor by her new-made grave! his friend was gone--he never had another, and the world shrank from him, all save one, and he still plied the bowl with deadly drugs and bade him drink, forget his god, and die. he died. cain! cain! where is thy brother now? lives he still--if dead, still where is he? where? in heaven? go read the sacred page: "no drunkard ever shall inherit there." who sent him to the pit? who dragged him down? who bound him hand and foot? who smiled and smiled while yet the hellish work went on? who grasped his gold--his health--his life--his hope--his all? who saw his mary fade and die? who saw his beggared children wandering in the streets? speak--coward--if thou hast a tongue, tell why with hellish art you slew a man. "where is my brother?" "am i my brother's keeper?" ah, man! a deeper mark is on your brow than that of cain. accursed was the name of him who slew a righteous man, whose soul was ripe for heaven; thrice accursed he whose art malignant sinks a soul to hell. _e. evans edwards._ * * * * * ocean. _in sunshine._ my window overlooks thee,--and thy sheen of silver glory, in musical monotony advances and recedes; till i dimly see the "shining ones" of ancient song and story, with aureoles of ocean-haze invite to distant meads, where summer song and sunshine on placid waters play;- drifting dreamily, insensibly, on fragrance-laden breeze-floating onward on the wavelets, without hurry or delay, i reach some blissful haven in the bright hesperides. _overcast._ how wearily and drearily the mist hangs over all! and dismally the fog-horn shrieks its warning o'er the wave! how sullenly the billows heave, beneath the funeral pall! an impenetrable solitude!--a universal grave! _in storm._ o! measureless and merciless! vindictive, wild, and stern! fire, pestilence and whirlwind all yield the palm to thee! roar on in bad pre-eminence--a worse thou canst not earn, than clings in famine, wreck, and death, to thee, o cruel sea! _ocean's lessons._ i have seen thee in thy gladness, thy sullenness and wrath- what lesson has thou taught, o sea! to guide my daily path? i hear thy massive monotone, to me it seems to say, "when summer skies are over thee, dream not thy life away. "in days of dark despondency, when either good or ill "seems scarcely worth the caring for, then wait and trust him still; "though mist and cloud surround thee, thou art safe by sea or land, "for thy father holds the waters in the hollow of his hand. "perchance a storm in future life thy fragile bark may toss, "and every struggle, cry, or prayer, bring nought but harm and loss, "o tempest-tossed and stricken one! he comes his own to save, "for not on galilee alone, did jesus walk the wave." _w. wetherald._ * * * * * the little hatchet story. and so, smiling, we went on. "well, one day, george's father--" "george who?" asked clarence. "george washington. he was a little boy, then, just like you. one day his father--" "who's father?" demanded clarence, with an encouraging expression of interest. "george washington's; this great man we are telling you of. one day george washington's father gave him a little hatchet for a--" "gave who a little hatchet?" the dear child interrupted, with a gleam of bewitching intelligence. most men would have got mad, or betrayed signs of impatience, but we didn't. we know how to talk to children. so we went on: "george washington. his--" "who gave him the little hatchet?" "his father. and his father--" "whose father?" "george washington's." "oh!" "yes, george washington. and his father told him--" "told who?" "told george." "oh, yes, george." and we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as you could imagine. we took up the story right where the boy interrupted, for we could see he was just crazy to hear the end of it. we said: "and he was told--" "george told him?" queried clarence. "no, his father told george--" "oh!" "yes, told him he must be careful with the hatchet--" "who must be careful?" "george must." "oh!" "yes, must be careful with his hatchet--" "what hatchet?" "why, george's." "oh!" "with the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop it in the cistern, or leave it out in the grass all night. so george went round cutting everything he could reach with his hatchet. and at last he came to a splendid apple-tree, his father's favourite, and cut it down, and--" "who cut it down?" "george did." "oh!" "but his father came home and saw it the first thing, and--" "saw the hatchet?" "no, saw the apple-tree. and he said, 'who has cut down my favourite appletree?'" "what apple-tree?" "george's father's. and everybody said they didn't know anything about it, and--" "anything about what?" "the apple-tree." "oh!" "and george came up and heard them talking about it--" "heard who taking about it?" "heard his father and the men" "what were they talking about?" "about this apple-tree." "what apple-tree?" "the favourite tree that george cut down." "george who?" "george washington" "oh!" "so george came up and heard them talking about it, and he--" "what did he cut it down for?" "just to try his little hatchet." "whose little hatchet?" "why, his own, the one his father gave him." "gave who?" "why, george washington." "oh!" "so, george came up, and he said, 'father, i cannot tell a lie, i--'" "who couldn't tell a lie?" "why, george washington. he said, 'father, i cannot tell a lie. it was--'" "his father couldn't?" "why, no; george couldn't?" "oh! george? oh, yes!" "'it was i cut down your apple tree; i did--'" "his father did?" "no, no; it was george said this." "said he cut his father?" "no, no, no; said he cut down his apple-tree." "george's apple-tree?" "no, no; his father's." "oh!" "he said--" "his father said?" "no, no, no; george said, 'father, i cannot tell a lie, i did it with my little hatchet.' and his father said, 'noble boy, i would rather lose a thousand trees than have you tell a lie.'" "george did?" "no, his father said that." "said he'd rather have a thousand apple-trees?" "no, no, no; said he'd rather lose a thousand apple-trees than--" "said he'd rather george would?" "no, said he'd rather he would than have him lie." "oh! george would rather have his father lie?" we are patient and we love children, but if mrs. caruthers hadn't come and got her prodigy at that critical juncture, we don't believe all burlington could have pulled us out of the snarl. and as clarence alencon de marchemont caruthers pattered down the stairs, we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had a father named george, and he told him to cut down an apple-tree, and he said he'd rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one apple-tree. _r. n. burdette._ * * * * * trusting. i do not ask that god will always make my pathway light; i only pray that he will hold my hand throughout the night. i do not hope to have the thorns removed that pierce my feet, i only ask to find his blessed arms my safe retreat. if he afflict me, then in my distress withholds his hand; if all his wisdom i cannot conceive or understand. i do not think to always know his why or wherefore, here; but sometime he will take my hand and make his meaning clear. if in his furnace he refine my heart to make it pure, i only ask for grace to trust his love- strength to endure; and if fierce storms beat round me, and the heavens be overcast, i know that he will give his weary one sweet peace at last. * * * * * the last hymn. the sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea, the uttered benediction touched the people tenderly, and they rose to face the sunset in the glowing lighted west and then hasten to their dwellings for god's blessed boon of rest. but they looked across the waters and a storm was raging there. a fierce spirit moved above them--the wild spirit of the air, and it lashed, and shook, and tore them till they thundered, groaned, and boomed, but alas! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed. very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of wales, lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling awful tales, when the sea had spent its passion, and should cast upon the shore bits of wreck, and swollen victims, as it had done heretofore. with the rough winds blowing round her a brave woman strained her eyes, and she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise. oh! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be, for no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea. then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the beach. oh, for power to cross the waters, and the perishing to reach. helpless hands were wrung in terror, tender hearts grew cold with dread, as the ship urged by the tempest to the fatal rock-shore sped. she has parted in the middle! oh, the half of her goes down! god have mercy! is his heaven far to seek for those who drown? so when next the white shocked faces looked with terror on the sea, only one last clinging figure on a spar was seen to be. nearer the trembling watchers came the wreck tossed by the wave, and the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth could save. "could we send him a short message! here's a trumpet, shout away!" 'twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to say. any memory of his sermon? firstly? secondly? ah, no. there was but one thing to utter in that awful hour of woe. so he shouted through the trumpet, "look to jesus! can you hear?" and "aye, aye, sir!" rang the answer o'er the waters loud and clear, then they listened, "he is singing, 'jesus, lover of my soul,'" and the winds brought back the echo, "while the nearer waters roll." strange indeed it was to hear him, "till the storm of life is past." singing bravely o'er the waters, "oh, receive my soul at last." he could have no other refuge, "hangs my helpless soul on thee;", "leave, oh, leave me not!"--the singer dropped at last into the sea. and the watchers looking homeward, through their eyes, by tears made dim, said, "he passed to be with jesus in the singing of that hymn." _marianne farningham._ * * * * * i remember, i remember. 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, 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! i remember, i remember where i was used to swing, and thought the air must rush as fresh; to swallows on the wing; my spirit flew in feathers then, that is so heavy now, and summer pools could hardly cool the fever on my brow. i remember, i remember the fir trees dark and high; i used to think their slender tops were close against the sky; it was a childish ignorance, but now 'tis little joy to know i'm further off from heaven than when i was a boy. _thomas hood._ * * * * * never give up. never give up! it is wiser and better always to hope than once to despair: fling off the load of doubt's cankering fetter, and break the dark spell of tyrannical care; never give up! or the burden may sink you- providence kindly has mingled the cup; and, in all trials or trouble, bethink you the watchword of life must be--never give up! never give up!--there are chances and changes helping the hopeful a hundred to one, and through the chaos high wisdom arranges ever success--if you'll only hope on; never give up!--for the wisest is boldest, knowing that providence mingles the cup; and of all maxims the best, as the oldest, is the true watchword of--never give up! never give up!--though the grapeshot may rattle, or the full thunder-cloud over you burst, stand like a rock--and the storm or the battle little shall harm you, though doing their worst. never give up!--if adversity presses, providence wisely has mingled the cup; and the best counsel, in all your distresses, is the stout watchword of--never give up. _anon._ * * * * * marmion and douglas. not far advanced was morning day, when marmion did his troop array to surrey's camp to ride; he had safe-conduct for his band, beneath the royal seal and hand, and douglas gave a guide: the ancient earl, with stately grace, would clara on her palfrey place, and whispered in an undertone, "let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown."-the train from out the castle drew, but marmion stopped to bid adieu:-"though something i might plain," he said, "of cold respect to stranger guest, sent hither by your king's behest, while in tantallon's towers i stayed, part we in friendship from your land, and, noble earl, receive my hand."-but douglas around him drew his cloak, folded his arms, and thus he spoke:-"my manors, halls, and bowers shall still be open, at my sovereign's will, to each one whom he lists, howe'er unmeet to be the owner's peer. my castles are my king's alone, from turret to foundation-stone,-the hand of douglas is his own; and never shall in friendly grasp the hand of such as marmion clasp." burned marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, and shook his very frame for ire, and--"this to me!" he said,-"an 'twere not for thy hoary beard, such hand as marmion's had not spared to cleave the douglas' head! and, first, i tell thee, haughty peer, he who does england's message here, although the meanest in her state, may well, proud angus, be thy mate; and, douglas, more i tell thee here, even in thy pitch of pride, here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (nay never look upon your lord, and lay your hands upon your sword,) i tell thee, thou'rt defied! and if thou saidst i am not peer to any lord in scotland here, lowland or highland, far or near, lord angus, thou hast lied!"-on the earl's cheek the flush of rage o'ercame the ashen hue of age; fierce he broke forth,--"and dar'st thou then to beard the lion in his den, the douglas in his hall? and hop'st thou hence unscathed to go?-no, by st. bride of bothwell, no! up drawbridge, grooms,--what, warder, ho! let the portcullis fall."-lord marmion turned,--well was his need!-and dashed the rowels in his steed, like arrow through the archway sprung; the ponderous gate behind him rung; to pass there was such scanty room, the bars descending, razed his plume. the steed along the drawbridge flies, just as it trembled on the rise; nor lighter does the swallow skim along the smooth lake's level brim; and when lord marmion reached his band, he halts, and turns with clenched hand, and shout of loud defiance pours, and shook his gauntlet at the towers. "horse! horse!" the douglas cried, "and chase!"; but soon he reined his fury's pace; a royal messenger he came, though most unworthy of the name. * * * * * st. mary, mend my fiery mood! old age ne'er cools the douglas blood, i thought to slay him where he stood. "'tis pity of him, too," he cried; "bold can he speak, and fairly ride; i warrant him a warrior tried." with this his mandate he recalls, and slowly seeks his castle halls. _sir walter scott._ * * * * * catiline's defiance. banished from rome! what's banished, but set free from daily contact of the things i loathe? "tried and convicted traitor!" who says this? who'll prove it, at his peril on my head? banished? i thank you for't. it breaks my chain! i held some slack allegiance till this hour; but _now_ my sword's my own. smile on, my lords; i scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, strong provocation, bitter, burning wrongs, i have within my heart's hot cells shut up, to leave you in your lazy dignities. but here i stand and scoff you! here i fling hatred and full defiance in your face! your consul's merciful. for this all thanks:-he _dares_ not touch a hair of catiline! "traitor!" i go; but i _return_. this--trial! here i devote your senate! i've had wrongs to stir a fever in the blood of age, or make the infant's sinews strong as steel. this day's the birth of sorrow! this hour's work will breed proscriptions! look to your hearths, my lords for there, henceforth, shall sit for household gods, shapes hot from tartarus!--all shames and crimes;-wan treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn; suspicion poisoning his brother's cup; naked rebellion, with the torch and axe, making his wild sport of your blazing thrones; till anarchy comes down on you like night, and massacre seals rome's eternal grave. i go; but not to leap the gulf alone. i go; but when i come, 'twill be the burst of ocean in the earthquake,--rolling back in swift and mountainous ruin. fare you well! you build my funeral-pile; but your best blood shall quench its flame. _rev. george croly._ * * * * * the worn wedding-ring. your wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife; ah, summers not a few, since i put it on your finger first, have passed o'er me and you; and, love, what changes we have seen--what cares and pleasures too-since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new. o blessings on that happy day, the happiest in my life, when, thanks to god, your low sweet "yes" made you my loving wife; your heart will say the same, i know, that day's as dear to you, that day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new. how well do i remember now, your young sweet face that day; how fair you were--how dear you were--my tongue could hardly say; nor how i doted on you; ah, how proud i was of you; but did i love you more than now, when this old ring was new? no--no; no fairer were you then than at this hour to me, and dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer be? as sweet your face might be that day as now it is, 'tis true, and did i know your heart as well when this old ring was new! o partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what grief is there, for me you would not bravely face,--with me you would not share? o what a weary want had every day if wanting you, wanting the love that god made mine when this old ring was new. years bring fresh links to bind us, wife--young voices that are here, young faces round our fire that make their mother's yet more dear, young loving hearts, your care each day makes yet more like to you, more like the loving heart made mine when this old ring was new. and bless'd be god all he has given are with us yet, around our table, every little life lent to us, still is found; though cares we've known, with hopeful hearts the worst we've struggled through; blessed be his name for all his love since this old ring was new. the past is dear; its sweetness still our memories treasure yet; the griefs we've borne, together borne, we would not now forget; whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart still true, we'll share as we have shared all else since this old ring was new. and if god spare us 'mongst our sons and daughters to grow old, we know his goodness will not let your heart or mine grow cold; your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to you, and mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new. and o when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest, may i die looking in those eyes, and leaning on that breast; o may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear sight of you, of those fond eyes--fond as they were when this old ring was new. _w. c. bennett._ * * * * * roll-call. the battle was over--the foemen were flying, but the plain was strewn with the dead and the dying, for the dark angel rode on its sulphurous blast, and had reaped a rich harvest of death, as he passed; for, as grass he mowed down the blue and the gray, with the mean and the mighty that stood in his way, while the blood of our bravest ran there as water, and his nostrils were filled with the incense of slaughter. the black guns were silent--hushed the loud ringing cheers, and the pale dead were buried, in silence and tears; and the wounded brought in on stretchers so gory, broken and mangled but covered with glory, whilst the surgeons were clipping with expertness and vim, from the agonised trunk each bullet-torn limb, and the patient, if living, was carefully sent to the cool open wards of the hospital tent. within one of those wards a brave highlander lay, with the chill dews of death on his forehead of clay, for a shell had struck him in the heat of the fray, and his right arm and shoulder were carried away; no word had he spoken--not a sound had he made, yet a shiver, at times, had his anguish betrayed, and so calmly he lay without murmur or moan, the gentle-voiced sister thought his spirit had flown. the lamps burning dimly an uncertain light shed, while the groans of the wounded, the stare of the dead, made an age of a night to the gentle and true, that had waited and watched half its long hours through; when the surgeon came in with a whisper of cheer, and a nod and a glance at the cot that stood near, when--"_here_!" like a bugle blast, the dying man cried, "_it is roll-call in heaven_!" he answered and died. _anon._ * * * * * the dead doll. you needn't be trying to comfort me--i tell you my dolly is dead! there's no use in saying she isn't--with a crack like that in her head. it's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out that day; and then when the man most pulled my head off, you hadn't a word to say. and i guess you must think i'm a baby, when you say you can mend it with glue! as if i didn't know better than that! why, just suppose it was you? you might make her _look_ all mended--but what do i care for looks? why, glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books! my dolly! my own little daughter! oh, but it's the awfullest crack! it just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack against that horrible brass thing that holds up the little shelf, now, nursey, what makes you remind me? i know that i did it myself! i think you must be crazy--you'll get her another head! what good would forty heads do her? i tell you my dolly is dead! and to think i hadn't quite finished her elegant new year's hat! and i took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie on that horrid cat! when my mamma gave me that ribbon--i was playing out in the yard-she said to me most expressly: "here's a ribbon for hildegarde." and i went and put it on tabby, and hildegarde saw me do it; but i said to myself, "oh, never mind, i don't believe she knew it!" but i know that she knew it now, and i just believe, i do, that her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too. oh, my baby! my little baby! i wish my head had been hit! for i've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit. but since the darling _is_ dead, she'll want to be buried of course; we will take my little wagon, nurse, and you shall be the horse; and i'll walk behind and cry; and we'll put her in this--you see, this dear little box--and we'll bury them under the maple tree. and papa will make a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird; and he'll put what i tell him on it--yes, every single word! i shall say: "here lies hildegarde, a beautiful doll who is dead; she died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head." _st. nicholas._ * * * * * aunty doleful's visit. how do you do, cornelia? i heard you were sick and i stepped in to cheer you up a little. my friends often say, "it's such a comfort to see you, aunty doleful. you have such a flow of conversation, and _are_ so lively." besides, i said to myself, as i came up the stairs, "perhaps it's the last time i'll ever see cornelia jane alive." you don't mean to die yet, eh? well, now, how do you know? you can't tell. you think you are getting better; but there was poor mrs. jones sitting up, and every one saying how smart she was, and all of a sudden she was taken with spasms in the heart, and went off like a flash. but you must be careful, and not get anxious or excited. keep quite calm, and don't fret about anything. of course, things can't go on just as if you were down stairs; and i wondered whether you knew your little billy was sailing about in a tub on the mill-pond, and that your little sammy was letting your little jimmy down from the verandah roof in a clothes-basket. gracious goodness! what's the matter? i guess providence'll take care of 'em. don't look so. you thought bridget was watching them? well, no, she isn't. i saw her talking to a man at the gate. he looked to me like a burglar. no doubt she let him take the impression of the door-key in wax, and then he'll get in and murder you all. there was a family at kobble hill all killed last week for fifty dollars. now, don't fidget so, it will be bad for the baby. poor little dear! how singular it is, to be sure, that you can't tell whether a child is blind, or deaf and dumb or a cripple at that age. it might be _all_, and you'd never know it. most of them that have their senses make bad use of them though; _that_ ought to be your comfort, if it does turn out to have anything dreadful the matter with it. and more don't live a year. i saw a baby's funeral down the street as i came along. how is mr. kobble? well, but finds it warm in town, eh? well, i should think he would. they are dropping down by hundreds there with sun-stroke. you must prepare your mind to have him brought home any day. anyhow, a trip on these railroad trains is just risking your life every time you take one. back and forth every day as he is, it's just trifling with danger. dear! dear; now to think what dreadful things hang over us all the time! dear! dear! scarlet fever has broken out in the village, cornelia. little isaac potter has it, and i saw your jimmy playing with him last saturday. well, i must be going now. i've got another sick friend, and i shan't think my duty done unless i cheer her up a little before i sleep. good-bye. how pale you look, cornelia. i don't believe you have a good doctor. do send him away and try some one else. you don't look so well as you did when i came in. but if anything happens, send for me at once. if i can't do anything else, i can cheer you up a little. * * * * * the miniature. william was holding in his hand the likeness of his wife-fresh, as if touched by fairy wand, with beauty, grace, and life. he almost thought it spoke--he gazed, upon the treasure still; absorbed, delighted, and amazed he view'd the artist's skill. "this picture is yourself, dear ann, tis' drawn to nature true; i've kissed it o'er and o'er again, it is so much like you." "and has it kiss'd you back, my dear?" "why--no--my love," said he; "then, william, it is very clear, 'tis not at all like me!" * * * * * the chimes of s. s. peter and paul. ring out, sad bells, ring out melody to the twilight sky, with echoes, echoing yet as along the shore they die; chiming, chiming, sweet toned notes upon the heart that one can ne'er forget. ring louder! o louder! until the distant sea shall send thy clear vibrations dying back to me; tolling, tolling, beautiful, trembling notes of sad sweet melody. ring, ring, ring, a merry christmas and a glad new year; ring on easter morning and at the may-day dear; fling, fling thy tones over woodland ways all the hills adorning. at the joyous marriage, and at the gladsome birth fling thy silvery echoes over all the earth, but knell, o knell when death, the shadowy spectre shall kiss the lips of mirth o blessed bells, silver bells, thy notes are echoing still like the song of an ebbing tide, or a mournful whip-poor-will. as he sings, sings, in the crimson sunset light that dies on the burnished hill then ring, o softly ring musical deep-toned bells; till harmony, sweet harmony throughout the woodland swells. to bring, faintly bring, thy dying echoes back to me, over fields and fells, bells, bells, bells. * * * * * the engineer's story. no, children, my trips are over, the engineer needs rest; my hand is shaky; i'm feeling a tugging pain i' my breast; but here, as the twilight gathers, i'll tell you a tale of the road, that'll ring in my head forever till it rests beneath the sod. we were lumbering along in the twilight, the night was dropping her shade, and the "gladiator" laboured- climbing the top of the grade; the train was heavily laden, so i let my engine rest, climbing the grading slowly, till we reached the upland's crest. i held my watch to the lamplight- ten minutes behind time! lost in the slackened motion of the up grade's heavy climb; but i knew the miles of the prairie that stretched a level track, so i touched the gauge of the boiler, and pulled the lever back. over the rails a gleaming, thirty an hour, or so, the engine leaped like a demon, breathing a fiery glow; but to me--a-hold of the lever- it seemed a child alway, trustful and always ready my lightest touch to obey. i was proud, you know, of my engine, holding it steady that night, and my eye on the track before us, ablaze with the drummond light. we neared a well-known cabin, where a child of three or four, as the up train passed, oft called me, a-playing around the door. my hand was firm on the throttle as we swept around the curve, when something afar in the shadow, struck fire through every nerve. i sounded the brakes, and crashing the reverse lever down in dismay, groaning to heaven--eighty paces ahead was the child at its play! one instant--one, awful and only, the world flew round in my brain, and i smote my hand hard on my forehead to keep back the terrible pain; the train i thought flying forever, with mad, irresistible roll, while the cries of the dying night wind swept into my shuddering soul. then i stood on the front of the engine- how i got there i never could tell-my feet planted down on the crossbar, where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail,-one hand firmly locked on the coupler, and one held out in the night, while my eye gauged the distance, and measured the speed of our slackening flight. my mind, thank the lord! it was steady; i saw the curls of her hair, and the face that, turning in wonder, was lit by the deadly glare. i know little more, but i heard it- the groan of the anguished wheels-and remember thinking, the engine in agony trembles and reels. one rod! to the day of my dying i shall think the old engine reared back, and as it recoiled, with a shudder, i swept my hand over the track; then darkness fell over my eyelids, but i heard the surge of the train, and the poor old engine creaking, as racked by a deadly pain. they found us, they said, on the gravel, my fingers enmeshed in her hair, and she on my bosom a climbing, to nestle securely there. we are not much given to crying- we men that run on the road-but that night, they said, there were faces, with tears on them, lifted to god. for years in the eve and the morning, as i neared the cabin again, my hand on the lever pressed downward and slackened the speed of the train. when my engine had blown her a greeting, she always would come to the door, and her look with the fullness of heaven blesses me evermore. * * * * * fashionable singing. miss julia was induced to give a taste of her musical powers, and this is how she did it. she flirted up her panniers, coquettishly wiggle-waggled to the piano and sang-"when ther moo-hoon is mi-hild-ly be-ahming o'er ther ca-halm and si-hi-lent se-e-e-e, its ra-dyance so-hoftly stre-heam-ing oh! ther-hen, oh! ther-hen, i thee-hink hof thee-hee, i thee-hink, i thee-hink, i thee-he-he-he-he-he-he-hink hof thee-e-e-e-e!" "beautiful, miss julia! beautiful!" and we all clapped our hands. "do sing another verse--it's perfectly divine, miss julia," said eugene augustus. then julia raised her golden (dyed) head, touched the white ivory with her jewelled fingers, and warbled-"when ther sur-hun is bri-hight-ly glow-ing-how-ing o'er the se-hene so de-hear to me-e-e, and swe-heat the wie-hind is blow-how-ing, oh! ther-hen, oh! ther-hen, i thee-hink hof thee-hee, i thee-hink i thee-hink i thee-he-he-he-he-he-he-hink-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-hof the-e-e-e-e-e!"-_baltimore elocutionist._ * * * * * the old soldier of the regiment. from the bold heights of the island, far up in the huron sea, proudly waved that summer morning the old flag of liberty; while close under that fair banner, which to him was love and law, sat that hour a veteran soldier of the guard at mackinaw. bowed and wrinkled, thin and hoary, sat he there that summer day, his form leaning 'gainst the flagstaff, while he watched the sunlight play on the waters of that inland ocean which, in beauty purled, were to him--the scarred old soldier--fairest waters of the world. in the days when peace no longer walked the land, a beauteous queen, fragrance dropping from her garments, gladness beaming in her mien; when grim war strode forth thro' valley, and o'er hill from sea to sea, all along her pathway shedding, woe in its infinity. although time and gallant service, for the land he loved the best, had upon his manhood told already, and he needed rest, brave, and trusting still, and loving, as a knight of ancient days, forth he went with other comrades, caring not for fame or praise. only eager, aye, for duty, as god made it plain to all, when upon the breath of zephyrus, patriot heroes heard him call; anxious to beat back the dread one, and thro' war bring sweet release, from the demon of the tempest, usher in the reign of peace! o, the hot and bloody conflicts, hour by hour, and day by day, 'mid those years of which the memory can never pass away! o, at last the hard-won triumph, aye, but glorious we may say, since thro' tears and loss god's blessing comes to-day to "blue and gray!" and the soldier, the old soldier, sitting there that hour alone, gazing out upon the waters, thought of those years long since flown, and, on many a field of strife, his humble part--his part sublime-when his comrades fell around him like leaves in the autumn time! sitting there that summer morning he thought, too, how since his youth, his whole life had ever been, as 'twere, a lone one, how in sooth he had never since that hour--and his years how great the sum!-he had never known the blessing of a wife, or child, or home. and, ah, now he fast was nearing--sad old man!--the end of life, soon he should lay by his armour and go forth beyond the strife. and he tho't--"o, ere i go hence, if the one who gave me birth could but come from yonder heaven, only come once more to earth; "that again, as in my childhood, i might look upon her face, feel once more, once more, the pressure of her loving, dear embrace, hear her speak, ah, as she used to, those sweet words i so much miss, feel upon my cheek and forehead the touch of her fragrant kiss!" and the sad old soldier's eyelids closed, his lips they moved no more; he had gone to sleep where often he had gone to sleep before!-so his comrades tho't that hour as they saw him sitting there, leaning fondly 'gainst the flagstaff, on his face a look most fair! and they left him to his slumbers, with no wish to break the spell which had come to him so gently--the old soul they loved so well! and the breezes so delightful played among his locks so white, while above him proudly floated the old flag of his delight. but ere long, when loved ones round him called the name of "sergeant gray," not a word the veteran answered, for his life had passed away.-though a tear was on each pale cheek of the dead one whom they saw-the old soldier of the regiment on guard at mackinaw. _geo. newell lovejoy._ * * * * * poor little stephen gerard. the man lived in philadelphia who, when young and poor, entered a bank, and says he, "please, sir, don't you want a boy?" and the stately personage said: "no, little boy, i don't want a little boy." the little boy, whose heart was too full for utterance, chewing a piece of liquorice stick he had bought with a cent stolen from his good and pious aunt, with sobs plainly audible, and with great globules of water rolling down his cheeks, glided silently down the marble steps of the bank. bending his noble form, the bank man dodged behind a door, for he thought the little boy was going to shy a stone at him. but the little boy picked up something, and stuck it in his poor but ragged jacket. "come here, little boy," and the little boy did come here; and the bank man said: "lo, what pickest thou up?" and he answered and replied: "a pin." and the bank man said: "little boy, are you good?" and he said he was. and the bank man said: "how do you vote?--excuse me, do you go to sunday school?" and he said he did. then the bank man took down a pen made of pure gold, and flowing with pure ink, and he wrote on a piece of paper, "st. peter;" and he asked the little boy what it stood for, and he said "salt peter." then the bank man said it meant "saint peter." the little boy said: "oh!" then the bank man took the little boy to his bosom, and the little boy said "oh!" again, for he squeezed him. then the bank man took the little boy into partnership, and gave him half the profits and all the capital, and he married the bank man's daughter, and now all he has is all his, and all his own, too. my uncle told me this story, and i spent six weeks in picking up pins in front of a bank. i expected the bank man would call me in and say: "little boy, are you good?" and i was going to say "yes;" and when he asked me what "st. john" stood for, i was going to say "salt john." but the bank man wasn't anxious to have a partner, and i guess the daughter was a son, for one day says he to me: "little boy, what's that you're picking up?" says i, awful meekly, "pins." says he: "let's see 'em." and he took 'em, and i took off my cap, all ready to go in the bank, and become a partner, and marry his daughter. but i didn't get an invitation. he said: "those pins belong to the bank, and if i catch you hanging around here any more i'll set the dog on you!" then i left, and the mean old fellow kept the pins. such is life as i find it. _mark twain._ * * * * * the little quaker sinner. a little quaker maiden, with dimpled cheek and chin, before an ancient mirror stood, and viewed her form within; she wore a gown of sober grey, a cape demure and prim, with only simple fold and hem, yet dainty, neat, and trim. her bonnet, too, was grey and stiff; its only line of grace was in the lace, so soft and white, shirred round her rosy face. quoth she, "oh, how i hate this hat! i hate this gown and cape! i do wish all my clothes were not of such outlandish shape! the children passing by to school have ribbons on their hair; the little girl next door wears blue; oh, dear, if i could dare i know what i should like to do?"--(the words were whispered low, lest such tremendous heresy should reach her aunts below). calmly reading in the parlour sat the good aunts, faith and peace, little dreaming how rebellious throbbed the heart of their young niece. all their prudent humble teaching wilfully she cast aside, and, her mind now fully conquered by vanity and pride, she, with trembling heart and fingers, on a hassock sat her down, and this little quaker sinner _sewed a tuck into her gown_! "little patience, art thou ready? fifth-day meeting time has come, mercy jones and goodman elder with his wife have left their home." 'twas aunt faith's sweet voice that called her, and the naughty little maid-gliding down the dark old stairway--hoped their notice to evade, keeping shyly in their shadow as they went out at the door, ah, never little quakeress a guiltier conscience bore! dear aunt faith walked looking upward; all her thoughts were pure and holy; and aunt peace walked gazing downward, with a humble mind and lowly. but "tuck--_tuck_!" chirped the sparrows, at the little maiden's side; and, in passing farmer watson's, where the barn-door opened wide, every sound that issued from it, every grunt and every cluck, seemed to her affrighted fancy like "a tuck!" "a tuck!" "a tuck!" in meeting goodman elder spoke of pride and vanity, while all the friends seemed looking round that dreadful tuck to see. how it swelled in its proportions, till it seemed to fill the air, and the heart of little patience grew heavier with her care. oh, the glad relief to her, when, prayers and exhortations ended, behind her two good aunts her homeward way she wended! the pomps and vanities of life she'd seized with eager arms, and deeply she had tasted of the world's alluring charms-yea, to the dregs had drained them and only this to find; all was vanity of spirit and vexation of the mind. so repentant, saddened, humbled, on her hassock she sat down, and this little quaker sinner _ripped the tuck out of her gown_! _st. nicholas._ * * * * * how we hunted a mouse. i was dozing comfortably in my easy chair, and dreaming of the good times which i hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. it was the voice of my maria ann in agony. the voice came from the kitchen, and to the kitchen i rushed. the idolized form of my maria was perched on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions, and shouting "shoo," in a general manner at everything in the room. to my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed: "o! joshua, a mouse, shoo--wha--shoo--a great--ya, shoo--horrid mouse, and-she--ew--it ran right out of the cupboard--shoo--go way--o lord--joshua-shoo--kill it, oh, my--shoo." all that fuss, you see, about one little, harmless mouse. some women are so afraid of mice. maria is. i got the poker and set myself to poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down and ran off into another room. i found the mouse in a corner under the sink. the first time i hit it i didn't poke it any on account of getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink; and i did not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay still. it ran right toward me, and i naturally jumped, as anybody would, but i am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons, i yelled to maria because i was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my garment. there is something real disagreeable about having a mouse inside the leg of one's pantaloons, especially if there is nothing between you and the mouse. its toes are cold, and its nails are scratchy, and its fur tickles, and its tail feels crawly, and there is nothing pleasant about it, and you are all the time afraid it will try to gnaw out, and begin on you instead of on the cloth. that mouse was next to me. i could feel its every motion with startling and suggestive distinctness. for these reasons i yelled to maria, and as the case seemed urgent to me i may have yelled with a certain degree of vigour; but i deny that i yelled fire, and if i catch the boy who thought that i did, i shall inflict punishment on his person. i did not lose my presence of mind for an instant. i caught the mouse just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly on the outside of the cloth, i kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. i kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, so that it would not think about biting, and i yelled so that the mice would not hear its squeaks and come to its assistance. a man can't handle many mice at once to advantage. maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen, and asked what she should do--as though i could hold the mouse and plan a campaign at the same time. i told her to think of something, and she thought she would throw things at the intruder; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot took effect on me, i told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal scuttle. she paused for breath, but i kept bobbing around. somehow i felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. "oh, joshua," she cried, "i wish you had not killed the cat." now, i submit that the wish was born of the weakness of woman's intellect. how on earth did she suppose a cat could get where that mouse was?--rather have the mouse there alone, anyway, than to have a cat prowling around after it. i reminded maria of the fact that she was a fool. then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. i objected to that process, except as a last resort. then she got some cheese to coax the mouse down, but i did not dare to let go for fear it would run up. matters were getting desperate. i told her to think of something else, and i kept jumping. just as i was ready to faint with exhaustion, i tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor very dead. i had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy. that was not the end of trouble, for before i had recovered my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole company followed him through, and they dragged hose around, and mussed things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash me because the house was not on fire, and i had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came in and arrested me. some one had run down and told him i was drunk and was killing maria. it was all maria and i could do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted and the house clear. now, when mice run out of the cupboard i go out doors, and let maria "shoo" them back again. i can kill a mouse, but the fun don't pay for the trouble. _joshua jenkins._ * * * * * in school days. still sits the school-house by the road, a ragged beggar sunning; around it still the sumachs grow, and blackberry vines are running. within, the master's desk is seen, deep scarred by raps official; the warping floor, the battered seats, the jack-knife's carved initial; the charcoal frescoes on its wall; its door's worn sill, betraying the feet that, creeping slow to school, went storming out to playing! long years ago a winter sun shone over it at setting; lit up its western window panes, and low eaves' icy fretting. it touched the tangled golden curls, and brown eyes full of grieving, of one who still her steps delayed when all the school were leaving. for near her stood the little boy her childish favour singled: his cap pulled low upon a face where pride and shame were mingled. pushing with restless feet the snow to right and left, he lingered;-as restlessly her tiny hands the blue-checked apron fingered, he saw her lift her eyes; he felt the soft hand's tight caressing, and heard the tremble of her voice, as if a fault confessing. "i'm sorry that i spelt the word; i hate to go above you, because,"--the brown eyes lower fell,- "because, you see, i love you!" still memory to a gray-haired man that sweet child-face is showing. dear girl! the grasses on her grave have forty years been growing. he lives to learn, in life's hard school, how few who pass above him lament their triumphs and his loss, like her,--because they love him. _whittier._ * * * * * waterloo. it struck my imagination much, while standing on the last field fought by bonaparte, that the battle of waterloo should have been fought on a sunday. what a different scene did the scotch grays and english infantry present, from that which, at that very hour, was exhibited by their relatives, when over england and scotland each church-bell had drawn together its worshippers! while many a mother's heart was sending up a prayer for her son's preservation, perhaps that son was gasping in agony. yet, even at such a period, the lessons of his early days might give him consolation; and the maternal prayer might prepare the heart to support maternal anguish. it is religion alone which is of universal application, both as a stimulant and a lenitive, throughout the varied heritage which falls to the lot of man. but we know that many thousands rushed into this fight, even of those who had been instructed in our religious principles, without leisure for one serious thought; and that some officers were killed in their ball dresses. they made the leap into the gulf which divides two worlds--the present from the immutable state without one parting prayer, or one note of preparation! as i looked over this field, now green with growing corn, i could mark, with my eye, the spots where the most desperate carnage had been marked out by the verdure of the wheat. the bodies had been heaped together, and scarcely more than covered; and so enriched is the soil, that, in these spots, the grain never ripens. it grows rank and green to the end of harvest. this touching memorial, which endures when the thousand groans have expired, and when the stain of human blood has faded from the ground, still seems to cry to heaven that there is awful guilt somewhere, and a terrific reckoning for those who caused destruction which the earth could not conceal. these hillocks of superabundant vegetation, as the wind rustled through the corn, seemed the most affecting monuments which nature could devise, and gave a melancholy animation to this plain of death. when we attempt to measure the mass of suffering which was here inflicted, and to number the individuals that fell, considering each who suffered as our fellow-man, we are overwhelmed with the agonizing calculation, and retire from the field which has been the scene of our reflections, with the simple, concentrated feeling--these armies once lived, breathed, and felt like us, and the time is at hand when we shall be like them. _lady morgan._ * * * * * the field of waterloo. there was a sound of revelry by night, and belgium's capital had gathered then her beauty and her chivalry; and bright the lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; a thousand hearts beat happily; and when music arose, with its voluptuous swell, soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, and all went merry as a marriage bell:-but hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! did ye not hear it? no; 'twas but the wind or the car rattling o'er the stony street; on with the dance! let joy be unconfined; no sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet to chase the glowing hours with flying feet- but hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, as if the clouds its echo would repeat; and nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar! within a windowed niche of that high hall sat brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear that sound the first amidst the festival, and caught its tone with death's prophetic ear; and when they smiled because he deemed it near, his heart more truly knew that peal too well which stretched his father on a bloody bier, and roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; he rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell! ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, and gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, and cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; and there were sudden partings, such as press the life from out young hearts, and choking sighs which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess if ever more should meet those mutual eyes, since, upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise! and there was mounting in hot haste; the steed, the mustering squadron, and the clattering car, went pouring forward with impetuous speed, and swiftly forming in the ranks of war; and the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar; and near, the beat of the alarming drum roused up the soldier, ere the morning star; while thronged the citizens with terror dumb. or whispering with white lips--"the foe! they come, they come!" and wild and high the "cameron's gathering" rose- the war note of lochiel, which albyn's hills have heard--and heard too have her saxon foes- how in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, savage and shrill! but with the breath which fills their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers with the fierce native daring, which instils the stirring memory of a thousand years; and evan's, donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears. and ardennes waves above them her green leaves, dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass grieving--if aught inanimate e'er grieves- over the unreturning brave--alas! ere evening to be trodden like the grass, which now beneath them, but above shall grow in its next verdure; when this fiery mass of living valour, rolling on the foe, and burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low! last noon beheld them full of lusty life, last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay; the midnight brought the signal sound of strife; the morn the marshalling of arms; the day battle's magnificently stern array! the thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, the earth is covered thick with other clay, which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent! _lord byron._ * * * * * the bridal wine-cup. scene--_parlour, with wedding party, consisting of_ judge otis; marion, _his daughter, the bride_; harry wood, _the bridegroom; a few relatives and friends; all gathered around the centre table, on which are decanters and wine-glasses_. _one of the company_--let us drink the health of the newly-wedded pair. (_turns to harry_.) shall it be in wine? (_turns to marion_,) or in sparkling cold water? harry--pledge in wine, if it be the choice of the company. _several voices_--pledge in wine, to be sure. marion--(_with great earnestness_.)