The Project Gutenberg eBook of How to Teach Reading in the Public Schools, by S. H. Clark, Ph.B.

Author of “How to Read Aloud” and Associate Author of “Principles of Vocal Expression, Mental Technique and Literary Interpretation”

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION

It is universally conceded that the public schools fail to give children much power as readers. One authority asserts that, after the child’s twelfth year, his ability as a reader steadily declines. (Up to that time he is gradually acquiring greater mastery over words, and so, in a sense, may be said to be improving.) Testimony can be added that, by the time he reaches the university, the average student cannot read at all.

Many remedies have been suggested, from which two may be selected as typical. One is to call the attention of the child to the mechanics of vocal expression—to inflection, force, movement, and so forth. The other (that commonly employed), to tell the child to get the thought. It cannot be denied that both methods have, in isolated cases, been productive of some good, yet, on the whole, they have been well-nigh barren of results. Let us inquire briefly into the causes.

The mechanical method fails, especially with younger people, because it is dry, technical, unstimulating, and, in the main, uninteresting. It deals with rules for the use of the different elements of vocal expression, telling the child he must use a rising inflection here, a falling inflection there; that he must read parenthetical phrases and clauses in lower pitch and faster time; that this emotion should be manifested in normal quality, that emotion in orotund quality; and so on[10] through weary, dreary rules and principles, the study of which has seldom done any good and oftentimes much harm. The “get-the-thought” method is a revolt against the other plan. Recognizing the fact that drills in the elements have done nothing toward elevating the standard of reading, the conscientious principal or superintendent tells his teachers that they must see to it that the scholars get the thought. This is a step in the right direction, but it must be acknowledged that it does not produce results. And the chief reasons for this are two. First, for one cause or another the finer shades of meaning escape too many teachers. Second, very few teachers have received the necessary training to enable them to discern quickly with what mental conditions various forms of vocal expression are associated. In other words, they have not the criteria of vocal expression; and, in consequence, helpful criticism is impossible.

Why have previous methods of teaching reading practically failed? There are three reasons: first, the lack of appreciation of the best literature on the part of the teacher; second, the complexity of vocal expression; and third, the intangibility of vocal expression.

Appreciation of the meaning and beauty of literature is the first requisite of a successful teacher of reading; and yet there is little opportunity afforded the teacher to get this appreciation. Is it not true that too many teachers have no love for real literature? The fault is not theirs, but that of the method of teaching literature that substitutes grammar, philology, history, and lectures about literature for the study of[11] the meaning and beauty of the literature itself. One may safely assert that thousands of children would be better readers, even with the present faulty methods, if their teachers had a genuine interest in the best literature. Of what avail is it to put good literature into the schoolbooks if its merit does not appeal as well to the instructor as to the pupil? The stream can rise no higher than its source. There is, however, a rapidly growing sentiment against the substitution of parsing, history, philology, or ethics for genuine literary training. We are coming to recognize that literature is art, beauty, spirit; and, when this recognition becomes general, we shall have better teachers and better readers. For there is nothing that so stimulates our vocal expression as the desire to impress upon others the beauty and feeling of what has impressed ourselves.

Complexity may be defined by illustration. A phrase may be read fast or slowly; in high or low key; with one melody or another; with loud or subdued force; with this quality of voice or with that. Now all these elements are present at one time; so that, without proper training, the teacher is unable to discriminate between them and hence unable to give the needful correction, without which there can be no progress.

Intangibility may be explained by showing what is meant by a tangible subject. The spelling lesson is tangible; the arithmetic lesson is tangible. A mistake is easily recognized and corrected. Three months after a paper on these subjects has been handed in, the teacher can go back to it and examine it. But vocal expression is evanescent, and, by the[12] untrained, can be recalled imperfectly, if at all, and then only a short time after it has been heard. In the presence of the combined difficulties due to complexity and intangibility, the teacher is appalled; and, conscientious though he be, he gives up in despair. The teaching becomes perfunctory; the children lose interest; and there is the end of reading. Reading, which should be the brightest and most inspiring of lessons, degenerates into a humdrum, dry-as-dust time-killer. Good reading is as rare as the classical bird. No idea of a pupil’s reading ability can be gained from a knowledge of the class he is in. He is no better reader in the highest public-school grade than he is in the grade two or three below the highest. The teacher has come to recognize the futility of his efforts; and so, in many class rooms, the time set apart for reading is given up to language lessons, composition, and other studies, valuable in themselves, but only incidentally helpful in increasing the pupil’s reading power.

