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 "Herve Riel," with the accompanying notes, are

reprinted from _Select Poems of Robert Browning_, edited by William

Rolfe, A.M., and Heloise 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.

HERVE 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 'Herve 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 Herve Riel's holiday to see his wife, 'La Belle Aurore,' was

to last, not a day only, but his lifetime."

"Herve 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, Herve Riel the Croisickese.

VI

And, 'What mockery or malice have we here?' cries Herve 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 Greve, 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 Greve,

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 Herve 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 Herve 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 Greve.

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,

'Herve 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 Herve Riel.

So, for better and for worse,

Herve Riel, accept my verse!

In my verse, Herve 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 Herve Riel, with the French fleet close following her

guidance and "the English at her heels" past the rocks and shoals of

Greve 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: Fra Pandolf's hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said

'Fra Pandolf' by design; for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

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

Fra Pandolf chanced to say 'Her mantle laps

Over my lady's wrist too much,' or 'Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat': such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, '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.