--o no! harry; not wine, i pray you. judge otis--yes, marion, my daughter; lay aside your foolish prejudices for this once; the company expect it, and you should not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette. in your own house you may act as you please; but in mine, which you are about to leave, for this once please me, by complying with my wishes in this matter. [_a glass of wine is handed to marion, which she slowly and reluctantly raises to her lips, but just as it reaches them she exclaims, excitedly, holding out the glass at arm's length, and staring at it_,] marion--oh! how terrible. _several voices--(eagerly)_--what is it? what do you see? marion--wait--wait, and i will tell you. i see _(pointing to the glass with her finger)_ a sight that beggars all description; and yet listen, and i will paint it for you, if i can. it is a lonely spot; tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise in awful sublimity around; a river runs through, and bright flowers in wild profusion grow to the water's edge. there is a thick, warm mist, that the sun vainly seeks to pierce; trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds; and beneath them a group of indians gather. they move to and fro with something like sorrow upon their dark brows, for in their midst lies a manly form, whose cheek is deathly pale, and whose eye is wild with the fitful fire of fever. one of his own white race stands, or rather kneels, beside him, pillowing the poor sufferer's head upon his breast with all a brother's tenderness. look! _(she speaks with renewed energy)_ how he starts up, throws the damp curls back from his high and noble brow, and clasps his hands in agony of despair; hear his terrible shrieks for life; and mark how he clutches at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved from despair and death. o, what a terrible scene! genius in ruins, pleading for that which can never be regained when once lost. hear him call piteously his father's name; see him clutch his fingers as he shrieks for his sister--his only sister, the twin of his soul--now weeping for him in his distant home! see! his hands are lifted to heaven; he prays--how wildly!--for mercy, while the hot fever rushes through his veins. the friend beside him is weeping in despair; and the awe-stricken sons of the forest move silently away, leaving the living and the dying alone together. _(the judge, overcome with emotion, falls into a chair, while the rest of the company seem awe-struck, as marion's voice grows softer and more sorrowful in its_ _tones, yet remains distinct and clear.)_ it is evening now, the great, white moon, is coming up, and her beams fall gently upon his forehead. he moves not; for his eyes are set in their sockets, and their once piercing glance is dim. in vain his companion whispers the name of father and sister; death is there to dull the pulse, to dim the eye, and to deafen the ear. death! stern, terrible, and with no soft hand, no gentle voice, to soothe his fevered brow, and calm his troubled soul and bid it hope in god. _(harry sits down and covers his face with his hands)_ death overtook him thus; and there, in the midst of the mountain forest, surrounded by indian tribes, they scooped him a grave in the sand; and without a shroud or coffin, prayer or hymn, they laid him down in the damp earth to his final slumber. thus died and was buried the only son of a proud father; the only, idolized brother of a fond sister. there he sleeps to-day, undisturbed, in that distant land, with no stone to mark the spot. there he lies--_my father's son_--my own twin brother! a victim to this _(holds up the glass before the company)_ deadly, damning poison! father! _(turning to the judge,)_ father, shall i drink it now? judge otis--_(raising his bowed head and speaking with faltering voice)_--no, no, my child! in god's name, cast it away. marion--_(letting her glass fall and dash to pieces)_--let no friend who loves me hereafter tempt me to peril my soul for wine. not firmer the everlasting hills than my resolve, god helping me, never to touch or taste that terrible poison. and he _(turning to harry,)_ to whom i have this night given my heart and hand, who watched over my brother's dying form in that last sad hour, and buried the poor wanderer there by the river, in that land of gold, will, i trust, sustain me in this resolve. will you not, _(offers him her hand, which he takes,)_ my husband? harry--with the blessing of heaven upon my efforts, i will; and i thank you, beyond expression, for the, solemn lesson you have taught us all on this occasion. judge otis--god bless you (_taking marion and harry by the hand and speaking with deep emotion_,) my children; and may i, too, have grace given me to help you in your efforts to keep this noble resolve. _one of the company_--let us honour the firmness and nobleness of principle of the fair bride, by drinking her health in pure, sparkling water, the only beverage which the great creator of the universe gave to the newly-wedded pair in the beautiful garden of eden. _dramatized by sidney herbert_. * * * * * mary stuart. act iii. scene iv. the park at fotheringay. mary. farewell high thought, and pride of noble mind! i will forget my dignity, and all my sufferings; i will fall before _her_ feet, who hath reduced me to this wretchedness. [_she turns towards elizabeth._ the voice of heaven decides for you, my sister. your happy brows are now with triumph crown'd, i bless the power divine, which thus hath rais'd you. [_she kneels._ but in your turn be merciful, my sister; let me not lie before you thus disgraced; stretch forth your hand, your royal hand, to raise your sister from the depths of her distress eliz. (_stepping back_). you are where it becomes you, lady stuart; and thankfully i prize my god's protection, who hath not suffer'd me to kneel a suppliant thus at your feet, as you now kneel at mine. mary. (_with increasing energy of feeling_). think on all earthly things, vicissitudes. oh! there are gods who punish haughty pride; respect them, honour them, the dreadful ones who thus before thy feet have humbled me! dishonour not yourself in me; profane not, nor disgrace the royal blood of tudor. eliz. (_cold and severe_). what would you say to me, my lady stuart? you wish'd to speak with me; and i, forgetting the queen, and all the wrongs i have sustained, fulfil the pious duty of the sister, and grant the boon you wished for of my presence. yet i, in yielding to the gen'rous feelings of magnanimity, expose myself to rightful censure, that i stoop so low, for well you know, you would have had me murder'd. mary. o! how shall i begin? o, how shall i so artfully arrange my cautious words, that they may touch, yet not offend your heart?- i am a queen, like you, yet you have held me confin'd in prison. as a suppliant i came to you, yet you in me insulted the pious use of hospitality; slighting in me the holy law of nations, immur'd me in a dungeon--tore from me my friends and servants; to unseemly want i was exposed, and hurried to the bar of a disgraceful, insolent tribunal. no more of this;--in everlasting silence be buried all the cruelties i suffer'd! see--i will throw the blame of all on fate, 'twas not your fault, no more than it was mine, an evil spirit rose from the abyss, to kindle in our hearts the flames of hate, by which our tender youth had been divided. [_approaching her confidently, and with a flattering tone._ now stand we face to face; now sister, speak; name but my crime, i'll fully satisfy you,- alas! had you vouchsaf'd to hear me then, when i so earnest sought to meet your eye, it never would have come to this, nor would, here in this mournful place, have happen'd now this so distressful, this so mournful meeting. eliz. my better stars preserved me. i was warn'd, and laid not to my breast the pois'nous adder! accuse not fate! your own deceitful heart it was, the wild ambition of your house. but god is with me. the blow was aim'd full at my head, but your's it is which falls! mary. i'm in the hand of heav'n. you never will exert so cruelly the pow'r it gives you. eliz. who shall prevent me? say, did not your uncle set all the kings of europe the example how to conclude a peace with those they hate. force is my only surety; no alliance can be concluded with a race of vipers. mary. you have constantly regarded me but as a stranger, and an enemy, had you declared me heir to your dominions, as is my right, then gratitude and love in me had fixed, for you a faithful friend and kinswoman. eliz. your friendship is abroad. name _you_ my successor! the treach'rous snare! that in my life you might seduce my people; and, like a sly armida, in your net entangle all our noble english youth; that all might turn to the new rising sun, and i-mary. o sister, rule your realm in peace. i give up ev'ry claim to these domains- alas! the pinions of my soul are lam'd; greatness entices me no more; your point is gained; i am but mary's shadow now- my noble spirit is at last broke down by long captivity:--you're done your worst on me; you have destroy'd me in my bloom! now, end your work, my sister;--speak at length the word, which to pronounce has brought you hither; for i will ne'er believe, that you are come, to mock unfeelingly your hapless victim. pronounce this word;--say, "mary, you are free; you have already felt my pow'r,--learn now to honour too my generosity." say this, and i will take my life, will take my freedom, as a present from your hands. one word makes all undone;--i wait for it;- o let it not be needlessly delay'd. woe to you, if you end not with this word! for should you not, like some divinity, dispensing noble blessings, quit me now, then, sister, not for all this island's wealth, for all the realms encircled by the deep, would i exchange my present lot for yours. eliz. and you confess at last that you are conquer'd are all you schemes run out? no more assassins now on the road? will no adventurer attempt again for you the sad achievement? yes, madam, it is over:--you'll seduce no mortal more--the world has other cares;- none is ambitious of the dang'rous honour of being your fourth husband. mary (_starting angrily_) sister, sister- grant me forbearance, all ye pow'rs of heaven! eliz. (_regards her long with a look of proud contempt_). these then, are the charms which no man with impunity can view, near which no woman dare attempt to stand? in sooth, this honour has been cheaply gain'd, mary. this is too much! eliz. (_laughing insultingly_). you show us, now indeed, your real face; till now 'twas but the mask. mary, (_burning with rage, yet dignified and noble_). my sins were human, and the faults of youth; superior force misled me. i have never denied or sought to hide it; i despis'd, all false appearance as became a queen. the worst of me is known, and i can say, that i am better than the fame i bear. woe to you! when, in time to come, the world shall draw the robe of honour from your deeds, with which thy arch-hypocrisy has veil'd the raging flames of lawless secret lust. virtue was not your portion from your mother; well know we what it was which brought the head of anne boleyn to the fatal block. i've supported what human nature can support; farewell, lamb-hearted resignation, passive patience, fly to thy native heaven; burst at length thy bonds, come forward from thy dreary cave, in all thy fury, long-suppressed rancour! and thou, who to the anger'd basilisk impart'st the murd'rous glance, o, arm my tongue with poison'd darts! (_raising her voice_). a pretender profanes the english throne! the gen'rous britons are cheated by a juggler, [whose whole figure is false and painted, heart at well as face!] if right prevail'd, you now would in the dust before me lie, for i'm your rightful monarch! [elizabeth _hastily retires_. mary. at last, at last, after whole years of sorrow and abasement, one moment of victorious revenge! * * * * * scene from leah, the forsaken. act iv. scene iii. scene.--_night. the village churchyard. enter leah slowly, her hair streaming over her shoulders._ leah--[_solus_]-what seek i here? i know not; yet i feel i have a mission to fulfil. i feel that the cords of my i being are stretched to their utmost effort. already seven days! so long! as the dead lights were placed about the body of abraham, as the friends sat nightly at his feet and watched, so have i sat, for seven days, and wept over the corpse of my love. what have i done? am i not the child of man? is not love the right of all,--like the air, the light? and if i stretched my hands towards it, was it a crime? when i first saw him, first heard the sound of his voice, something wound itself around my heart. then first i knew why i was created, and for the first time, was thankful for my life. collect thyself, mind, and think! what has happened? i saw him yesterday--no! eight days ago! he was full of love. "you'll come," said he. i came. i left my people. i tore the cords that bound me to my nation, and came to him. he cast me forth into the night. and yet, my heart, you throb still. the earth still stands, the sun still shines, as if it had not gone down forever, for me. by his side stood a handsome maid, and drew him away with caressing hands. it is _she_ he loves, and to the jewess he dares offer gold. i will seek him! i will gaze on his face--that deceitful beautiful face. [_church illuminated. organ plays softly_.] i will ask him what i have done that--[_hides face in her hands and weeps. organ swells louder and then subsides again_.] perhaps he has been misled by some one--some false tongue! his looks, his words, seem to reproach me. why was i silent? thou proud mouth, ye proud lips, why did you not speak? perhaps he loves me still. perhaps his soul, like mine, pines in nameless agony, and yearns for reconciliation. [_music soft_.] why does my hate melt away at this soft voice with which heaven calls to me? that grand music! i hear voices. it sounds like a nuptial benediction; perhaps it is a loving bridal pair. amen--amen! to that prayer, whoever you may be. [_music stops_.] i, poor desolate one, would like to see their happy faces--i must--this window. yes, here i can see into the church. [_looks into the window. screams_.] do i dream? kind heaven, that prayer, that amen, you heard it not. i call it back. you did not hear my blessing. you were deaf. did no blood-stained dagger drop upon them? 'tis he! revenge!----no! thou shalt judge! thine, jehovah, is the vengeance. thou, alone, canst send it. [_rests her arm upon a broken column.] enter rudolf from the sacristy door, with wreath in hand._ rud.--i am at last alone. i cannot endure the joy and merriment around me. how like mockery sounded the pious words of the priest! as i gazed towards the church windows i saw a face, heard a muffled cry. i thought it was her face,--her voice. leah.--(_coldly_.) did you think so? rud.--leah! is it you? leah.--yes. rud.--(_tenderly_.) leah-leah.--silence, perjured one! can the tongue that lied, still speak? the breath that called me wife, now swear faith to another! does it dare to mix with the pure air of heaven? is this the man i worshipped? whose features i so fondly gazed upon! ah! [_shuddering_] no--no! the hand of heaven has crushed, beaten and defaced them! the stamp of divinity no longer rests there! [_walks away_.] rud.--leah! hear me! leah.--[turning fiercely.] ha! you call me back? i am pitiless now. rud.--you broke faith first. you took the money. leah.--money! what money? rud.--the money my father sent you. leah.--sent me money? for what? rud.--[_hesitating_.] to induce you to release me--to---leah.--that i might release you? and you knew it? you permitted it? rud.--i staked my life that you would not take it. leah.--and you believed i had taken it? rud.--how could i believe otherwise? i---leah.--[_with rage_] and you believed i had taken it, miserable christian, and you cast me off! not a question was the jewess worth. this, then, was thy work; this the eternity of love you promised me. forgive me, heaven, that i forgot my nation to love this christian. let that love be lost in hate. love is false, unjust--hate endless, eternal. rud.--cease these gloomy words of vengeance--i have wronged you. i feel it without your reproaches. i have sinned; but to sin is human, and it would be but human to forgive. leah.--you would tempt me again? i do not know that voice. rud.--i will make good the evil i have done; aye, an hundredfold. leah.--aye, crush the flower, grind it under foot, then make good the evil you have done. no! no! an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a heart for a heart! rud.--hold, fierce woman, i will beseech no more! do not tempt heaven; let it be the judge between us! if i have sinned through love, see that you do not sin through hate. leah.--blasphemer! and you dare call on heaven! what commandant hast thou not broken? thou shalt not swear falsely--you broke faith with me! thou shalt not steal--you stole my heart. thou shalt not kill--what of life have you left me? rud.--hold, hold! no more! [_advancing_.] leah.--[_repelling him_.] the old man who died because i loved you, the woman who hungered because i followed you, may they follow you in dreams, and be a drag upon your feet forever. may you wander as i wander, suffer shame as i now suffer it. cursed be the land you till: may it keep faith with you as you have kept faith with me. cursed, thrice cursed, may you be evermore, and as my people on mount ebal spoke, so speak i thrice! amen! amen! amen! [_rudolf drops on his knees as the curtain descends on the tableau_.] * * * * * scene from leah. act v. scene i. rud.--(_leah comes down stage gently and sad, listening_). think, madalena, of her lot and mine. while i clasp a tender wife, and a lovely child; she wanders in foreign lands, suffering and desolate. it is not alone her curse that haunts me, it is her pale and gentle face, which i seem to see in my dreams, and which so sadly says to me, "i have forgiven!" oh, madalena, could i but hear her say this, and tell her how deeply i feel that i have wronged her--could i but wet her hands with my repentent tears, then would i find peace. mad.--rudolf, a thought! in yonder valley camps a company of jews who are emigrating to america; perhaps one of them may be able to give you news of leah, and if you find her, she shall share the blessings of our home. she shall be to me a dear sister! _(leah hastily conceals herself.)_ ha, that beggar woman, where is she? _(looks around.)_ perhaps she belongs to the tribe; perhaps she may tell you of her. rud.--how say you? a beggar woman? mad.--yes, a poor jewess, whom i rescued to-day. she must now be in the house. oh, come, rudolf, let us find her. all may yet be well! _[exeunt in house._ _enter leah from behind a hayrick._ leah.--have i heard aright? the iron bands seem melting, the cold dead heart moves, and beats once more! the old life returns. rudolf! _(tears.)_ my rudolf. no, no, he is no longer mine! the flame is extinguished, and only the empty lamp remains above the sepulchre of my heart. no, madalena, no, i shall not remain to be a reproach to you both. i will wander on with my people, but the hate i have nourished has departed. i may not love, but i forgive--yes, i forgive him. but his child. oh, i should so like to see his child! _child comes to doorway from house._ fear not, little one, come hither. child.--_(coming towards her)._ is it you? father seeks you. leah.--his very image. _(kisses her,)_ what is your name, my darling? child.--leah. leah.--what say you? leah? child.--did you know the other leah?--she whom mother and father speak of so often, and for whom every night i must pray? leah.--_(with emotion, kissing her, and giving her a withered rosewreath, which she takes from inside her dress)_ take this, my pretty one. child.--a rose-wreath? leah--take it, and give it your father. say to him your little prayer has been heard, and that leah--_(emotion)_--leah forgives. _(going, returns again, kisses child, and with extended arms and choking voice.)_ bless, you, darling! _(extending arms to house.)_ and you, and you-and all--and all'. _(goes to fence, totters, and sinks down, endeavoring to exit.)_ _enter rudolf and madalena from house._ rud.--not here! child--_(running to madalena.)_ see, mother, see what the strange woman gave me. _(showing wreath.)_ mad.--_(not noticing child)_ where is she? child.--she has gone away _(running to rudolf with wreath.)_ see, father. rud.--_(taking wreath.)_ a rose-wreath. great heaven, madalena, it must have been leah; it is my wreath. leah! mad.--it was she! rud.--yes, it was leah. by this token we are reconciled. _(leah moans.)_ ha, what sound is that? mad.--_(going to the prostrate figure.)_ quick, rudolf! it is she. _(they run to her, raise her up, and bear her to front.)_ leah.--_(feebly.)_ i tried to go, but my strength forsook me. i shall, at least, then, die here! rud.--die! no, no; speak not of dying, you shall live! leah.--no; i am too happy to live. see, madalena, i take his hand, but it is to place it in yours. all is over. _(sinks into their arms.)_ scene from pizarro. scene i.--a dungeon. _alonzo in chains--a sentinel walking near._ alonzo. (c.)--for the last time, i have beheld the quivering lustre of the stars. for the last time, o, sun! (and soon the hour), i shall behold thy rising, and thy level beams melting the pale mists of morn to glittering dew drops. then comes my death, and in the morning of my day, i fall, which--no, alonzo, date not the life which thou hast run, by the mean reckoning of the hours and days, which thou has breathed:--a life spent worthily should be measured by a nobler line; by deeds, not years. they only have lived long, who have lived virtuously. surely, even now, thin streaks of glimmering light steal on the darkness of the east. if so, my life is but one hour more. i will not watch the coming dawn; but in the darkness of my cell, my last prayer to thee, power supreme! shall be for my wife and child! grant them to dwell in innocence and peace; grant health and purity of mind--all else is worthless. [_enters the cavern_, r. u. e. sen.--who's there? answer quickly! who's there? rol.--(_within._) a friar come to visit your prisoner. (_enters_, l. u. e. _disguised as a monk._) inform me, friend, is not alonzo, the spanish prisoner, confined in this dungeon? sen.--(c.) he is. rol.--i must speak with him. sen.--you must not. (_stopping him with his spear._) rol.--he is my friend. sen.--not if he were your brother. rol.--what is to be his fate? sen.--he dies at sunrise. rol.--ha! then i am come in time. sen.--just--to witness his death. rol.--soldier, i must speak to him. sen.--back, back--it is impossible. rol.--i do entreat you, but for one moment. sen.--you entreat in vain--my orders are most strict. rol.--look on this wedge of massive gold--look on these precious gems. in thy own land they will be wealth for thee and thine--beyond thy hope or wish. take them--they are thine. let me but pass one minute with alonzo. sen.--away!--wouldst thou corrupt me? me! an old castilian! i know my duty better. rol.--soldier!--hast thou a wife? sen.--i have. rol.--hast thou children? sen.--four--honest, lovely boys. rol.--where didst thou leave them? sen.--in my native village; even in the cot where myself was born. rol.--dost thou love thy children and thy wife? sen.--do i love them! god knows my heart--i do. rol.--soldier! imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel death in this strange land. what would be thy last request? sen.--that some of my comrades should carry my dying blessing to my wife and children. rol.--oh! but if that comrade was at thy prison gate, and should there be told--thy fellow-soldier dies at sunset, yet thou shalt not for a moment see him, nor shalt thou bear his dying blessing to his poor children or his wretched wife, what would'st thou think of him, who thus could drive thy comrade from the door? sen.--how? rol.--alonzo has a wife and child. i am come but to receive for her, and for her babe, the last blessing of my friend. sen.--go in. [_shoulders his spear and walks to_ l. u. e. rol. (c.)--oh, holy nature! thou dost never plead in vain. there is not of our earth a creature bearing form, and life--human or savage--native of the forest wild, or giddy air--around whose parent bosom thou hast not a cord entwined of power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and at thy will to draw them back to thee. on iron pinions borne, the blood-stained vulture cleaves the storm, yet is the plumage closest to her heart soft as the cygnet's down, and o'er her unshelled brood the murmuring ring-dove sits not more gently.--yes, now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer gate! alonzo! alonzo, my friend! ha! in gentle sleep! alonzo--rise! alon.--how, is my hour elapsed? well, (_returning from the recess_ r. u. e.) i am ready. rol.--alonzo, know me. alon.--what voice is that? rol.--'tis rolla's. [_takes off his disguise._ alon.--rolla, my friend (_embraces him._) heavens!--how could'st thou pass the guard?--did this habit-rol.--there is not a moment to be lost in words. this disguise i tore from the dead body of a friar as i passed our field of battle; it has gained me entrance to thy dungeon: now, take it thou and fly. alon.--and rolla-rol.--will remain here in thy place. alon.--and die for me? no! rather eternal tortures rack me. rol.--i shall not die, alonzo. it is thy life pizarro seeks, not rolla's; and from thy prison soon will thy arm deliver me. or, should it be otherwise, i am as a blighted plantain standing alone amid the sandy desert--nothing seeks or lives beneath my shelter. thou art--a husband and a father; the being of a lovely wife and helpless infant hangs upon thy life. go! go, alonzo! go, to save, not thyself, but cora and thy child! alon.--urge me not thus, my friend! i had prepared to die in peace. rol.--to die in peace! devoting her thou'st sworn to live for to madness, misery, and death! for, be assured, the state i left her in forbids all hope, but from thy quick return. alon.--oh, god! rol.--if thou art yet irresolute, alonzo, now heed me well. i think thou hast not known that rolla ever pledged his word, and shrunk from its fulfilment. and by the heart of truth, i swear, if thou art proudly obstinate to deny thy friend the transport of preserving cora's life, in thee; no power that sways the will of man shalt stir me hence; and thoul't but have the desperate triumph of seeing rolla perish by thy side, with the assured conviction that cora and thy child--are lost forever. alon.--oh, rolla! you distract me! rol.--begone! a moment's further pause, and all is lost. the dawn approaches. fear not for me; i will treat with pizarro, as for surrender and submission. i shall gain time, doubt not, whilst thou, with a chosen band, passing the secret way, may'st at night return, release thy friend, and bear him back in triumph. yes, hasten, dear alonzo! even now i hear the frantic cora call thee! haste, alonzo! haste! haste! alon.--rolla, i fear thy friendship drives me from honour and from right. rol.--did rolla ever counsel dishonour to his friend? alon.--oh! my preserver! [_embracing him._ rol.--i feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek.--go! i am rewarded. (_throwing the friar's garment over him._) there, conceal thy face; and that they may not clank, hold fast thy chains. now, god be with thee! alon.--at night we meet again. then, so aid me heaven! i return to save or perish with thee. [_exit_ l.u.e. rol. (_looking after him._)--he has passed the outer porch--he is safe! he will soon embrace his wife and child! now, cora, did'st thou not wrong me? this is the first time throughout my life, i ever deceived man. forgive me, god of truth! if i am wrong. alonzo flatters himself that we shall meet again! yes, there! (_lifting his hands to heaven._)-assuredly we shall meet again; there, possess in peace, the joys of everlasting love, and friendship--on earth imperfect and embittered. i will retire, lest the guard return before alonzo may have passed their lines. [_retires into the cavern._ act v scene i.--_a thick forest. a dreadful storm._ cora _has covered her child in a bed of leaves and moss,_ r. u. e. cora. (_sitting on bank by child,_ r.)--oh, nature! thou hast not the strength of love. my anxious spirit is untired in its march; my wearied shivering frame sinks under it. and for thee, my boy, when faint beneath thy lovely burden, could i refuse to give thy slumbers that poor bed of rest! oh, my child! were i assured thy poor father breathes no more, how quickly would i lay me down by thy dear side!--but down--down forever! (_thunder and lightning._) i ask thee not, unpitying storm to abate thy rage, in mercy to poor cora's misery; nor while thy thunders spare his slumbers, will i disturb my sleeping cherub, though heaven knows i wish to hear the voice of life, and feel that life is near me. but i will endure all while what i have of reason holds. (_thunder and lightning._) still, still implacable!--unfeeling elements! yet still dost thou sleep, my smiling innocent! oh, death! when wilt thou grant to this babe's mother such repose? sure i may shield thee better from the storm: my veil may-alon. (_without_ l.)--cora! cora (_runs to_ c.) ha! alon.--cora! cora--oh, my heart. sweet heaven, deceive me not. is it not alonzo's voice? alon. (_louder_)--cora! cora (l. c.)--it is--it is alonzo! alon. (_very loud_) cora! my beloved! cora (l.) alonzo! here!--here!--alonzo! [_runs out._ * * * * * the battle of agincourt. the king is reported to have dismounted before the battle commenced, and to have fought on foot. hollinshed states that the english army consisted of 15,000, and the french of 60,000 horse and 40,000 infantry--in all, 100,000. walsingham and harding represent the english as but 9,000, and other authors say that the number of french amounted to 150,000. fabian says the french were 40,000, and the english only 7,000. the battle lasted only three hours. the noble duke of gloucester, the king's brother, pushing himself too vigorously on his horse into the conflict, was grievously wounded, and cast down to the earth, by the blows of the french, for whose protection the king being interested, he bravely leapt against his enemies in defence of his brother, defended him with his own body, and plucked and guarded him from the raging malice of the enemy, sustaining perils of war scarcely possible to be borne. _nicolas's history of agincourt_. during the battle the duke of alenã§on most valiantly broke through the english lines, and advanced fighting near the king--inasmuch that he wounded and struck down the duke of york. king henry seeing this stepped forth to his aid, and as he was leaning down to aid him the duke of alenã§on gave him a blow on his helmet that struck off part of his crown. the king's guards on this surrounded him, when seeing he could no way escape death but by surrendering, he lifted up his arms and said to the king, "i am the duke of alenã§on, and yield myself to you." but as the king was holding out his hand to receive his pledge he was put to death by the guards. _monstrelet._ * * * * * gloster, bedford, exeter, salisbury, erpingham, _and_ westmoreland _discovered_. glo. where is the king? bed. the king himself is rode to view their battle. west. of fighting men they have full threescore thousand. exe. there's five to one; besides they're all fresh. 'tis a fearful odds. if we no more meet till we meet in heaven, then joyfully my noble lord of bedford, my dear lord gloster, and my good lord exeter and my kind kinsman, warriors all--adieu! west. o that we now had here _enter_ king henry, _attended_. but one ten thousand of those men in england that do no work to-day! k. hen. what's he that wishes so? my cousin westmoreland?--no, my fair cousin: if we are mark'd to die, we are enow to do our country loss; and if to live, the fewer men the greater share of honour. o, do not wish one more; rather proclaim it, westmoreland, through my host, that he which hath no stomach to this fight let him depart; his passport shall be made, and crowns for convoy put into his purse; we would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us. this day is call'd the feast of crispian: he that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, and rouse him at the name of crispian, he that outlives this day, and sees old age, will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, and say to-morrow is saint crispian: then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars; and say, these wounds i had on crispin's day then shall our names, familiar in their mouths as household words,-harry, the king, bedford and exeter, warwick and talbot, salisbury and gloster,-be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd: this story shall the good man teach his son: and crispin crispian shall ne'er go by, from this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remember'd: we few, we happy few, we band of brothers: for he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile this day shall gentle his condition; and gentlemen in england, now a-bed, shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here; and hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks that fought with us upon st. crispin's day. _enter_ gower. gower. my sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed the french are bravely in their battles set, and will with all expedience charge on us. k. hen. all things are ready, if our minds be so. west. perish the man whose mind is backward now! k. hen. thou dost not wish more help from england, coz? west. heaven's will, my liege, i would you and i alone, without more help could fight this royal battle! k. hen. why, now thou hast unwish'd five thousand men; which likes me better than to wish us one.-you know your places: god be with you all! _enter_ montjoy _and attendants._ mont. once more i come to know of thee, king harry if for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, before thy most assured overthrow: for, certainly, thou art so near the gulf thou needs must be englutted. besides, in mercy, the constable desires thee thou wilt mind thy followers of repentance; that their souls may make a peaceful and a sweet retire from off these fields, where (wretches) their poor bodies must lie and fester. k. hen who hath sent thee now? mont. the constable of france. k. hen. i pray thee, bear my former answer back? bid them achieve me, and then sell my bones. good god! why should they mock poor fellows thus? the man that once did sell the lion's skin while the beast liv'd, was kill'd with hunting him. let me speak proudly:--tell the constable, we are but warriors for the working-day; our gayness and our gilt, are all besmirch'd with rainy marching in the painful field; there's not a piece of feather in our host (good argument, i hope, we will not fly), and time hath worn us into slovenry; but, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim: and my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night they'll be in fresher robes; or they will pluck the gay new coats o'er the french soldiers' heads, and turn them out of service. if they do this, (as if god please, they shall), my ransom then will soon be levied. herald, save thou thy labour; come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald; they shall have none, i swear, but these my joints; which if they have as i will leave 'em them shall yield them little, tell the constable. mont. i shall, king harry. and so fare thee well: thou never shalt hear herald any more. [_exit._ k. hen. i fear thou'lt once more come again for ransom. _enter the_ duke of york. york. my lord, most humbly on my knee i beg the leading of the vaward. k. hen. take it, brave york--now, soldiers, march away:-and how, thou pleasest god, dispose the day! [_exeunt._ * * * * * the quarrel of brutus and cassius. cassius. that you have wronged me doth appear in this: you have condemned and noted lucius pella for taking bribes here of the sardians; wherein my letters (praying on his side, because i knew the man) were slighted of. brutus. you wronged yourself to write in such a case. cas. in such a time as this it is not meet that every nice offence should bear its comment. bru. let me tell you, cassius, you yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm; to sell and mart your offices for gold to undeservers. cas. i an itching palm? you know that you are brutus that speak this, or by the gods! this speech were else your last. bru. the name of cassius honours this corruption, and chastisement doth therefore, hide its head. cas. chastisement! bru. remember march, the ides of march remember! did not great julius bleed for justice sake? what! i shall one of us that struck the foremost man of all this world but for supporting robbers--shall we now contaminate our fingers with base bribes, and sell the mighty space of our large honours for so much trash as may be graspã©d thus? i had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, than such a roman. cas. brutus, bay not me. i'll not endure it. you forget yourself to hedge me in. i am a soldier, i, older in practice, abler than yourself to make conditions. bru. go to, you are not, cassius. cas. i am. bru. i say you are not. cas. urge me no more: i shall forget myself: have mind upon your health; tempt me no farther. bru. away, slight man! cas. i'st possible? bru. hear me, for i will speak. must i give way and room to your rash choler? shall i be frightened when a madman stares? cas. must i endure all this? bru. all this! ay, more. fret till your proud heart break. go show your slaves how choleric you are, and make your bondmen tremble. must i budge? must i observe you? must i stand and crouch under your testy humour? by the gods! you shall digest the venom of your spleen, though it do split you; for from this day forth i'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, when you are waspish. cas. is it come to this? bru. you say you are a better soldier: let it appear so; make your vaunting true; and it shall please me well. for mine own part, i shall be glad to learn of noble men. cas. you wrong me every way, you wrong me, brutus; i said an elder soldier, not a better. did i say better? bru. if you did, i care not. cas. when caesar lived, he durst not thus, have moved me. bru. peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him. cas. i _durst_ not? bru. no. cas. what _durst_ not tempt him? bru. for your life you durst not. cas. do not presume too much upon my love; i may do that i shall be sorry for. bru. you _have_ done that you _should_ be sorry for. there is no terror, cassius, in your threats, for i am arm'd so strong in honesty, that they pass by me as the idle wind which i respect not. i did send to you for certain sums of gold, which you denied me; for i can raise no money by vile means. by heavens! i had rather coin my heart, and drop my blood for drachmas, than wring from the hard hands of peasants their vile trash by any indirection. i did send to you for gold to pay my legions, which you denied me! was that done like cassius? should i have answered caius cassius so? when marcus brutus grows so covetous, to lock such rascal counters from his friends, be ready, gods! with all your thunderbolts dash him to pieces. cas. i denied you not. bru. you did. ca. i did not: he was but a fool that brought my answer back. brutus hath rived my heart, a friend should bear a friend's infirmities; but brutus makes mine greater than they are. bru. i do not till you practise them on me. cas. you love me not. bru. i do not like your faults. cas. a friendly eye could never see such faults. bru. a flatterer's would not, though they did appear as huge as high olympus. cas. come, antony! and young octavius, come! revenge yourself alone on cassius, for cassius is a-weary of the world-hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; check'd like a bondman; all his faults observed, set in a note-book, learn'd and conn'd by rote, to cast into my teeth. oh, i could weep my spirit from mine eyes! there is my dagger, and here my naked breast--within, a heart dearer than plutus' mine, richer than gold: if that thou need'st a roman's, take it forth! i, that denied thee gold, will give my heart. strike as thou didst at caesar; for i know when thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better than ever thou lovedst cassius. bru. sheath your dagger; be angry when you will, it shall have scope; do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. o, cassius, you are yokã©d with a man that carries anger as the flint bears fire, who, much enforcã¨d, shows a hasty spark, and straight is cold again. cas. hath cassius lived to be but mirth and laughter to his brutus, when grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him? bru. when i spoke that, i was ill-tempered too. cas. do you confess so much? give me your hand. bru. and my heart too. (_embracing._) cas. o, brutus! bru. what's the matter? cas. have you not love enough to bear with me, when that rash humour which my mother gave me makes me forgetful? brit. yes, cassius, and from henceforth, when you are over-earnest with your brutus, he'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. _shakespeare._ * * * * * scenes from hamlet. hamlet _and_ ghost _discovered_. hamlet, (c) whither wilt thou lead me? speak! i'll go no further. ghost. (l. c.) mark me. ham. (r. c.) i will. ghost. my hour is almost come when i to sulph'rous and tormenting flames must render up myself. ham. alas, poor ghost! ghost. pity me not; but lend thy serious hearing to what i shall unfold. ham. speak, i am bound to hear. ghost. so art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear. ham. what? ghost. i am thy father's spirit: doomed for a certain term to walk the night; and, for the day, confined to fast in fires, till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, are burnt and purged away. but that i am forbid to tell the secrets of my prison-house, i could a tale unfold, whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood; make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, thy knotted and combined locks to part, and each particular hair to stand on end, like quills upon the fretful porcupine: but this eternal blazon must not be to ears of flesh and blood: list, list, oh, list!-if thou didst ever thy dear father love- ham. oh, heaven! ghost. revenge his foul and most unnatural murder. ham. murder! ghost. murder most foul, as in the best it is; but this most foul, strange, and unnatural. ham. haste me to know it, that i, with wings as swift as meditation, or the thoughts of love, may sweep to my revenge. ghost. i find thee apt. now, hamlet, hear: tis given out, that sleeping in my orchard, a serpent stung me; so that the whole ear of denmark is, by a forged process of my death, rankly abused: but know, thou noble youth, the serpent that did sting thy father's life now wears his crown. ham. oh, my prophetic soul! my uncle? ghost. ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, with witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts, won to his shameful lust the will of my most seeming-virtuous queen: oh, hamlet, what a falling off was there! from me, whose love was of that dignity, that it went hand in hand, even with the vow i made to her in marriage; and to decline upon a wretch, whose natural gifts were poor to those of mine!-but, soft, methinks i scent the morning air-brief let me be:--sleeping within mine orchard, my custom always of the afternoon, upon my secure hour thy uncle stole, with juice of cursed hebenon in a phial, and in the porches of mine ears did pour the leperous distilment: whose effect holds such an enmity with blood of man, that swift as quicksilver it courses through the natural gates and alleys of the body; so it did mine. thus was i, sleeping, by a brother's hand, of life, of crown, of queen, at once despatched cut off, even in the blossoms of my sin, no reck'ning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head. ham. oh, horrible! oh, horrible! most horrible! ghost. it thou hast nature in thee, bear it not; let not the royal bed of denmark be a couch for luxury and damned incest, but, howsoever thou pursu'st this act, taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, and to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, to goad and sting her. fare thee well at once the glow-worm shows the matin to be near, and 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire. adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me. (_vanishes_, l. c) ham. (r.) hold, hold, my heart; and you my sinews, grow not instant old, but bear me stiffly up. (c.) remember thee? ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat in this distracted globe. remember thee? yea, from the table of my memory i'll wipe away all forms, all pressures past, and thy commandment all alone shall live within the book and volume of my brain, unmixed with baser matter; yes, by heaven, i have sworn it. _shakespeare._ * * * * * hamlet's advice to the players. hamlet _and_ player _discovered._ hamlet. speak the speech, i pray you, as i pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, i had as lieve the town-crier spoke my lines. 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 your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. oh, 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 shows, and noise! i would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing termagant; it out-herods herod pray you avoid it. 1st act. (r.) i warrant your honour. ham. be not too tame, neither; but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, and the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature: for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. now this, over done, or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, can not but make the judicious grieve; the censure of which one, must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. oh, there be players that i have seen play--and heard others praise, and that highly--not to speak it profanely, that neither having the accent of christians, nor the gait of christian, pagan, or man, have so strutted, and bellowed, that i have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. 1st act. i hope we have reformed that indifferently with us. ham. (c.) oh, reform it altogether. and 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. go, make you ready. horatio! (_exit 1st actor_, l.) _enter_ horatio, r. horatio, (r.)--here, sweet lord, at your service. ham.--horatio, thou art e'en as just a man as e'er my conversation coped withal. hor.--oh, my dear lord!- ham.--nay, do not think i flatter: for what advancement may i hope from thee, that no revenue hast, but thy good spirits, to feed and clothe thee? why should the poor be flattered? no, let the candid tongue lick absurd pomp, and crook the pregnant hinges of the knee, where thrift may follow fawning. dost thou hear? since my dear soul was mistress of her choice, and could of men distinguish her election, she hath sealed thee for herself; for thou hast been as one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing; a man, that fortune's buffets and rewards hast tae'n with equal thanks: and blessed are those whose blood and judgment are so well commingled, that they are not a pipe for fortune's finger to sound what stop she please; give me that man that is not passion's slave, and i will wear him in my heart's core, aye, in my heart of heart, as i do thee. something too much of this. there is a play to-night before the king one scene of it comes near the circumstance which i have told thee of my father's death. i prithee, when thou seest that act afoot, even with the very comment of thy soul observe mine uncle; if his occulted guilt do not itself unkennel in one speech, it is a damned ghost that we have seen, and my imaginations are as foul as vulcan's stithy; give him heedful note. for i mine eyes will rivet to his face, and, after, we will both our judgments join in censure of his seeming. hor.--well, my lord. ham--they are coming to the play, i must be idle. get you a place (_goes and stands_, r) * * * * * hamlet and his mother. hamlet--leave wringing of your hands, peace, sit you down, and let me wring your heart, for so i shall, if it be made of penetrable stuff; if damnã©d custom have not brassed it so, that it be proof and bulwark against sense. queen--what have i done, that thou dar'st wag thy tongue in noise so rude against me? ham--such an act, that blurs the grace and blush of modesty; calls virtue, hypocrite, takes off the rose from the fair forehead of an innocent love, and sets a blister there; makes marriage-vows as false as dicers' oaths: o, such a deed as from the body of contraction plucks the very soul; and sweet religion makes a rhapsody of words: heaven's face doth glow; yea, this solidity and compound mass, with tristful visage, as against the doom, is thought-sick at the act. queen.--ah me, what act, that roars so loud, and thunders in the index? ham.--look here, upon this picture, and on this; the counterfeit presentment of two brothers. see, what a grace was seated on this brow: hyperion's curls; the front of jove himself; an eye like mars, to threaten and command; a station like the herald mercury new-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill; a combination, and a form, indeed, where every god did seem to set his seal, to give the world assurance of a man: this was your husband.--look you now, what follows: here is your husband; like a mildewed ear, blasting his wholesome brother. have you eyes? could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, and batten on this moor? ha! have you eyes? you cannot call it love: for, at your age, the hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble, and waits upon the judgment: and what judgment would step from this to this? sense, sure, you have, else, could you not have motion: but, sure, that sense is apoplexed: for madness would not err; nor sense to ecstacy was ne'er so thralled, but it reserved some quantity of choice, to serve in such a difference. what devil was't that thus hath cozened you at hoodman-blind? eyes without feeling, feeling without sight, ears without hands or eyes, smelling, sans all, or but a sickly part of one true sense could not so mope. o shame! where is thy blush? rebellious hell, if thou canst mutine in a matron's bones, to flaming youth let virtue be as wax, and melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame, when the compulsive ardour gives the charge; since frost itself as actively doth burn, and reason panders will. queen. o hamlet, speak no more: thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul; and there i see such black and grainã©d spots as will not leave their tinct. o, speak to me no more: these words, like daggers, enter in mine ears; no more, sweet hamlet! ham. a murderer, and a villain: a slave, that is not twentieth part the tithe of your precedent lord; a vice of kings; a cutpurse of the empire and the rule, that from a shelf the precious diadem stole, and put it in his pocket. queen. no more. _enter_ ghost. ham. a king of shreds and patches,-save me, and hover o'er me with your wings, you heavenly guards!