A LECTURE ON POETRY.
MISS LORRAINE succeeded in creating an interest in the literature
lectures, and carried out her project with little difficulty, though
not without encountering opposition. There were various individuals
who, like Guy Lorraine, could not see what good the lectures were to
do. Some of the elders declared that there were excitements enough for
the young people as it was. If they wanted to improve their minds, why
could they not read quietly at home instead of gadding out to lectures
at the Town Hall? And the mention of Shakespeare in connection with the
lectures alarmed these good people. Study Shakespeare, indeed! What
could that foster but a love of play-acting and theatre-going?
Happily Miss Lorraine was not wanting in tact. She persuaded the
friends who had formed themselves into a committee that Shakespeare
must stand aside for the present. They must not begin by riding
rough-shod over people's prejudices. No one could object to a course
of lectures on Wordsworth and the poets of the Lake School. Let them
begin with Wordsworth, and trust that in time the minds of certain
persons at Woodham would become enlightened with respect to the value
of Shakespeare as a teacher of truth.
Her advice was followed, and by the beginning of October, every
available wall and hoarding about Woodham bore posters announcing the
course of lectures on literature to be given at the Town Hall, on
Thursday evenings, by John Glynne, B.A., of Trinity College, Cambridge.
The novelty of the idea caused considerable excitement in the little
town. Every one talked about the lectures, and the tickets were
sold with a rapidity that surpassed the most sanguine hopes of the
projectors of the scheme.
The first lecture proved a grand success. The Town Hall was full. Every
person of importance at Woodham seemed to be there. Conspicuous in the
front rank of seats, reserved for the committee, sat Miss Lorraine, her
eyes sparkling with excitement, her whole face radiating satisfaction,
as, with head turned towards the door, she watched the people pressing
in, and welcomed her friends with nods and smiles.
Not far from her sat Aldyth, between Kitty and Hilda Bland. Aldyth's
satisfaction was more quietly evinced; but her face was bright with
subdued pleasure. She rather shrank from the eager whispers in which
Kitty, whose head was turning in all directions, made her observations
on every one who appeared.
To the no small astonishment of his cousin, Guy Lorraine was present,
seated at the other side of Hilda, on whom he was bestowing a good
deal of attention. Miss Lorraine had given her little musical party a
fortnight earlier, and Guy had made Mr. Glynne's acquaintance. But the
new tutor did not seem to have made a more favourable impression on
him on that occasion than at first sight. Guy continued to find much
to ridicule in him. Perhaps the interest which Aldyth and her friends
manifested in Mr. Glynne, and their enthusiasm about the lectures,
kindled in Guy some unconscious jealousy.
The lecturer had stepped on to the low platform; he had placed his
manuscript on the reading desk, and was about to begin his lecture,
when the arrival of a late-comer created such a stir in the audience
as obliged him to wait for a few moments. A young lady, dressed in the
most extreme style of fashionable attire, came sweeping down the room.
She would have been pretty but for the elaborate "get up" by which
she endeavoured to attract attention to herself. The mass of light,
frizzy hair which shaded her eyes completely concealed any intellectual
attraction her countenance might possess, and the pearl powder lavishly
applied to it reduced her complexion to an unnatural deadness of hue,
and rendered invisible the quick changes of colour, the subtle play of
expression on which the charm of a woman's face largely depends.
But however others might criticize her, Miss Clara Dawtrey seemed fully
satisfied with the result of the pains devoted to her toilet. It gave
her pleasure to feel that all eyes were fixed on her as she passed down
the room, pushing her way to the front, though it was obvious that
there were no vacant seats in that direction. When at last she halted,
with a dramatic air of dismay, within a few paces of the lecturer,
a gentleman rose to give her his chair, and after a faint protest,
she dropped languidly into it. The lecturer, who had been somewhat
anxiously watching the movements of the young lady, cleared his brow
and began to address the audience.
"Well," whispered Kitty, in Aldyth's ear, "I do hope Clara Dawtrey is
satisfied with the sensation she has created. The idea of her coming to
literature lectures!"
But Aldyth's eyes were on Mr. Glynne, and she was too anxious to lose
no word to pay much heed to Kitty.