It may be asked, what objects are to be attained as a result of reading lessons? There are two. First, to give us the power to extract thought from the printed page. After we leave school, our information is gained from books; and what we get from these is largely determined by our school training. Our system of education has a great deal to answer for when it fails to provide this training. The value of vocal expression is not to be depreciated, but of the utmost importance is the ability to get the author’s meaning. Our teaching, from the primary grade to the university, is lamentably weak in this direction. A well-known college professor, in response to a[13] school superintendent’s question as to what would better the preparation of secondary-school students for college, replied: “For Heaven’s sake, teach them how to read.” Another college instructor—a learned authority on geology—states that he finds occasion to remark to his classes about once a month, “It’s a great thing to be able to read a page of English.” No one who examines the reading in our schools can fail to be struck, not so much with the absence of expressive power, as with the absence of mental grasp. We are so anxious to get on that we are content with skimming the surface, and do not take the time to get beneath it. The reading lesson should be, primarily, a thinking lesson, and every shade of thought should be carefully determined, no matter how long a time may be consumed. The habit of hurrying over the page, which is so prevalent, is clearly an outgrowth of schoolroom methods. Careless of all the future, we are too prone to push the pupil along, ignoring the simplest and most evident of psychological laws, that thought comes by thinking, and thinking takes time.

One tires of the universal excuse for the laxity of our methods: we have not the time. The reply to teacher, superintendent, and school board is, we have no time to teach a subject poorly. If thought-getting—genuine thought-getting—were insisted on from the outset, without doubt the work which now requires six or seven years to accomplish could be done in five. How much thought power has the public-school graduate? Very little. And yet, if all lessons—history, geography,[14] arithmetic, and the rest—were made thought lessons, a child of fourteen would be on the road to educating himself when he left school. Is it not pitiful to see a bright boy or girl spending three or four hours a day in the preparation of his lessons, and then coming to class only to find that he has wasted and worse than wasted his time? In taking leave of this theme, the teacher is urged to ponder these noble words of a noble man, “When thou readest, look steadfastly with the mind at the things the words symbolize. If there be question of mountains, let them loom before thee; if of the ocean, let its billows roll before thy eyes. This habit will give to thy voice even pliancy and meaning. The more sources of interest we have, the richer is our life. To hold any portion of truth in a vital way is better than to have its whole baggage stored merely in one’s memory.” And, again, “He who thinks for himself is rarely persuaded by another. Information and inspiration he gladly receives, but he forms his own judgment. Arguments and reasons which, to the thoughtful, sound like mockery, satisfy the superficial and ignorant.” And there is no better way to develop such a thinking person than by careful training in reading.

Most readers, like good-natured cows,

Keep browsing and forever browse;

If a fair flower come in their way

They take it too, nor ask, “What, pray!”

Like other fodder it is food,

And for the stomach quite as good.

Training in thought-getting is, then, the first result to be expected from the reading lesson. The second is the power[15] of adequate vocal expression. The temptation to enlarge upon the many benefits to body, voice, mind, and soul, to say nothing of the practical worldly benefits of vocal expression, is resisted. It is taken for granted that they are recognized; so that we pass on to the discussion of a plan that may help us to get these benefits; prefacing the discussion with the statement that the evil results of our present laxity are not to be laid at the door of the individual teacher, but at that of the educational system in general.