--what would your gracious figure? queen. alas, he's mad! ham. do you not come your tardy son to chide, that, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by the important acting of your dread command? o, say! ghost. do not forget: this visitation is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. but look! amazement on thy mother sits: o, step between her and her fighting soul, conceit in weakest bodies strongest works, speak to her, hamlet. ham. how is it with you, lady? queen. alas, how is't with you, that you do bend your eye on vacancy, and with the incorporal air do hold discourse? forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep; and, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm, your bedded hair, like life in excrements, starts up, and stands on end. o gentle son, upon the heat and flame of thy distemper sprinkle cool patience. whereon do you look? ham. on him! on him! look you, how pale he glares! his form and cause conjoined, preaching to stones, would make them capable.--do not look upon me; lest, with this piteous action, you convert my stern effects: then what i have to do will want true colour; tears, perchance for blood. queen. to whom do you speak this? ham. do you see nothing there? queen. nothing at all; yet all, that is, i see. ham. nor did you nothing hear? queen. no, nothing, but ourselves. ham. why, look you there! look, how it steals away! my father, in his habit as he lived! look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal! [_exit_ ghost. queen. this is the very coinage of your brain: this bodiless creation ecstasy is very cunning in. ham. ecstasy! my pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, and makes as healthful music: it is not madness that i have uttered: bring me to the test, and i the matter will re-word; which madness would gambol from. mother, for love of grace, lay not that flattering unction to your soul, that not your trespass, but my madness, speaks: it will but skin and film the ulcerous place, whilst rank corruption, mining all within, infects unseen. confess yourself to heaven; repent what's past; avoid what is to come; and do not spread the compost on the weeds to make them ranker. forgive me this my virtue; for in the fatness of these pursy times, virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, yea, curb and woo, for leave to do him good. queen. o hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain! ham. o, throw away the worser part of it, and live the purer with the other half. good night: but go not to mine uncle's room; assume a virtue, if you have it not once more, good night: and when you are desirous to be blessed, i'll blessing beg of you. i must be cruel, only to be kind: thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. _shakespeare._ * * * * * macbeth. act ii.--scene i. macbeth. 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 a 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: 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 design moves like a ghost.--thou sure and firm-set earth, hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear the very stones prate of my where-about, and take the present horror from the time, which now suits with it.--whilst i threat, he lives: 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_. * * * * * scene ii.--_the same._ _enter lady macbeth._ lady m. 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'st good night. he is about it: the doors are open; and the surfeited grooms do mock their charge with snores: i have drugged their possets, that death and nature do contend about them, whether they live, or die. macb. [_within,_] who's there?--what, hoa! lady m. alack! i am afraid they have awak'd, and 'tis not done:--the attempt, and not the deed, confound us:--hark!--i laid their daggers ready, he could not miss them.--had he not resembled my father as he slept i had done't--my husband! _enter macbeth._ macb. i have done the deed:--didst thou not hear a noise?- lady m. i heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry. did you not speak? macb. when? lady m. now. macb. as i descended? lady m. ay. macb. hark!-who lies i' the second chamber? lady m. donalbain. macb. this is a sorry sight. [_looking on his hands._ lady m. a foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. macb. there's one did laugh in his sleep, and one cried "murther!" 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 m. there are two lodg'd together. macb. 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 m. consider it not so deeply. macb. but wherefore could i not pronounce, "amen?" i had most need of blessing, and "amen" stuck in my throat. lady m. these deeds must not be thought after these ways; so, it will make us mad. macb. methought, i heard a voice cry, "sleep no more! macbeth does murther sleep,"--the innocent sleep; sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, the death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, chief nourisher in life's feast. lady m. what do you mean? macb. still it cried, "sleep no more!" to all the house: "glamis hath murther'd sleep: and therefore cawdor shall sleep no more, macbeth shall sleep no more!" lady m. who was it that thus cried? why, worthy thane, you do unbend your noble strength, to think so brainsickly 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. macb. i'll go no more i am afraid to think what i have done; look on't again i dare not. lady m. 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._ macb. 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 incarnardine, making the green one red. _re-enter lady macbeth._ lady m. my hands are of your colour; but i shame 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 is it then! your constancy hath left you unattended.--[_knocking_.] hark! more knocking: get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us, and show us to be watchers:--be not lost so poorly in your thoughts. macb. to know my deed, 'twere best not to know myself. [_knocking_ wake duncan with thy knocking; i would thou could'st' [_exeunt._ * * * * * sleep-walking scene from macbeth. act v. scene i.--_dunsinane. a room in the castle. enter a doctor of physic, and a waiting gentlewoman._ doct. i have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. when was it she last walked? gent. since his majesty went into the field, i have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. doct. a great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching.--in this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say? gent. that, sir, which i will not report after her. doct. you may to me; and 'tis most meet you should. gent. neither to you, nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech. _enter lady macbeth, with a taper._ lo you, here she comes! this is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. observe her: stand close. doct. how came she by that light? gent. why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her command. doct. you see, her eyes are open. gent. ay, but their sense is shut. doct. what is it she does now? look how she rubs her hands. gent. it is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands. i have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour. lady m. yet here's a spot. doct. hark, she speaks: i will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. lady m. out, damned spot! out, i say!--one; two: why, then 'tis time to do 't!--hell is murky!--fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeared! what need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?--yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him! doct. do you mark that? lady m. the thane of fife had a wife: where is she now?--what, will these hands ne'er be clean?--no more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting. doct. go to, go to; you have known what you should not. gent. she has spoke what she should not, i am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known. lady m. here's the smell of the blood still; all the perfumes of arabia will not sweeten this little hand. oh! oh! oh! doct. what a sigh is there! the heart is sorely charged. gent. i would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity of the whole body. doct. well, well, well,-gent. pray god it be, sir. doct. this disease is beyond my practice: yet i have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds. lady m. wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale:--i tell you yet again, banquo's buried; he cannot come out on's grave. doct. even so? lady m. to bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate. come, come, come, come, give me your hand. what's done cannot be undone: to bed, to bed, to bed. _exit lady macbeth._ * * * * * king john. act iii. scene iii. king john _and_ hubert. k. john. come hither, hubert. o my gentle hubert. we owe thee much; within this wall of flesh there is a soul counts thee her creditor, and with advantage means to pay thy love: and, my good friend, thy voluntary oath lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. give me thy hand. i had a thing to say,-but i will fit it with some better time. by heaven, hubert, i am almost asham'd to say what good respect i have of thee. hub. i am much bounden to your majesty. k. john. good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet; but thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow, yet it shall come for me to do thee good. i had a thing to say,--but let it go: the sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, attended with the pleasures of the world, is all too wanton and too full of gauds, to give me audience:--if the midnight bell did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth, sound on into the drowsy race of night; if this same were a church-yard where we stand, and thou possessed with a thousand wrongs; or if that surly spirit, melancholy, had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy--thick, (which else, runs tickling up and down the veins, making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes, and strain their cheeks to idle merriment, a passion hateful to my purposes;) or if that thou could'st see me without eyes, hear me without thine ears, and make reply without a tongue, using conceit alone. without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words; then, in despite of brooded, watchful day, i would into thy bosom pour my thoughts: but ah, i will not:--yet i love thee well: and, by my troth, i think, thou lov'st me well. hub. so well, that what you bid me undertake, though that my death were adjunct to my act, by heaven, i would do it. k. john. do not i know thou would'st? good hubert, hubert, hubert, throw thine eye on yon young boy; i'll tell thee what, my friend, he is a very serpent in my way; and wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread he lies before me: dost thou understand me? thou art his keeper. hub. and i'll keep him so, that he shall not offend your majesty. k. john. death. hub. my lord? k. john. a grave. hub. he shall not live. k. john. enough. i could be merry now: hubert, i love thee. well, i'll not say what i intend for thee: remember.- * * * * * act iv. scene i. hubert _and_ arthur. hub. heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand within the arras; when i strike my foot upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, and bind the boy, which you will find with me, fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch. 1. attend. i hope your warrant will bear out the deed. hub. uncleanly scruples! fear not you: look to't.- _exeunt_ attendants. young lad, come forth; i have to say with you. _enter arthur._ arth. good morrow, hubert. hub. good morrow, little prince. arth. as little prince (having so great a title to be more prince), as may be.--you are sad. hub. indeed, i have been merrier. arth. mercy on me! methinks, nobody should be sad but i: yet, i remember, when i was in france, young gentlemen would be as sad as night, only for wantonness. by my christendom, so i were out of prison, and kept sheep, i should be as merry as the day is long; and so i would be here, but that i doubt my uncle practises more harm to me: he is afraid of me, and i of him: is it my fault that i was geffrey's son? no, indeed, is 't not; and i would to heaven i were your son, so you would love me, hubert. hub. if i talk to him, with his innocent prate he will awake my mercy, which lies dead: therefore i will be sudden, and despatch. [_aside._ arth. are you sick, hubert? you look pale to-day: in sooth, i would you were a little sick; that i might sit all night, and watch with you; i warrant i love you more than you do me. hub. his words do take possession of my bosom.-read here, young arthur [_shewing a paper._ how now, foolish rheum. [_aside._ turning dispiteous torture out of door! i must be brief; lest resolution drop out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears. can you not read it? is it not fair writ? arth. too fairly, hubert, for so foul effect: must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes? hub. young boy, i must. arth. and will you? hub. and i will. arth. have you the heart? when your head did but ake, i knit my hand-kercher about your brows, (the best i had, a princess wrought it me), and i did never ask it you again; and with my hand at midnight held your head; and, like the watchful minutes to the hour, still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time; saying, what lack you? and, where lies your grief? or, what good love may i perform for you? many a poor man's son would have lain still, and ne'er have spoke a loving word to you; but you at your sick service had a prince. nay, you may think my love was crafty love, and call it cunning; do, an if you will; if heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill, why, then you must.--will you put out mine eyes? these eyes, that never did, nor never shall, so much as frown on you? hub. i have sworn to do it; and with hot irons must i burn them out. arth. ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it! the iron of itself, though heat red-hot, approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, and quench his fiery indignation, even in the matter of mine innocence; nay, after that, consume away in rust, but for containing fire to harm mine eye. are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron? and if an angel should have come to me, and told me, hubert should put out mine eyes, i would not have believ'd him. no tongue but hubert's- hub. come forth. [_stamps. re-enter_ attendants, _with cords, irons, etc._ do as i bid you do. arth. o, save me, hubert, save me? my eyes are out, even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. hub. give me the iron, i say, and bind him here. arth. alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough? i will not struggle, i will stand stone-still. for heaven sake, hubert, let me not be bound! nay, hear me, hubert! drive these men away, and i will sit as quiet as a lamb; i will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, nor look upon the iron angerly: thrust but these men away, and i'll forgive you, whatever torment you do put me to. hub. go, stand within; let me alone with him. ist. attend. i am best pleas'd to be from such a deed. [_exeunt_ attendants. arth. alas! i then have chid away my friend; he hath a stern look, but a gentle heart:-let him come back, that his compassion may give life to yours. hub. come, boy, prepare yourself. arth. is there no remedy? hub. none, but to lose your eyes. arth. o heaven!--that there were a mote in yours, a grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, any annoyance in that precious sense! then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there, your vile intent must needs seem horrible. hub. is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue. arth. hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes; let me not hold my tongue; let me not, hubert! or, hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, so i may keep mine eyes. o, spare mine eyes; though to no use, but still to look on you! lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold, and would not harm me. hub. i can heat it, boy. arth. no, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief, being create for comfort, to be us'd in undeserv'd extremes: see else yourself; there is no malice in this burning coal; the breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, and strew'd repentant ashes on his head. hub. but with my breath i can revive it, boy. arth. and if you do, you will but make it blush, and glow with shame of your proceedings, hubert: nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes; and, like a dog that is compelled to fight, snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. all things that you should use to do me wrong deny their office; only you do lack that mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses. hub. well, see to live; i will not touch thine eyes for all the treasure that thine uncle owes; yet i am sworn, and i did purpose, boy, with this same very iron to burn them out. arth. o, now you look like hubert! all this while you were disguised. hub. peace: no more. adieu; your uncle must not know but you are dead; i'll fill these dogged spies with false reports. and, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure, that hubert, for the wealth of all the world, will not offend thee. arth. o heaven!--i thank you, hubert. hub silence; no more: go closely in with me. much danger do i undergo for thee. [_exeunt_ * * * * * romeo and juliet. balcony scene. romeo. he jests at scars that never felt a wound. [juliet _appears on the balcony, and sits down._ 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. "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. oh, were those eyes in heaven, they would through the airy region stream so bright, that birds would sing, and think it were not night. see, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! oh, that i were a glove upon that hand, that i might touch that cheek! juliet. ah, me! romeo. she speaks, she speaks! oh, speak again, bright angel! for thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven to the upturned wond'ring eyes of mortals, when he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, and sails upon the bosom of the air. juliet. oh, romeo, romeo! wherefore art thou romeo? deny thy father, and refuse thy name: or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and i'll no longer be a capulet. romeo. shall i hear more, or shall i speak at this? juliet. 'tis but thy name that is my enemy! what's in a name? that which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet; so romeo would, were he not romeo called, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title! romeo, doff thy name; and for that name, which is no part of thee, take all myself. romeo. i take thee at thy word! call me but love, i will forswear my name and never more be romeo. juliet. what man art thou, that, thus bescreened in night so stumblest on my counsel? romeo. by a name i know not how to tell thee who i am! my name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee. juliet. my ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue's uttering, yet i know the sound! art thou not romeo, and a montague? romeo. neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. juliet. how cam'st thou hither?--tell me--and for what? the orchard walls are high, and hard to climb; and the place, death, considering who thou art, if any of my kinsmen find thee here. romeo. with love's light wings did i o'er-perch these walls; for stony limits cannot hold love out; and what love can do, that dares love attempt; therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me. juliet. if they do see thee here, they'll murder thee. romeo. alack, there lies more peril in thine eye, than twenty of their swords! look thou but sweet, and i, am proof against their enmity. juliet. i would not, for the world, they saw thee here. by whose direction found'st thou out this place? romeo. by love, who first did prompt me to inquire; he lent me counsel, and i lent him eyes. i am no pilot; yet wert thou as far as that vast shore washed by the farthest sea, i would adventure for such merchandise. juliet. thou know'st, the mask of night is on my face, else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek, for that which thou hast heard me speak to-night! fain would i dwell on form; fain, fain deny what i have spoke! but farewell compliment! dost thou love me? i know thou wilt say--ay; and i will take thy word! yet, if thou swear'st, thou may'st prove false; at lover's perjuries, they say, jove laughs. oh, gentle romeo, if thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully! or, if thou think'st i am too quickly won, i'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, so thou wilt woo! but else, not for the world. in truth, fair montague, i am too fond: and therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light! but trust me, gentleman, i'll prove more true than those that have more cunning to be strange. i should have been more strange, i must confess, but that thou overheard'st ere i was ware, my true love's passion; therefore, pardon me, and not impute this yielding to light love, which the dark night has so discovered. romeo. lady, by yonder blessed moon i swear- juliet. oh! swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon that monthly changes in her circled orb; lest that thy love prove likewise variable. romeo. what shall i swear by? juliet. do not swear at all; or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, which is the god of my idolatry, and i'll believe thee. romeo. if my true heart's love- juliet. well, do not swear! although i joy in thee, i have no joy of this contract to-night; it is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, ere one can say--'it lightens.' sweet, good-night! this bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, may prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. good-night, good-night!--as sweet repose and rest come to thy heart, as that within my breast! romeo. oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? juliet. what satisfaction canst thou have to-night? romeo. the exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. juliet. i gave thee mine before thou didst request it; and yet i would it were to give again. romeo. would'st thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love? juliet. but to be frank, and give it thee again. my bounty is as boundless as the sea; my love as deep; the more i give to thee, the more i have; for both are infinite. i hear some noise within. dear love, adieu! nurse. [_within_]--madam! juliet. anon, good nurse! sweet montague, be true. stay but a little, i will come again. [_exit from balcony_. romeo. oh! blessed, blessed night! i am afeard, being in night, all this is but a dream, too flattering sweet to be substantial. _re-enter juliet, above_. juliet. three words, dear romeo, and good-night indeed. if that thy bent of love be honourable, thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, by one that i'll procure to come to thee, where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite; and all my fortunes at thy foot i'll lay; and follow thee, my lord, throughout the world. nurse. [_within_]--madam! juliet. i come anon! but, if thou mean'st not well, i do beseech thee- nurse. [_within_]--madam! juliet. by and by, i come!-to cease thy suit and leave me to my grief. to-morrow will i send. romeo. so thrive my soul- juliet. a thousand times good-night! [_exit_.] romeo. a thousand times the worse to want thy light. _re-enter juliet_ juliet. hist! romeo, hist! oh, for a falconer's voice, to lure this tassel-gentle back again! bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud; else would i tear the cave where echo lies, and make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine, with repetition of my romeo's name. romeo. it is my love that calls upon my name! how silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, like softest music to attending ears! juliet. romeo! romeo. my dear! juliet. at what o'clock to-morrow shall i send to thee? romeo. at the hour of nine. juliet. i will not fail: 'tis twenty years till then. i have forgot why i did call thee back. romeo. let me stand here till thou remember it. juliet. i shall forget, to have thee still stand there remembering how i love thy company. romeo. and i'll still stay, to have thee still forget, forgetting any other home but this. juliet. 'tis almost morning; i would have thee gone, and yet no further than a wanton's bird; who lets it hop a little from her hand, and with a silk thread plucks it back again, so loving-jealous of its liberty. romeo. i would i were thy bird. juliet. sweet, so would i! yet i should kill thee with much cherishing good-night, good-night! parting is such sweet sorrow that i shall say--good-night, till it be morrow. [_exit from balcony_] romeo. sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! would i were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! hence will i to my ghostly father's cell; his help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. _shakespeare_ * * * * * the potion scene. (_romeo and juliet_.) juliet's chamber. _enter juliet and nurse_. juliet. ay, those attires are best;--but gentle nurse. i pray thee, leave me to myself to-night; for i have need of many orisons to move the heavens to smile upon my state, which, well thou know'st, is cross and full of sin. _enter lady capulet_. lady c. what are you busy? do you need my help? juliet. no, madam; we have culled such necessaries. as are behoveful for our state to-morrow: so please you, let me now be left alone, and let the nurse this night sit up with you; for, i am sure, you have your hands full all, in this so sudden business. lady c. then, good-night! get thee to bed, and rest! for thou hast need. [_exeunt lady capulet and nurse_. juliet. farewell!--heaven knows when we shall meet again-i have a faint cold fear, thrills through my veins, that almost freezes up the heat of life: i'll call them back again to comfort me. nurse!--what should she do here? my dismal scene i needs must act alone. [_takes out the phial_. come, phial-what if this mixture do not work at all? shall i of force be married to the count? no, no;--this shall forbid it!--[_draws a dagger_.]--lie thou there.-what, if it be a poison which the friar subtly hath ministered to have me dead, lest in this marriage he should be dishonoured, because he married me before to romeo? i fear it is; and yet, methinks it should not; for he hath still been tried a holy man. i will not entertain so bad a thought.-how, if, when i am laid into the tomb, i wake before the time that romeo come to redeem me? there's a fearful point! shall i not then be stifled in the vault, to whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, and there die strangled ere my romeo comes? or, if i live, is it not very like, the horrible conceit of death and night together with the terror of the place,-as in a vault, an ancient receptacle, where, for these many hundred years, the bones of all my buried ancestors are packed, where bloody tybalt, yet but green in earth, lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say, at some hours in the night spirits resort;-oh, if i wake, shall i not be distraught, environã©d with all these hideous fears, and madly play with my forefathers' joints,-and pluck the mangled tybalt from his shroud? and, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone, as with a club, dash out my desperate brains?-oh, look! methinks, i see my cousin's ghost seeking out romeo:--stay, tybalt, stay!-romeo, i come; this do i drink to thee.- _[drinks the contents of the phial._ oh, potent draught, thou hast chilled me to the heart!-my head turns round;--my senses fail me.-oh, romeo! romeo!- _[throws herself on the bed._ * * * * * the sister of charity. oh, is it a phantom? a dream of the night? a vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight? the wind, wailing ever, with motion uncertain sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd curtain, to and fro, up and down. but it is not the wind that is lifting it now; and it is not the mind that hath moulded that vision. a pale woman enters, as wan as the lamp's waning light, which concentres its dull glare upon her. with eyes dim and dimmer, there, all in a slumb'rous and shadowy glimmer, the sufferer sees that still form floating on, and feels faintly aware that he is not alone. she is flitting before him. she pauses she stands by his bedside all silent. she lays her white hands on the brow of the boy. a light finger is pressing softly, softly, the sore wounds: the hot blood-stained dressing slips from them. a comforting quietude steals thro' the racked weary frame; and throughout it, he feels the slow sense of a merciful, mild neighbourhood. something smoothes the toss'd pillow. beneath a gray hood of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him, and thrill thro' and thro' him. the sweet form before him, it is surely death's angel life's last vigil keeping! a soft voice says--'sleep!' and he sleeps: he is sleeping. he waked before dawn. still the vision is there: still that pale woman moves not. a minist'ring care meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering the aspect of all things around him. revering some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd in silence the sense of salvation. and rest having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly sigh'd--'say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly 'and minist'ring spirit! a whisper serene slid softer than silence--'the soeur seraphine, 'a poor sister of charity. shun to inquire 'aught further, young soldier. the son of thy sire, 'for the sake of that sire, i reclaim from the grave. 'thou didst not shun death: shun not life. 'tis more brave to live than to die. sleep!' he sleeps: he is sleeping. he waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping the skies with chill splendour. and there, never flitting, never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting. as the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning slowly, feebly within him. the night-lamp, yet burning, made ghastly the glimmering daybreak. he said: 'if thou be of the living, and not of the dead, 'sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing 'of that balmy voice; if it may be, revealing 'thy mission of mercy! whence art thou? 'o son 'of matilda and alfred, it matters not! one 'who is not of the living nor yet of the dead; 'to thee, and to others, alive yet'--she said-'so long as there liveth the poor gift in me 'of this ministration; to them, and to thee, 'dead in all things beside. a french nun, whose vocation 'is now by this bedside. a nun hath no nation. 'wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe, 'there her land! there her kindred!' she bent down to smooth the hot pillow, and added--'yet more than another 'is thy life dear to me. for thy father, thy mother, 'i know them--i know them.' 'oh can it be? you! 'my dearest, dear father! my mother! you knew, 'you know them?' she bow'd, half averting her head in silence. he brokenly, timidly said, 'do they know i am thus?' 'hush!'--she smiled as she drew from her bosom two letters; and--can it be true? that beloved and familiar writing! he burst into tears--'my poor mother,--my father! the worst 'will have reached them!' 'no, no!' she exclaimed with a smile, 'they know you are living; they know that meanwhile 'i am watching beside you. young soldier, weep not!' but still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd. there, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest; and he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping, the calm voice say--'sleep!' and he sleeps, he is sleeping' * * * * * sim's little girl. come out here, george burks. put that glass down--can't wait a minute. business particular--concerns the company. i don't often meddle in other folks' business, do i? when a tough old fellow like me sets out to warn a body, you may know its because he sees sore need of it. _just takin' drinks for good fellowship?_ yes, i know all 'bout that. been there myself. sit down on the edge of the platform here. of all the men in the world, i take it, engineers ought to be the last to touch the bottle. we have life and property trusted to our hands. ours is a grand business--i don't think folks looks at it as they ought to. remember when i was a young fellow, like you, just set up with an engine, i used to feel like a strong angel, or somethin', rushin' over the country, makin' that iron beast do just as i wanted him to. the power sort of made me think fast. i was doin' well when i married, and i did well long afterwards. we had a nice home, the little woman and me: our hearts were set on each other, and she was a little proud of her engineer--she used to say so, anyhow. she was sort of mild and tender with her tongue. not one of your loud ones. and pretty, too. but you know what it is to love a woman, george burks--i saw you walking with a blue-eyed little thing last sunday. after a while we had the little girl. we talked a good deal about what we should call her, my wife and i. we went clean through the bible, and set down all the fine story names we heard of. but nothin' seemed to suit. i used to puzzle the whole length of my route to find a name for that little girl. my wife wanted to call her endora isabel. but that sounded like folderol. then we had up rebeccar, and maud, and amanda ann, and what not. finally, whenever i looked at her, i seemed to see "katie." she looked katie. i took to calling her katie, and she learned it--so katie she was. i tell you, george, that was a child to be noticed. she was rounder and prettier made'n a wax figger; her eyes was bigger and blacker'n any grown woman's you ever saw, set like stars under her forehead, and her hair was that light kind that all runs to curls and glitter. soon's she could toddle, she used to come dancin' to meet me. i've soiled a-many of her white pinafores buryin' my face in them before i was washed, and sort of prayin' soft like under the roof of my heart, "god bless my baby! god bless my little lamb!" as she grew older, i used to talk to her about engin'--even took her into my cab, and showed the 'tachments of the engin', and learned her signals and such things. she tuk such an interest, and was the smartest little thing! seemed as if she had always knowed 'em. she loved the road. remember once hearing her say to a playmate: "there's my papa. he's an engineer. don't you wish he was your papa?" my home was close by the track. often and often the little girl stood in our green yard, waving her mite of a hand as we rushed by. well, one day i started on my home trip, full of that good fellowship you was imbibin' awhile ago. made the engine whizz! we was awful jolly, the fireman and me. never was drunk when i got on my engine before, or the company would have shipped me. warn't no such time made on that road before nor since. i had just sense enough to know what i was about, but not enough to handle an emergency. we fairly roared down on the trestle that stood at the entrance of our town. i had a tipsy eye out, and, george, as we was flyin' through the suburbs, i see my little girl on the track ahead, wavin' a red flag and standin' stock still! the air seemed full of katies. i could have stopped the engine if i'd only had sense enough to know what to take hold of to reverse her! but i was too drunk! and that grand little angel stood up to it, trying to warn us in time, and we just swept right along into a pile of ties some wretch had placed on the track!--right over my baby! oh, my baby! go away, george. there! and do you want me to tell you how that mangled little mass killed her mother? and do you want me to tell you i walked alive a murderer of my own child, who stood up to save me? and do you want me to tell you the good fellowship you were drinkin' awhile ago brought all this on me? you'll let this pass by, makin' up your mind to be moderate. hope you will. i was a moderate un. (oh, god! oh, my baby!) _mary hartwell._ * * * * * prayer. more things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. wherefore, let thy voice rise like a fountain for me night and day: for what are men better than sheep or goats, that nourish a blind life within the brain, if, knowing god, they lift not hands of prayer both for themselves and those who call them friends? for so the whole round earth is every way bound by gold chains about the feet of god. _tennyson._ * * * * * experience with european guides. european guides know about enough english to tangle everything up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it. they know their story by heart,-the history of every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they show you. they know it and tell it as a parrot would,--and if you interrupt and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. all their lives long they are employed in showing strange things to foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration. it is human nature to take delight in exciting admiration. it is what prompts children to say "smart" things and do absurd ones, and in other ways "show off" when company is present. it is what makes gossips turn out in rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news. think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it is, every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect ecstacies of admiration! he gets so that he could not by any possibility live in a soberer atmosphere. after we discovered this, we never went into ecstacies any more,--we never admired anything,--we never showed anything but impassable faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the sublimest wonders a guide had to display. we had found their weak point. we have made good use of it ever since. we have made some of those people savage at times, but we never lost our serenity. the doctor asks the questions generally, because he can keep his countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more imbecility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. it comes natural to him. the guides in genoa are delighted to secure an american party, because americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion before any relic of columbus. our guide there fidgeted about as if he had swallowed a spring mattress. he was full of animation,--full of impatience. he said:-"come wis me, genteelmen!--come! i show you ze letter writing by christopher colombo!--write it himself!--write it wis his own hand!--come!" he took us to the municipal palace. after much impressive fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us. the guide's eyes sparkled. he danced about us and tapped the parchment with his finger:-"what i tell you, genteelmen! is it not so? see! handwriting christopher colombo!--write it himself!" we looked indifferent,--unconcerned. the doctor examined the document very deliberately, during a painful pause. then he said, without any show of interest,-"ah,--ferguson,--what--what did you say was the name of the party who wrote this?" "christopher colombo! ze great christopher colombo!" another deliberate examination. "ah,--did he write it himself, or,--or, how?" "he write it himself!--christopher colombo! he's own handwriting, write by himself!" then the doctor laid the document down and said,-"why, i have seen boys in america only fourteen years old that could write better than that." "but zis is ze great christo--" "i don't care who it is! it's the worst writing i ever saw. now you mustn't think you can impose on us because we are strangers. we are not fools, by a good deal. if you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out!--and if you haven't, drive on!" we drove on. the guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more venture. he had something which he thought would overcome us. he said,-"ah, genteelmen, you come wis us! i show you beautiful, oh, magnificent bust christopher colombo!--splendid, grand, magnificent!" he brought us before the beautiful bust,--for it was beautiful,--and sprang back and struck an attitude,-"ah, look, genteelmen!--beautiful, grand,--bust christopher columbo!-beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!" the doctor put up his eye-glass,--procured for such occasions:-"ah,--what did you say this gentleman's name was?" "christopher colombo! ze great christopher colombo!" "christopher colombo,--the great christopher colombo. well, what did he do?" "discover america!--discover america--oh, ze diable!" "discover america? no,--that statement will hardly wash. we are just from america ourselves. christopher colombo,--pleasant name,--is--is he dead?" "oh, corpo di bacco!--three hundred year!" "what did he die of?" "i do not know. i cannot tell." "small-pox, think?" "i do not know, genteelmen,--i do not know what he die of!" "measles, likely?" "maybe,--maybe. i do not know,--i think he die of something." "parents living?" "im-posseeble" "ah,--which is the bust and which is the pedestal?" "santa maria!--zis ze bust!--zis ze pedestal!" "ah, i see, i see,--happy combination,--very happy combination, indeed. is --is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust." that joke was lost on the foreigner,--guides cannot master the subtleties of the american joke. we have made it interesting for this roman guide. yesterday we spent three or four hours in the vatican again, that wonderful world of curiosities. we came very near expressing interest sometimes, even admiration. it was hard to keep from it. we succeeded, though. nobody else ever did in the vatican museums. the guide was bewildered, nonplussed. he walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure; we never showed any interest in anything. he had reserved what he considered to be his greatest wonder till the last,--a royal egyptian mummy, the best preserved in the world, perhaps. he took us there. he felt so sure this time that some of his old enthusiasm came back to him:-"see, genteelmen!--mummy! mummy!" the eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever. "ah,--ferguson,--what did i understand you to say the gentleman's name was?" "name?--he got no name!--mummy!--'gyptian mummy!" "yes, yes. born here?" "no. 'gyptian mummy!" "ah, just so. frenchman, i presume?" "no! not frenchman, not roman! born in egypta!" "born in egypta. never heard of egypta before. foreign locality, likely. mummy,--mummy. how calm he is, how self-possessed! is--ah!--is he dead?" "oh, sacrã© bleu! been dead three thousan' year!" the doctor turned on him savagely:-"here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this? playing us for chinamen, because we are strangers and trying to learn! trying to impose your vile secondhand carcasses on us! thunder and lightning! i've a notion to--to--if you've got a nice, fresh corpse fetch him out!--or we'll brain you!" however, he has paid us back partly, and without knowing it. he came to the hotel this morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavoured, as well as he could, to describe us, so that the landlord would know which persons he meant. he finished with the casual remark that we were lunatics. the observation was so innocent and so honest that it amounted to a very good thing for a guide to say. our roman ferguson is the most patient, unsuspecting, long-suffering subject we have had yet. we shall be sorry to part with him. we have enjoyed his society very much. we trust he has enjoyed ours, but we are harassed with doubts. _mark twain._ * * * * * first experience. a very intelligent irishman tells the following incident of his experience in america: i came to this country several years ago, and, as soon as i arrived, hired out to a gentleman who farmed a few acres. he showed me over the premises, the stables, the cow, and where the corn, hay, oats, etc., were kept, and then sent me in to my supper. after supper, he said to me, "james, you may feed the cow, and give her corn in the ear." i went out and walked about, thinking, "what could he mean? had i understood him?" i scratched my head, then resolved i would enquire again; so i went into the library where my master was writing very busily and he answered me without looking up: "i thought i told you to give the cow some corn in the ear." i went out more puzzled than ever. what sort of an animal must this yankee cow be? i examined her mouth and ears. the teeth were good, and the ears like those of kine in the old country. dripping with sweat, i entered my master's presence once more "please, sir, you bid me give the cow some corn _in the ear_, but didn't you mean the _mouth?_" he looked at me a moment, and then burst into such a convulsion of laughter, that i made for the stable as fast as my feet could take me, thinking i was in the service of a crazy man. * * * * * poor little joe. prop yer eyes wide open, joey, fur i've brought you sumpin great. apples? no, a deal sight better! don't you take no interest, wait' flowers, joe,--i know'd you'd like 'em- ain't them scrumptious, ain't them high tears, my boy, what's them fur, joey? there--poor little joe--don't cry. i was skippin' past a winder, where a bang-up lady sot, all amongst a lot of bushes- each one climbin' from a pot. every bush had flowers on it; pretty! mebbe' not! oh no' wish you could a-seen'm growin', it was such a stunnin show. well, i thought of you, poor feller, lyin' here so sick and weak, never knowin' any comfort, and i puts on lots o' cheek; "missus," says i, "if yo please, mum, could i ax you for a rose? for my little brother, missus, never seed one, i suppose." then i told her all about you- how i bringed you up,--poor joe! (lackin' women-folks to do it) sich a imp you was, you know- till yer got that awful tumble, jist as i had broke yer in (hard work, too), to earn yer livin' blackin' boots for honest tin. how that tumble crippled of you- so's you couldn't hyper much- joe, it hurted when i see you for the first time with your crutch. "but," i says, "he's laid up now, mum, 'pears to weaken every day." joe, she up and went to cuttin'- that's the how of this bokay. say! it seems to me, ole feller, you is quite yourself to-night; kind o' chirk, it's been a fortnight sence your eyes have been so bright. better! well, i'm glad to hear it! yes, they're mighty pretty, joe, smellin' of them's made you happy? well, i thought it would, you know. never see the country did you? flowers growin' everywhere! sometime when you're better, joey, mebbe i kin take you there. flowers in heaven! 