John Glynne was a good speaker. He had a full, deep, musical voice.
He began his lecture in a calm, quiet manner, which was nevertheless
impressive. But as he went on, he soon began to display the fire and
energy of one who was keenly interested in the subject with which he
had to deal. He was a young man, and might be expected to display
some timidity in addressing a strange audience; but his manner was
singularly fearless and unaffected. He appeared too much in earnest to
be troubled with self-consciousness.
Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh, no matter what
the subject, and that one lecture was, to Aldyth Lorraine at least, a
revelation of the man. It showed her that John Glynne was a religious
man—religious in the highest and deepest meaning of the term, a
large-hearted man, to whom all life was dear, one who could enjoy much,
but one ever actuated by a strong, inflexible sense of duty.
The first lecture was introductory, dealing with the general character
of the poetry of the age preceding the era of Wordsworth and Coleridge.
There were a few earnest words concerning poetry, which stirred
Aldyth's heart with delight.
"I will not attempt a definition of poetry," the lecturer said. "All
definitions are alike inadequate; the subtle essence which makes the
preciousness of poetry seems to escape us when we try to define it.
But let it be said, once for all, that that cannot be poetry which is
artificial in its nature, stilted, and affected. True poetry has an
intimate relation to human life. It appeals to every heart of man,
to the wayfarer as well as to the scholar; it touches the simplest
details of homely life; it illumines the joys and sorrows which are the
heritage of our common humanity. What would our life be worth if there
were no poetry in it?
"Yet, even now, there are those who regard the poets as dreamers, and
depreciate their value in comparison with that of the so-called 'men of
action.' Dreamers! Yea, verily; but their visions uplift and strengthen
us, and make our life more beautiful because more true. 'We are such
stuff as dreams are made of.' We 'live in dreams;' and who shall say
how much the great heroes of history and men of action in all ages have
owed to the 'vision glorious' by which their poets stimulated them to
noblest endeavour! Poetry is the highest possible expression of truth,
and the true poet is the seer, the inspirer, the teacher of men. Let no
one fear that the study of poetry will unfit men for practical life; it
should rather make life more real and earnest, as it reveals the grand
and the awful possibilities that lie before every soul of man."
Aldyth listened with joy to these words. Was the lecturer conscious of
the soft liquid glow in the grey eyes fixed so earnestly on him? Did he
see how absolutely beautiful Aldyth's countenance became as it caught
and reflected his thought? Yes, for now and again his eyes met the full
flash of glad intelligence that leaped into Aldyth's, and he spoke the
better for knowing that he had one perfect listener.
The lecture over, the stir and bustle of departure arose in the hall.
Everybody was discussing the lecture, and the general feeling seemed
one of satisfaction. Guy Lorraine indeed yawned and stretched himself,
and professed to be glad that the lecture was ended, thereby exciting
the indignation of Hilda Bland, whose reproofs he seemed to enjoy.
"I am glad you were pleased," he said, "but for my part, I found it
dull."
"Dull! I cannot believe you," said Hilda. "It was the greatest
intellectual treat I have had for a long time."
"Well, I do not profess to be intellectual," replied Guy, drawing
himself up to his full height, and looking as if he prided himself on
the fact. "I suppose you are going to write the essay for Mr. Glynne."
"I shall try, certainly," said Hilda, "and I hope Aldyth will. I cannot
answer for Kitty."
"I should think you might," said Kitty, overhearing her words. "I write
an essay on the 'Character of Eighteenth Century Poetry'! I should pity
Mr. Glynne if he had to read it. No, I am like you, Guy. I go in for
what is practical. I am not a bookworm, like Hilda and Aldyth."
"Kitty, how can you talk like that after what you have heard to-night?"
cried Hilda, in a tone of disgust.
But Kitty only laughed, and said that though she had enjoyed the
lecture, she was not prepared to give her days and nights to the study
of poetry for the sake of Mr. Glynne or any one else.
Clara Dawtrey was professing herself delighted with the lecture in loud
tones, intended to reach the ear of the lecturer. But she saw to her
annoyance that he was paying no attention to her. He had stepped from
the platform and, having shaken hands with Miss Lorraine and received
her congratulations, he was leaning across a bench to talk to her niece.