'm--i spose so; dunno much about it though; ain't as fly as wot i might be on them topics, little joe. but i've heerd it hinted somewheres, that in heaven's golden gates, things is everlastin' cheerful, b'lieve that's wot the bible states. likewise, there folks don't get hungry; so good people when they dies, finds themselves well-fixed for ever- joe, my boy, wot ails your eyes? thought they looked a jittle singler. oh no! don't you have no fear; heaven was made for such as you is- joe, what makes you look so queer? here--wake up! oh, don't look that way! joe, my boy, hold up your head! here's your flowers you dropped 'em, joey. oh, my joe! can he be dead? _peleg arkwright._ * * * * * niagara. the thoughts are strange that crowd upon my brain as i look upward to thee! it would seem as if god poured thee from his hollow hand, and hung his bow upon thine awful front, and spake in that loud voice that seemed to him who dwelt in patmos for his saviour's sake, the sound of many waters; and had bade thy flood to chronicle the ages back, and notch his centuries in the eternal rock! deep calleth unto deep, and what are we that hear the questions of that voice sublime? o what are all the notes that ever rung from war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side? yea, what is all the riot man can make, in his short life, to thine unceasing roar? and yet, bold babbler, what art thou to him who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far above its loftiest mountains? a light wave that runs and whispers of thy maker's might! _john g. c. brainard._ * * * * * wounded. let me lie down, just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree, here low on the trampled grass, where i may see, the surge of the combat, and where i may hear, the glad cry of victory, cheer upon cheer, let me lie down. oh! it was grand! like the tempest we charged in the triumph to share, the tempest, its fury and thunder were there, on! on! o'er entrenchments, o'er living, o'er dead, with the foe under our feet, and our flag overhead, oh! it was grand! weary and faint, prone on the soldier's couch, ah! how can i rest, with this shot-shattered head, and sabre-pierced breast? comrades, at roll-call, when i shall be sought, say i fought till i fell, and fell where i fought,- wounded and faint. dying at last! my mother, dear mother, with meek tearful eye. farewell! and god bless you, forever and aye! oh, that i now lay on your pillowing breast, to breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest: dying at last! i am no saint! but, boys, say a prayer. there's one that begins,- "our father;" and then says, "forgive us our sins,"- don't forget that part, say that strongly, and then i'll try to repeat it, and you'll say, amen! ah, i'm no saint! hark! there's a shout! raise me up, comrades, we've conquered, i know, up, up, on my feet, with my face to the foe. ah! there flies our flag with its star-spangles bright, the promise of victory, the symbol of might, well! may we shout. i'm mustered out! oh! god of our fathers, our freedom prolong, and tread down oppression, rebellion, and wrong. oh! land of earth's hope, on thy blood-reddened sod, i die for the nation, the union, and god. i'm mustered out! _anon._ * * * * * the whistler. "you have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood while he sat on a corn sheaf, at daylight's decline,- "you have heard of the danish boy's whistle of wood: i wish that the danish boy's whistle were mine." "and what would you do with it? tell me," she said, while an arch smile played over her beautiful face, "i would blow it," he answered, "and then my fair maid would fly to my side and would there take her place." "is that all you wish for? why, that may be yours without any magic!" the fair maiden cried: a favour so slight one's good-nature secures;" and she playfully seated herself by his side. "i would blow it again," said the youth; "and the charm would work so that not even modesty's check would be able to keep from my neck your white arm." she smiled and she laid her white arm round his neck. "yet once more i would blow; and the music divine would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss,- you would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine; and your lips stealing past it would give me a kiss." the maiden laughed out in her innocent glee,- "what a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make! for only consider how silly 'twould be to sit there and whistle for what you might take." _robert story_. * * * * * tom. yes, tom's the best fellow that ever you knew. just listen to this:- when the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through, and i with it, helpless there, full in my view what do you think my eyes saw through the fire that crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher? but robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see the shining. he must have come there after me, toddled alone from the cottage without any one's missing him. then, what a shout- oh! how i shouted, "for heaven's sake, men, save little robin!" again and again they tried, but the fire held them back like a wall. i could hear them go at it, and at it, and call, "never mind, baby, sit still like a man! we're coming to get you as fast as we can." they could not see him but i could. he sat still on a beam, his little straw hat carefully placed by his side; and his eyes stared at the flame with a baby's surprise, calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept, the roar of the fire up above must have kept the sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name from reaching the child. but i heard it. it came again and again. o god, what a cry! the axes went faster. i saw the sparks fly where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat that scorched them,--when, suddenly, there at their feet the great beams leaned in--they saw him--then, crash, down came the wall! the men made a dash,- jumped to get out of the way,--and i thought, "all's up with poor little robin!" and brought slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide the sight of the child there,--when swift, at my side, some one rushed by and went right through the flame, straight as a dart--caught the child--and then came back with him, choking and crying, but--saved! saved safe and sound! oh, how the men raved, shouted, and cried, and hurrahed! then they all rushed at the work again, lest the back wall where i was lying, away from the fire, should fall in and bury me. oh! you'd admire, to see robin now: he's as bright as a dime, deep in some mischief too, most of the time. tom, it was saved him. now, isn't it true tom's the best fellow that ever you knew? there's robin now! see he's strong as a log! and there comes tom too- yes, tom is our dog. _constance fenimore woolsen_ * * * * * temperance. the need of the hour is a grand tidal wave of total abstinence sweeping over the land. the strongest protest possible must be made against intemperance. total abstinence is the protest. will it be made with sufficient force to save the people? this is the vital question for the future of america, and i might add for the future of religion. what is to be done? i speak to those who by position, influence, talent, or office ought to take an interest in the people. in the name of humanity, of country, of religion, by all the most sacred ties that bind us to our fellow-men for the love of him who died for souls, i beseech you, declare war against intemperance! arrest its onward march! if total abstinence does not appear to you the remedy, adopt some other. if you differ from me in the means you propose, i will not complain. but i will complain in the bitterness of my soul if you stand by, arms folded, while this dreadful torrent is sweeping over the land, carrying with it ruin and misery. the brightest minds and the noblest hearts are numbered among the victims. human wrecks whose fortune it has dissipated, whose intellect it has stifled, are strewn over the land as thick as autumnal leaves in the forest. alcohol directly inflames the passions; it is oil poured on the burning fire. it turns man into an animal; it makes him the demon incarnate. one week's perusal of the daily paper fills the mind with horror at the shocking accidents, the suicides, the murders, the ruin of innocence, and the crimes of all kinds caused by intemperance. _rt. rev. john ireland._ * * * * * the bald-headed man. the other day a lady, accompanied by her son, a very small boy, boarded a train at little rock. the woman had a careworn expression hanging over her face like a tattered veil, and many of the rapid questions asked by the boy were answered by unconscious sighs. "ma," said the boy, "that man's like a baby, ain't he?" pointing to a baldheaded man sitting just in front of them. "hush!" "why must i hush?" after a few moments' silence: "ma, what's the matter with that man's head? "hush, i tell you. he's bald." "what's bald?" "his head hasn't got any hair on it." "did it come off?" "i guess so." "will mine come off?" "some time, may be." "then i'll be bald, won't i?" "yes." "will you care?" "don't ask so many questions." after another silence, the boy exclaimed: "ma, look at that fly on that man's head." "if you don't hush, i'll whip you when we get home." "look! there's another fly. look at 'em fight; look at 'em!" "madam," said the man, putting aside a newspaper and looking around, "what's the matter with that young hyena?" the woman blushed, stammered out something, and attempted to smooth back the boy's hair. "one fly, two flies, three flies," said the boy, innocently, following with his eyes a basket of oranges carried by a newsboy. "here, you young hedgehog," said the bald-headed man, "if you don't hush, i'll have the conductor put you off the train." the poor woman, not knowing what else to do, boxed the boy's ears, and then gave him an orange to keep him from crying. "ma, have i got red marks on my head?" "i'll whip you again, if you don't hush." "mister," said the boy, after a short silence, "does it hurt to be baldheaded?" "youngster," said the man, "if you'll keep quiet, i'll give you a quarter." the boy promised, and the money was paid over. the man took up his paper, and resumed his reading. "this is my bald-headed money," said the boy. "when i get bald-headed, i'm goin' to give boys money. mister, have all bald-headed men got money?" the annoyed man threw down his paper, arose, and exclaimed: "madam, hereafter when you travel, leave that young gorilla at home. hitherto, i always thought that the old prophet was very cruel for calling the bears to kill the children for making sport of his head, but now i am forced to believe that he did a christian act. if your boy had been in the crowd, he would have died first. if i can't find another seat on this train, i'll ride on the cow-catcher rather than remain here." "the bald-headed man is gone," said the boy; and as the woman leaned back a tired sigh escaped from her lips. * * * * * a child's first impression of a star. she had been told that god made all the stars that twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood watching the coming of the twilight on, as if it were a new and perfect world, and this were its first eve. how beautiful i must be the work of nature to a child in its first fresh impression! laura stood by the low window, with the silken lash of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth half parted with the new and strange delight of beauty that she could not comprehend, and had not seen before. the purple folds of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky that look'd so still and delicate above, fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve stole on with its deep shadows, and she still stood looking at the west with that half smile, as if a pleasant thought were at her heart. presently, in the edge of the last tint of sunset, where the blue was melted in to the first golden mellowness, a star stood suddenly. a laugh of wild delight burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands, her simple thought broke forth expressively,-"father, dear father, god has made a star." _willis_. * * * * * eve's regrets on quitting paradise. must i thus leave thee, paradise? thus leave thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades, fit haunt of gods? where i had hope to spend, quiet, though sad, the respite of that day that must be mortal to us both! o flowers, that never will in other climate grow, my early visitation and my last at even, which i bred up with tender hand from the first opening bud, and gave ye names! who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount? thee, lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorn'd with what to sight or smell was sweet! from thee how shall i part, and whither wander down into a lower world, to this obscure and wild? how shall we breathe in other air less pure, accustom'd to immortal fruits? _milton_. * * * * * reading the list. "is there any news of the war?" she said, "only a list of the wounded and dead," was the man's reply, without lifting his eye to the face of the woman standing by. "tis the very thing i want," she said; "read me a list of the wounded and dead." he read her the list--'twas a sad array of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray: in the very midst was a pause to tell of a gallant youth, who had fought so well that his comrades asked, "who is he, pray?" "the only son of the widow gray," was the proud reply of his captain nigh. what ails the woman standing near? her face has the ashen hue of fear. "well, well, read on: is he wounded? be quick o god! but my heart is sorrow sick!" "is he wounded? no! he fell, they say, killed outright on that fatal day!" but see! the woman has swooned away. sadly she opened her eyes to the light; slowly recalled the event of the fight; faintly she murmured, "killed outright; it has caused the death of my only son; but the battle is fought and the victory won; the will of the lord, let it be done!" god pity the cheerless widow gray, and send from the halls of eternal day the light of his peace to illumine her way! * * * * * little mary's wish. "i have seen the first robin of spring, mother dear, and have heard the brown darling sing; you said, 'hear it and wish, and 'twill surely come true; so i've wished such a beautiful thing! "i thought i would like to ask something for _you_, but i couldn't think what there could be that you'd want while you had all those beautiful things; besides, you have papa and me. "so i wished for a ladder, so long that 'twould stand one end by our own cottage door, and the other go up past the moon and the stars and lean against heaven's white floor. "then i'd get you to put on my pretty white dress, with my sash and my darling new shoes; then i'd find some white roses to take up to god- the most beautiful ones i could choose. "and you and dear papa would sit on the ground and kiss me, and tell me 'good-bye!' then i'd go up the ladder far out of your sight, till i came to the door in the sky. "i wonder if god keeps the door fastened tight? if but _one_ little crack i could see, i would whisper, 'please, god, let this little, girl in, she's as tired as she can be! "she came all alone from the earth to the sky, for she's always been wanting to see the gardens of heaven, with their robins and flowers, 'please, god, is there room there for me?' "and then, when the angels had opened the door, god would say, 'bring the little child here,' but he'd speak it so softly i'd not be afraid, and he'd smile just like you, mother dear "he would put his kind arms round your dear little girl, and i'd ask him to send down for you, and papa, and cousin, and all that i love- oh, dear' don't you wish 'twould come true?" the next spring time, when the robins came home, they sang over grasses and flowers that grew where the foot of the ladder stood, whose top reached the heavenly bowers. and the parents had dressed the pale, still child, for her flight to the summer land, in a fair white robe, with one snow white rose folded tight in her pulseless hand. and now at the foot of the ladder they sit, looking upward with quiet tears, till the beckoning hand and the fluttering robe of the child at the top appears. _mrs. l. m. blinn._ * * * * * "good-bye." did you ever hear two married women take leave of each other at the gate on a mild evening? this is how they do it:--"good-bye!" "good-bye! come down and see us soon." "i will. good-bye." "good-bye! don't forget to come soon." "no, i won't. don't you forget to come up." "i won't. be sure and bring sarah jane with you the next time." "i will. i'd have brought her this time, but she wasn't very well. she wanted to come awfully." "did she now? that was too bad! be sure and bring her next time." "i will; and you be sure and bring baby." "i will; i forgot to tell you that he's cut another tooth." "you don't say so! how many has he now?" "five. it makes him awfully cross." "i dare say it does this hot weather. well, good-bye! don't forget to come down." "no, i won't. don't you forget to come up. goodbye!" and they separate. * * * * * the wedding fee. one morning, fifty years ago,- when apple trees were white with snow of fragrant blossoms, and the air was spell-bound with the perfume rare- upon a farm horse, large and lean, and lazy with its double load, a sun-browned youth, and maid were seen jogging along the winding road. blue were the arches of the skies; but bluer were that maiden's eyes. the dew-drops on the grass were bright; but brighter was the loving light that sparkled 'neath the long-fringed lid, where those bright eyes of blue were hid; adown the shoulders brown and bare rolled the soft waves of golden hair, where, almost strangled with the spray, the sun, a willing sufferer lay. it was the fairest sight, i ween, that the young man had ever seen; and with his features all aglow, the happy fellow told her so! and she without the least surprise looked on him with those heavenly eyes; saw underneath that shade of tan the handsome features of a man; and with a joy but rarely known she drew that dear face to her own, and by her bridal bonnet hid- i shall not tell you what she did! so, on they ride until among the new-born leaves with dew-drops hung, the parsonage, arrayed in white, peers out,--a more than welcome sight. then, with a cloud upon his face. "what shall we do," he turned to say, "should he refuse to take his pay from what is in the pillow-case?" and glancing down his eyes surveyed the pillow-case before him laid, whose contents reaching to its hem, might purchase endless joy for them. the maiden answers, "let us wait; to borrow trouble where's the need?" then, at the parson's squeaking gate halted the more than willing steed. down from the horse the bridegroom sprung; the latchless gate behind him swung; the knocker of that startled door, struck as it never was before, brought the whole household pale with fright; and there, with blushes on his cheek, so bashful he could hardly speak, the farmer met their wondering sight. the groom goes in, his errand tells, and, as the parson nods, he leans far o'er the window-sill and yells, "come in! he says he'll take the beans!" oh! how she jumped! with one glad bound she and the bean-bag reached the ground. then, clasping with each dimpled arm the precious product of the farm, she bears it through the open door; and, down upon the parlour floor, dumps the best beans vines ever bore. ah! happy were their songs that day, when man and wife they rode away. but happier this chorus still which echoed through those woodland scenes: "god bless the priest of whitinsville! god bless the man who took the beans!" _r. m. streeter_. * * * * * the fireman. 'tis a cold bleak night! with angry roar the north winds beat and clamour at the door; the drifted snow lies heaped along the street, swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet; the clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend, but o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend; gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown, dance their weird revels fitfully alone. in lofty hails, where fortune takes its ease, sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas; in happy homes where warmth and comfort meet. the weary traveller with their smiles to greet; in lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm, rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light-"thank god for home, this bitter, bitter night!" but hark! above the beating of the storm peals on the startled ear the fire alarm! yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light, and heart-beats quicken with a strange affright; from tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call, the ready friend no danger can appal; fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave, he hurries forth to battle and to save. from yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out, devouring all they coil themselves about, the flaming furies, mounting high and higher, wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire. strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe in vain attempts their power to overthrow; with mocking glee they revel with their prey, defying human skill to check their way. and see! far up above the flames hot breath, something that's human waits a horrid death; a little child, with waving golden hair, stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare, her pale, sweet face against the window pressed, while sobs of terror shake her tender breast. and from the crowd beneath, in accents wild, a mother screams, "o, god! my child! my child!" up goes a ladder. through the startled throng a hardy fireman swiftly moves along; mounts sure and fast along the slender way, fearing no danger, dreading but delay. the stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path, sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath; but up, still up he goes! the goal is won! his strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone! gone to his death. the wily flames surround and burn and beat his ladder to the ground, in flaming columns move with quickened beat to rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat. courageous heart, thy mission was so pure, suffering humanity must thy loss deplore; henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live, crowned with all honours nobleness can give. nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears; behold! he quickly on the roof appears, bearing the tender child, his jacket warm flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm. up with your ladders! quick! 'tis but a chance! behold how fast the roaring flames advance! quick! quick! brave spirits to his rescue fly; up! up! by heavens! this hero must not die! silence! he comes along the burning road, bearing, with tender care, his living load; aha! he totters! heaven in mercy save the good, true heart that can so nobly brave. he's up again! and now he's coming fast! one moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed! and now he's safe! bold flames, ye fought in vain! a happy mother clasps her child again! _george m. baker._ * * * * * the launch of the ship. "build me straight, o worthy master! staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, that shall laugh at all disaster, and with wave and whirlwind wrestle!" the merchant's word delighted the master heard; for his heart was in his work, and the heart giveth grace unto every art. and with a voice that was full of glee, he answered, "ere long we will launch a vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch as ever weathered a wintry sea!" all is finished! and at length has come the bridal day of beauty and of strength. to-day the vessel shall be launched! with fleecy clouds the sky is blanched; and o'er the bay, slowly, in all his splendours dight, the great sun rises to behold the sight. the ocean old centuries old, strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, paces restless to and fro, up and down the sands of gold. his beating heart is not at rest; and far and wide, with ceaseless flow, his beard of snow heaves with the heaving of his breast. he waits impatient for his bride. there she stands, with her foot upon the sands, decked with flags and streamers gay, in honour of her marriage-day, her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, round her like a veil descending, ready to be the bride of the gray old sea. then the master, with a gesture of command, waved his hand; and at the word, loud and sudden there was heard, all around them and below, the sound of hammers, blow on blow, knocking away the shores and spurs, and see! she stirs! she starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel the thrill of life along her keel, and, spurning with her foot the ground, with one exulting, joyous bound, she leaps into the ocean's arms! and lo! from the assembled crowd there rose a shout, prolonged and loud, that to the ocean seemed to say,-"take her, o bridegroom, old and gray, take her to thy protecting arms, with all her youth, and all her charms!" how beautiful she is! how fair she lies within those arms that press her form with many a soft caress of tenderness and watchful care! sail forth into the sea, o ship! through wind and wave, right onward steer! the moistened eye, the trembling lip, are not the signs of doubt or fear. thou, too, sail on, o ship of state! sail on, o union, strong and great! humanity, with all its fears, with all the hopes of future years, is hanging breathless on thy fate! we know what master laid thy keel, what workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, who made each mast and sail and rope, what anvils rang, what hammers beat, in what a forge, and what a heat, were shaped the anchors of thy hope! fear not each sudden sound and shock; 'tis of the wave, and not the rock; 'tis but the flapping of the sail, and not a rent made by the gale! in spite of rock and tempest's roar, in spite of false lights on the shore, sail on, nor fear to breast the sea; our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee: our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith triumphant o'er our fears, are all with thee,--are all with thee! _longfellow._ * * * * * rock of ages. _"rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee!"_ sang the lady, soft and low, and her voice's gentle flow rose upon the evening air with the sweet and solemn prayer: "rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee!" yet she sang, as oft she had when her heart was gay and glad, sang because she felt alone, sang because her soul had grown weary with the tedious day, sang to while the hours away: "rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee!" where the fitful gaslight falls on her father's massive walls. on the chill and silent street where the lights and shadows meet, there the lady's voice was heard, as the breath of night was stirred with her tones so sweet and clear, wafting up to god that prayer: "rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee!" wandering, homeless thro' the night, praying for the morning light, pale and haggard, wan and weak, with sunken eye and hollow cheek went a woman, one whose life had been wrecked in sin and strife; one, a lost and only child, one by sin and shame defiled; and her heart with sorrow wrung, heard the lady when she sung: "rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee!" pausing, low her head she bent, and the music as it went pierced her blackened soul, and brought back to her (as lost in thought tremblingly she stood) the past, and the burning tears fell fast, as she called to mind the days when she walked in virtue's ways. when she sang that very song with no sense of sin or wrong: "rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee!" on the marble steps she knelt, and her soul that moment felt more than she could speak, as there quivering, moved her lips in prayer, and the god she had forgot smiled upon her lonely lot; heard her as she murmured oft, with an accent sweet and soft: "rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee!" little knew the lady fair, as she sung in silence there, that her voice had pierced a soul that had lived 'neath sin's control! little knew, when she had done, that a lost and erring one heard her--as she breathed that strain-and returned to god again! _f. l. stanton._ * * * * * beethoven's moonlight sonata. it happened at bonn. one moonlight winter's evening i called on beethoven, for i wanted him to take a walk, and afterward to sup with me. in passing through some dark narrow street he paused suddenly. "hush!" he said, "what sound is that? it is from my symphony in f," he said eagerly. "hark, how well it is played!" it was a little, mean dwelling; and we paused outside and listened. the player went on; but in the midst of the finale there was a sudden break, then the voice sobbing: "i can not play any more--it is so beautiful, it is so utterly beyond my power to do it justice. oh! what would i not give to go to the concert at cologne!" "ah, my sister," said her companion, "why create regrets when there is no remedy? we can scarcely pay our rent." "you are right; and yet i wish, for once in my life, to hear some really good music. but it is of no use." beethoven looked at me. "let us go in," he said. "go in!" i exclaimed. "what can we go in for?" "i will play to her," he said, in an excited tone. "here is feeling-genius--understanding. i will play to her, and she will understand it!" and before i could prevent him his hand was upon the door. a pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes; and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling over her bent face. both were cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned towards us as we entered. "pardon me," said beethoven, "but i heard music and was tempted to enter. i am a musician." the girl blushed and the young man looked grave--somewhat annoyed. "i--i also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend. "you wish to hear--that is, you would like--that is--shall i play for you?" there was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comic and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment, and all smiled involuntarily. "thank you," said the shoemaker; "but our harpsichord is so wretched, and we have no music." "no music!" echoed my friend. "how, then, does the fraulein--" he paused and coloured up, for the girl looked full at him, and he saw that she was blind. "i--i entreat your pardon," he stammered; "but i had not perceived before. then you play from ear?" "entirely." "and where do you hear the music; since you frequent no concerts?" "i used to hear a lady practicing near us, when we lived at bruhl two years. during the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and i walked to and fro outside to listen to her." she seemed shy, so beethoven said no more, but seated himself quietly before the piano, and began to play. he had no sooner struck the first chord than i knew what would follow--how grand he would be that night! and i was not mistaken. never, during all the years i knew him, did i hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. he was inspired; and from the instant that his fingers began to wander along the keys, the very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter and more equal. the brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. the former laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward, and her hands, pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the end of the harpsichord as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart should break the flow of those magical sweet sounds. it was as if we were all bound in a strange dream, and only feared to wake. suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sunk, flickered, and went out. beethoven paused, and i threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant moonlight. the room was almost as light as before, and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano and player. but the chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. his head dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in meditation. it was thus for some time. at length the young shoemaker rose, and approached him eagerly, yet reverently--"wonderful man!" he said, in a low tone, "who and what are you?" the composer smiled as he only could smile, benevolently, indulgently, kingly. "listen," he said, and he played the opening bars of the symphony in f. a cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming, "then, you are beethoven!" they covered his hands with tears and kisses. he rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties, "play to us once more --only once more!" he suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. the moon shone brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious rugged head and massive figure. "i will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!" looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars--then his hands dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth. this was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time--a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. then came a swift _agitato finale_--a breathless, hurrying, trembling movement, descriptive of flight, and uncertainty, and vague impulsive terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all emotion and wonder. "farewell to you," said beethoven, pushing back his chair, and turning towards the door; "farewell to you." "you will come again?" asked they, in one breath. he paused, and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the blind girl. "yes, yes," he said, hurriedly, "i will come again, and give the fraulein some lessons. farewell! i will soon come again'" they followed us in silence more eloquent than words, and stood at their door till we were out of sight and hearing. "let us make haste back," said beethoven, "that i may write out that sonata while i can yet remember it!" we did so, and he sat over it till long past day-dawn. and this was the origin of that moonlight sonata with which we are all so fondly acquainted. * * * * * over the hill from the poor-house. i, who was always counted, they say, rather a bad stick any way, splintered all over with dodges and tricks, known as "the worst of the deacon's six;" i, the truant, saucy and bold, the one black sheep in my father's fold, "once on a time," as the stories say, went over the hill on a winter's day- _over the hill to the poor-house._ tom could save what twenty could earn; but _givin'_ was somethin' he ne'er would learn; isaac could half o' the scriptur's speak-committed a hundred verses a week; never forgot, an' never slipped; but "honour thy father and mother" he skipped; so _over the hill to the poor-house!_ as for susan, her heart was kind an' good--what there was of it, mind; nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice, nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice for one she loved; an' that 'ere one, was herself, when all was said an' done; an' charley, an' becca meant well, no doubt, but any one could pull 'em about; an' all o' our folks ranked well, you see, save one poor fellow, and that was me; an' when, one dark an' rainy night, a neighbour's horse went out o' sight, they hitched on me, as the guilty chap that carried one end o' the halter-strap. an' i think, myself, that view of the case wasn't altogether out o' place; my mother denied it, as mothers do, but i'm inclined to believe 'twas true. though for me one thing might be said-that i, as well as the horse, was led; and the worst of whiskey spurred me on, or else the deed would have never been done. but the keenest grief i ever felt was when my mother beside me knelt, an' cried and prayed, till i melted down, as i wouldn't for half the horses in town. i kissed her fondly, then an' there, an' swore henceforth to be honest and square. i served my sentence--a bitter pill some fellows should take who never will; and then i decided to go "out west," concludin' 'twould suit my health the best; where, how i prospered, i never could tell, but fortune seemed to like me well, an' somehow every vein i struck was always bubbling over with luck. an' better than that, i was steady an' true, an' put my good resolutions through. but i wrote to a trusty old neighbour, an' said, "you tell 'em, old fellow, that i am dead, an' died a christian; 'twill please 'em more, than if i had lived the same as before." but when this neighbour he wrote to me, "your mother's in the poor house," says he, i had a resurrection straightway, an' started for her that very day. and when i arrived where i was grown, i took good care that i shouldn't be known; but i bought the old cottage, through and through, off some one charley had sold it to; and held back neither work nor gold, to fix it up as it was of old. the same big fire-place, wide and high, flung up its cinders toward the sky; the old clock ticked on the corner-shelf-i wound it an' set it agoin' myself; and if everything wasn't just the same, neither i nor money was to blame; then--_over the hill to the poor-house!_ one blowin', blusterin', winter's day, with a team an' cutter i started away; my fiery nags was as black as coal; (they some'at resembled the horse i stole); i hitched, an' entered the poor-house door-a poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor; she rose to her feet in great surprise, and looked, quite startled, into my eyes; i saw the whole of her trouble's trace in the lines that marred her dear old face; "mother!" i shouted, "your sorrows is done! you're adopted along o' your horse-thief son, come _over the hill from the poor-house!_" she didn't faint; she knelt by my side, an' thanked the lord, till i fairly cried. an' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay, an' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day; an' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright, an' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight, to see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea, an' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me; an' maybe we didn't live happy for years, in spite of my brothers and sisters' sneers, who often said, as i have heard, that they wouldn't own a prison-bird; (though they're gettin' over that, i guess, for all of them owe me more or less;) but i've learned one thing; an' it cheers a man in always a-doin' the best he can; that whether on the big book, a blot gets over a fellow's name or not, whenever he does a deed that's white, it's credited to him fair and right. an' when you hear the great bugle's notes, an' the lord divides his sheep and goats; however they may settle my case, wherever they may fix my place, my good old christian mother, you'll see, will be sure to stand right up for me, with _over the hill from the poor-house_. _will carleton_. * * * * * the world from the sidewalk. did you ever stand in the crowded street, in the glare of a city lamp, and list to the tread of the millions feet in their quaintly musical tramp? as the surging crowd go to and fro, 'tis a pleasant sight, i ween, to mark the figures that come and go in the ever-changing scene. here the publican walks with the sinner proud, and the priest in his gloomy cowl, and dives walks in the motley crowd with lazarus, cheek by jowl; and the daughter of toil with her fresh young heart as pure as her spotless fame, keeps step with the woman who makes her mart in the haunts of sin and shame. how lightly trips the country lass in the midst of the city's ills, as freshly pure as the daisied grass that grows on her native hills; and the beggar, too, with his hungry eye, and his lean, wan face and crutch, gives a blessing the same to the passer-by as they give him little or much. ah me! when the hours go joyfully by, how little we stop to heed our brothers' and sisters' despairing cry in their woe and their bitter need! yet such a world as the angels sought this world of ours we'd call, if the brotherly love that the father taught; was felt by each for all. yet a few short years and this motley throng will all have passed away, and the rich and the poor and the old and the young will be undistinguished clay. and lips that laugh and lips that moan, shall in silence alike be sealed, and some will lie under stately stone, and some in the potter's field. but the sun will be shining just as bright, and so will the silver moon, and just such a crowd will be here at night, and just such a crowd at noon; and men will be wicked and women will sin, as ever since adam's fall, with the same old world to labour in, and the same god over all. * * * * * highland mary. ye banks, and braes, and streams around the castle o' montgomery, green be your woods, and fair your flowers, your waters never drumlie! there simmer first unfauld her robes, and there the langest tarry! for there i took the last farewell o' my sweet highland mary. how sweetly bloomed the gay green birk! how rich the hawthorn's blossom! as, underneath their fragrant shade, i clasped her to my bosom! the golden hours, on angel wings, flew o'er me and my dearie; for dear to me as light and life was my sweet highland mary. wi' monie a vow, and locked embrace our parting was fu' tender'; and, pledging aft to meet again, we tore ourselves asunder; but oh! fell death's untimely frost, that nipt my flower sae early! now green's the sod and cauld's the clay, that wraps my highland mary! o pale, pale now, those rosy lips i aft hae kissed sae fondly! and closed for aye the sparkling glance that dwelt on me sae kindly! and mouldering now, in silent dust that heart that lo'ed me dearly! but still, within my bosom's core, shall live my highland mary. _robert burns._ * * * * * calling a boy in the morning. calling a boy up in the morning can hardly be classed under the head of "_pastimes_," especially if the boy is fond of exercise the day before. and it is a little singular that the next hardest thing to getting a boy out of bed is getting him into it. there is rarely a mother who is a success at rousing a boy. all mothers know this; so do their boys. and yet the mother _seems_ to go at it in the right way. she opens the stair door and insinuatingly observes, "johnny.", there is no response. "johnn_y_." still no response. then there is a short, sharp, "_john_," followed a moment later by a long and emphatic "john henry." a grunt from the upper regions signifies that an impression has been made; and the mother is encouraged to add, "you'd better be getting down here to your breakfast, young man, before i come up there, an' give you something you'll feel." this so startles the young man that he immediately goes to sleep again; and the operation has to be repeated several times. a father knows nothing about this trouble. he merely opens his mouth as a soda-water bottle ejects its cork, and the "john henry" that cleaves the air of that stairway goes into that boy like electricity, and pierces the deepest recesses of his nature, and he pops out of that bed, and into his clothes, and down the stairs, with a promptness that is commendable. it is rarely a boy allows himself to disregard the paternal summons. about once a year is believed to be as often as is consistent with the rules of health. he saves his father a great many steps by his thoughtfulness. * * * * * an order for a picture. o good painter, tell me true, has your hand the cunning to draw shapes of things that you never saw? aye? well, here is an order for you. woods and cornfields a little brown,- the picture must not be over bright,- yet all in the golden and gracious light of a cloud when the summer sun is down. alway and alway, night and morn, woods upon woods, with fields of corn lying between them, not quite sere, and not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, when the wind can hardly find breathing room under their tassels,--cattle near, biting shorter the short green grass, and a hedge of sumach and sassafras, with bluebirds twittering all around,-ah, good painter, you can't paint sound! these and the little house where i was born, low, and little, and black, and old, with children, many as it can hold, all at the windows, open wide,-heads and shoulders clear outside, and fair young faces all ablush; perhaps you may have seen, some day, roses crowding the self-same way, out of a wilding, way-side bush. listen closer. when you have done with woods and cornfields and grazing herds; a lady, the loveliest ever the sun looked down upon, you must paint for me; oh, if i only could make you see the clear blue eyes, the tender smile, the sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, the woman's soul and the angel's face that are beaming on me all the while! i need not speak these foolish words; yet one word tells you all i would say,- she is my mother: you will agree that all the rest may be thrown away. two little urchins at her knee you must paint, sir; one like me,- the other with a clearer brow, and the light of his adventurous eyes flashing with boldest enterprise; at ten years old he went to sea,-god knoweth if he be living now,-he sailed in the good ship "commodore," nobody ever crossed her track to bring us news, and she never came back. ah, 'tis twenty long years and more since that old ship went out of the bay with my great-hearted brother on her deck; i watched him till he shrank to a speck, and his face was toward me all the way. bright his hair was, a golden brown, the time we stood at our mother's knee; that beauteous head, if it did go down, carried sunshine into the sea! out in the fields one summer night we were together, half afraid, of the corn leaves' rustling, and of the shade of the high hills, stretching so still and far,-loitering till after the low little light of the candle shone through the open door, and, over the hay-stack's pointed top, all of a tremble and ready to drop the first half hour the great yellow star that we, with staring, ignorant eyes, had often and often watched to see propped and held in its place in the skies by the fork of a tall, red mulberry tree, which close in the edge of our flax field grew, dead at the top,--just one branch full of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, from which it tenderly shook the dew over our heads, when we came to play in its handbreath of shadow, day after day,- afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore a nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,-the other, a bird, held fast by the legs, not so big as a straw of wheat: the berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, but cried and cried, till we held her bill, so slim and shining, to keep her still. at last we stood at our mother's knee. do you think, sir, if you try, you can paint the look of a lie? if you can, pray have the grace to put it solely in the face of the urchin that is likest me; i think 'twas solely mine indeed; but that's no matter,--paint it so; the eyes of our mother--(take good heed)- looking not on the nest-full of eggs, nor the fluttering bird held so fast by the legs, but straight through our faces, down to our lies. and, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise, i felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though a sharp blade struck through it. you, sir, know that you on the canvas are to repeat things that are fairest, things most sweet,- woods, and cornfields, and mulberry tree,- the mother,--the lads with their birds at her knee; but, oh, the look of reproachful woe! high as the heavens your name i'll shout, if you paint me the picture, and leave that out. _alice cary._ * * * * * "christ turned and looked upon peter." i think that look of christ might seem to say-"thou, peter! art thou then a common stone, which i at last must break my heart upon, for all god's charge to his high angels may guard my foot better? did i yesterday wash thy feet, my beloved, that they should run quick to deny me, 'neath the morning sun? and do thy kisses, like the rest, betray? the cock crows coldly. go and manifest a late contrition, but no bootless fear! for when thy deadly need is bitterest, thou shall not be denied as i am here; my voice, to god and angels, shall attest-_because i knew this man let him be clear!_" _elizabeth b. browning._ * * * * * the jester's choice. one of the kings of scanderoon, a royal jester, had in his train, a gross buffoon, who used to pester the court with tricks inopportune, venting on the highest of folks his scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes. it needs some sense to play the fool, which wholesome rule occurred not to our jackanapes, who consequently found his freaks lead to innumerable scrapes, and quite as many kicks and tweaks, which only seemed to make him faster try the patience of his master. some sin, at last, beyond all measure, incurred the desperate displeasure of his serene and raging highness: whether he twitched his most revered and sacred beard, or had intruded on the shyness of the seraglio, or let fly an epigram at royalty, none knows: his sin was an occult one, but records tell us that the sultan, meaning to terrify he knave, exclaimed, "'tis time to stop that breath: thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave! thou stand'st condemned to certain death: silence, base rebel! no replying! but such is my indulgence still, that, of my own free grace and will, i leave to thee the mode of dying." "thy royal will be done--'tis just," replied the wretch, and kissed the dust; "since my last moments to assuage, your majesty's humane decree has deigned to leave the choice to me, i'll die, so please you, of old age!" _horace smith_ * * * * * the opening of the piano. in the little southern parlour of the house you may have seen with the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to the green, at the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right, stood the london-made piano i am dreaming of to-night. ah me! how i remember the evening when it came! what a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in flame, when the wondrous box was opened that had come from over seas, with its smell of mastic-varnish and its flash of ivory keys! then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of joy, for the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd the boy, till the father asked for quiet in his grave paternal way, but the mother hushed the tumult with the words, "now, mary, play." for the dear soul knew that music was a very sovereign balm; she had sprinkled it over sorrow and seen its brow grow calm, in the days of slender harpsichords with tapping tinkling quills or carolling to her spinet with its thin metallic trills. so mary, the household minstrel, who always loved to please, sat down to the new "clementi," and struck the glittering keys. hushed were the children's voices, and every eye grew dim, as, floating from lip and finger, arose the "vesper hymn." --catherine, child of a neighbour, curly and rosy-red, (wedded since, and a widow,--something like ten years dead,) hearing a gush of music such as none before, steals from her mother's chamber and peeps at the open door. just as the "jubilate" in threaded whisper dies, --"open it, open it, lady!" the little maiden cries, (for she thought 'twas a singing creature caged in a box she heard,) "open it, open it, lady! and let me see the _bird_!" _oliver wendell holmes._ * * * * * the hired squirrel. (a russian fable.) a lion to the squirrel said: "work faithfully for me, and when your task is done, my friend, rewarded you shall be with barrel-full of finest nuts, fresh from my own nut-tree." "my lion king," the squirrel said, "to this i do agree." the squirrel toiled both day and night, quite faithful to his hire; so hungry and so faint sometimes he thought he should expire. but still he kept his courage up, and tugged with might and main. "how nice the nuts will taste," he thought, "when i my barrel gain." at last, when he was nearly dead, and thin and old and grey, quoth lion: "there's no more hard work you're fit to do. i'll pay." a barrel-full of nuts he gave- ripe, rich, and big; but oh! the squirrel's tears ran down his cheeks. he'd _lost his teeth_, you know! _laura sanford._ * * * * * the death-bed. we watched her breathing through the night, her breathing soft and low, as in her breast the wave of life kept heaving to and fro. so silently we seemed to speak, so slowly moved about, as we had lent her half our powers to eke her living out. our very hopes belied our fears, our fears our hopes belied-we thought her dying when she slept, and sleeping when she died. for when the morn came, dim and sad, and chill with early showers, her quiet eyelids closed--she had another morn than ours. _thomas hood._ * * * * * landing of columbus. the sails were furl'd; with many a melting close, solemn and slow the evening anthem rose,-rose to the virgin. 'twas the hour of day when setting suns o'er summer seas display a path of glory, opening in the west to golden climes and islands of the blest; and human voices on the silent air went o'er the waves in songs of gladness there! chosen of men! 'twas thine at noon of night first from the prow to hail the glimmering light? (emblem of truth divine, whose secret ray enters the soul and makes the darkness day!) "pedro! rodrigo! there methought it shone! there--in the west! and now, alas, 'tis gone!-'twas all a dream! we gaze and gaze in vain! but mark and speak not, there it comes again! it moves!--what form unseen, what being there with torch-like lustre fires the murky air? his instincts, passions, say, how like our own! oh, when will day reveal a world unknown?" long on the deep the mists of morning lay; then rose, revealing as they rolled away half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods: and say, when all, to holy transport given, embraced and wept as at the gates of heaven,-when one and all of us, repentant, ran, and, on our faces, bless'd the wondrous man,-say, was i then deceived, or from the skies burst on my ear seraphic harmonies? "glory to god!" unnumber'd voices sung,-"glory to god!" the vales and mountains rung, voices that hail'd creation's primal morn, and to the shepherds sung a saviour born. slowly, bareheaded, through the surf we bore the sacred cross, and kneeling kiss'd the shore. _rogers._ * * * * * three words of strength. there are three lessons i would write- three words as with a burning pen, in tracings of eternal light upon the hearts of men. have hope. though clouds environ round and gladness hides her face in scorn, put off the shadow from thy brow- no night but hath its morn. have faith. where'er thy bark is driven- the calm's disport, the tempest's mirth-know this; god rules the hosts of heaven- the inhabitants of the earth. have love. not love alone for one, but man, as man, thy brother call; and scatter like the circling sun, thy charities on all. thus grave these lessons on thy soul- hope, faith, and love--and thou shalt find strength, when life's surges rudest roll, light, when thou else wert blind. _schiller._ * * * * * brutus on the death of cã�sar. romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear. believe me for mine honour; and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe. censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. if there be any in this assembly--any dear friend of cã¦sar's--to him i say, that brutus' love to cã¦sar was no less than his. if, then, that friend demand why brutus rose against cã¦sar, this is my answer:--not that i loved cã¦sar less, but that i loved rome more. had you rather cã¦sar were living, and die all slaves, than that cã¦sar were dead, to live all freemen? as cã¦sar loved me, i weep for him; as he was fortunate, i rejoice at it; as he was valiant, i honour him; but, as he was ambitious, i slew him. there are tears, for his love; joy, for his fortune; honour, for his valour; and death for his ambition! who is here so base, that would be a bondman? if any, speak; for him have i offended. who is here so rude that would not be a roman? if any, speak; for him have i offended. who is here so vile that will not love his country? if any, speak; for him have i offended. i pause for a reply. none? then none have i offended. i have done no more to cã¦sar than you shall do to brutus. the question of his death is enrolled in the capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death. here comes his body, mourned by mark antony; who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth: as which of you shall not? with this i depart:--that, as i slew my best lover for the good of rome, i have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death. _shakespeare._ * * * * * the serenade. a youth went out to serenade the lady whom he loved the best, and passed beneath the mansion's shade, where erst his charmer used to rest. he warbled till the morning light came dancing o'er the hill-tops' rim, but no fair maiden blessed his sight, and all seemed dark and drear to him. with heart aglow and eyes ablaze, he drew much nearer than before, when, to his horror and amaze, he saw "to let" upon the door. * * * * * ginevra. if thou shouldst ever come, by choice or chance, to modena, where still religiously among her ancient trophies is preserved bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs within that reverend tower, the guirlandine), stop at a palace near the reggio-gate. dwelt in of old by one of the orsini. its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, its sparkling fountains, statues, cypresses, will long detain thee; through their arched walks, dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse of knights and dames, such as in old romance, and lovers, such as in heroic song, perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, that in the spring-time, as alone they sat, venturing together on a tale of love, read only part that day. a summer sun sets ere one-half is seen; but, ere thou go, enter the house--prithee, forget it not-and look awhile upon a picture there. 'tis of a lady in her earliest youth, the very last of that illustrious race, done by zampieri--but by whom i care not. he who observes it--ere he passes on, gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, that he may call it up, when far away. she sits, inclining forward as to speak, her lips half open, and her finger up, as though she said, "beware!" her vest of gold broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, an emerald stone in every golden clasp; and on her brow, fairer than alabaster, a coronet of pearls. but then her face, so lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, the overflowings of an innocent heart-it haunts me still, though many a year has fled, like some wild melody! alone it hangs over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, an oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm, but richly carved by antony of trent with scripture stories from the life of christ, a chest that came from venice, and had held the ducal robes of some old ancestor. that by the way--it may be true or false-but don't forget the picture: and thou wilt not, when thou hast heard the tale they told me there. she was an only child; from infancy the joy, the pride of an indulgent sire. her mother dying of the gift she gave, that precious gift, what else remained to him? the young ginevra was his all in life, still as she grew, for ever in his sight; and in her fifteenth year became a bride, marrying an only son, francesco doria, her playmate from her birth, and her first love. just as she looks there in her bridal dress, she was all gentleness, all gaiety; her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. but now the day was come, the day, the hour; now frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, the nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; and, in the lustre of her youth, she gave her hand, with her heart in it, to francesco. great was the joy; but at the bridal feast, when all sat down, the bride was wanting there, nor was she to be found! her father cried, "'tis but to make a trial of our love!" and filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, and soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'twas but that instant she had left francesco, laughing and looking back and flying still, her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger, but now, alas! she was not to be found; nor from that hour could anything be guessed, but that she was not! weary of his life, francesco flew to venice, and forthwith flung it away in battle with the turk. orsini lived; and long mightst thou have seen an old man wandering as in quest of something, something he could not find--he knew not what. when he was gone, the house remained awhile silent and tenantless--then went to strangers. full fifty years were past, and all forgot, when on an idle day, a day of search 'mid the old lumber in the gallery, that mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said by one as young, as thoughtless as ginevra, "why not remove it from its lurking place?" 'twas done as soon as said; but on the way it burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, with here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, a golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. all else had perished--save a nuptial ring, and a small seal, her mother's legacy, engraven with a name, the name of both, "ginevra." there, then, had she found a grave! within that chest had she concealed herself, fluttering with joy the happiest of the happy; when a spring lock that lay in ambush there, fastened her down for ever! _samuel rogers._ * * * * * the last station. he had been sick at one of the hotels for three or four weeks, and the boys on the road had dropped in daily to see how he got along, and to learn if they could render him any kindness. the brakeman was a good fellow, and one and all encouraged him in the hope that he would pull through. the doctor didn't regard the case as dangerous; but the other day the patient began sinking, and it was seen that he could not live the night out. a dozen of his friends sat in the room when night came, but his mind wandered and he did not recognize them. it was near one of the depots, and after the great trucks and noisy drays had ceased rolling by, the bells and the short, sharp whistles of the yardengines sounded painfully loud. the patient had been very quiet for half an hour, when he suddenly unclosed his eyes and shouted: "kal-a-ma-zoo!" one of the men brushed the hair back from the cold forehead, and the brakeman closed his eyes and was quiet for a time. then the wind whirled around the depot and banged the blinds on the window of his room, and he lifted his hand and cried out: "jack-son! passengers going north by the saginaw road change cars!" the men understood. the brakeman thought he was coming east on the michigan central. the effort seemed to have greatly exhausted him, for he lay like one dead for the next five minutes, and a watcher felt for his pulse to see if life had not gone out. a tug going down the river sounded her whistle loud and long, and the dying brakeman opened his eyes and called out: "ann arbor!" he had been over the road a thousand times, but had made his last trip. death was drawing a spectral train over the old track, and he was brakeman, engineer, and conductor. one of the yard-engines uttered a shrill whistle of warning, as if the glare of the headlight had shown to the engineer some stranger in peril, and the brakeman called out: "yp-silanti! change cars here for the eel river road!" "he's coming in fast," whispered one of the men. "and the end of his 'run' will be the end of his life," said a second. the dampness of death began to collect on the patient's forehead, and there was that ghastly look on the face that death always brings. the slamming of a door down the hall startled him again, and he moved his head and faintly said: "grand trunk junction! passengers going east by the grand trunk change cars!" he was so quiet after that, that all the men gathered around the bed, believing that he was dead. his eyes closed, and the brakeman lifted his hand, moved his head, and whispered: "de--" not "detroit," but death! he died with the half-uttered whisper on his lips. and the headlight on death's engine shone full in his face, and covered it with such pallor as naught but death can bring. _detroit free press._ * * * * * st. philip neri and the youth. st. philip neri, as old readings say, met a young stranger in rome's streets one day; and being ever courteously inclined to give young folks a sober turn of mind, he fell into discourse with him; and thus the dialogue they held comes down to us. st. tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to rome? y. to make myself a scholar, sir, i come. st. and when you are one, what do you intend? y. to be a priest, i hope, sir, in the end st. suppose it so,--what have you next in view? y. that i may get to be a canon, too. st. well; and how then? y. why, then, for aught i know i may be made a bishop. st. be it so-what then? y. why, cardinal's a high degree-and yet my lot it possibly may be. st. suppose it was, what then? y. why, who can say but i've a chance of being pope one day? st. well, having worn the mitre and red hat, and triple crown, what follows after that? y. nay, there is nothing further, to be sure, upon this earth that wishing can procure; when i've enjoyed a dignity so high, as long as god shall please, then i must die. st. what! must you die? fond youth! and at the best but wish, and hope, and maybe all the rest! take my advice--whatever may betide, for that which must be, first of all provide; then think of that which may be, and indeed, when well prepared, who knows what may succeed? but you may be, as you are pleased to hope, priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope. _dr. byrom_. * * * * * no kiss. "kiss me, will," sang marguerite, to a pretty little tune, holding up her dainty mouth, sweet as roses born in june. will was ten years old that day, and he pulled her golden curls teasingly, and answer made- "i'm too old--i don't kiss girls." ten years pass, and marguerite smiles as will kneels at her feet, gazing fondly in her eyes, praying, "won't you kiss me, sweet?" 'rite is seventeen to-day, with her birthday ring she toys for a moment, then replies: "i'm too old--i don't kiss boys." * * * * * keys. long ago in the old granada, when the moors were forced to flee, each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight the key. hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come when they should return from their long exile to those homes so far away. but the mansions in granada they had left in all their prime vanished, as the years rolled onward, 'neath the crumbling touch of time. like the moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be, and through all life's changing phases ever fast we hold the key. our fair country lies behind us; we are exiles, too, in truth, for no more shall we behold her. our granada's name is youth. we have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when, now and then, some old heartstring stirs within us and we feel our youth again. "we are young," we cry triumphant, thrilled with old-time joy and glee, then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing but the key! _bessie chandler_. * * * * * drifting. my soul to-day is far away sailing the vesuvian bay; my winged boat, a bird afloat, skims 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. here ischia smiles o'er liquid miles, and yonder, bluest of the isles, calm capri waits, her sapphire gates beguiling to her bright estates. i heed not, if my rippling skiff float swift or slow from cliff to cliff: with dreamful eyes my spirit lies under the walls of paradise. under the walls where swells and falls the bay's deep breast at intervals, at peace i lie, blown softly by a cloud upon this liquid sky. the day so mild is heaven's own child, with earth and ocean reconciled: the airs i feel around me steal are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 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 flies where summer sings and never dies-o'erveiled with vines, she glows and shines among her future oils and wines. her children, hid the cliffs amid, are gamboling with the gamboling kid; or down the walls, with tipsy calls, laugh on the rock like waterfalls. 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 has run, from lands of snow to lands of sun. oh! happy ship, to rise and dip, with the blue crystal at your lip! oh! 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! _t. buchanan read_. * * * * * elizabeth. now was the winter gone, and the snow; and robin the red-breast boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other that had covered with leaves the babes in the wood, and blithely all the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting, or for his babes in the wood, or the cruel uncle, and only sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they were building. with them, but more sedately and meekly, elizabeth hadden sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless. thus came the lovely spring, with a rush of blossoms and music, flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal. then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims, men and women, wending their way to the quarterly meeting in the neighbouring town; and with them came riding, john estaugh. at elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alighting tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of the garden, then re-mounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey, and elizabeth with them, and joseph, and hannah the housemaid. but, as they started, elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to john estaugh: "tarry awhile behind, for i have something to tell thee, not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others; them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth." and they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing together. it was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest; it was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy may morning then elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance, as if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded: "i will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee; i have received from the lord a charge to love thee, john estaugh." and john estaugh made answer, surprised by the words she had spoken: "pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit; pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's immaculate whiteness, love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning, but i have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me. when the lord's work is done, and the toil and the labour completed he hath appointed to me, i will gather into the stillness of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for his guidance." then elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit, "so is it best, john estaugh, we will not speak of it further, it hath been laid on me to tell thee this, for to-morrow thou art going away, across the sea, and i know not when i shall see thee more; but if the lord hath decreed it, thou wilt return again to seek me here, and to find me." and they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others. _longfellow_. "ask mamma." a bachelor squire of no great possession, long come to what should have been years of discretion, determined to change his old habits of life, and comfort his days by taking a wife. he had long been the sport of the girls in the place,--they liked his good, simple, quiet, cheery, fat face; and whenever he went to a tea-drinking party, the flirts were in raptures--our friend was so hearty! they'd fasten a cord near the foot of the door, and bring down the jolly old chap on the floor; they'd pull off his wig while he floundered about, and hide it, and laugh till he hunted it out; they would tie his coat-tails to the back of his seat, and scream with delight when he rose to his feet; they would send him at christmas a box full of bricks, and play on his temper all manner of tricks. one evening they pressed him to play on the flute, and he blew in his eyes a rare scatter of soot! he took it so calmly, and laughed while he spoke, that they hugged him to pardon their nasty "black joke." one really appeared so sincere in her sorrow, that he vowed to himself he would ask her tomorrow,--and not one of the girls but would envy her lot, if this jolly old bachelor's offer she got; for they never had dreamed of his playing the beau, or doubtless they would not have treated him so. however, next day to fair fanny's amazement, she saw him approach as she stood at the casement; and he very soon gave her to know his desire, that she should become the dear wife of the squire. "la! now, mr. friendly, what would they all say?" but she thought that not one of them all would say nay: she was flustered with pleasure, and coyness, and pride to be thus unexpectedly sued for a bride. she did not refuse him, but yet did not like, to say "yes," all at once-the hot iron to strike; so to give the proposal the greater _eclat_, she said, "dear mr. friendly,--you'd best, ask mamma!" good morning, then, fanny, i'll do what you say; as she's out, i shall call in the course of the day. fanny blushed as she gave him her hand for good-bye, and she did not know which to do first--laugh or cry; to wed such a dear darling man, nothing loth; for variety's sake in her joy, she did both! "o, what will mamma say, and all the young girls?" she thought as she played with her beautiful curls. "i wish i had said yes at once,--'twas too bad--not to ease his dear mind--o, i wish that i had! i wish he had asked me to give him a kiss,--but he can't be in doubt of my feeling--that's bliss! o, i wish that mamma would come for the news; such a good dear kind soul, she will never refuse! there's the bell--here she is.... o, mamma!"--"child, preserve us! what ails you dear fanny? what makes you so nervous?" "i really can't tell you just now,--bye and bye mr. friendly will call--and he'll tell you--not i." "mr. friendly, my child what about him, pray?" "o, mamma,--he's to call--in the course of the day. he was here just this minute,--and shortly you'll see he'll make you as happy as he has made me. i declare he has seen you come home--that's his ring; i will leave you and him, now to settle the thing" fanny left in a flutter: her mother--the gipsy--she'd made her as giddy as though she'd been tipsy! mr. friendly came in, and the widow and he, were soon as delighted as fanny could be; he asked the dear _widow_ to change her estate;--she consented at once, and a kiss sealed her fate. fanny came trembling in--overloaded with pleasure--but soon she was puzzled in as great a measure. "dear fanny," said friendly, "i've done what you said," but what he had done, never entered her head--"i've asked your mamma, and she's given her consent;" fanny flew to his arms to express her content. he kissed her and said,--as he kissed her mamma,--"i'm so glad, my dear fan, that you like your papa!" poor fanny now found out the state of the case, and she blubbered outright with a pitiful face; it was all she could do, under heavy constraint, to preserve herself conscious, and keep off a faint! she determined, next time she'd a chance, you may guess, not to say, "ask mamma," but at once to say "yes!" _a. m. bell._ * * * * * guilty or not guilty. she stood at the bar of justice, a creature wan and wild, in form too small for a woman, in features too old for a child, for a look so worn and pathetic was stamped on her pale young face, it seemed long years of suffering must have left that silent trace. "your name," said the judge, as he eyed her with kindly look yet keen, "is mary mcguire, if you please, sir," "and your age?"--"i am turned fifteen." "well, mary," and then from a paper he slowly and gravely read, "you are charged here--i'm sorry to say it- with stealing three loaves of bread." "you look not like an offender, and i hope that you can show the charge to be false. now, tell me, are you guilty of this, or no?" a passionate burst of weeping was at first her sole reply, but she dried her tears in a moment, and looked in the judge's eye. "i will tell you just how it was, sir, my father and mother are dead, and my little brother and sisters were hungry and asked me for bread. at first i earned it for them by working hard all day, but somehow times were bad, sir, and the work all fell away. "i could get no more employment; the weather was bitter cold, the young ones cried and shivered- (little johnny's but four years old;)-so, what was i to do, sir? i am guilty, but do not condemn, i _took_--oh, was it _stealing_?- the bread to give to them." every man in the court-room- grey-beard and thoughtless youth-knew, as he looked upon her, that the prisoner spoke the truth, out from their pockets came kerchiefs. out from their eyes sprung tears, and out from old faded wallets treasures hoarded for years. the judge's face was a study- the strangest you ever saw, as he cleared his throat and murmured _something_ about the _law_. for one so learned in such matters, so wise in dealing with men, he seemed, on a simple question, sorely puzzled just then. but no one blamed him or wondered when at last these words they heard, "the sentence of this young prisoner is, for the present, deferred." and no one blamed him or wondered when he went to her and smiled, and tenderly led from the court-room, himself the "guilty" child. * * * * * memory's pictures. among the beautiful pictures that hang on memory's wall, is one of a dim old forest, that seemeth best of all; not for its gnarled oaks olden, dark with the mistletoe; not for the violets golden that sprinkle the vale below; not for the milk-white lilies that lean from the fragrant ledge, coquetting all day with the sunbeams, and stealing their golden edge; not for the vines on the upland, where the bright red berries rest; nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslips, it seemeth to me the best. i once had a little brother with eyes that were dark and deep; in the lap of that old dim forest he lieth in peace asleep; light as the down of the thistle, free as the winds that blow, we roved there the beautiful summers, the summers of long ago; but his feet on the hills grew weary, and one of the autumn eves i made for my little brother a bed of the yellow leaves. sweetly his pale arms folded my neck in a meek embrace, as the light of immortal beauty silently covered his face; and when the arrows of sunset lodged in the tree-tops bright, he fell, in his saint-like beauty, asleep, by the gates of light. therefore, of all the pictures that hang on memory's wall, the one of the dim old forest seemeth the best of all. _alice cary._ * * * * * papa can't find me. no little step do i hear in the hall, only a sweet little laugh, that is all. no dimpled arms round my neck hold me tight, i've but a glimpse of two eyes very bright, two little hands a wee face try to screen, baby is hiding, that's plain to be seen. "where is my precious i've missed so all day'" "papa can't find me!" the pretty lips say. "dear me, i wonder where baby can be!" then i go by, and pretend not to see. "not in the parlour, and not on the stairs' then i must peep under sofas and chairs." the dear little rogue is now laughing outright, two little arms round my neck clasp me tight. home will indeed be sad, weary and lone, when papa can't find you, my darling, my own. * * * * * the painter of seville. sebastian gomez, better known by the name of the mulatto of murillo, was one of the most celebrated painters of spain. there may yet be seen in the churches of seville the celebrated picture which he was found painting, by his master, a st. anne, and a holy joseph, which are extremely beautiful, and others of the highest merit. the incident related occurred about the year 1630: 'twas morning in seville; and brightly beamed the early sunlight in one chamber there; showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed, rich, varied beauty. 'twas the study where murillo, the famed painter, came to share with young aspirants his long-cherished art, to prove how vain must be the teacher's care, who strives his unbought knowledge to impart the language of the soul, the feeling of the heart. the pupils came and glancing round, mendez upon his canvas found, not his own work of yesterday, but glowing in the morning ray, a sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright, it almost seemed that there were given to glow before his dazzled sight, tints and expression warm from heaven. 'twas but a sketch--the virgin's head-yet was unearthly beauty shed upon the mildly beaming face; the lip, the eye, the flowing hair, had separate, yet blended grace- a poet's brightest dream was there!! murillo entered, and amazed, on the mysterious painting gazed; "whose work is this?--speak, tell me!--he who to his aid such power can call," exclaimed the teacher eagerly, "will yet be master of us all; would i had done it!--ferdinand! isturitz! mendez!--say, whose hand among ye all?"--with half-breathed sigh, each pupil answered,--"'twas not i!" "how came it then?" impatiently murillo cried; "but we shall see, ere long into this mystery. sebastian!" at the summons came a bright-eyed slave, who trembled at the stern rebuke his master gave. for ordered in that room to sleep, and faithful guard o'er all to keep, murillo bade him now declare what rash intruder had been there, and threatened--if he did not tell the truth at once--the dungeon-cell. "thou answerest not," murillo said; (the boy had stood in speechless fear.) "speak on!"--at last he raised his head and murmured, "no one has been here." "'tis false!" sebastian bent his knee, and clasped his hands imploringly, and said. "i swear it, none but me!" "list!" said his master. "i would know who enters here--there have been found before, rough sketches strewn around, by whose bold hand, 'tis yours to show; nor dare to close your eyes in sleep. if on to-morrow morn you fail to answer what i ask, the lash shall force you--do you hear? hence! to your daily task." * * * * * 'twas midnight in seville, and faintly shone from one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray within murillo's study--all were gone who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay, passed cheerfully the morning hours away. 'twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save, that to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey, one bright eyed boy was there--murillo's little slave. almost a child--that boy had seen not thrice five summers yet, but genius marked the lotty brow, o'er which his locks of jet profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue proclaimed the warm blood flowing through each throbbing vein, a mingled tide, to africa and spain allied. "alas! what fate is mine!" he said "the lash, if i refuse to tell who sketched those figures--if i do, perhaps e'en more--the dungeon-cell!" he breathed a prayer to heaven for aid; it came--for soon in slumber laid, he slept, until the dawning day shed on his humble couch its ray. "i'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and now three hours of freedom i may gain, before my master comes, for then i shall be but a slave again. three blessed hours of freedom! how shall i employ them?--ah! e'en now the figure on that canvas traced must be--yes, it must be effaced." he seized a brush--the morning light gave to the head a softened glow; gazing enraptured on the sight, he cried, "shall i efface it?--no! that breathing lip! that beaming eye efface them?--i would rather die!" the terror of the humble slave gave place to the o'erpowering flow of the high feelings nature gave which only gifted spirits know. he touched the brow--the lip--it seemed his pencil had some magic power; the eye with deeper feeling beamed- sebastian then forgot the hour! forgot his master, and the threat of punishment still hanging o'er him; for, with each touch, new beauties met and mingled in the face before him. at length 'twas finished; rapturously he gazed--could aught more beauteous be' awhile absorbed, entranced he stood, then started--horror chilled his blood! his master and the pupils all were there e'en at his side! the terror-stricken slave was mute- mercy would be denied, e'en could he ask it--so he deemed, and the poor boy half lifeless seemed. speechless, bewildered--for a space they gazed upon that perfect face, each with an artist's joy; at length murillo silence broke, and with affected sternness spoke- "who is your master, boy?" "you, senor," said the trembling slave. "nay, who, i mean, instruction gave, before that virgin's head you drew?" again he answered, "only you." "i gave you none," murillo cried! "but i have heard," the boy replied, "what you to others said." "and more than heard," in kinder tone, the painter said; "'tis plainly shown that you have profited." "what (to his pupils) is his meed? reward or punishment?" "reward, reward!" they warmly cried, (sebastian's ear was bent to catch the sounds he scarce believed, but with imploring look received.) "what shall it be?" they spoke of gold and of a splendid dress; but still unmoved sebastian stood, silent and motionless. "speak!" said murillo kindly; "choose your own reward--what shall it be? name what you wish, i'll not refuse: then speak at once and fearlessly." "oh! if i dared!"--sebastian knelt and feelings he could not control, (but feared to utter even then) with strong emotion, shook his soul. "courage!" his master said, and each essayed, in kind, half-whispered speech, to soothe his overpow'ring dread. he scarcely heard, till some one said, "sebastian--ask--you have your choice, ask for your _freedom_!"--at the word, the suppliant strove to raise his voice: at first but stifled sobs were heard, and then his prayer--breathed fervently- "oh! master, make my _father_ free!" "him and thyself, my noble boy!" warmly the painter cried; raising sebastian from his feet, he pressed him to his side. "thy talents rare, and filial love, e'en more have fairly won; still be thou mine by other bonds- my pupil and my son." murillo knew, e'en when the words of generous feeling passed his lips, sebastian's talents soon must lead to fame that would his own eclipse; and, constant to his purpose still, he joyed to see his pupil gain, as made his name the pride of spain. _susan wilson._ * * * * * only sixteen. only sixteen, so the papers say, yet there, on the cold, stony ground he lay; 'tis the same sad story, we hear every day- he came to his death in the public highway. full of promise, talent and pride; yet the rum fiend conquered him--so he died. did not the angels weep over the scene? for he died a drunkard--and only sixteen,- only sixteen. oh! it were sad he must die all alone; that of all his friends, not even one was there to list to his last faint moan, or point the suffering soul to the throne of grace. if, perchance, god's only son would say, "whosoever will may come--" but we hasten to draw a veil over the scene, with his god we leave him--only sixteen,- only sixteen. rumseller, come view the work you have wrought!! witness the suffering and pain you have brought to the poor boy's friends. they loved him well, and yet you dared the vile beverage to sell that beclouded his brain, did his reason dethrone, and left him to die out there all alone. what, if 'twere _your_ son, instead of another? what if your wife were that poor boy's mother,- and he only sixteen? ye freeholders, who signed the petition to grant the license to sell, do you think you will want that record to meet in that last great day, when heaven and earth shall have passed away. when the elements, melting with fervent heat, shall proclaim the triumph of right complete? will you wish to have his blood on your hand. when before the great throne you each shall stand,- and he only sixteen? christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right, to action and duty; into the light come with your banners, inscribed, "death to rum!" let your conscience speak. listen, then, come; strike killing blows; hew to the line; make it a felony even to sign a petition to license, you would do it, i ween, if that were your son, and he only sixteen, only sixteen. * * * * * the retort. old birch, who taught the village school, wedded a maid of homespun habit; he was stubborn as a mule, and she was playful as a rabbit. poor kate had scarce become a wife before her husband sought to make her the pink of country polished life, and prim and formal--as a quaker. one day the tutor went abroad, and simple katie sadly missed him; when he returned, behind her lord she slyly stole, and fondly kissed him. the husband's anger rose, and red and white his face alternate grew: "less freedom, ma'am!" kate sighed and said "o, dear, i didn't know 'twas you." * * * * * "little bennie." a christmas story. i had told him, christmas morning, as he sat upon my knee, holding fast his little stockings, stuffed as full as full can be, and attentive listening to me with a face demure and mild, that old santa claus, who filled them, did not love a naughty child. "but we'll be good, won't we, moder," and from off my lap he slid, digging deep among the goodies in his crimson stockings hid. while i turned me to my table, where a tempting goblet stood brimming high with dainty custard sent me by a neighbour good. but the kitten, there before me, with his white paw, nothing both, sat, by way of entertainment, lapping off the shining froth; and, in not the gentlest humour at the loss of such a treat, i confess, i rather rudely thrust him out into the street. then, how bennie's blue eyes kindled; gathering up the precious store he had busily been pouring in his tiny pinafore, with a generous look that shamed me sprang he from the carpet bright, showing by his mien indignant, all a baby's sense of right. "come back, harney," called he loudly, as he held his apron white, "you shall have my candy wabbit," but the door was fastened tight, so he stood abashed and silent, in the centre of the floor, with defeated look alternate bent on me and on the door. then, as by some sudden impulse, quickly ran he to the fire, and while eagerly his bright eyes watched the flames grow higher and higher, in a brave, clear key, he shouted, like some lordly little elf, "santa kaus, come down the chimney, make my mudder 'have herself." "i will be a good girl, bennie," said i, feeling the reproof; and straightway recalled poor harney, mewing on the gallery roof. soon the anger was forgotten, laughter chased away the frown, and they gamboled round the fireside, till the dusky night came down. in my dim, fire-lighted chamber, harney purred beneath my chair, and my playworn boy beside me knelt to say his evening prayer; "god bess fader, god bess moder, god bess sister," then a pause, and the sweet young lips devoutly murmured, "god bess santa kaus." he is sleeping; brown and silken lie the lashes, long and meek, like caressing, clinging shadows, on his plump and peachy cheek, and i bend above him, weeping thankful tears, o defiled! for a woman's crown of glory, for the blessing of a child. _annie c. ketchum._ * * * * * slander. 'twas but a breath- and yet a woman's fair fame wilted, and friends once fond, grew cold and stilted; and life was worse than death. one venomed word, that struck its coward, poisoned blow, in craven whispers, hushed and low,- and yet the wide world heard. twas but one whisper--one- that muttered low, for very shame, that thing the slanderer dare not name,- and yet its work was done. a hint so slight, and yet so mighty in its power,- a human soul in one short hour, lies crushed beneath its blight. * * * * * the hypochondriac. good morning, doctor; how do you do? i haint quite so well as i have been; but i think i'm some better than i was. i don't think that last medicine you gin me did me much good. i had a terrible time with the ear-ache last night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some; but i didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight. for nearly a week, doctor, i have had the worst kind of a narvous headache; it has been so bad sometimes that i thought my head would bust open. oh, dear! i sometimes think that i'm the most afflictedest human that ever lived. since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that i have had every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin. _(coughs.)_ doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will relieve this desprit pain i have in my side? then i have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck, so that i can't turn my head without turning the hull of my body. _(coughs.)_ oh, dear! what shall i do! i have consulted almost every doctor in the country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. i have tried everything that i could think of; but i can't find anything that does me the leastest good. _(coughs.)_ oh, this cough--it will be the death of me yet! you know i had my right hip put out last fall at the rising of deacon jones' saw mill; its getting to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. then i've got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes i'm so crippled up that i can hardly crawl round in any fashion. what do you think that old white mare of ours did while i was out ploughing last week? why, the weacked old critter, she kept backing and backing on, till she back'd me right up agin the coulter, and knocked a piece of skin off my shin nearly so big. _(coughs.)_ but i had a worse misfortune than that the other day, doctor. you see it was washing-day--and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood--you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and tend to everything about the house herself. i knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out--as it was a raining at the time--but i thought i'd risk it any how. so i went out, pick'd up a few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my feet slipp'd from under me, and i fell down as sudden as if i'd been shot. some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knocked out three of my front teeth. i suffered dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face aint well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially by--the women folks. _(coughs.)_ oh, dear! but that aint all, doctor, i've got fifteen corns on my toes--and i'm feared i'm going to have the "yallar janders." _(coughs.)_ * * * * * your mission if you cannot on the ocean sail among the swiftest fleet, rocking on the highest billows, laughing at the storms you meet. you can stand among the sailors, anchor'd yet within the bay, you can lend a hand to help them, as they launch their boats away if you are too weak to journey, up the mountain steep and high, you can stand within the valley, while the multitudes go by you can chant in happy measure, as they slowly pass along; though they may forget the singer, they will not forget the song. if you have not gold and silver ever ready to command, if you cannot towards the needy reach an ever open hand, you can visit the afflicted, o'er the erring you can weep, you can be a true disciple, sitting at the saviour's feet if you cannot in the conflict, prove yourself a soldier true if where fire and smoke are thickest there's no work for you to do, when the battle-field is silent, you can go with careful tread. you can bear away the wounded, you can cover up the dead. do not, then, stand idly waiting for some greater work to do, fortune is a lazy goddess, she will never come to you. go and toil in any vineyard, do not fear to do or dare, if you want a field of labour, you can find it anywhere. * * * * * satisfaction. they sent him round the circle fair, to bow before the prettiest there; i'm bound to say the choice he made a creditable taste displayed; although i can't see what it meant, the little maid looked ill-content. his task was then anew begun, to kneel before the wittiest one. once more the little maid sought he and bent him down upon his knee; she turned her eyes upon the floor; i think she thought the game a bore he circled then his sweet behest to kiss the one he loved the best; for all she frowned, for all she chid, he kissed that little maid--he did. and then--though why i can't decide- the little maid looked satisfied. * * * * * my trundle bed. as i rummaged through the attic, list'ning to the falling rain, as it pattered on the shingles and against the window pane, peeping over chests and boxes, which with dust were thickly spread, saw i in the farthest corner what was once my trundle bed. so i drew it from the recess, where it had remained so long, hearing all the while the music of my mother's voice in song, as she sung in sweetest accents, what i since have often read-"hush, my babe, lie still and slumber, holy angels guard thy bed" as i listened, recollections, that i thought had been forgot, came with all the gush of memory, rushing, thronging to the spot; and i wandered back to childhood, to those merry days of yore, when i knelt beside my mother, by this bed upon the floor. then it was with hands so gently placed upon my infant head, that she taught my lips to utter carefully the words she said; never can they be forgotten, deep are they in mem'ry riven-"hallowed be thy name, o father! father! thou who art in heaven." years have passed, and that dear mother long has mouldered 'neath the sod, and i trust her sainted spirit rests within the home of god: but that scene at summer twilight never has from memory fled, and it comes in all its freshness when i see my trundle bed. this she taught me, then she told me of its import great and deep-after which i learned to utter "now i lay me down to sleep." then it was with hands uplifted, and in accents soft and mild, that my mother asked--"our father! father! do thou bless my child!" * * * * * the rift of the rock. in the rift of the rock he has covered my head, when the tempest was wild in the desolate land through a pathway uncertain my steps he has led, and i felt in the darkness the touch of his hand leading on, leading over the slippery steep, where came but the echoing sound of the shock, and, clear through the sorrowful moan of the deep, the singing of birds in the rift of the rock. in the rift of the rock he has sheltered my soul when at noonday the toilers grew faint in the heat, where the desert rolled far like a limitless scroll cool waters leaped up at the touch of his feet and the flowers that lay with pale lips to the sod bloom softly and fair from a holier stock; winged home by the winds to the mountains of god, they bloom evermore in the rift of the rock. in the rift of the rock thou wilt cover me still, when the glow of the sunset is low in the sky, when the forms of the reapers are dim on the hill, and the song dies away, and the end draweth nigh; it will be but a dream of the ladder of light, and heaven drawing near without terror or shock, for the angels, descending by day and by night, will open a door through the rift of the rock. _annie herbert._ * * * * * the sioux chief's daughter two gray hawks ride the rising blast; dark cloven clouds drive to and fro by peaks pre-eminent in snow; a sounding river rushes past, so wild, so vortex-like, and vast. a lone lodge tops the windy hill; a tawny maiden, mute and still, stands waiting at the river's brink, as weird and wild as you can think. a mighty chief is at her feet; she does not heed him wooing so-she hears the dark, wild waters flow; she waits her lover, tall and fleet, from far gold fields of idaho, beyond the beaming hills of snow. he comes! the grim chief springs in air-his brawny arm, his blade is bare. she turns; she lifts her round, dark hand; she looks him fairly in the face; she moves her foot a little pace and says, with coldness and command, "there's blood enough in this lorn land. but see! a test of strength and skill, of courage and fierce fortitude, to breast and wrestle with the rude and storm-born waters, now i will bestow you both.... stand either side! take you my left, tall idaho; and you, my burly chief, i know would choose my right. now peer you low across the waters wild and wide. see! leaning so this morn, i spied red berries dip yon farther side. see, dipping, dripping in the stream, twin boughs of autumn berries gleam! "now this, brave men, shall be the test. plunge in the stream, bear knife in teeth to cut yon bough for bridal wreath. plunge in! and he who bears him best, and brings yon ruddy fruit to land the first, shall have both heart and hand." then one threw robes with sullen air, and wound red fox tails in his hair. but one with face of proud delight entwined a crest of snowy white. she sudden gave the sign, and each impatient brave shot sudden in the sounding wave; the startled waters gurgled round, their stubborn strokes kept sullen sound. o then awoke the love that slept! o then her heart beat loud and strong! o then the proud love pent up long broke forth in wail upon the air; and leaning there she sobbed and wept, with dark face mantled in her hair. now side by side the rivals plied, yet no man wasted word or breath; all was as still as stream of death. now side by side their strength was tried, and now they breathless paused and lay like brawny wrestlers well at bay. and now they dived, dived long, and now the black heads lifted from the foam, and shook aback the dripping brow, then shouldered sudden glances home. and then with burly front the brow and bull-like neck shot sharp and blind, and left a track of foam behind.... they near the shore at last; and now the foam flies spouting from a face that laughing lifts from out the race. the race is won, the work is done! she sees the climbing crest of snow; she knows her tall, brown idaho. she cries aloud, she laughing cries, and tears are streaming from her eyes: "o splendid, kingly idaho, i kiss his lifted crest of snow; i see him clutch the bended bough! 'tis cleft--he turns! is coming now! "my tall and tawny king, come back! come swift, o sweet; why falter so? come! come! what thing has crossed your track i kneel to all the gods i know. o come, my manly idaho! great spirit, what is this i dread? why there is blood! the wave is red! that wrinkled chief, outstripped in race, dives down, and hiding from my face, strikes underneath!... he rises now! now plucks my hero's berry bough, and lifts aloft his red fox head, and signals he has won for me.... hist softly! let him come and see. "o come! my white-crowned hero, come! o come! and i will be your bride, despite yon chieftain's craft and might. come back to me! my lips are dumb, my hands are helpless with despair; the hair you kissed, my long, strong hair, is reaching to the ruddy tide, that you may clutch it when you come. "how slow he buffets back the wave! o god, he sinks! o heaven! save my brave, brave boy. he rises! see! hold fast, my boy! strike! strike for me. strike straight this way! strike firm and strong! hold fast your strength. it is not long-o god, he sinks! he sinks! is gone! his face has perished from my sight. "and did i dream, and do i wake? or did i wake and now but dream? and what is this crawls from the stream? o here is some mad, mad, mistake! what you! the red fox at my feet? you first and failing from a race? what! you have brought me berries red? what! you have brought your bride a wreath? you sly red fox with wrinkled face-that blade has blood, between your teeth! "lie still! lie still! till i lean o'er and clutch your red blade to the shore.... ha! ha! take that! and that! and that! ha! ha! so through your coward throat the full day shines!... two fox tails float and drift and drive adown the stream. "but what is this? what snowy crest climbs out the willows of the west, all weary, wounded, bent, and slow, and dripping from his streaming hair? it is! it is my idaho! his feet are on the land, and fair his face is lifting to my face, for who shall now dispute the race? "the gray hawks pass, o love! two doves o'er yonder lodge shall coo their loves. my love shall heal your wounded breast, and in yon tall lodge two shall rest." _joaquin miller_. * * * * * i'll take what father takes. 