Aldyth's face still wore the glow of excitement. She was looking her
best at that moment, when her face was radiant with spiritual light.
Clara saw the beauty, and it vexed her. She could have given no good
reason for disliking Aldyth, but dislike her she did. Perhaps she was
dimly conscious of the contrast that Aldyth in her simplicity and
refinement presented to herself. Perhaps it was because Aldyth belonged
to a different set—for the society of Woodham, like that of most little
country towns, was composed of several cliques—and she suspected her
of looking down upon herself. But she had no cause to think so of
Aldyth. Kitty and Hilda Bland had not always been careful to veil their
scorn of Clara Dawtrey's vulgarity and fastness; but Aldyth invariably
treated the girl withe faultless though distant courtesy.
It annoyed Clara that Mr. Glynne should stand talking to Aldyth for
some minutes.
"It is easy to see that Miss Aldyth Lorraine means to be Mr. Glynne's
pet pupil," she observed to a young man with whom she was talking. "I
write papers? No, thank you. I have no wish to compete with Miss Aldyth
Lorraine."
Mr. Greenwood had invited Mr. Glynne to sup at his house after the
lecture,—suppers, and not late dinners, were the fashion at Woodham.
Mrs. Greenwood, who had no daughter, was pressing Miss Lorraine to come
with Aldyth and make the supper more cheerful. Miss Lorraine yielded
to her persuasions, so Clara Dawtrey, lingering about the hall to the
last, had the chagrin of seeing Aldyth walk down the High Street to the
banker's house accompanied by John Glynne, who sheltered her with his
umbrella from the slight shower that was falling.
"Mr. Glynne," said Aldyth, as they walked together, "I am so glad you
said what you did about poetry to-night. So many persons have the idea
that poetry renders us dreamy and unpractical. Even my aunt, though, as
you know, she is no enemy to culture, talks in that way sometimes. And
Mrs. Bland vexes Hilda by trying to check her love of poetry; she seems
to think it makes her sentimental and idle. And really Hilda is rather—"
Aldyth broke off suddenly. Loyalty to her friend seemed to forbid her
to speak of her defects.
"I am glad you think I spoke to the point," said John Glynne, without
appearing to observe Aldyth's abrupt pause. "Perhaps it is my mission
here to teach some of my hearers the right use of poetry. Like every
other blessing, it may be misused. It is the wine of life; but we may
let it strengthen only our selfishness and vanity. There is always
danger to the reflective mind of becoming absorbed in abstractions
and notions which are never made fruitful—in a word, of cherishing
sentimentality instead of true sentiments."
"That is it," said Aldyth, eagerly; "you have expressed what I have
often thought."
"Yes," continued John Glynne, thoughtfully. "Poetry should not make us
dreamy, useless, inert; it should rather stimulate us to the highest
service, by making clear to us the true meaning of life—that man's
blessedness does not consist in any material happiness, but in service,
in doing his duty."
"Duty, ah, yes," said Aldyth, earnestly. "Do you know, I think I am
beginning to understand the meaning of Wordsworth's 'Ode to Duty.' It
used to puzzle me, but now I see the beauty of those words—
"'Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face.'"
They were passing beneath a street lamp, and looking up, Aldyth caught
the strange, wistful glance with which her companion regarded her, ere
he said, in low, grave tones—
"Are you indeed beginning to understand it? It takes a deal of
learning. No one can rightly understand the poem who has not realized
the whole force of that word 'stern' that the poet so aptly uses—'stern
daughter,' 'stern lawgiver,' nor how essential to the bondman of duty
is 'the spirit of self-sacrifice.'"
He spoke so seriously that Aldyth felt awed, and for a moment the
gladness of her mood was checked. Would a time come in her life when
Duty would wear no smile up her face, but assume the attitude of a
stern, inexorable lawgiver, demanding the renunciation of happiness?
They were at Mr. Greenwood's house. The light from the opening door
fell on Aldyth's face, and showed the shadow there. But as she met John
Glynne's quick comprehensive glance and reassuring smile, the shadow
vanished, and Aldyth ran lightly up the steps.