'twas in the flow'ry month of june, the sun was in the west, when a merry, blithesome company met at a public feast. around the room rich banners spread, and garlands fresh and gay; friend greeted friend right joyously upon that festal day. the board was filled with choicest fare; the guests sat down to dine; some called for "bitter," some for "stout," and some for rosy wine. among this joyful company, a modest youth appeared; scarce sixteen summers had he seen, no specious snare he feared. an empty glass before the youth soon drew the waiter near; "what will you take, sir?" he inquired, "stout, bitter, mild, or clear? "we've rich supplies of foreign port, we've first-class wine and cakes." the youth with guileless look replied, "_i'll take what father takes_." swift as an arrow went the words into his father's ears, and soon a conflict deep and strong awoke terrific fears. the father looked upon his son, then gazed upon the wine, oh, god! he thought, were he to taste, who could the end divine? have i not seen the strongest fall, the fairest led astray? and shall i on my only son bestow a curse this day? no; heaven forbid! "here, waiter, bring bright water unto me; my son will take what father takes, my drink shall water be." _w. hoyle._ * * * * * the little hero. from liverpool 'cross the atlantic, the good ship floating o'er the deep, the skies bright with sunshine above us, the waters beneath us asleep; not a bad-temper'd mariner 'mongst us, a jollier crew never sail'd, 'cept the first mate, a bit of a savage, but good seaman as ever was hail'd. one day he comes up from below deck, a-graspin' a lad by the arm, a poor little ragged young urchin, as ought to bin home with his marm. an' the mate asks the boy pretty roughly how he dared for to be stow'd away? a-cheating the owners and captain, sailin', eatin', and all without pay. the lad had a face bright and sunny, an' a pair of blue eyes like a girl's, an' looks up at the scowling first mate, boys, an' shakes back his long shining curls. an' says he in a voice clear and pretty, "my stepfather brought me a-board, and hid me away down the stairs there, for to keep me he could not afford. and he told me the big ship would take me to halifax town, oh, so far; an' he said, 'now the lord is your father, who lives where the good angels are!'" "it's a lie," says the mate,--"not your father, but some o' these big skulkers here, some milk-hearted, soft-headed sailor, speak up! tell the truth! d'ye hear?" then that pair o' blue eyes bright and winn'n', clear and shining with innocent youth, looks up at the mate's bushy eyebrows, an' says he, "sir, i've told you the truth!" then the mate pull'd his watch from his pocket, just as if he'd bin drawing his knife, "if in ten minutes more you don't tell, lad, there's the rope! and good-bye to dear life!" eight minutes went by all in silence, says the mate then, "speak, lad, say your say!" his eyes slowly filling with tear-drops, he falteringly says, "may i pray?" an' the little chap kneels on the deck there, an' his hands he clasps o'er his breast, as he must ha' done often at home, lads, at night time when going to rest. and soft came the first words, "our father," low and clear from that dear baby-lip, but low as they were, heard like trumpet by each true man aboard o' the ship. every bit o' that pray'r then he goes through, to "for ever and ever. a-men!" an' for all the bright gold in the indies, i wouldn't ha' heard him agen! off his feet was the lad sudden lifted, and clasp'd to the mate's rugged breast, an' his husky voice muttered, "god bless you," as his lips to his forehead he press'd. "you believe me now?" then said the youngster, "believe you!" he kissed him once more, "you'd have laid down your life for the truth, lad; i believe you! from now, ever-more." * * * * * wanted. the world wants men--light-hearted, manly men-men who shall join its chorus and prolong the psalm of labour and the song of love. the times wants scholars--scholars who shall shape the doubtful destinies of dubious years, and land the ark that bears our country's good, safe on some peaceful ararat at last. the age wants heroes--heroes who shall dare to struggle in the solid ranks of truth; to clutch the monster error by the throat; to bear opinion to a loftier seat; to blot the era of oppression out, and lead a universal freedom in. and heaven wants souls--fresh and capacious souls, to taste its raptures, and expand like flowers beneath the glory of its central sun. it wants fresh souls--not lean and shrivelled ones; it wants fresh souls, my brother--give it thine! if thou, indeed, wilt act as man should act; if thou, indeed, wilt be what scholars should; if thou wilt be a hero, and wilt strive to help thy fellow and exalt thyself, thy feet at last shall stand on jasper floors, thy heart at last shall seem a thousand hearts, each single heart with myriad raptures filled-while thou shalt sit with princes and with kings, rich in the jewel of a ransomed soul. * * * * * god, the true source of consolation. o thou, who driest the mourner's tear, how dark the world would be, if, when deceived and wounded here, we could not fly to thee! the friends who in our sunshine live, when winter comes, are flown; and he who has but tears to give, must weep those tears alone. but thou wilt heal the broken heart, which, like the plants that throw their fragrance from the wounded part, breathes sweetness out of woe. when joy no longer soothes or cheers, and e'en the hope that threw a moment's sparkle o'er our tears, is dimmed and vanished, too! oh! who would bear life's stormy doom, did not thy wing of love come brightly wafting through the gloom our peace-branch from above! then, sorrow, touched by thee, grows bright with more than rapture's ray, as darkness shews us worlds of light, we never saw by day. _moore._ * * * * * santa claus in the mines. in a small cabin in a californian mining town, away up amid the snow-clad, rock-bound peaks of the sierra nevada mountains, sat a woman, in widow's weeds, holding upon her knee a bright-eyed, sunny-faced little girl, about five years old, while a little cherub of a boy lay upon a bear-skin before the open fireplace. it was christmas eve, and the woman sat gazing abstractedly into the fireplace. she was yet young, and as the glowing flames lit up her sad face they invested it with a wierd beauty. mary stewart was the widow of aleck stewart, and but two years before they had lived comfortably and happy, in a camp on the american river. aleck was a brawny miner; but the premature explosion of a blast in an exploring tunnel had blotted out his life in an instant, leaving his family without a protector, and in straitened circumstances. his daily wages had been their sole support, and now that he was gone, what could they do? with her little family mrs. stewart had emigrated to the camp in which we find them, and there she earned a precarious livelihood by washing clothes for the miners. hers was a hard lot; but the brave little woman toiled on, cheered by the thought that her daily labours stood between her darling little ones and the gaunt wolf of starvation. jack dawson, a strong, honest miner, was passing the cabin this christmas eve, when the voice of the little girl within attracted his attention. jack possessed an inordinate love for children, and although his manly spirit would abhor the sneaking practice of eavesdropping, he could not resist the temptation to steal up to the window just a moment to listen to the sweet, prattling voice. the first words he caught were: "before papa died we always had christmas, didn't we, mamma?" "yes, totty, darling; but papa earned money enough to afford to make his little pets happy at least once a year. you must remember, totty, that we are very poor, and although mamma works very, very hard, she can scarcely earn enough to supply us with food and clothes." jack dawson still lingered upon the outside. he could not leave, although he felt ashamed of himself for listening. "we hung up our stockings last christmas, didn't we, mamma?" continued the little girl. "yes, totty; but we were poor then, and santa claus never notices real poor people. he gave you a little candy then, just because you were such good children." "is we any poorer now, mamma?" "oh! yes, much poorer. he would never notice us at all now." jack dawson detected a tremor of sadness in the widow's voice as she uttered the last words, and he wiped a suspicious dampness from his eyes. "where's our clean stockings, mamma? i'm going to hang mine up anyhow; maybe he will come like he did before, just because we try to be good children," said totty. "it will be no use, my darling, i am sure he will not come," and tears gathered in the mother's eyes as she thought of her empty purse. "i don't care, i'm going to try, anyhow. please get one of my stockings, mamma." jack dawson's generous heart swelled until it seemed bursting from his bosom. he heard the patter of little bare feet upon the cabin floor as totty ran about hunting hers and benny's stockings, and after she had hung them up, heard her sweet voice again as she wondered over and over if santa really would forget them. he heard the mother, in a choking voice; tell her treasures to get ready for bed; heard them lisp their childish prayers, the little girl concluding: "and, o, lord! please tell good santa claus that we are very poor; but that we love him as much as rich children do, for dear jesus' sake--amen!" after they were in bed, through a small rent in the plain white curtain he saw the widow sitting before the fire, her face buried in her hands, and weeping bitterly. on a peg, just over the fire-place, hung two little patched and faded stockings, and then he could stand it no longer. he softly moved away from the window to the rear of the cabin, where some objects fluttering in the wind met his eye. among these he searched until he found a little blue stocking which he removed from the line, folded tenderly, and placed in his overcoat pocket, and then set out for the main street of the camp. he entered harry hawk's gambling hall, the largest in the place, where a host of miners and gamblers were at play. jack was well known in the camp, and when he got up on a chair and called for attention, the hum of voices and clicking of ivory checks suddenly ceased. then in an earnest voice he told what he had seen and heard, repeating every word of the conversation between the mother and her children. in conclusion he said: "boys, i think i know you, every one of you, an' i know jist what kind o' metal yer made of. i've an idee that santy claus knows jist whar thet cabin's sitiwated, an' i've an idee he'll find it afore mornin'. hyar's one of the little gal's stock'n's thet i hooked off'n the line. the daddy o' them little ones was a good, hard-working miner, an' he crossed the range in the line o' duty, jist as any one of us is liable to do in our dangerous business. hyar goes a twenty-dollar piece right down in the toe, and hyar i lay the stockin' on this card table--now chip in much or little, as ye kin afford." brocky clark, a gambler, left the table, picked the little stocking up carefully, looked at it tenderly, and when he laid it down another twenty had gone into the toe to keep company with the one placed there by dawson. another and another came up until the foot of the stocking was well filled, and then came the cry from the gambling table: "pass her around, jack." at the word he lifted it from the table and started around the hall. before he had circulated it at half a dozen tables it showed signs of bursting beneath the weight of gold and silver coin, and a strong coin bag, such as is used for sending treasure by express, was procured, and the stocking placed inside of it. the round of the large hall was made, and in the meantime the story had spread all over the camp. from the various saloons came messages saying: "send the stockin' 'round the camp; boys are a-waitin' for it!" with a party at his heels, jack went from saloon to saloon. games ceased and tipplers left the bars as they entered each place, and miners, gamblers, speculators, everybody, crowded up to tender their christmas gift to the miner's widow and orphans. any one who has lived in the far western camps and is acquainted with the generosity of western men, will feel no surprise or doubt my truthfulness, when i say that after the round had been made, the little blue stocking and the heavy canvas bag contained over eight thousand dollars in gold and silver coin. horses were procured, and a party despatched to the larger town down on the consumnes, from which they returned near daybreak with toys, clothing, provisions, etc., in almost endless variety. arranging their gifts in proper shape, and securely tying the mouth of the bag of coin, the party noiselessly repaired to the widow's humble cabin. the bag was first laid on the steps, and other articles piled up in a heap over it. on the top was laid the lid of a large pasteboard box, on which was written with a piece of charcoal: "santy clause doesn't allways giv poor folks the cold shoulder in this camp." christmas day dawned bright and beautiful. mrs. stewart arose, and a shade of pain crossed her handsome face as the empty little stockings caught her maternal eye. she cast a hurried glance toward the bed where her darlings lay sleeping, and whispered: "o god! how dreadful is poverty!" she built a glowing fire, set about preparing the frugal breakfast, and when it was almost ready she approached the bed, kissed the little ones until they were wide awake, and lifted them to the floor. with eager haste totty ran to the stockings, only to turn away sobbing as though her heart would break. tears blinded the mother, and clasping her little girl to her heart, she said in a choking voice: "never mind, my darling; next christmas i am sure mamma will be richer, and then santa claus will bring us lots of nice things." "o mamma!" the exclamation came from little benny, who had opened the door and was standing gazing in amazement upon the wealth of gifts there displayed. mrs. stewart sprang to his side and looked in speechless astonishment. she read the card, and then, causing her little ones to kneel down with her in the open doorway, she poured out her soul in a torrent of praise and thanksgiving to god. jack dawson's burly form moved from behind a tree a short distance away, and sneaked off up the gulch, great crystal tears chasing each other down his face. the family arose from their knees, and began to move the stores into the room. there were several sacks of flour, hams, canned fruit, pounds and pounds of coffee, tea and sugar, new dress goods, and a handsome, warm woollen shawl for the widow, shoes, stockings, hats, mittens, and clothing for the children, a great big wax doll that could cry and move its eyes for totty, and a beautiful red sled for benny. all were carried inside amidst alternate laughs and tears. "bring in the sack of salt, totty, and that is all," said the mother. "is not god good to us?" "i can't lift it, mamma, it's frozen to the step!" the mother stooped and took hold of it, and lifted harder and harder, until she raised it from the step. her cheek blanched as she noted its great weight, and breathlessly she carried it in and laid it upon the breakfast table. with trembling fingers she loosened the string and emptied the contents upon the table. gold and silver--more than she had ever thought of in her wildest dreams of comfort, and almost buried in the pile of treasure lay totty's little blue stocking. we will not intrude longer upon such happiness; but leave the joyful family sounding praises to heaven and santa claus. _anon._ * * * * * a legend of bregenz. girt round with rugged mountains the fair lake constance lies; in her blue heart reflected shine back the starry skies; and, watching each white cloudlet float silently and slow, you think a piece of heaven lies on our earth below! midnight is there: and silence, enthroned in heaven, looks down upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping town: for bregenz, that quaint city upon the tyrol shore, has stood above lake constance a thousand years and more. her battlements and towers, from off their rocky steep, have cast their trembling shadow for ages on the deep: mountain, and lake, and valley, a sacred legend know, of how the town was saved, one night, three hundred years ago. far from her home and kindred, a tyrol maid had fled, to serve in the swiss valleys, and toil for daily bread; and every year that fleeted so silently and fast, seemed to bear farther from her the memory of the past. she served kind, gentle masters, nor asked for rest or change; her friends seemed no more new ones, their speech seemed no more strange and when she led her cattle to pasture every day, she ceased to look and wonder on which side bregenz lay. she spoke no more of bregenz, while longing and with tears; her tyrol home seemed faded in a deep mist of years; she heeded not the rumours of austrian war and strife; each day she rose, contented, to the calm toils of life. yet, when her master's children would clustering round her stand, she sang them ancient ballads of her own native land; and when at morn and evening she knelt before god's throne, the accents of her childhood rose to her lips alone. and so she dwelt: the valley more peaceful year by year; when suddenly strange portents of some great deed seemed near. the golden corn was bending upon its fragile stalk, while farmers, heedless of their fields, paced up and down in talk. the men seemed stern and altered- with looks cast on the ground; with anxious faces, one by one, the women gathered round; all talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was put away; the very children seemed afraid to go alone to play. one day, out in the meadow with strangers from the town, some secret plan discussing, the men walked up and down. yet now and then seemed watching a strange uncertain gleam, that looked like lances 'mid the trees that stood below the stream. at eve they all assembled, then care and doubt were fled; with jovial laugh they feasted; the board was nobly spread. the elder of the village rose up, his glass in hand, and cried, "we drink the downfall of an accursed land! "the night is growing darker, ere one more day is flown, bregenz, our foemens' stronghold, bregenz shall be our own!" the women shrank in terror (yet pride, too, had her part), but one poor tyrol maiden felt death within her heart. before her stood fair bregenz; once more her towers arose; what were the friends beside her? only her country's foes! the faces of her kinsfolk, the days of childhood flown, the echoes of her mountains, reclaimed her as their own. nothing she heard around her (though shouts rang forth again), gone were the green swiss valleys, the pasture, and the plain; before her eyes one vision, and in her heart one cry, that said, "go forth, save bregenz, and then, if need be, die!" with trembling haste, and breathless, with noiseless step, she sped; horses and weary cattle were standing in the shed; she loosed the strong, white charger, that fed from out her hand, she mounted, and she turned his head toward her native land. out--out into the darkness- faster, and still more fast; the smooth grass flies behind her, the chestnut wood is past; she looks up; clouds are heavy; why is her steed so slow? scarcely the wind beside them can pass them as they go. "faster!" she cries, "o faster!" eleven the church-bells chime: "o god," she cries, "help bregenz, and bring me there in time!" but louder than bells' ringing, or lowing of the kine, grows nearer in the midnight the rushing of the rhine. shall not the roaring waters their headlong gallop check? the steed draws back in terror- she leans upon his neck to watch the flowing darkness; the bank is high and steep; one pause--he staggers forward, and plunges in the deep. she strives to pierce the blackness, and looser throws the rein; her steed must breast the waters that dash above his mane. how gallantly, how nobly, he struggles through the foam, and see--in the far distance shine out the lights of home! up the steep bank he bears her, and now, they rush again towards the heights of bregenz, that tower above the plain. they reach the gate of bregenz just as the midnight rings, and out come serf and soldier to meet the news she brings. bregenz is saved! ere daylight her battlements are manned; defiance greets the army that marches on the land. and if to deeds heroic should endless fame be paid, bregenz does well to honour that noble tyrol maid. three hundred years are vanished, and yet upon the hill an old stone gateway rises. to do her honour still. and there, when bregenz women sit spinning in the shade, they see in quaint old carving the charger and the maid. and when, to guard old bregenz, by gateway, street, and tower, the warder paces all night long and calls each passing hour: "nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud, and then (o crown of fame!) when midnight pauses in the skies, he calls the maiden's name! _adelaide a. procter._ * * * * * a tarrytown romance. 'twas in ye pleasant olden time, oh! many years ago, when husking bees and singing-schools were all the fun, you know. the singing-school in tarrytown, a quaint old town in maine-was wisely taught and grandly led by a young man named paine. a gallant gentleman was paine, who liked the lasses well; but best he liked miss patience white, as all his school could tell. one night the singing-school had met; young paine, all carelessly, had turned the leaves and said: "we'll sing on page one-seventy." "'see gentle patience smile on pain.'" on paine they all then smiled, but not so gently as they might; and he, confused and wild. searched quickly for another place, as quickly gave it out; the merriment, suppressed before, rose now into a shout. these were the words that met his eyes (he sank down with a groan); "oh! give me grief for others' woes, and patience for my own!" _good cheer._ * * * * * the bishops visit. tell you about it? of course, i will! i thought 'twould be dreadful to have him come, for mamma said i must be quiet and still, and she put away my whistle and drum- and made me unharness the parlour chairs, and packed my cannon and all the rest of my noisiest playthings off up stairs, on account of this very distinguished guest. then every room was turned upside down, and all the carpets hung out to blow; for when the bishop is coming to town, the house must be in order you know. so out in the kitchen i made my lair, and started a game of hide-and-seek; but bridget refused to have me there, for the bishop was coming--to stay a week- and she must make cookies and cakes and pies, and fill every closet and platter and pan, till i thought this bishop so great and wise, must be an awfully hungry man. well, at last he came; and i do declare, dear grandpapa, he looked just like you, with his gentle voice and his silvery hair, and eyes with a smile a-shining through. and whenever he read, or talked, or prayed, i understood every single word; and i wasn't the leastest bit afraid, though i never once spoke or stirred; till, all of a sudden, he laughed right out to see me sit quietly listening so; and began to tell us stories about some queer little fellows in mexico. all about egypt and spain--and then he wasn't disturbed by a little noise, but said that the greatest and best of men once were rollicking, healthy boys. and he thinks it no great matter at all if a little boy runs and jumps and climbs; and mamma should be willing to let me crawl through the bannister-rails, in the hall, sometimes. and bridget, she made a great mistake, in stirring up such a bother, you see, for the bishop--he didn't care for cake, and really liked to play games with me. but though he's so honoured in words and act- (stoop down, for this is a secret now)- he couldn't spell boston! that's a fact! but whispered to me to tell him how. _emily huntington miller_. * * * * * hannah binding shoes. poor lone hannah, sitting at the window, binding shoes! faded, wrinkled, sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse. bright-eyed beauty once was she, when the bloom was on the tree;- spring and winter, hannah's at the window, binding shoes. not a neighbour passing, nod or answer will refuse to her whisper, "is there from the fishers any news?" oh, her heart's adrift with one on an endless voyage gone;- night and morning, hannah's at the window, binding shoes. fair young hannah, ben the sunburnt fisher, gaily woos; hale and clever, for a willing heart and hand he sues may-day skies are all aglow, and the waves are laughing so! for her wedding hannah leaves her window and her shoes. may is passing; 'mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos; hannah shudders, for the wild south-wester mischief brews. round the rocks of marblehead, outward bound a schooner sped; silent, lonesome, hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 'tis november: now no tear her wasted cheek bedews, from newfoundland not a sail returning will she lose, whispering hoarsely: "fishermen, have you, have you heard of ben?" old with watching, hannah's at the window, binding shoes. twenty winters bleak and drear the ragged shore she views, twenty seasons! never one has brought her any news. still her dim eyes silently chase the white sails o'er the sea;- hopeless, faithful, hannah's at the window, binding shoes. _lucy larcom._ * * * * * bells across the snow. o christmas, merry christmas! is it really come again? with its memories and greetings, with its joy and with its pain there's a minor in the carol, and a shadow in the light, and a spray of cypress twining with the holly wreath to-night. and the hush is never broken, by the laughter light and low, as we listen in the starlight to the bells across the snow! o christmas, merry christmas! 'tis not so very long since other voices blended with the carol and the song! if we could but hear them singing, as they are singing now, if we could but see the radiance of the crown on each dear brow; there would be no sigh to smother, no hidden tear to flow, as we listen in the starlight to the bells across the snow! o christmas, merry christmas! this never more can be; we cannot bring again the days of our unshadowed glee. but christmas, happy christmas! sweet herald of good-will, with holy songs of glory brings holy gladness still. for peace and hope may brighten, and patient love may glow, as we listen in the starlight to the bells across the snow! _frances ridley havergal._ * * * * * a modest wit. 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 honour, 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 good father gain a livelihood?" "he was a saddler, sir," modestus said, "and in his time was reckon'd good." "a saddler, eh! and taught you greek, instead of teaching you to sew! pray, why did not your father make a saddler, sir, 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?" * * * * * "nay, i'll stay with the lad." six hundred souls one summer's day, worked in the deep, dark hutton seams; men were hewing the coal away, boys were guiding the loaded teams. horror of darkness was everywhere; it was coal above, and coal below, only the miner's guarded lamp made in the gloom a passing glow. down in the deep, black hutton seams there came a flowery, balmy breath; men dropped their tools, and left their teams, they knew the balmy air meant death, and fled before the earthquake shock, the cruel fire-damp's fatal course, that tore apart the roof and walls, and buried by fifties, man and horse. "the shaft! the shaft!" they wildly cried; and as they ran they passed a cave, where stood a father by his son- the child had found a living grave, and lay among the shattered coal, his little life had almost sped. "fly! fly! for there may yet be time!" the father calmly, firmly said: "nay; i'll stay with the lad." he had no hurt; he yet might reach the blessed sun and light again. but at his feet his child lay bound, and every hope of help was vain. he let deliverance pass him by; he stooped and kissed the little face; "i will not leave thee by thyself, ah! lad; this is thy father's place." so self before sweet love lay slain. in the deep mine again was told the story of a father's love. older than mortal man is old; for though they urged him o'er and o'er, to every prayer he only had the answer he had found at first, "nay; i'll stay with the lad." and when some weary days had passed, and men durst venture near the place, they lay where death had found them both, but hand in hand, and face to face. and men were better for that sight, and told the tale with tearful breath; there was not one but only felt, the man had died a noble death, and left this thought for all to keep- if earthly fathers can so love, ah, surely, we may safely lean upon the fatherhood above! _lillie e. barr._ * * * * * mary maloney's philosophy. "what are you singing for?" said i to mary maloney. "oh, i don't know, ma'am, without it's because my heart feels happy." "happy are you, mary maloney? let me see; you don't own a foot of land in the world?" "foot of land, is it?" she cried, with a hearty irish laugh; "oh, what a hand ye be after joking; why i haven't a penny, let alone the land." "your mother is dead!" "god rest her soul, yes," replied mary maloney, with a touch of genuine pathos; "may the angels make her bed in heaven." "your brother is still a hard case, i suppose." "ah, you may well say that. it's nothing but drink, drink, drink, and beating his poor wife, that she is, the creature." you have to pay your little sister's board." "sure, the bit creature, and she's a good little girl, is hinny, willing to do whatever i axes her. i don't grudge the money what goes for that." "you haven't many fashionable dresses, either, mary maloney." "fashionable, is it? oh, yes, i put a piece of whalebone in my skirt, and me calico gown looks as big as the great ladies. but then ye says true, i hasn't but two gowns to me back, two shoes, to me feet, and one bonnet to me head, barring the old hood you gave me." "you haven't any lover, mary maloney." "oh, be off wid ye--ketch mary maloney getting a lover these days, when the hard times is come. no, no, thank heaven i haven't got that to trouble me yet, nor i don't want it." "what on earth, then, have you got to make you happy? a drunken brother, a poor helpless sister, no mother, no father, no lover; why, where do you get all your happiness from?" "the lord be praised, miss, it growed up in me. give me a bit of sunshine, a clean flure, plenty of work, and a sup at the right time, and i'm made. that makes me laugh and sing, and then if deep trouble comes, why, god helpin' me, i'll try to keep my heart up. sure, it would be a sad thing if patrick mcgrue should take it into his head to come an ax me, but, the lord willin', i'd try to bear up under it." _philadelphia bulletin._ * * * * * the polish boy. whence came those shrieks, so wild and shrill, that like an arrow cleave the air, causing the blood to creep and thrill with such sharp cadence of despair? once more they come! as if a heart were cleft in twain by one quick blow, and every string had voice apart to utter its peculiar woe! whence came they? from yon temple, where an altar raised for private prayer now forms the warrior's marble bed, who warsaw's gallant armies led. the dim funereal tapers throw a holy lustre o'er his brow, and burnish with their rays of light the mass of curls that gather bright above the haughty brow and eye of a young boy that's kneeling by. what hand is that whose icy press clings to the dead with death's own grasp, but meets no answering caress-no thrilling fingers seek its clasp? it is the hand of her whose cry rang wildly late upon the air, when the dead warrior met her eye, outstretched upon the altar there. now with white lips and broken moan she sinks beside the altar stone; but hark! the heavy tramp of feet is heard along the gloomy street; nearer and nearer yet they come, with clanking arms and noiseless drum. they leave the pavement. flowers that spread their beauties by the path they tread are crushed and broken. crimson hands rend brutally their blooming bands. now whispered curses, low and deep, around the holy temple creep. the gate is burst. a ruffian band rush in and savagely demand, with brutal voice and oath profane, the startled boy for exile's chain. the mother sprang with gesture wild, and to her bosom snatched the child; then with pale cheek and flashing eye, shouted with fearful energy,-"back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread too near the body of my dead! nor touch the living boy--i stand between him and your lawless band! no traitor he--but listen! i have cursed your master's tyranny. i cheered my lord to join the band of those who swore to free our land, or fighting, die; and when he pressed me for the last time to his breast, i knew that soon his form would be low as it is, or poland free. he went and grappled with the foe, laid many a haughty russian low; but he is dead--the good--the brave-and i, his wife, am worse--a slave! take me, and bind these arms, these hands, with russia's heaviest iron bands, and drag me to siberia's wild to perish, if 'twill save my child!" "peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, tearing the pale boy from her side; and in his ruffian grasp he bore his victim to the temple door. "one moment!" shrieked the mother, "one; can land or gold redeem my son? if so, i bend my polish knee, and, russia, ask a boon of thee. take palaces, take lands, take all, but leave him free from russian thrall. take these," and her white arms and hands she stripped of rings and diamond bands, and tore from braids of long black hair the gems that gleamed like star-light there; unclasped the brilliant coronal and carcanet of orient pearl; her cross of blazing rubies last down to the russian's feet she cast. he stooped to seize the glittering store; upspringing from the marble floor; the mother, with a cry of joy, snatched to her leaping heart the boy! but no--the russian's iron grasp again undid the mother's clasp. forward she fell, with one long cry of more than mother's agony. but the brave child is roused at length, and breaking from the russian's hold, he stands, a giant in the strength of his young spirit, fierce and bold. proudly he towers, his flashing eye, so blue and fiercely bright, seems lighted from the eternal sky, so brilliant is its light. his curling lips and crimson cheeks foretell the thought before he speaks. with a full voice of proud command he turns upon the wondering band. "ye hold me not! no, no, nor can; this hour has made the boy a man. the world shall witness that one soul fears not to prove itself a pole. "i knelt beside my slaughtered sire, nor felt one throb of vengeful ire; i wept upon his marble brow-yes, wept--i was a child; but now my noble mother on her knee, has done the work of years for me. although in this small tenement my soul is cramped--unbowed, unbent i've still within me ample power to free myself this very hour. this dagger in my heart! and then, where is your boasted power, base men?" he drew aside his broidered vest, and there, like slumbering serpent's crest, the jewelled haft of a poinard bright, glittered a moment on the sight. "ha! start ye back? fool! coward! knave! think ye my noble father's glaive, could drink the life blood of a slave? the pearls that on the handle flame, would blush to rubies in their shame. the blade would quiver in thy breast, ashamed of such ignoble rest! no; thus i rend thy tyrant's chain, and fling him back a boy's disdain!" a moment, and the funeral light flashed on the jewelled weapon bright; another, and his young heart's blood leaped to the floor a crimson flood. quick to his mother's side he sprang, and on the air his clear voice rang-"up, mother, up! i'm free! i'm free! the choice was death or slavery: up! mother, up! look on my face, i only wait for thy embrace. one last, last word--a blessing, one, to prove thou knowest what i have done, no look! no word! canst thou not feel my warm blood o'er thy heart congeal? speak, mother, speak--lift up thy head. what, silent still? then thou art dead! great god, i thank thee! mother, i rejoice with thee, and thus to die." slowly he falls. the clustering hair rolls back and leaves that forehead bare. one long, deep breath, and his pale head lay on his mother's bosom, dead. _mrs. ann s. stephens._ * * * * * though lost to sight, to memory dear. sweetheart, good-bye! the flutt'ring sail is spread to waft me far from thee, and soon before the favouring gale my ship shall bound upon the sea. perchance, all desolate and forlorn, these eyes shall miss thee many a year; but unforgotten every charm- though lost to sight, to memory dear. sweetheart, good-bye! one last embrace; o, cruel fate, two souls to sever! yet in this heart's most sacred place thou, thou alone shalt dwell forever; and still shall recollection trace in fancy's mirror, ever near, each smile, each tear--that form, that face- though lost to sight, to memory dear. _ruthven jenkyns._ * * * * * the ague. once upon an evening bleary, while i sat me dreaming, dreary, in the parlour thinking o'er things that passed in days of yore, while i nodded, nearly sleeping, gently came something creeping, creeping upward from the floor. "'tis a cooling breeze," i muttered, "from the regions 'neath the floor: only this and nothing more." ah! distinctly i remember- it was in that wet september, when the earth and every member of creation that it bore, had for weeks and months been soaking in the meanest, most provoking, foggy rain, that without joking, we had ever seen before. so i knew it must be very cold and damp beneath the floor, very cold beneath the floor. so i sat me, nearly napping, in the sunshine, stretching, gaping, with a feeling quite delighted with the breezes 'neath the floor, till i felt me growing colder, and the stretching waxing bolder, and myself now feeling older, older than i felt before; feeling that my joints were stiffer than they were in days of yore, stiffer than they'd been before. all along my back, the creeping soon gave place to rustling, leaping, as if countless frozen demons had concluded to explore all the cavities--the varmints!- 'twixt me and my nether garments, through my boots into the floor: then i found myself a shaking, gently shaking more and more, every moment more and more. 'twas the ague; and it shook me into heavy clothes, and took me shaking to the kitchen, every place where there was warmth in store, shaking till the china rattled, shaking till the morals battled; shaking, and with all my warming, feeling colder than before; shaking till it had exhausted all its powers to shake me more. till it could not shake me more. then it rested till the morrow, when it came with all the horror that it had the face to borrow, shaking, shaking as before, and from that day in september- day which i shall long remember- it has made diurnal visits, shaking, shaking, oh! so sore, shaking off my boots, and shaking me to bed if nothing more, fully this if nothing more. and to-day the swallows flitting bound my cottage see me sitting moodily within the sunshine just inside my silent door, waiting for the ague, seeming like a man forever dreaming, and the sunlight on me streaming, casts no shadow on the floor, for i am too thin and sallow to make shadows on the floor, never a shadow any more. * * * * * the old man in the model church. well, wife, i've found the model church! i worshipped there to-day! it made me think of good old times before my hairs were gray; the meetin' house was fixed up more than they were years ago, but then i felt, when i went in, it wasn't built for show. the sexton didn't seat me away back by the door; he knew that i was old and deaf, as well as old and poor; he must have been a christian, for he led me boldly through the long aisle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew. i wish you'd heard the singin'; it had the old-time ring; the preacher said, with trumpet voice: "let all the people sing!" the tune was "coronation," and the music upward rolled, till i thought i heard the angels striking all their harps of gold. my deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire; i joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, and sang as in my youthful days: "let angels prostrate fall; bring forth the royal diadem, and crown him lord of all." i tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; i felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore; i almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten form, and anchor in that blessed port, forever from the storm. the prech'en? well, i can't just tell all that the preacher said; i know it wasn't written; i know it wasn't read; he hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye went flashin' 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by. the sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple gospel truth; it fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth; 'twas full of consolation, for weary hearts that bleed; 'twas full of invitations to christ and not to creed. how swift the golden moments fled, within that holy place; how brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face; again i longed for that sweet time, when friend shall meet with friend, "when congregations ne'er break up, and sabbath has no end." i hope to meet that minister--that congregation, too- in that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue; i doubt not i'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray, the happy hour of worship in that model church to-day. dear wife, the fight will soon be fought--the victory soon be won; the shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run; o'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore, to shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more. _john h. yates_. * * * * * the young gray head. i'm thinking that to-night, if not before, there'll be wild work. dost hear old chewton roar. it's brewing up, down westward; and look there! one of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair; and such a sudden thaw! if rain comes on as threats, the water will be out anon. that path by the ford is a nasty bit of way, best let the young ones bide from school to-day. the children join in this request; but the mother resolves that they shall set out--the two girls, lizzie and jenny, the one five, the other seven. as the dame's will was law, so- one last fond kiss- "god bless my little maids," the father said, and cheerily went his way to win their bread. prepared for their journey they depart, with the mother's admonition to the elder- "now mind and bring jenny safe home," the mother said. "don't stay to pull a bough or berry by the way; and when you come to cross the ford hold fast your little sister's hand till you're quite past, that plank is so crazy, and so slippery if not overflowed the stepping stones will be; but you're good children--steady as old folk, i'd trust ye anywhere." then lizzie's cloak (a good gray duffle) lovingly she tied, and amply little jenny's lack supplied with her own warmest shawl. "be sure," said she, "to wrap it round, and knot it carefully, (like this) when you come home--just leaving free one hand to hold by. now, make haste away- good will to school, and then good right to play." the mother watches them with foreboding, though she knows not why. in a little while the threatened storm sets in. night comes, and with it comes the father from his daily toil--there's a treasure hidden in his hat- a plaything for the young ones he has found- a dormouse nest; the living ball coil'd round for its long winter sleep; all his thought as he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught but the glad wonderment in jenny's eyes, and graver lizzie's quieter surprise, when he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer, hard won, the frozen captive to their care. no little faces greet him as wont at the threshold; and to his hurried question- "are they come?"--t'was, "no," to throw his tools down, hastily unhook the old crack'd lantern from its dusky nook and, while he lit it, speak a cheering word that almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,- was but a moment's act, and he was gone to where a fearful foresight led him on. a neighbour goes with him, and the faithful dog follows the children's tracks. "hold the light low down, he's making for the water. hark! i know that whine; the old dog's found them, mark;" so speaking, breathlessly he hurried on toward the old crazy foot bridge. it was gone! and all his dull contracted light could show was the black void, and dark swollen stream below; "yet there's life somewhere--more than tinker's whine-that's sure," said mark, "so, let the lantern shine down yonder. there's the dog and--hark!" "o dear!" and a low sob came faintly on the ear, mocked by the sobbing gust. down, quick as thought, into the stream leaped ambrose, where he caught fast hold of something--a dark huddled heap-half in the water, where 'twas scarce knee deep for a tall man: and half above it propped by some old ragged side piles that had stop't endways the broken plank when it gave way with the two little ones, that luckless day! "my babes! my lambkins!" was the father's cry, _one little voice_ made answer, "here am i;" 'twas lizzie's. there she crouched with face as white, more ghastly, by the flickering lantern light, than sheeted corpse. the pale blue lips drawn tight, wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, and eyes on some dark object underneath, washed by the turbid waters, fix'd like stone-one arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown, grasping, as in the death-grip, jenny's frock. there she lay, drown'd. they lifted her from out her watery bed-its covering gone, the lovely little head hung like a broken snowdrop all aside, and one small hand. the mother's shawl was tied leaving that free about the child's small form, as was her last injunction--"fast and warm," too well obeyed--too fast! a fatal hold, affording to the scrag, by a thick fold that caught and pinned her to the river's bed. while through the reckless water overhead, her life breath bubbled up. "she might have lived, struggling like lizzie," was the thought that rived the wretched mother's heart when she heard all, "but for my foolishness about that shawl." "who says i forgot? mother! indeed, indeed i kept fast hold, and tied the shawl quite close--she can't be cold-but she won't move--we slept--i don't know how-but i held on, and i'm so weary now-and its so dark and cold! oh, dear! oh, dear! and she won't move--if father were but here!" all night long from side to side she turn'd, piteously plaining like a wounded dove. with now and then the murmur, "she won't move," and lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright shone on that pillow--passing strange the sight, the young head's raven hair was streaked with white! _mrs. southey._ * * * * * scene at niagara falls. it is summer. a party of visitors are just crossing the iron bridge that extends from the american shore to goat's island, about a quarter of a mile above the falls. just as they are about to leave, while watching the stream as it plunges and dashes among the rocks below, the eye of one fastens on something clinging to a rock, caught on the very verge of the falls. scarcely willing to believe his own vision, he directs the attention of his companions. the terrible news spreads like lightning, and in a few minutes the bridge and the surrounding shore are covered with thousands of spectators. "who is he?" "how did he get there?" are questions every person proposed, but answered by none. no voice is heard above the awful flood, but a spy-glass shows frequent efforts to speak to the gathering multitude. such silent appeals exceed the eloquence of words; they are irresistible, and something must be done. a small boat is soon upon the bridge, and with a rope attached sets out upon its fearless voyage, but is instantly sunk. another and another are tried, but they are all swallowed up by the angry waters. a large one might possibly survive; but none is at hand. away to buffalo a car is despatched, and never did the iron horse thunder along its steel-bound track on such a godlike mission. soon the most competent lifeboat is upon the spot. all eyes are fixed upon the object, as trembling and tossing amid the boiling white waves it survives the roughest waters. one breaker past and it will have reached the object of its mission. but being partly filled with water and striking a sunken rock, that next wave sends it hurling to the bottom. an involuntary groan passes through the dense multitude, and hope scarcely nestles in a single bosom. the sun goes down in gloom, and as darkness comes on and the crowd begins to scatter, methinks the angels looking over the battlements on high drop a tear of pity on the scene. the silvery stars shine dimly through their curtain of blue. the multitude are gone, and the sufferer is left with his god. long before morning he must be swept over that dreadful abyss; he clings to that rock with all the tenacity of despair, and as he surveys the horrors of his position strange visions in the air come looming up before him. he sees his home, his wife and children there; he sees the home of his childhood; he sees that mother as she used to soothe his childish fears upon her breast; he sees a watery grave, and then the vision closes in tears. in imagination he hears the hideous yells of demons, and mingled prayers and curses die upon his lips. no sooner does morning dawn than the multitude again rush to the scene of horror, soon a shout is heard: he is there; he is still alive. just now a carriage arrives upon the bridge, and a woman leaps from it and rushes to the most favourable point of observation. she had driven from chippewa, three miles above the falls; her husband had crossed the river night before last, and had not returned, and she fears he may be clinging to that rock. all eyes are turned for a moment toward the anxious woman, and no sooner is a glass handed to her fixed upon the object than she shrieks, "oh, my husband!" and sinks senseless to the earth. the excitement, before intense, seems now almost unendurable, and something must again be tried. a small raft is constructed, and, to the surprise of all, swings up beside the rock to which the sufferer had clung for the last forty-eight hours. he instantly throws himself full length upon it. thousands are pulling at the end of the rope, and with skillful management a few rods are gained toward the nearest shore. what tongue can tell, what pencil can paint, the anxiety with which that little bark is watched as, trembling and tossing amid the roughest waters, it nears that rock-bound coast? save niagara's eternal roar, all is silent as the grave. his wife sees it and is only restrained by force from rushing into the river. hope instantly springs into every bosom, but it is only to sink into deeper gloom. the angel of death has spread his wings over that little bark; the poor man's strength is almost gone; each wave lessens his grasp more and more, but all will be safe if that nearest wave is past. but that next surging billow breaks his hold upon the pitching timbers, the next moment hurling him to the awful verge, where, with body, erect, hands clenched, and eyes that are taking their last look of earth, he shrieks, above niagara's eternal roar, "lost!" and sinks forever from the gaze of man. _charles tarson._ * * * * * "curfew must not ring to-night." slowly england's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away, filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day, and the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,-he with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny, floating hair; he with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white, struggled to keep back the murmur,- "curfew must not ring to-night." "sexton," bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, with its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp and cold, "i've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die, at the ringing of the curfew--and no earthly help is nigh; cromwell will not come till sunset," and her lips grew strangely white as she breathed the husky whisper,- "curfew must not ring to-night" "bessie," calmly spoke the sexton, every word pierced her young heart like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly, poisoned dart. "long, long years i've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower; every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour; i have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, now i'm old i still must do it, curfew it must ring to-night." wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow, and within her secret bosom, bessie made a solemn vow. she had listened while the judges read without a tear or sigh, "at the ringing of the curfew, basil underwood must die." and her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright- in an undertone she murmured,- "curfew must not ring to-night." she with quick steps bounded forward, sprung within the old church door, left the old man treading slowly paths so oft he'd trod before; not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow, mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro; and she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of light, up and up--her white lips saying- "curfew shall not ring to-night." she has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell; awful is the gloom beneath her, like a pathway down to hell. lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of curfew now and the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow. shall she let it ring? no, never! flash her eyes with sudden light, and she springs and grasps it firmly- "curfew shall not ring to-night." out she swung, far out, the city seemed a speck of light below, 'twixt heaven and earth her form suspended, as the bell swung to and fro, and the sexton at the bell rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell, but he thought it still was ringing fair young basil's funeral knell. still the maiden clung most firmly, and with trembling lips and white, said to hush her heart's wild beating,- "curfew shall not ring to-night." it was o'er, the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more firmly on the dark old ladder, where for hundred years before, human foot had not been planted. the brave deed that she had done should be told long ages after, as the rays of setting sun should illume the sky with beauty; aged sires with heads of white, long should tell the little children, curfew did not ring that night. o'er the distant hills came cromwell; bessie sees him and her brow, full of hope and full of gladness, has no anxious traces now. at his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn; and her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn, touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eye with misty light: "go, your lover lives," said cromwell, "curfew shall not ring to-night!" * * * * * gertrude of wyoming. here were not mingled, in the city's pomp, of life's extremes the grandeur and the gloom; judgment awoke not here her dismal trump, nor sealed in blood a fellow-creature's doom; nor mourned the captive in a living tomb. one venerable man, beloved of all, sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom, to sway the strife, that seldom might befall; and albert was their judge in patriarchal hall. how reverend was the look, serenely aged, he bore, this gentle pennsylvanian sire, where all but kindly fervours were assuaged, undimmed by weakness' shade, or turbid ire! and though, amidst the calm of thought, entire, some high and haughty features might betray a soul impetuous once, 'twas earthly fire that fled composure's intellectual ray, as aetna's fires grow dim before the rising day. i boast no song in magic wonders rife; but yet, o nature! is there naught to prize, familiar in thy bosom scenes of life? and dwells in daylight truth's salubrious skies no form with which the soul may sympathize?- young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild the parted ringlet shone in sweetest guise, an inmate in the home of albert smiled, or blessed his noonday walk;--she was his only child. the rose of england bloomed on gertrude's cheek:- what though these shades had seen her birth, her sire a briton's independence taught to seek far western worlds; and there his household fire the light of social love did long inspire; and many a halcyon day he lived to see, unbroken but by one misfortune dire, when fate had reft his mutual heart--but she was gone;--and gertrude climbed a widowed father's knee. a loved bequest;--and i may half impart to them that feel the strong paternal tie, how like a new existence to his heart that living flower uprose beneath his eye, dear as she was from cherub infancy, from hours when she would round his garden play, to time when, as the ripening years went by, her lovely mind could culture well repay, and more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day. i may not paint those thousand infant charms; (unconscious fascination, undesigned!) the orison repeated in his arms, for god to bless her sire and all mankind; the book, the bosom on his knee reclined; or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con, (the playmate ere the teacher of her mind!) all uncompanioned else her heart had gone, till now, in gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue summer shone. _campbell._ * * * * * an autumn day. but now a joy too deep for sound, a peace no other season knows, hushes the heavens, and wraps the ground,- the blessing of supreme repose. away! i will not be, to-day, the only slave of toil and care; away! from desk and dust, away! i'll be as idle as the air. beneath the open sky abroad, among the plants and breathing things, the sinless, peaceful works of god, i'll share the calm the season brings. come thou, in whose soft eyes i see the gentle meaning of the heart,-one day amid the woods with thee, from men and all their cares apart;-and where, upon the meadow's breast, the shadow of the thicket lies, the blue wild flowers thou gatherest shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes. come,--and when 'mid the calm profound, i turn those gentle eyes to seek, they, like the lovely landscape round, of innocence and peace shall speak. rest here, beneath the unmoving shade; and on the silent valleys gaze, winding and widening, till they fade in yon soft ring of summer haze. the village trees their summits rear still as its spire; and yonder flock, at rest in those calm fields, appear as chiselled from the lifeless rock. one tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks, where the hushed winds their sabbath keep, while a near hum from bees and brooks, comes faintly like the breath of sleep.-well might the gazer deem, that when, worn with the struggle and the strife, and heart-sick at the sons of men, the good forsake the scenes of life,-like the deep quiet, that awhile lingers the lovely landscape o'er, shall be the peace whose holy smile welcomes them to a happier shore! _bryant._ * * * * * sonnet. our love is not a fading earthly flower: its wingã¨d seed dropped down from paradise, and, nursed by day and night, by sun and shower doth momently to fresher beauty rise. to us the leafless autumn is not bare, nor winter's rattling boughs lack lusty green: our summer hearts make summer's fullness where no leaf or bud or blossom may be seen: for nature's life in love's deep life doth lie, love,--whose forgetfulness is beauty's death, whose mystic key these cells of thou and i into the infinite freedom openeth, and makes the body's dark and narrow grate the wide-flung leaves of heaven's palace-gate. _james russell lowell._ * * * * * baby's visitor. my baby boy sat on the floor; his big blue eyes were full of wonder for he had never seen before that baby in the mirror door- what kept the two, so near, asunder? he leaned toward the golden head the mirror border framed within, until twin cheeks, like roses red, lay side by side; then softly said, "i can't get out; can you come in?" _atlanta constitution._ * * * * * a prayer. god! do not let my loved one die, but rather wait until the time that i am grown in purity enough to enter thy pure clime then take me, i will gladly go, so that my love remain below! oh, let her stay! she is by birth what i through death must learn to be, we need her more on our poor earth than thou canst need in heaven with thee; she hath her wings already: i must burst this earth-shell ere i fly. then, god, take me! we shall be near, more near than ever, each to each: her angel ears will find more clear my earthly than my heavenly speech; and still, as i draw nigh to thee, her soul and mine shall closer be. _james russell lowell._ * * * * * there's nothing true but heaven. this world is all a fleeting show, for man's illusion given; the smiles of joy, the tears of woe, deceitful shine, deceitful flow- there's nothing _true_ but heaven. and false the light on glory's plume, as fading hues of even; and love, and hope, and beauty's bloom, are blossoms gathered for the tomb- there's nothing _bright_ but heaven. poor wanderers of a stormy day, from wave to wave we're driven; and fancy's flash, and reason's ray, serve but to light the troubled way- there's nothing _calm_ but heaven. _moore._ * * * * * home song. stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; home-keeping hearts are happiest, for those that wander they know not where are full of trouble and full of care; to stay at home is best. weary and homesick and distressed, they wander east, and they wander west, and are baffled and beaten and blown about by the winds of the wilderness of doubt; to stay at home is best. then stay at home, my heart, and rest; the bird is safest in its nest; o'er all that flutter their wings and fly a hawk is hovering in the sky; to stay at home is best. _h. w. longfellow._ * * * * * saved. crouching in the twilight-gray, like a hunted thing at bay, in his brain one thought is rife: why not end the bootless strife? who in god's wide world would weep, should he brave death's dreamless sleep? hark! a child's voice, soft and clear, pulsing through the gloaming drear; and the word the singer brings like a new evangel rings; "jesus loves me! this i know," swift his thoughts to childhood go. memories of a mother's face bending to her boy's embrace, and the boy at eventide kneeling by the mother's side, like "sweet visions of the night" fill the lonesome place with light, while the singer's tender trill- "jesus loves me! loves me still"- hovers in the dreamlit air like an answer to the prayer. offered in those happy days when he walked in sinless ways. "jesus loves me!" can it be his, this _benedicite_? is there one who knows and cares? one who all his sorrow shares? "jesus loves me!" while the song guileless lips with joy prolong, lo! a soul has ceased its strife, reconciled to god and life. _mary b. sleight._ * * * * * song of birds. did you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? did you ne'er think who made them, and who taught the dialect they speak, where melodies alone are the interpreters of thought? whose household word are songs in many keys, sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught; whose habitations in the tree-tops even are half-way houses on the road to heaven! think, every morning, when the sun peeps through the dim, leaf-latticed windows of the, grove, how jubilant the happy birds renew their old melodious madrigals of love! and, when you think of this, remember, too, 'tis always morning somewhere, and above the awakening continents, from shore to shore, somewhere the birds are singing evermore! _longfellow._ * * * * * jimmy butler and the owl. 'twas in the summer of '46 that i landed at hamilton, fresh as a new pratie just dug from the "old sod," and wid a light heart and a heavy bundle i sot off for the township of buford, tiding a taste of a song, as merry a young fellow as iver took the road. well, i trudged on and on, past many a plisint place, pleasin' myself wid the thought that some day i might have a place of my own, wid a world of chickens and ducks and pigs and childer about the door; and along in the afternoon of the sicond day i got to buford village. a cousin of me mother's, one dennis o'dowd, lived about sivin miles from there, and i wanted to make his place that night, so i enquired the way at the tavern, and was lucky to find a man, who was goin' part of the way an' would show me the way to find dennis. sure, he was very kind indade, and when i got out of his wagon, he pointed me through the wood and told me to go straight south a mile an' a half, and the first house would be dennis's. "an' you have no time to lose now," said he, "for the sun is low, and mind you don't get lost in the woods." "is it lost now," said i, "that i'd be gittin, an' me uncle as great a navigator at iver steered a ship across the thrackless say! not a bit of it, though i'm obleeged to ye for your kind advice, an thank yez for the ride." an' wid that he drove off an' left me alone. i shouldered my bundle bravely, an' whistling a bit of tune for company like, i pushed into the bush. well, i went a long way over bogs, and turnin' round among the bush and trees till i began to think i must be well nigh to dennis's. but, bad cess to it! all of a sudden, i came out of the woods at the very identical spot where i started in, which i knew by an ould crotched tree that seemed to be standin' on its head an' kicking up its heels to make divarsion of me. by this time it was growing dark, and as there was no time to lose, i started in a second time, determined to keep straight south this time and no mistake. i got on bravely for awhile, but och hone! och hone! it got so dark i couldn't see the trees, and i bumped me nose and barked me shins, while the miskaties bit me hands and face to a blister; and after tumblin' and stumblin' around till i was fairly bamfoozled, i sat down on a log, all of a trimble, to think that was lost intirely, and that maybe a lion or some other wild craythur would devour me before morning. just then i heard somebody a long way off say, "whip poor will!" "bedad!" sez i, "i'm glad it isn't jamie that's got to take it, though it seems its more in sorrow than in anger they're doin' it, or why should they say, 'poor will?' and sure they can't be injin, haythen, or naygur, for its plain english they're afther spakin?" maybe they might help me out o' this, so i shouted at the top of my voice, "a lost man!" thin i listened. prisintly an answer came. "who: whoo! whooo!" "jamie butler, the waiver," sez i, as loud as i could roar, an' snatchin' up me bundle an' stick, i started in the direction of the voice. whin i thought i had got near the place i stopped and shouted again, "a lost man!" "who! whoo! whooo!" said a voice right over my head. "sure," thinks i, "it's a quare place for a man to be at this time of night; maybe it's some settler scrapin' sugar off a sugar bush for the childher's breakfast in the mornin'. but where's will and the rest of them?" all this wint through me head like a flash, an' thin i answered his enquiry. "jamie butler, the waiver," sez i; "and if it wouldn't inconvanience your honour, would yez be kind enough to step down and show me the way to the house of dennis o'dowd?" "who! whoo! whooo!" sez he. "dennis o'dowd!" sez i, civil enough, "and a dacent man he is, and first cousin to me own mother." "who! whoo! whooo!" sez he again. "me mother!" sez i, "and as fine a woman as ever peeled a biled pratie wid her thumb nail, and her maiden name was molly mcfiggin." "who! whoo! whooo!" "paddy mcfiggin! bad luck to your deaf ould head, paddy mcfiggin, i say--do you hear that? and he was the tallest man in all the county tipperary, excipt jim doyle, the blacksmith." "who! whoo! whooo!" "jim doyle the blacksmith," sez i, "ye good for nothin' naygur, and if yez don't come down and show me the way this min't i'll climb up there and break ivery bone in your own skin, ye spalpeen, so sure as me name is jimmy butler!" "who! whoo! whooo!" sez he, as impident as iver. i said niver a word, but layin' down me bundle, and takin' me stick in me teeth, i began to climb the tree. whin i got among the branches i looked quietly round till i saw a pair of big eyes just forninst me. "whist," sez i, "and i let him have a taste of an irish stick," an' wid that i let drive an' lost me balance an' came tumblin' to the ground, nearly breaking me neck wid the fall. whin i came to me sinsis i had a very sore head wid a lump on it like a goose egg, and half me sunday coat-tail tore off intirely. i spoke to the chap in the tree, but could get niver an answer at all, at all. sure, thinks i, he must have gone home to rowl up his head, for i don't throw me stick for nothin'. well, by this time the moon was up and i could see a little, and i detarmined to make one more effort to reach dennis's. i went on cautiously for awhile, an' thin i heard a bell. "sure," sez i, "i'm comin' to a settlement now, for i hear the church bell." i kept on toward the sound till i came to an ould cow wid a bell on. she started to run, but i was too quick for her, and got her by the tail and hung on, thinkin' that maybe she would take me out of the woods. on we wint, like an ould country steeple chase, till, sure enough, we came out to a clearin' and a house in sight wid a light in it. so leavin' the ould cow puffin and blowin' in a shed, i wint to the house, and as luck would have it, whose should it be but dennis's? he gave me a raal irish, welcome, and introduced me to his two daughters-as purty a pair of girls as iver ye clapped an eye on. but whin i tould him me adventure in the woods, and about the fellow who made fun of me, they all laughed and roared, and dennis said it was an owl. "an ould what," sez i. "why, an owl, a bird," sez he. "do you tell me now!" sez i. "sure it's a quare country and a quare bird." and thin they all laughed again, till at last i laughed myself, that hearty like, and dropped right into a chair between the two purty girls, and the ould chap winked at me and roared again. dennis is me father-in-law now, and he often yet delights to tell our children about their daddy's adventure wid the owl. * * * * * the quaker widow. thee finds me in the garden, hannah,--come in! 'tis kind of thee to wait until the friends were gone, who came to comfort me. the still and quiet company a peace may give indeed, but blessed is the single heart that comes to us in need. come, sit thee down! here is the bench where benjamin would sit on first-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows flit: he loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant bees go humming round the lilacs and through the apple-trees. i think he loved the spring: not that he cared for flowers: most men think such things foolishness,--but we were first acquainted then, one spring: the next he spoke his mind: the third i was his wife, and in the spring (it happened so) our children entered life. he was but seventy-five! i did not think to lay him yet in kennett graveyard, where at monthly meeting first we met. the father's mercy shows in this: 'tis better i should be picked out to bear the heavy cross--alone in age--than he. we've lived together fifty years. it seems but one long day, one quiet sabbath of the heart, till he was called away; and as we bring from meeting-time a sweet contentment home, so, hannah, i have store of peace for all the days to come. i mind (for i can tell thee now) how hard it was to know if i had heard the spirit right, that told me i should go; for father had a deep concern upon his mind that day, but mother spoke for benjamin,--she knew what best to say. then she was still; they sat awhile: at last she spoke again, "the lord incline thee to the right!" and "thou shalt have him, jane!" my father said. i cried. indeed it was not the least of shocks, for benjamin was hicksite, and father orthodox. i thought of this ten years ago, when daughter ruth we lost; her husband's of the world, and yet i could not see her crossed. she wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hireling priest! ah, dear! the cross was ours; her life's a happy one, at least. perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's as old as i,-would thee believe it, hannah? once _i_ felt temptation nigh! my wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple for my taste: i wanted lace around the neck, and ribbon at the waist. how strange it seemed to sit with him upon the women's side! i did not dare to lift my eyes: i felt more fear than pride; till, "in the presence of the lord," he said, and then there came a holy strength upon my heart, and i could say the same. i used to blush when he came near, but then i showed no sign; with all the meeting looking on, i held his hand in mine. it seemed my bashfulness was gone, now i was his for life; thee knows the feeling, hannah,--thee, too, hast been a wife. as home we rode, i saw no fields look half so green as ours; the woods were coming to leaf, the meadows full of flowers; the neighbours met us in the lane, and every face was kind,-'tis strange how lively everything comes back upon my mind. i see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding-dinner spread; at our own table we were guests, with father at the head, and dinah passmore helped us both,--'twas she stood up with me, and abner jones with benjamin,--and now they're gone, all three! it is not right to wish for death, the lord disposes, best. his spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them for his rest; and that he halved our little flock was merciful, i see: for benjamin has two in heaven and two are left with me. eusebius never cared to farm,--'twas not his call, in truth, and i must rent the dear old place, and go to daughter ruth. thee'll say her ways are not like mine,--young people now-a-days have fallen sadly off, i think, from all the good old ways. but ruth is still a friend at heart; she keeps the simple tongue, the cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she was young; and it was brought upon my mind, remembering her, of late, that we on dress and outward things perhaps lay too much weight. i once heard jesse kersey say, a "spirit clothed with grace, and pure, almost, as angels are, may have a homely face. and dress may be of less account; the lord will look within: the soul it is that testifies of righteousness or sin." thee mustn't be too hard on ruth: she's anxious i should go, and she will do her duty as a daughter should, i know. 'tis hard to change so late in life, but we must be resigned; the lord looks down contentedly upon a willing mind. _bayard taylor_. * * * * * cuddle doon. the bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, wi' mickle faucht an' din; "oh, try and sleep, ye waukrife rougues, your faither's comin' in." they never heed a word i speak; i try to gie a froon, but aye i hap them up, an' cry, "oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." wee jamie wi' the curly head- he aye sleeps next the wa', bangs up an' cries, "i want a piece"- the rascal starts them a'. i rin' an' fetch them pieces, drinks; they stop awee the soun', then draw the blankets up an' cry, "noo, weanies, cuddle doon." but ere five minutes gang, wee rab cries out frae' neatn the claes, "mither, mak' tarn gie ower at ance, he's kittlin wi' his taes.", the mischief's in that tam for tricks, he'd bother half the toon, but aye i hap them up an' cry, "oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." at length they hear their faither's fit, an' as he steeks the door they turn their faces to the wa', while tam pretends to snore. "hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks as he pits off his shoon, "the bairnies, john, are in their beds, an' lang since cuddle doon." an' just afore we bed oursel's, we look at oor wee lambs; tam has his airm roun' wee rab's neck, an' rab his airm roun' tam's. i lift wee jamie up the bed, an' as i straik each croon i whisper, till my heart fills up, "oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." the bairnies cuddle doon at nicht. wi' mirth that's dear to me; but sune the big warl's cark an' care will quaten doon their glee. yet come what will to ilka ane may he who sits aboon, aye whisper, though their pows be bauld, "oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." _alexander anderson._ * * * * * per pacem ad lucem. i do not ask, o lord! that life may be a pleasant road; i do not ask that thou wouldst take from me aught of its load: i do not ask that flowers should always spring beneath my feet; i know too well the poison and the sting of things too sweet. for one thing only, lord, dear lord! i plead: lead me aright-though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed- through peace to light. i do not ask, o lord! that thou shouldst shed full radiance here; give but a ray of peace, that i may tread without a fear. i do not ask my cross to understand, my way to see,-better in darkness just to feel thy hand, and follow thee. joy is like restless day, but peace divine like quiet night. lead me, o lord! till perfect day shall shine, through peace to light. _adelaide anne procter._ * * * * * the newsboy's debt. only last year, at christmas time, while pacing down the city street, i saw a tiny, ill clad boy--one of the many that we meet-as ragged as a boy could be, with half a cap, with one good shoe, just patches to keep out the wind--i know the wind blew keenly too: a newsboy, with a newsboy's lungs, a square scotch face, an honest brow, and eyes that liked to smile so well, they had not yet forgotten how: a newsboy, hawking his last sheets with loud persistence; now and then stopping to beat his stiffened hands, and trudging bravely on again. dodging about among the crowd, shouting his "extras" o'er and o'er; pausing by whiles to cheat the wind within some alley, by some door. at last he stopped--six papers left, tucked hopelessly beneath his arm-to eye a fruiterer's outspread store; here, products from some country farm; and there, confections, all adorned with wreathed and clustered leaves and flowers, while little founts, like frosted spires, tossed up and down their mimic showers. he stood and gazed with wistful face, all a child's longing in his eyes; then started as i touched his arm, and turned in quick, mechanic wise, raised his torn cape with purple hands, said, "papers, sir? _the evening news!"_ he brushed away a freezing tear, and shivered, "oh, sir don't refuse!" "how many have you? never mind--don't stop to count--i'll take them all; and when you pass my office here, with stock on hand, give me a call." he thanked me with a broad scotch smile, a look half wondering and half glad. i fumbled for the proper "change," and said, "you seem a little lad to rough it in the streets like this." "i'm ten years old on christmas-day!" "your name?" "jim hanley." "here's a crown, you'll get change there across the way. "five shillings. when you get it changed come to my office--that's the place. now wait a bit, there's time enough: you need not run a headlong race. where do you live?" "most anywhere. we hired a stable-loft to day. me and two others." "and you thought, the fruiterer's window pretty, hey?" "or were you hungry?" "just a bit," he answered bravely as he might. "i couldn't buy a breakfast, sir, and had no money left last night." "and you are cold?" "ay, just a bit; i don't mind cold." "why, that is strange!" he smiled and pulled his ragged cap, and darted off to get the "change." so, with a half unconscious sigh, i sought my office desk again; an hour or more my busy wits found work enough with book and pen. but when the mantel clock struck six i started with a sudden thought, for there beside my hat and cloak lay those six papers i had bought. why where's the boy? and where's the 'change' he should have brought an hour ago? ah, well! ah, well! they're all alike! i was a fool to tempt him so, dishonest! well, i might have known; and yet his face seemed candid too. he would have earned the difference if he had brought me what was due. "but caution often comes too late." and so i took my homeward way. deeming distrust of human kind the only lesson of the day. just two days later, as i sat, half dozing, in my office chair, i heard a timid knock, and called in my brusque fashion, "who is there?" an urchin entered, barely seven--the same scotch face, the same blue eyes-and stood, half doubtful, at the door, abashed at my forbidding guise. "sir, if you please, my brother jim--the one you give the crown, you know-he couldn't bring the money, sir, because his back was hurted so. "he didn't mean to keep the 'change.' he got runned over, up the street; one wheel went right across his back, and t'other forewheel mashed his feet. they stopped the horses just in time, and then they took him up for dead, and all that day and yesterday he wasn't rightly in his head. "they took him to the hospital--one of the newsboys knew 'twas jim-and i went, too, because, you see, we two are brothers, i and him. he had that money in his hand, and never saw it any more. indeed, he didn't mean to steal! he never stole a pin before. "he was afraid that you might think, he meant to keep it, anyway; this morning when they brought him to, he cried because he couldn't pay. he made me fetch his jacket here; it's torn and dirtied pretty bad; it's only fit to sell for rags, but then, you know, it's all he had. "when he gets well--it won't be long--if you will call the money lent. he says he'll work his fingers off but what he'll pay you every cent." and then he cast a rueful glance at the soiled jacket where it lay, "no, no, my boy! take back the coat. your brother's badly hurt you say? "where did they take him? just run out and hail a cab, then wait for me. why, i would give a thousand coats, and pounds, for such a boy as he!" a half-hour after this we stood together in the crowded wards, and the nurse checked the hasty steps that fell too loudly on the boards. i thought him smiling in his sleep, and scarce believed her when she said, smoothing away the tangled hair from brow and cheek, "the boy is dead." dead? dead so soon? how fair he looked! one streak of sunshine on his hair. poor lad! well it is warm in heaven: no need of "change" and jackets there. and something rising in my throat made it so hard for me to speak, i turned away, and left a tear lying upon his sunburned cheek. _anon._ * * * * * sandalphon. have you read in the talmud of old, in the legends the rabbins have told, of the limitless realms of the air,-have you read it,--the marvellous story of sandalphon, the angel of glory, sandalphon, the angel of prayer? how erect, at the outermost gates of the city celestial he waits, with his feet on the ladder of light, that, crowded with angels unnumbered, by jacob was seen, as he slumbered alone in the desert at night? the angels of wind and of fire chant only one hymn, and expire with the song's irresistible stress; expire in their rapture and wonder, as harp strings are broken asunder by music they throb to express. but serene in the rapturous throng, unmoved by the rush of the song, with eyes unimpassioned and slow, among the dead angels, the deathless sandalphon stands listening breathless to sounds that ascend from below;-from the spirits on earth that adore, from the souls that entreat and implore; in the fervour and passion of prayer; from the hearts that are broken with losses, and weary with dragging the crosses too heavy for mortals to bear. and he gathers the prayers as he stands, and they change into flowers in his hands, into garlands of purple and red, and beneath the great arch of the portal, through the streets of the city immortal, is wafted the fragrance they shed. it is but a legend i know,-a fable, a phantom, a show, of the ancient rabbinical lore; yet the old mediaeval tradition, the beautiful, strange superstition, but haunts me and holds me the more. when i look from my window at night, and the welkin above is all white, all throbbing and panting with stars, among them majestic is standing, sandalphon, the angel, expanding his pinions in nebulous bars. and the legend, i feel, is a part of the hunger and thirst of the heart, the frenzy and fire of the brain, that grasps at the fruitage forbidden, the golden pomegranates of eden, to quiet its fever and pain. _longfellow._ * * * * * hagar in the wilderness the morning broke.--light stole upon the clouds with a strange beauty.--earth received again its garment of a thousand dyes; and leaves, and delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, and every thing that bendeth to the dew, and stirreth with the daylight, lifted up its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. all things are dark to sorrow; and the light and loveliness, and fragrant air, were sad to the dejected hagar. the moist earth was pouring odours from its spicy pores; and the young birds were singing as if life were a new thing to them: but oh! it came upon her heart like discord; and she felt how cruelly it tries a broken heart, to see a mirth in any thing it loves. the morning passed; and asia's sun rode up in the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. the cattle of the hills were in the shade, and the bright plumage of the orient lay on beating bosoms, in her spicy trees. it was an hour of rest!--but hagar found no shelter in the wilderness; and on she kept her weary way, until the boy hung down his head, and opened his parched lips for water; but she could not give it him. she laid him down beneath the sultry sky;-for it was better than the close, hot breath of the thick pines,--and tried to comfort him; but he was sore athirst; and his blue eyes were dim and bloodshot; and he could not know why god denied him water in the wild.-she sat a little longer; and he grew ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. it was too much for her. she lifted him, and bore him farther on, and laid his head beneath the shadow of a desert shrub; and, shrouding up her face, she went away, and sat to watch, where he could see her not, till he should die; and watching him, she mourned:-"god stay thee in thine agony, my boy! i cannot see thee die; i cannot brook upon thy brow to look, and see death settle on my cradle joy. how have i drunk the light of thy blue eye and could i see thee die? "i did not dream of this, when thou wast straying like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers, or wiling the soft hours, by the rich gush of water-sources playing, then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, so beautiful and deep. "oh no! and when i watched by thee, the while, and saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, and thought of the dark stream in my own land of egypt, the far nile, how prayed i that my fathers' land might be a heritage for thee! "and now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee, and thy white delicate limbs the earth will press; and oh! my last caress must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee-how can i leave my boy, so pillowed there upon his clustering hair" * * * * * she stood beside the well her god had given to gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed the forehead of her child until he laughed in his reviving happiness, and lisped his infant thought of gladness at the sight of the cool plashing of his mother's hand. _n. p. willis_ * * * * * the model wife his house she enters there to be a light, shining within when all around is night, a guardian angel o'er his life presiding, doubling his pleasures and his cares dividing: winning him back when mingling with the throng of this vain world we love, alas, too long, to fireside's happiness and hours of ease, blest with that charm, the certainty to please; how oft her eyes read his! her gentle mind to all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined; still subject--ever on the watch to borrow mirth of his mirth and sorrow of his sorrow. _ruskin_ * * * * * "goodbye." falling leaf and fading tree, lines of white in a sullen sea, shadows rising on you and me- the swallows are making them ready to fly. goodbye, summer! goodbye! goodbye! hush! a voice from the far away!- "listen and learn," it seems to say, "all the to-morrows shall be as to-day." the cord is frayed and the cruse is dry. the ink must break and the lamp must die. goodbye, hope! goodbye! goodbye! what are we waiting for? oh! my heart, kiss me straight on the brows and part! again! again! my heart! my heart! what are we waiting for, you and i? a pleading look--a stifled cry- goodbye forever! goodbye! goodbye! _whyte melville_. makin' an editor outen 0' him. "good morning, sir, mr. printer; how is your body today? i'm glad you're to home, for you fellers is al'ays a runnin' away. but layin' aside pleasure for business, i've brought you my little boy, jim; and i thought i would see if you couldn't make an editor outen o' him. he aint no great shakes for to labour, though i've laboured with him a good deal, and give him some strappin' good arguments i know he couldn't help but to feel; but he's built out of second-growth timber, and nothin' about him is big, exceptin' his appetite only, and there he's as good as a pig. i keep him a carryin' luncheons, and fillin' and bringin' the jugs, and take him among the pertatoes, and set him to pickin' the bugs; and then there is things to be doin' a helpin' the women indoors; there's churnin' and washin' o' dishes, and other descriptions of chores; but he don't take to nothin' but victuals, and he'll never be much, i'm afraid. so i thought it would be a good notion to larn him the editor's trade. his body's too small for a farmer, his judgment is rather too slim, but i thought we perhaps could be makin' an editor outen o' him! it aint much to get up a paper, it wouldn't take him long for to learn; he could feed the machine, i am thinkin', with a good strappin' fellow to turn. and things that was once hard in doin', is easy enough now to do; just keep your eye on your machinery, and crack your arrangements right through. i used for to wonder at readin', and where it was got up, and how; but 'tis most of it made by machinery, i can see it all plain enough now. and poetry, too, is constructed by machines of different designs, each one with a gauge and a chopper, to see to the length of the lines; an' since the whole trade has growed easy, 'twould be easy enough, i've a whim, if you was agreed, to be makin' an editor outen o' jim!" the editor sat in his sanctum and looked the old man in the eye, then glanced at the grinning young hopeful, and mournfully made a reply: "is your son a small unbound edition of moses and solomon both? can he compass his spirit with meekness, and strangle a natural oath? can he leave all his wrongs to the future, and carry his heart in his cheek? can he do an hour's work in a minute, and live on a sixpence a week? can he courteously talk to an equal, and brow-beat an impudent dunce? can he keep things in apple-pie order, and do half-a-dozen at once? can he press all the springs of knowledge, with quick and reliable touch? and be sure that he knows how much to know, and knows how not to know too much? does he know how to spur up his virtue, and put a check-rein on his pride? can he carry a gentleman's manners within a rhinoceros hide? can he know all, and do all, and be all, with cheerfulness, courage, and vim? if so, we, perhaps, can be makin' an editor outen o' him.'" the farmer stood curiously listening, while wonder his visage o'erspread, and he said: "jim, i guess we'll be goin', he's probably out of his head." _will m. carleton._ * * * * * the armada. attend, all ye who list to hear our noble england's praise; i tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, when that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain, the richest spoils of mexico, the stoutest hearts of spain. it was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, there came a gallant merchant ship full sail to plymouth bay; her crew had seen castile's black fleet, beyond aurigny's isle, at earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile, at sunrise she escaped their van, by god's especial grace; and the tall _pinta_, till the noon, had held her close in chase. forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; the beacon blazed upon the roof of edgecombe's lofty hall; many a light fishing bark put out to pry along the coast; and with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post. with his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes, behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums; the yeomen, round the market cross, make clear an ample space, for there behoves him to set up the standard of her grace; and haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, as slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, and underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down! so stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed picard field, bohemia's plume, and genoa's bow, and caesar's eagle shield: so glared he when at agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay, and crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay. ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! ho! scatter flowers, fair maids! ho, gunners! fire a loud salute! ho, gallants! draw your blades! thou, sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide; our glorious _semper eadem_, the banner of our pride. the fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold-the parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold: night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea; such night in england ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be. from eddystone to berwick bounds, from lynn to milford bay, that time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the day; for swift to east, and swift to west the warning radiance spread-high on st michael's mount it shone--it shone on beachy head; far o'er the deep the spaniard saw, along each southern shire, cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. the fisher left his skiff to rock on tamar's glittering waves, the rugged miners poured to war, from mendip's sunless caves; o'er longleat's towers, o'er cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew, and roused the shepherds of stonehenge--the rangers of beaulieu. right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from bristol town; and, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on clifton down. the sentinel on whitehall gate looked forth into the night, and saw o'erhanging richmond hill, the streak of blood-red light; then bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke, and with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke; at once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires; at once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; from all the batteries of the tower pealed loud the voice of fear, and all the thousand masts of thames sent back a louder cheer; and from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, and the broad streams of pikes and flags dashed down each roaring street: and broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, as fast from every village round the horse came spurring in; and eastward straight, from wild blackheath, the warlike errand went; and roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of kent: southward, from surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright couriers forth; high on bleak hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north; and on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; all night from tower to tower they sprang, they sprang from hill to hill; till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er derwent's rocky dales; till like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of wales; till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on malvern's lonely height; till streamed in crimson on the wind, the wrekin's crest of light; till broad and fierce, the star came forth, on ely's stately fane, and town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain; till belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to lincoln sent, and lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of trent: till skiddaw saw the fire that burned on gaunt's embattled pile, and the red glare on skiddaw roused the burghers of carlisle. _lord macaulay._ * * * * * trial scene from the merchant of venice. duke. you hear the learned bellario, what he writes; and here, i take it, is the doctor come.- _enter_ portia, _dressed like a doctor of laws._ give me your hand: came you from old bellario? por. i did, my lord. duke. you are welcome: take your place. are you acquainted with the difference that holds this present question in the court? por. i am informed thoroughly of the cause. which is the merchant here, and which the jew? duke. antonio and old shylock, both stand forth. por. is your name shylock? shylock. shylock is my name. por. of a strange nature is the suit you follow; yet in such rule that the venetian law cannot impugn you, as you do proceed.-you stand within his danger, do you not? [_to_ ant. antonio. ay, so he says. por. do you confess the bond? ant. i do. por. then must the jew be merciful. shy. on what compulsion must i? tell me that. por. the quality of mercy is not strain'd; it droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; it blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: 'tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes the throned monarch better than his crown; his sceptre shows the force of temporal power, the attribute to awe and majesty, wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; but mercy is above this sceptred sway, it is enthroned in the heart of kings, it is an attribute to god himself; and earthly power doth then show likest god's when mercy seasons justice. therefore, jew, though justice be thy plea, consider this-that in the course of justice, none of us should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; and that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy. i have spoke thus much, to mitigate the justice of thy plea; which if thou follow, this strict court of venice must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. shy. my deeds upon my head: i crave the law, the penalty and forfeit of my bond. por. is he not able to discharge the money? bassanio. yes, here i tender it for him in the court yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice, i will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, on forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart: if this will not suffice, it must appear that malice bears down truth. and i beseech you, wrest once the law to your authority: to do a great right do a little wrong: and curb this cruel devil of his will. por. it must not be; there is no power in venice can alter a decree established: 'twill be recorded for a precedent; and many an error, by the same example, will rush into the state: it cannot be. shy. a daniel come to judgment! yea, a daniel o wise young judge, how do i honour thee! por. i pray you, let me look upon the bond. shy. here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. por. shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee. shy. an oath, an oath, i have an oath in heaven: shall i lay perjury upon my soul? no, not for venice. por. why, this bond is forfeit; and lawfully by this the jew may claim a pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest the merchant's heart:--be merciful; take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond. shy. when it is paid according to the tenour. it doth appear you are a worthy judge; you know the law, your exposition hath been most sound: i charge you by the law whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, proceed to judgment: by my soul i swear there is no power in the tongue of man to alter me: i stay here on my bond. ant. most heartily i do beseech the court to give the judgment. por. why then, thus it is: you must prepare your bosom for his knife. shy. o noble judge! o excellent young man! por. for the intent and purpose of the law hath full relation to the penalty, which here appeareth due upon the bond. shy. 'tis very true: o wise and upright judge! how much more elder art thou than thy looks. por. therefore, lay bare your bosom. shy. ay, his breast. so says the bond;--doth it not, noble judge? nearest his heart, those are the very words. por. it is so. are there balance here, to weigh the flesh? shy. i have them ready. por. have by some surgeon, shylock, on your charge to stop his wounds, lest he should bleed to death. shy. is it so nominated in the bond? por. it is not so express'd; but what of that? 'twere good you do so much for charity. shy. i cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond. por. come, merchant, have you anything to say? ant. but little; i am arm'd, and well prepar'd,-give you your hand, bassanio; fare you well! grieve not that i am fallen to this for you; for herein fortune shows herself more kind than is her custom: it is still her use, to let the wretched man outlive his wealth, to view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow, an age of poverty; from which lingering penance of such a misery doth she cut me off. commend me to your honourable wife; tell her the process of antonio's end, say, how i lov'd you, speak me fair in death; and, when the tale is told, bid her be judge whether bassanio had not once a love. repent not you that you shall lose your friend, and he repents not that he pays your debt; for, if the jew do cut but deep enough, i'll pay it instantly with all my heart. bass. antonio, i am married to a wife, which is as dear to me as life itself; but life itself, my wife, and all the world, are not with me esteem'd above thy life; i would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all here to this devil, to deliver you. por. your wife would give you little thanks for that, if she were by, to hear you make the offer. gratiano. i have a wife, whom i protest i love; i would she were in heaven, so she could entreat some power to change this currish jew. ner. 'tis well you offer it behind her back; the wish would make else an unquiet house. shy. these be the christian husbands: i have a daughter; would any of the stock of barrabas had been her husband, rather than a christian! [_aside_. we trifle time: i pray thee pursue sentence. por. a pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine; the court awards it, and the law doth give it. shy. most rightful judge. for. and you must cut this flesh from off his breast; the law allows it, and the court awards it. shy. most learned judge!--a sentence; come, prepare. por. tarry a little;--there is something else.-this bond doth give thee here no jot of blood; the words expressly are a pound of flesh: then take thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh; but, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed one drop of christian blood, thy lands and goods are, by the laws of venice, confiscate unto the state of venice. gra. o upright judge!--mark, jew!--o learned judge! shy. is that the law? por. thyself shall see the act: for as thou urgest justice, be assur'd thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. gra. o learned judge!--mark, jew; a learned judge! shy. i take this offer then,--pay the bond thrice, and let the christian go. bass. here is the money. por. soft. the jew shall have all justice;--soft;--no haste;-he shall have nothing but the penalty. gra. o jew! an upright judge, a learned judge! por. therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh. shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less nor more, but just a pound of flesh; if thou tak'st more, or less, than just a pound,--be it so much as makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, or the division of the twentieth part of one poor scruple,--nay, if the scale do turn but in the estimation of a hair,-thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. gra. a second daniel, a daniel, jew! now, infidel, i have thee on the hip. por. why doth the jew pause? take thy forfeiture. shy. give me my principal, and let me go. bass. i have it ready for thee; here it is. por. he hath refus'd it in the open court; he shall have merely justice, and his bond. gra. a daniel, still say i; a second daniel!-i thank thee, jew, for teaching me that word. shy. shall i not have barely my principal? por. thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, to be so taken at thy peril, jew. shy. why then the devil give him good of it! i'll stay no longer question. por. tarry, jew; the law hath yet another hold on you. it is enacted in the laws of venice,-if it be proved against an alien, that by direct or indirect attempts he seeks the life of any citizen, the party 'gainst the which he doth contrive shall seize one half his goods: the other half comes to the privy coffer of the state; and the offender's life lies in the mercy of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. in which predicament, i say, thou stand'st: for it appears by manifest proceeding, that, indirectly, and directly too, thou hast contriv'd against the very life of the defendant; and thou hast incurr'd the danger formerly by me rehears'd. down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke. gra. beg that thou may'st have leave to hang thyself: and yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, thou hast not left the value of a cord; therefore, thou must be hanged at the state's charge. duke. that thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, i pardon thee thy life before thou ask it for half thy wealth, it is antonio's; the other half comes to the general state, which humbleness may drive unto a fine. por. ay, for the state; not for antonio. shy. nay, take my life and all, pardon not that: you take my house, when you do take the prop that doth sustain my house; you take my life, when you do take the means whereby i live. por. what mercy can you render him, antonio? gra. a halter gratis; nothing else, for god's sake. ant. so please my lord the duke, and all the court, to quit the fine for one half of his goods; i am content, so he will let me have the other half in use, to render it, upon his death, unto the gentleman that lately stole his daughter; two things provided more,--that for this favour, he presently become a christian; the other, that he do record a gift here in the court, of all he dies possess'd unto his son lorenzo and his daughter. duke. he shall do this; or else i do recant the pardon that i late pronounced here. por. art thou contented, jew; what dost thou say? shy. i am content. por. clerk, draw a deed of gift. shy. i pray you give me leave to go from hence: i am not well; send the deed after me, and i will sign it. duke. get thee gone, but do it. gra. in christening, thou shalt have two godfathers; had i been judge, thou should'st have had ten more, to bring thee to the gallows, not the font. [exit shylock. _shakespeare._ * * * * * the faithful housewife. i see her in her home content, the faithful housewife, day by day, her duties seem like pleasures sent, and joy attends her on her way. she cares not for the loud acclaim that goes with rank and social strife. her wayside home is more than fame; she is its queen--the faithful wife. when summer days are soft and fair, and bird-songs fill the cottage trees, she reaps a benison as rare, as her own gentle ministries. peace shrines itself upon her face, and happiness in every look; her voice is full of charm and grace, like music of the summer brook. in winter when the days are cold, and all the landscape dead and bare, how well she keeps her little fold, how shines the fire beside her chair! the children go with pride to school, the father's toil half turns to play; so faithful is her frugal rule, so tenderly she moulds the day. let higher stations vaunt their claim, let others sing of rank and birth; the faithful housewife's honest fame is linked to the best joy on earth. * * * * * scene from richelieu. enter julie de mortemar richelieu. that's my sweet julie! why, upon this face blushes such daybreak, one might swear the morning were come to visit tithon. julie (_placing herself at his feet_). are you gracious? may i say "father?" rich. now and ever! julie. father! a sweet word to an orphan. rich. no; not orphan while richelieu lives; thy father loved me well; my friend, ere i had flatterers (now i'm great, in other phrase, i'm friendless)--he died young in years, not service, and bequeathed thee to me; and thou shalt have a dowry, girl, to buy thy mate amid the mightiest. drooping?--sighs?-art thou not happy at the court? julie. not often. rich, (_aside_). can she love baradas? ah! at thy heart there's what can smile and sigh, blush and grow pale, all in a breath! thou art admired--art young; does not his majesty commend thy beauty-ask thee to sing to him?--and swear such sounds had smoothed the brow of saul? julie. he's very tiresome, our worthy king. rich. fie! kings are never tiresome save to their ministers. what courtly gallants charm ladies most?--de sourdioc' longueville, or the favorite baradas? julie. a smileless man-i fear and shun him. rich. yet he courts thee! julie. then he is more tiresome than his majesty. rich. right, girl, shun baradas. yet of these flowers of france, not one, in whose more honeyed breath thy heart hears summer whisper? _enter_ huguet. huguet. the chevalier de mauprat waits below. julie. (_starting up_). de mauprat! rich. hem! he has been tiresome too!--anon. [_exit_ huguet. julie: what doth he? i mean--i--does your eminence--that is-know you messire de mauprat? rich. well!--and you-has he addressed you often? julie. often? no-nine times: nay, ten;--the last time by the lattice of the great staircase.(_in a melancholy tone_.) the court sees him rarely. rich. a bold and forward royster! julie. _he_? nay, modest, gentle and sad, methinks, rich. wears gold and azure? julie. no; sable. rich. so you note his colours, julie? shame on you, child, look loftier. by the mass, i have business with this modest gentleman. julie. you're angry with poor julie. there's no cause. rich. no cause--you hate my foes? julie. i do! rich. hate mauprat? julie. not mauprat. no, not adrien, father. rich. adrien! familiar!--go, child; no,--not _that_ way;--wait in the tapestry chamber; i will join you,--go. julie. his brows are knit; i dare not call him father! but i _must_ speak. your eminence- rich. (_sternly_). well, girl! julie. nay, smile on me--one smile more; there, now i'm happy. do not rank mauprat with your foes; he is not, i know he is not; he loves france too well. rich. not rank de mauprat with my foes? so be it. i'll blot him from that list. julie. that's my own father. [_exit_ julie. _sir edward lytton bulwer._ * * * * * "dios te guarde." from the spanish. god keep thee safe, my dear, from every harm, close in the shelter of his mighty arm! so, when thou must look out over earth's noise and rout may thy calm soul be free from all alarm. or if he shall ordain, he, the most wise, that woe shall come, that tears shall dim thine eyes, may he still hold thee near, dispelling doubt and fear, giving thy prostrate heart strength to arise. and when his night comes, love, and thou must go, may he still call to thee, tenderly, low, cradled upon his breast sinking to sweetest rest, god have thee safe, my dear, and keep thee so. * * * * * to her husband; _written in the prospect of death_, 1640. how soon, my dear, death may my steps attend, how soon't may be thy lot to lose thy friend, we both are ignorant. yet love bids me these farewell lines to recommend to thee, that, when that knot's untied that made us one, i may seem thine, who in effect am none. and, if i see not half my days that's due, what nature would god grant to yours and you. the many faults that well you know i have let be interred in my oblivious grave; if any worth or virtue is in me; let that live freshly in my memory. and when thou feel'st no grief, as i no harms, yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms; and, when thy loss shall be repaid with gains, look to my little babes, my dear remains, and, if thou lov'st thyself or lovest me, these oh, protect from stepdame's injury! and, if chance to thine eyes doth bring this verse, with some sad sighs honour my absent hearse, and kiss this paper, for thy love's dear sake, who with salt tears this last farewell doth take. _anne bradstreet_ * * * * * passing away was it the chime of a tiny bell, that came so sweet to my dreaming ear, like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell, that he winds on the beach so mellow and clear, when the winds and the waves lie together asleep, and the moon and the fairy are watching the deep, she dispensing her silvery light, and he his notes as silvery quite, while the boatman listens and ships his oar, to catch the music that comes from the shore?- hark! the notes on my ear that play, are set to words! as they float, they say, "passing away! passing away!" but, no; it was not a fairy's shell, blown on the beach so mellow and clear: nor was it the tongue of a silver bell striking the hours that fell on my ear, as i lay in my dream: yet was it a chime that told of the flow of the stream of time, for a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung, and a plump little girl for a pendulum, swung, (as you've sometimes seen, in a little ring that hangs in his cage, a canary bird swing) and she held to her bosom a budding bouquet, and as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, "passing away! passing away!" oh, how bright were the wheels, that told of the lapse of time as they moved round slow! and the hands as they swept o'er the dial of gold seemed to point to the girl below. and lo! she had changed;--in a few short hours, her bouquet had become a garland of flowers, that she held in her outstretched hands, and flung this way and that, as she, dancing, swung in the fullness of grace and womanly pride, that told me she soon was to be a bride; yet then, when expecting her happiest day, in the same sweet voice i heard her say, "passing away! passing away!" while i gazed on that fair one's cheek, a shade of thought, or care, stole softly over, like that by a cloud in a summer's day made, looking down on a field of blossoming clover. the rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush had something lost of its brilliant blush; and the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels, that marched so calmly round above her, was a little dimmed--as when evening steals upon noon's hot face:--yet one couldn't but love her; for she looked like a mother whose first babe lay rocked on her breast, as she swung all day; and she seemed in the same silver' tone to say, "passing away! passing away!" while yet i looked, what a change there came! her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan; stooping and staffed was her withered frame, yet just as busily swung she on: the garland beneath her had fallen to dust; the wheels above her were eaten with rust; the hands, that over the dial swept, grew crook'd and tarnished, but on they kept; and still there came that silver tone from the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone, (let me never forget, to my dying day, the tone or the burden of that lay)- "passing away! passing away!" _pierpont_. from the first oration against catiline. how far wilt thou, o catiline, abuse our patience? how long shall thy madness outbrave our justice? to what extremities art thou resolved to push thy unbridled insolence of guilt! canst thou behold the nocturnal arms that watch the palatium, the guards of the city, the consternation of the citizens; all the wise and worthy clustering into consultation; this impregnable situation of the seat of the senate, and the reproachful looks of the fathers of rome? canst thou, i say, behold all this, and yet remain undaunted and unabashed? art thou sensible that thy measures are detected? art thou sensible that this senate, now thoroughly informed, comprehend the full extent of thy guilt? point me out the senator ignorant of thy practices, during the last and the proceeding night: of the place where you met, the company you summoned, and the crime you concerted. the senate is conscious, the consul is witness to this: yet mean and degenerate--the traitor lives! lives! did i say? he mixes with the senate; he shares in our counsels; with a steady eye he surveys us; he anticipates his guilt; he enjoys his murderous thoughts, and coolly marks us out for bloodshed. yet we, boldly passive in our country's cause, think we act like romans if we can escape his frantic rage. long since, o catiline! ought the consul to have doomed thy life a forfeit to thy country; and to have directed upon thy own head the mischief thou hast long been meditating for ours. could the noble scipio, when sovereign pontiff, as a private roman kill tiberius gracchus for a slight encroachment upon the rights of this country; and shall we, her consuls, with persevering patience endure catiline, whose ambition is to desolate a devoted world with fire and sword? there was--there was a time, when such was the spirit of rome, that the resentment of her magnanimous sons more sternly crushed the roman traitor, than the most inveterate enemy. strong and weighty, o catiline! is the decree of the senate we can now produce against you; neither wisdom is wanting in this state, nor authority in this assembly; but we, the consuls, we are defective in our duty. _cicero._ * * * * * the inexperienced speaker. the awkward, untried speaker rises now, and to the audience makes a jerking bow. he staggers--almost falls--stares--strokes his chin-clears out his throat, and.. ventures to begin. "sir, i am.. sensible"--(some titter near him)-"i am, sir, sensible"--"hear! hear!" (they cheer him). now bolder grown--for praise mistaking pother-he pumps first one arm up, and then the other. "i am, sir, sensible--i am indeed-that,.. though--i should--want--words--i must proceed and.. for the first time in my life, i think-i think--that--no great--orator--should--shrink-and therefore,--mr. speaker,--i, for one-will.. speak out freely.--sir, i've not yet done. sir, in the name of those enlightened men who sent me here to.. speak for them--why, then.. to do my duty--as i said before-to my constituency--i'll ... say no more." * * * * * sketches of authors. addison, joseph, born may 1st, 1672, at milston, wiltshire, son of the rev. lancelot addison, was educated at the charterhouse and at magdalen college, oxford. he was destined for the church, but turned his attention to political life, and became eventually a member of parliament, and in 1717, one of the principal secretaries of state. he first rose into public notice, through his poem on the battle of blenheim, written in 1704, and entitled, _the campaign_. he was chief contributor to _the spectator_. his tragedy of _cato_, produced in 1713, achieved a great popularity, which, however, has not been permanent. he died on june 17th, 1719. as an observer of life, of manners, of all shades of human character, he stands in the first class. aldrich, thomas bailey, an american poet, born at portsmouth, new hampshire, 1836. he has been an industrious worker on the newspaper press, and is the author of baby bell, a beautiful poem of child-death. he has published his collected poems under the title of _cloth of gold_, and of _flower and thorn_. he is also a prose writer of considerable note, having an exquisite humour. his published novels are _prudence palfrey_, _the queen of sheba_, _the still-water tragedy_, etc. aytoun, william edmondstoune, an eminent critic and poet, born in fifeshire, scotland, in 1813. he studied law, and was appointed professor of rhetoric in edinburgh university in 1845, and was closely connected with _blackwood's magazine_ for many years. he was a poet of the highest order, and his _execution of montrose_, and the _burial march of dundee_, are two noble historical ballads. he was author of the celebrated _lays of the scottish cavaliers_, _bon gaultier ballads_, _firmilian_, _a spasmodic tragedy_, _bothwell_, _poland, and other poems_, _the life and times of richard coeur de lion_, etc. died august 4th, 1865. beecher, henry ward, a celebrated author and divine, born at litchfield, connecticut, on the 24th of january, 1813. he studied at amherst college, where he graduated in 1834. in 1847, he became pastor of plymouth church (congregational), brooklyn. he is one of the most popular writers, and most successful lecturers of the day in the united states. he has published, _lectures to young men, life thoughts_, a novel entitled _norwood_, etc. bronte, charlotte (currer bell). a popular english novelist, born at thornton, yorkshire, april 21st, 1816, was a daughter of the rev. patrick brontã©. in 1846, in conjunction with her sisters--anne and emily-published a small volume of poems. it was as a writer of fiction, however, that charlotte achieved her great success, and in 1848, her novel of _jane eyre_, obtained great popularity, and brought the talented author well merited fame. she afterwards published _shirley_ and _villette_, both very successful works. in june, 1854, she married the rev. arthur b. nicholls, but after a brief taste of domestic happiness, she died at haworth, march 31st, 1855. _the professor_, her first production (written in 1846), was published in 1856, after her death. browning, elizabeth barrett, one of the most gifted female poets that have ever lived, the daughter of mr. barrett, an opulent london merchant, born near ledbury, herefordshire, about 1807. she began to write verse when only ten years of age, and gave early proofs of great poetical genius. at the age of seventeen, she published _an essay on mind, with other poems_, and her reputation was widely extended by _the seraphim and other poems_, published in 1838. in 1846, she was married to robert browning, the poet, and they lived for many years in italy. in 1851, she published _casa guidi windows_, the impressions of the writer upon events in tuscany, and in 1856, appeared _aurora leigh_, a poem, or novel in verse, which is greatly admired. "the poetical reputation of mrs. browning," says the _north british review_ (february, 1857), "has been growing slowly, until it has reached a height which has never before been attained by any modern poetess." she died at florence, june 29th, 1861. browning, robert, a distinguished english poet, born at camberwell, london, in 1812. he was educated at the university of london, and in 1836 published his first poem, _paracelsus_, which attracted much attention by its originality. he has been a voluminous writer, and of all his works, _pippa passes_, and _the blot in the scutcheon_, are perhaps the best. the _ring and the book_ appeared in 1868. he is considered by some critics as one of the greatest english poets of his time, but is not very popular. bryant, william cullen, an american poet, born at cummington, massachusetts, november 3rd, 1794. at the age of ten years he made very creditable translations from the latin poets, which were printed, and at thirteen he wrote _the embargo_, a political satire which was never surpassed by any poet of that age. he wrote _thanatopsis_ when but little more than eighteen, and it is by many considered as his finest poem. in 1826 he became one of the editors of the _evening post_, which he continued to edit until his death. he published a complete collection of his poems in 1832, and in 1864. among his prose works are, _letters of a traveller_, and in 1869 he published a translation of homer's _iliad_, which is an excellent work. washington irving says of bryant: "that his close observation of the phenomena of nature, and the graphic felicity of his details, prevent his descriptions from becoming commonplace." he died june 12th, 1878. burns, robert, the national poet of scotland, was the son of a small farmer, and was born near the town of ayr, on january, 25th, 1759. his early life was spent in farming, but he was about emigrating to the west indies, when the publication of a volume of his poems, in 1786, which were very favourably received, determined him on remaining in his native land, and he proceeded to edinburgh, where he made the acquaintance of the distinguished men of letters of that famous city. his reception was triumphant, and a new edition of his poems was issued, by which he realised more than â£500. in 1788 he was married to miss jean armour (bonnie jean), and soon after obtained a place in the excise, and in 1791 he removed to dumfries, where he spent the remainder of his life. he died on july 21st, 1796. nature had made burns the greatest among lyric poets; the most striking characteristics of his poetry are simplicity and intensity, in which qualities he is scarcely, if at all, inferior to any of the greatest poets that have ever lived. "no poet except shakespeare," says sir walter scott, "ever possessed the power of exciting the most varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions." byrom, dr. john, an english poet, born at kersal, near manchester, in 1691. he contributed several pieces to the _spectator_, of which the beautiful pastoral of _colin and phoebe_, in no. 603, is the most noted. he invented a system of shorthand, which is still known by his name. died at manchester in 1763. byron, george gordon noel (lord), an english poet and dramatist of rare genius, was born in london, january 22nd, 1788. he was educated partly at harrow, and in 1805 proceeded to trinity college, cambridge. while at college he published, in 1807, his _hours of idleness_, a volume of juvenile poems, which was severely criticised in the _edinburgh review_. two years later he published his reply, _english bards_ and _scotch reviewers_, a satire which obtained immediate celebrity. in 1812 he gave the world the fruits of his travels on the continent, in the first two cantos of _childe harold's pilgrimage_. the success of this was so extraordinary that, as he tells us, "he awoke one morning and found himself famous." he then took his seat in the house of lords, but soon lost his interest in politics. in 1813 he published _the giaour_, and _the bride of abydos_, and in 1814, _the corsair_. in january, 1815, he married anne isabella milbank, only daughter of sir ralph milbank, but the marriage was an unhappy one, and she returned to her father's in the january of 1816. in april, 1816, byron left his country with the avowed intention of never seeing it again, and during his absence he published, in rapid succession, the remaining cantos of _childe harold_, _mazeppa_, _manfred_, _cain_, _sardanapalus_, _marino faliero_, _the two foscari_, _werner_, and _don juan_, besides many other smaller poems. during his residence on the continent, his sympathies for grecian liberty became strongly excited, and he resolved to devote all his energies to the cause, and left italy in the summer of 1823. he arrived in missolonghi on january 10th, 1824. on february 15th he was seized with a convulsive fit, which rendered him senseless for some time. on april 9th he got wet, took cold and a fever, on the 11th he grew worse, and on the 19th he died, inflammation of the brain having set in. among the most remarkable characteristics of byron's poetry, two are deserving of particular notice. the first is his power of expressing intense emotion, especially when it is associated with the darker passions of the soul. "never had any writer," says macaulay, "so vast a command of the whole eloquence of scorn, misanthropy and despair.... from maniac laughter to piercing lamentation, there is not a single note of human anguish of which he was not master." campbell, thomas, an eminent british poet, born at glasgow in 1777. in 1799 he published _the pleasures of hope_, of which the success has perhaps had no parallel in english literature. he visited the continent in 1800 and witnessed the battle of hohen-linden, which furnished the subject of one of his most exquisite lyrics. _gertrude of wyoming_, published in 1809, is one of his finest poems. he wrote several spirited odes, etc., and other literary work, has placed his fame on an enduring basis. he died at boulogne, in 1844, and was buried in westminster abbey. cary, alice, an american author, born near cincinnati, ohio, about 1822. she first attracted attention by her contributions to the _national era_, under the name of patty lee; she afterwards published several volumes of poems and other works, including _hagar_, _hollywood_, etc. her sketches of western life, entitled _clovernook_, have obtained extensive popularity. she died, february 12th, 1871. cary, phoebe, a sister of alice, has also contributed to periodical literature and in 1854 published a volume entitled _poems and parodies_. she died july 31st, 1871. coleridge, samuel taylor, an eminent english poet and critic, born at ottery st. mary, devonshire, october 21st, 1772. in 1796, he published a small volume of poems and in 1797, in conjunction with mr. wordsworth, he formed the plan of the lyrical ballads, for which he wrote the _ancient mariner_. in 1800 he removed to keswick, where he resided in company with wordsworth and southey, the three friends receiving the appellation of the lake poets. he wrote several excellent works, of which _christabel_ is the best. he led a somewhat wandering life and died on july 25th, 1834. as a poet, he was one of the most imaginative of modern times, and as a critic his merits were of the highest order. collins, william, an eminent english lyric poet, born at chichester, in 1720. he was a friend of dr. johnson, who speaks well of him. his best known work is his excellent ode on, _the passions_, which did not receive the fame its merits deserve. before his death, which occurred in 1756, he was for some time an inmate of a lunatic asylum. cowper, william, a celebrated english poet, originally intended for a lawyer, and appointed as clerk of the journals in the house of lords at the age of 31 years, but his constitutional timidity prevented him from accepting it. he had to be placed in a lunatic asylum for some time. he was born at berkhampstead in 1731. in 1767 he took up his abode at olney, in buckinghamshire, where he devoted himself to poetry, and in 1782 published a volume of poems, which did not excite much attention, but a second volume, published in 1785, stamped his reputation as a true poet. his _task, sofa, john gilpin_, are works of enduring excellence. in 1794 his intellect again gave way, from which he never recovered, and he died at dereham, in norfolk, april 25th, 1800. croly, rev. george, a popular poet, born in dublin in 1780. he was for many years rector of st. stephen's, wallbrook, london, and was eminent as a pulpit orator. his principal works are: _the angel of the world_; a tragedy, entitled _cataline_, _salathiel,_ etc. he died november 24th, 1860. dickens, charles, one of the most successful of modern novelists, was born at landport, portsmouth, february 7th, 1812. intended for the law, he became a most successful reporter for the newspapers, and was employed on the _morning chronicle_, in which paper first appeared the famous _sketches by boz_, his first work. the _pickwick papers_ which followed, placed him at once in the foremost rank of popular writers of fiction. his novels are so well known that any list of their titles is superfluous. in 1850 he commenced the publication of _household words_, which he carried on until 1859 when he established _all the year round_, with which he was connected until his death, which occurred very suddenly at his residence. gad's hill, kent, on june 9th, 1870. he left his latest work, _the mystery of edwid drood_, unfinished, and it remains a fragment. it was not merely as a humorist, though that was his great distinguishing characteristic, that dickens obtained such unexampled popularity. be was a public instructor, a reformer and moralist. whatever was good and amiable, bright and joyous in our nature, he loved, supported and augmented by his writings; whatever was false, hypocritical and vicious, he held up to ridicule, scorn and contempt. dryden, john, a celebrated english poet, born at aldwinckle, northamptonshire, august 9th, 1631. he was educated at trinity college, cambridge, where he received his degree of m.a. he removed to london in 1657, and wrote many plays, and on the death of sir william davenport he was made poet laureate. on the accession of james ii. dryden became a roman catholic and endeavoured to defend his new faith at the expense of the old one, in a poem entitled the hind and the panther. at the revolution he lost his post, and in 1697 his translation of _virgil_ appeared, which, of itself alone is sufficient to immortalize his name. his ode, _alexander's feast_, is esteemed by some critics as the finest in the english language. he died may 1st, 1700. goldsmith, oliver, one of the most distinguished ornaments of english literature, born at pallas, ireland, in 1728. he studied at trinity college, dublin and afterward at edinburgh. he traveled over europe, on foot, and returned to england in 1756, and settled in london. it was not until 1764 that he emerged from obscurity by the publication of his poem entitled _the traveller_. in the following year appeared his beautiful novel of the _vicar of wakefield_. in 1770 he published _the deserted village_, a poem, which in point of description and pathos, is beyond all praise. as a dramatist he was very successful and he produced many prose works. he died in london on the 4th of april, 1774. gray, thomas, an english poet of great merit, born in london in 1716. he was educated at eton and cambridge and in 1738 entered the inner temple, but never engaged much in the study of the law. in 1742 he took up his residence in cambridge, where, in 1768, he became professor of modern history. the odes of gray are of uncommon merit, and his _elegy in a country churchyard_ has long been considered as one of the finest poems in the english language. he died in july, 1771. he occupied a very high rank in english literature, not only as a poet, but as an accomplished prose writer. halleck, fitz-greene, an american poet, born at guildford, conn., july 8th, 1790. he became a clerk in the office of j. j. astor, and employed his leisure moments in the service of the muses. in 1819, in conjunction with his friend, joseph r. drake, he wrote the celebrated _croaker papers_, a series of satirical poems which brought him into public notice. on his martial poem, _marco bozzaris_, published in 1827, his fame principally rests, although he has written other pieces of great merit. he died november 19th, 1867. harte, francis bret, a native of albany, n.y., has written short stories and sketches of californian life, and several poems in dialect, of which _the heathen chinee_, is the most celebrated. he possesses great wit and pathos, and has been very successful in novel writing, and also in writing for the stage. hemans, felicia dorothea, an excellent english poet, born at liverpool, september 25th, 1794, was the daughter of a merchant named browne. her first volume of poems was published in 1808. in 1812 she married capt. hemans, but the marriage was a very unhappy one and they separated in 1818. she is the most touching and accomplished writer of occasional verse that our literature has yet to boast of. "religious truth, moral purity and intellectual beauty, ever meet together in her poetry." she died in dublin, in 1835. holmes, oliver wendell, m.d., a distinguished american poet, author and wit, was born at cambridge, mass., august 29th, 1809. he studied law, but soon left it for medicine, and took his degree of m.d. in 1836. in 1847, he was appointed professor of anatomy and physiology in harvard university. he early began writing poetry, publishing a collected edition of his poems in 1836. he is a genuine poet, and as a song writer, has few if any superiors in america, excelling in the playful vein. he is best known by his series of excellent papers, contributed to the _atlantic monthly_, under the title of _the autocrat of the breakfast table_, published in 1857-8; _the professor at the breakfast table_ and the _poet at the breakfast table_. he has also written some successful novels, one of which, _the guardian angel_, is one of the best american novels yet produced. he has also written able works on subjects connected with his profession. hood, thomas, a famous poet, humorist and popular author, born in london in 1798. he was the son of a bookseller, served an apprenticeship as an engraver, but soon betook himself to literature. in 1821 he was sub-editor of the _london magazine_. his novels and tales were less successful than his humorous works. among his most popular poems are:--_the song of the shirt, the bridge of sighs_ and the _dream of eugene aram_. in the latter years of his life--which was one of prolonged suffering--he was editor of _the new monthly magazine_. as a punster he is unrivalled, and some of his serious poems are exquisitely tender and pathetic. in all his works a rich current of genial humour runs, and his pleasant wit, ripe observation and sound sense have made him an ornament to english literature. he died march 3rd, 1845. hunt, j. h. leigh, a popular english poet, born at southgate, near london october 19th, 1784. he early turned his attention to literature, and obtained a clerkship in the war office, which he resigned in 1808, to occupy the joint editorship (along with his brother john) of the _examiner_. their boldness in conducting this paper led to their being imprisoned for two years and fined â£500 each, for some strictures on the prince regent which appeared in its columns. he was a copious writer and his productions occupy a wide range. _rimini_, written while in prison, is one of his best poems. prof. wilson styles hunt "as the most vivid of poets and the most cordial of critics." he died august 28th, 1859. ingelow, jean, a native of ipswich, suffolk, born about 1826, is the author of several volumes of poems, the first of which ran through 14 editions in five years. she wrote _a story of doom_ and other poems, published in 1867, _mopsa the fairy_ in 1869, and several prose stories, etc. irving, washington, a distinguished american author and humorist, born in new york city, april 3rd, 1783. he studied law and was admitted to the bar, but soon abandoned the legal profession for literature. in 1809 he published his knickerbockers history of new york, a humorous work which was very successful. his works, are very numerous, including the famous _sketch book, the alhambra, conquest of granada, life of columbus, life of washington_, etc., etc. for easy elegance of style, irving has no superior, perhaps no equal, among the prose writers of america. if hawthorne excels him in variety, in earnestness and in force, he is, perhaps, inferior to irving in facility and grace, while he can make no claim to that genial, lambent humour which beams in almost every page of geoffrey cravon. he died november 28th, 1859. lamb, charles, a distinguished essayist and humorist, born in london, feby. 18th, 1775, and educated at christ's hospital. in 1792 he became a clerk in the india house, a post he retained for 33 years. he was a genial and captivating essayist and his fame mainly rests on his delightful _essays of elia_, which were first printed in the _london magazine_. his complete works include two volumes of verse, the _essays of elia, specimens of the english dramatic poets_, etc., etc. for quaint, genial and unconventional humour, lamb has, perhaps, never been excelled. he died december 27th, 1834. longfellow, henry wadsworth, the most popular and artistic of all american poets, was born in portland, maine, feby. 27th, 1807. he graduated at bowdoin college in 1825, and one year afterwards was offered the professorship of modern languages at that institution, which he occupied until 1835, when he accepted that of professor of modern languages at harvard, which he continued to hold until 1854, when he resigned the chair. his poetical works are well known and are very numerous, the most noted of his longer pieces being _evangeline, the golden legend, hiawatha, courtship of miles standish_, etc. all his poetical works are distinguished by grace and beauty, warmed by a greater human sympathy than is displayed in the writings of the majority of eminent poets. he relies chiefly for his success on a simple and direct appeal to those sentiments which are common to all mankind, to persons of every rank and of every clime. he wrote only three prose works, _outre-mer, hyperion and kavanagh_, and a few dramas, all of which deserve to rank with the best american productions. _evangeline_ is considered "to be the most perfect specimen of the rhythm and melody of the english hexameter." he died at cambridge, mass., march 24th 1882. lowell, james russell, a distinguished american poet, critic and scholar, born in cambridge, mass., february 22nd, 1819. he graduated from harvard, in 1838, and was admitted to the bar, but soon abandoned law as a profession and devoted himself to literature. his _biglow papers_ first made him popular, in 1848. in 1857, on the establishment of the _atlantic monthly_, he was made editor of that popular magazine. his prose works consisting chiefly of critical and miscellaneous essays, "show their author to be the leading american critic, are a very agreeable union of wit and wisdom, and are the result of extensive reading, illuminated by excellent critical insight." his humour is rich and unrivalled and he seems equally at home in the playful, the pathetic, or the meditative realms of poetry. in 1880, he was appointed envoy extraordinary to great britain, which office he held until 1885. lytton, lord, edward george earle lytton bulwer lytton, a distinguished novelist, poet, dramatist and politician, was born may, 1805. he was the son of william earle bulwer, and owes his chief fame to his novels, some of which are among the best in the english language, notably _the caxtons, my novel, what will he do with it?_ and _a strange story_. as a playwright he was equally successful; he was the author of the lady of lyons--the most popular play of modern days;--_richelieu, not so bad as we seem_, the admirable comedy of _money_, etc. a man of prodigious industry he showed himself equal to the highest efforts of literature; fiction, poetry, the drama, all were enriched by his labours. as a politician he was not quite so successful. in 1866 he was raised to the peerage as baron lytton. he assumed the name of lytton, his mother's maiden name, in 1844, on succeeding to the knebworth estates. he died january 18th, 1873, and was buried in westminster abbey. lytton, edward robert bulwer, the son of the preceding author, better known perhaps by his _nom de plume_, owen meredith, born november 8th, 1831. he entered the diplomatic service in 1849. and has represented the british government with great distinction. his chief works are _clytemestra, lucile, the wanderer, fables in song, the ring of amasis_, a prose romance, etc. macaulay, thomas babington, a celebrated historian, orator, essayist and poet, was born at rothley temple, lincolnshire, october 26th, 1800. from his earliest years he exhibited signs of superiority and genius, and earned a great reputation for his verses and oratory. he studied law and was called to the bar, commencing his political career in 1830, and in 1834 he went to india, as a member of the supreme council, returning in 1838 to england, where for a few years he pursued politics and letters, representing edinburgh in the house of commons, but being rejected, on appearing for re-election, he devoted himself to literature. during the last twelve years of his life his time was almost wholly occupied with his _history of england_, four volumes of which he had completed and published, and a fifth left partly ready for the press when he died. besides the _history_ and _essays_, he wrote a collection of beautiful ballads, including the well-known _lays of ancient rome_. in 1849 he was elected lord rector of the university of glasgow, and in 1857, his honours culminated in his elevation to the peerage as baron macaulay. he died on the 28th of december, 1869. milton, john, an immortal poet, and with the exception of shakespeare, the most illustrious name in english literature, was born in bread street, london, on december 9th, 1608. he graduated at cambridge, and was intended for the law or the church, but did not enter either calling. he settled at horton in buckinghamshire, where he wrote his _comus, l'allegro, il penuroso_, and _lycidas_. he took the side of the parliament in the dispute with king charles i. and rendered his party efficient service with his pen. about 1654 he became totally blind, and after serving the protector as latin secretary for four or five years, he retired from public life in 1657. in 1665, the time of the great plague, he first showed the finished manuscript of his great poem, _paradise lost_, which was first printed in 1667, this immortal work being sold to a bookseller for â£5! he afterwards wrote _paradise regained_, but it is, in all respects, quite inferior to _paradise lost_. he died in london, on the 8th of november, 1674. moore, thomas, a celebrated poet, born in dublin, may 28th, 1779, and was educated at trinity college in that city. he studied law but never practised. he published two volumes of poems previous to the production of _lalla rookh_, his masterpiece, which was highly successful and was published in 1817. his works are very numerous and some of them are extremely popular, the best being _lalla rookh_ and _irish melodies_. as a poet he displays grace, pathos, tenderness and imagination, but is deficient in power and naturalness. he died february 26th, 1852. poe, edgar allan, a distinguished american poet and prose writer, born in baltimore in 1809. he was an entirely original figure in american literature, his temperament was melancholy, he hated restraint of every kind and he gave way to dissipation, and his life is a wretched record of poverty and suffering. but the _bells, the raven_ and _annabel lee_, his principal poetical works, are wonderfully melodious, constructed with great ingenuity, and finished with consummate art. he wrote several weird prose tales and some critical essays. he died at baltimore, under circumstances of great wretchedness, october 7th, 1849. pope, alexander, a popular english poet and critic, born in london, may 22nd, 1688. during his childhood he displayed great ability and resolved to be a poet. his _pastorals_ were written at the age of sixteen. he wrote a large number of poems, the most celebrated being; the _essay on criticism, the rape of the lock_ and the _essay on man_. he also published translations of homer's _iliad_ and _odyssey_. his talent for satire is conspicuous in the _duncaid_. he possessed little originality or creative imagination, but he had a vivid sense of the beautiful, and an exquisite taste. he owed much of his popularity to the easy harmony of his verse, the keenness of his satire, and the brilliancy of his antithesis. he has, with the exception of shakespeare, added more phrases to the english language than any other poet. he died on the 30th of may, 1744. procter, adelaide anne, an english poet, born in london, october 30th, 1825. she was a daughter of bryan waller procter (barry cornwall). she was a contributor to _household words_ and _all the year round_, and published in 1858, a volume of poetry, _legends and lyrics_. a second volume was issued in 1861. she died february 3rd, 1864. read, thomas buchanan, a distinguished american artist and poet, born in pennsylvania, march 12th, 1822. he visited england and also spent several years in florence and rome. he wrote several good poems, but his _sheridan's ride_, brought him more popularity than any of his previous works. he died may 11th, 1872. rogers, samuel, an eminent english poet, born in london, july 30th, 1763. he was a rich banker and enabled to devote much leisure time to literature, of which he was a magnificent patron. his best works are _pleasures of memory, human life_, and _italy_, the last appeared in a magnificent form, having cost â£10,000 in illustrations alone. died december 18th, 1855. saxe, john godfrey, a humorous american poet, born in vermont, in 1816. he has been most successful in classical travesties and witty turns of language, and he has won a good place as a sonneteer. a complete edition of his poems (the 42nd) was published in 1881. scott, sir walter. an illustrious scotch author, novelist and poet, born in edinburgh, august 15th, 1771. he was called to the bar in 1792, and being in circumstances favourable for the pursuit of literature, he commenced his poetical career, by translating several poems from the german. in 1805, he published the _lay of the last minstrel_, and became at once one of the most distinguished poets of the age. it was speedily followed by _marmion_ and the _lady of the lake_ (1810), and many other poems, all of which added to his fame. in august, 1813, he was offered the position of poet-laureate, which he declined. but he was destined to add to his already great reputation as a poet, by a success equally as great in the realms of prose fiction. in 1814 appeared _waverley_, published anonymously, and its success was enormous. it was quickly followed by the other volumes of the "great unknown," as scott was now designated, amounting in all to twenty-seven volumes. in 1820 he was created a baronet and his degree of success had been unparalleled and had raised him to apparent affluence, but, in 1826, by the failure of two publishing houses with which he was connected, he was reduced to bankruptcy. he set himself resolutely to redeem himself from the load of debt (â£147,000) but, although successful, his faculties gave way before the enormous mental toil to which they were subjected. he died at abbotsford, sept. 21st, 1832. in addition to the poetical works and the waverley novels, scott was the author of many other popular works, too well known to need mentioning here. shakespeare, william.--the greatest poet of england, born at stratford-onavon, warwickshire, april 23rd, 1564. unfortunately the materials for a biography of the poet are very meagre, and are principally derived from tradition. he appears to have been well educated, married very early, when about nineteen years of age, his wife, anne hathaway, being then twentysix. shortly after this he left stratford for london, where he became an actor and eventually a writer of plays. his first printed drama (henry vi., part ii.) was issued in 1594. in 1597, he purchased the best house in his native town, and about 1604 he retired to stratford, where he spent the last twelve years of life, and where he is supposed to have written many of his plays, but we have no means of determining the exact order in which they were composed. he died april 23rd, 1616. his works are of world-wide fame, and need not be enumerated here. the name is often spelled shakspeare. shelley, percy bysshe.--an eminent english poet, born near horsham, sussex, august 4th, 1792. he studied at oxford, from whence he was expelled for publishing a _defence of atheism_. he made an unhappy marriage and soon separated from his wife. he published _queen mab, alsator_, and in 1817 the _revolt of islam_. in 1818 he left england, to which he was destined never to return. in july, 1822, (july 8th), while residing at leghorn, he went out on the gulf of spezzia, in a sail boat, which was upset in a squall, and the poet perished. in addition to the poems already mentioned he wrote _the cenci_, _adonais_, _prometheus_, and a number of smaller pieces. as a poet he was gifted with genius of a very high order, with richness and fertility of imagination, but of a vague and partly unintelligible character. sheridan, richard brinsley butler.--a celebrated irish orator and dramatist, born in dublin in 1751. he directed his attention to literature, and in 1775 produced the comedy of _the rivals_, and several other pieces. in 1777, his celebrated comedy of _the school for scandal_, established his reputation as a dramatic genius of the highest order. he managed drury lane theatre for some time, and also entered parliament. his speech on the impeachment of warren hastings is regarded as one of the most splendid displays of eloquence in ancient or modern times. he died in london, in july, 1816. southey, robert.--an eminent author and poet, born at bristol, august 12th, 1774. intended for the church, he studied at oxford, but abandoned divinity for literature. his first poem was _joan of arc_, published in 1796. he was a most voluminous writer, being the author of more than 100 volumes of poetry, history, travels, etc., and also of 126 papers, upon history, biography, politics and general literature. his principal works are _madoc, thalaba the destroyer, the curse of kehama_, lives of _nelson, bunyan, john wesley_, etc., etc. he was appointed poet laureate in 1813. he died at keswick, cumberland, march 21st, 1843. tennyson, alfred (lord tennyson), a distinguished and the most popular english poet, born at somersby, lincolnshire, august 5th, 1809. he early displayed poetic genius, his first volume (written in conjunction with his brother charles) entitled, _poems by two brothers_, having been issued in 1827. in 1842, a volume of his poems was published and was most enthusiastically received, since which period his well-known productions have been issued at intervals. we need only mention _the princess, in memoriam_, (a record of the poet's love for arthur hallam), _maud, idyls of the king, enoch arden_, and the dramas of _queen mary, harold_, etc. in 1833 he was appointed poet-laureate. refined taste and exquisite workmanship are the characteristics of all he has written. his range of poetic power is very wide, and as a describer of natural scenery he is unequalled, while his rich gift of imagination, his pure and elevated diction, and his freedom from faults of taste and manner, give him a high place amongst those who are the great masters of song. he was elevated to the peerage in january, 1884, as baron tennyson. thackeray, william makepeace.--a distinguished english novelist and humourist, was born in calcutta, july 18th, 1811. he i was educated at cambridge, and at first inclined to be an artist, but after a few years, devoted himself to literature. he gained popularity as a contributor to _punch_, but his progress in popular favour was not rapid, until in 1846, when he published his _vanity fair_, one of his best works, which raised him into the first rank of english novelists. his subsequent works all tended to enhance his popularity. we need only mention _pendennis, the newcomes, history of henry esmond_, the _virginians_, etc. he was also a popular lecturer, and his lectures on the _four georges_, and _the english humourists of the eighteenth century_, were very successful. he edited the _cornhill magazine_ from 1860 until april, 1862, when he relinquished it, continuing however to write for the magazine. he died somewhat suddenly on december 24th, 1863, leaving a novel, _denis duval_, unfinished. his inimitably graceful style, in which he has been excelled by no novelist, may be in part due to his familiarity with addison, steele, swift and their contemporaries. his pathos is as touching and sincere as his humour is subtle and delicate. his fame as a novelist has caused his poems to be somewhat neglected, but his admirable ballads and society verses attain a degree of excellence rarely reached by such performances. thomson, james.--a celebrated poet, born in roxburghshire, scotland, september 11th, 1700. he went to london to seek his fortune in 1725, and his poem of _the seasons_, published in 1726-30, was an important era in the history of english poetry, as it marked the revival of the taste for the poetry of nature. besides the _seasons_, thomson wrote some tragedies, which were failures, also what some critics consider his best work, _the castle of indolence_, published in 1748. he is often careless and dull, his poetry disfigured by classic allusions to ceres, pomona, boreas, etc., but he had a genuine love of nature, and his descriptions, despite their artificial dress, bear the stamp of reality. he was successful in obtaining a comfortable competence by his literary exertions, and died august 27th, 1748. twain, mark (samuel langhorne clemens.) an american humourist, who has achieved great popularity, was born in florida, missouri, in 1835, and after an apprenticeship on the "press," sprang into notice on the publication of his _innocents abroad_, published in 1869, a semiburlesque account of the adventures of a party of american tourists in europe and the east. _roughing it_, and other works of his published subsequently, have been equally successful. the qualities of his style are peculiar, slyness and cleverness in jesting being his predominant qualities. whittier, john greenleaf.--the quaker poet of america, born december 17th, 1807, near haverhill, mass. he passed his early years on his father's farm, but in 1829 he began to be connected with the "press" and edited newspapers until 1839. he early identified himself with the anti-slavery movement and rendered it noble service by his pen and influence. his first work, _legends of new england_, was published in 1831. his works are very numerous, _maud mã¼ller_ being the best known of his poems, and _barbara frietchie_ of his poems connected with the civil war. as a writer of prose he unites strength and grace in an unusual degree, and his poetic effusions are characterized by intense feeling and by all the spirit of the true lyric poet. willis, nathaniel parker.--a distinguished american poet and writer, born at portland, maine, january 20th, 1806. he graduated from yale in 1827 and devoted himself to literature, publishing a volume in that year which was well received. he wrote between thirty and forty separate publications, in addition to editing the _evening mirror_ and other periodicals including the _home journal_. though marred by occasional affectation, the sketches of willis are light, graceful compositions, but the artificiality of his poems have caused them to be neglected. he died at idlewild, new york, january 20th, 1867. wordsworth, william.--an illustrious english poet, born at cockermouth, cumberland, april 7th, 1770. he studied at cambridge and took his b. a. degree in 1791. in 1793 (after a residence for a short time in france) he produced his first verses, entitled an evening walk. in 1798, a small volume entitled _lyrical ballads_, was published in conjunction with st. coleridge, but was not a success. in 1800, he settled in grasmere, westmoreland, where also resided southey, coleridge, de quincy, and wilson, to whom the critics applied the term "lake school." in 1813 he removed to rydal mount, where he published _the excursion_ in 1814, _the white doe of rylston, peter bell, the waggoner, the prelude_, etc. in 1843 he was appointed to succeed southey as poet-laureate. he is undoubtedly a poet of the first rank. regarding nature as a living and mysterious whole, constantly acting on humanity, the visible universe and its inhabitants were alike to him full of wonder, awe and mystery. his influence on the literature and poetry of britain and america has been immense, and is yet far from being exhausted. he died april 23rd, 1850. young, edward, an english divine and poet, born at upham, hampshire, in 1684. he was educated at oxford, and in 1727 was ordained and appointed to the living of welwyn, hertfordshire. as a poet he excels most in his _night thoughts_, which abound with ornate images, but are often very obscure. he wrote several other works. died in 1765. 