This work makes no pretensions to treat in any detail reading as an art. Its sole object is to present the ideal of the reading lesson and suggest ways and means by which that ideal may be brought somewhat nearer to our grasp than it is at present. Nevertheless, to those who may desire to study reading as an art, it can be safely said, that we must first be good readers before we can be artists; and since this is so, there should be much gain to them from a careful, definite study of the fundamental principles herein set forth. For special teachers of elocution, also, it is hoped that the book may prove of some value, as dealing with those elements without the understanding of which successful teaching of advanced work is impossible.

Vocal culture, in the ordinary sense of the word, finds no place in this discussion. The reason for this omission will appear in the following pages. This much, however, may be stated here; except under particularly favorable circumstances, very little can be done in voice training in our public schools; but by the plan herein presented, the voices of our children[16] may be made truly expressive, and that, after all, is of more value to them than mere technical facility.

While the subject of primary school reading is not discussed directly, the primary teacher should derive considerable assistance from the book, inasmuch as it aims to present the standard of criticism and the psychology of reading. With him rests to a great extent the success of any method of oral expression. That he should have a clear conception of the goal of the reading lessons and the manner of reaching it is therefore beyond dispute.

The book has a double purpose. First, to assist the teacher to teach reading; second, to help the teacher to improve his own reading. The latter purpose explains the amount of illustrative matter, and also the fact that some of this is beyond the grasp of young and immature minds.

PART ONE

THE CRITERIA OF VOCAL EXPRESSION

CHAPTER I
THE CRITERION OF TIME

It must be clear that no progress can be made in the teaching of any subject unless the teacher possess a definite standard of criticism; and, furthermore, it must be granted that the teacher of reading does not possess this standard. We have a standard in spelling, in arithmetic, in geography, but none in reading—at least none clearly apprehended and scientifically applied. It is, therefore, the purpose of the first part of this book to present those elements of vocal expression—the four criteria—a knowledge of which is indispensable to any progress in the teaching of reading. These are, Time, Pitch, Quality, and Force, the first of which we now proceed to study in detail.

In Professor Raymond’s admirable work, The Orator’s Manual, there appear these significant words: “The relative time apportioned to a word indicates the mind’s measurement of it,—represents the speaker’s judgment as to the amount of meaning or importance that it conveys.” A moment’s thought must convince us of the truth of this statement. Making due allowance for certain speakers, who, for one cause or another, have an unusually slow or fast utterance, the principle laid down by Professor Raymond is, without doubt, psychologically sound. In fact, it is a platitude; but like many another platitude, its truth is so close to us that we fail to perceive its meaning and application. An additional proof of the soundness of this principle is found in music. A[20] solemn dirge, a funeral march, an anthem of praise is rendered in slow time; while moderate and fast time seem the fitting expression of the lighter moods.

Time, then, refers to the rate of vocal movement. It may be fast, or moderate, or slow, according to the amount of what may be called the collateral thinking accompanying the reading of any given passage. To put it another way: a phrase is read slowly because it means much; because the thought is large, sublime, deep. The collateral thinking may be revealed by an expansive paraphrase. For instance, in the lines

why do we read slowly? The paraphrase answers the question. It was midnight. There lay our beloved leader, who should have been borne in triumphal procession to his last resting place. Bells should have tolled, cannon thundered, and thousands should have followed his bier. But now, alas! by night, by stealth, without even a single drum tap, in fear and dread, we crept breathless to the ramparts. This, or any one of a hundred other paraphrases, will suffice to render the vocal movement slow. And so it is with all slow time. Let it be remembered that a profound or sublime thought may be uttered in fast time; but that when we dwell upon that thought, when we hold it before the mind, the time must necessarily be slow.

The succeeding passages will have a prevailingly slow movement. Measure the thought carefully, and think the expansive paraphrase. These drills are not to train us to read slowly (for any one can do that), but to think largely. The movement will take care of itself. It is further urged that the student give considerable attention to this part of the subject; for the time so spent will be valuable not only[21] as it results in expressive movement, but because it is only through meditation that the fullest insight into the meaning of a passage can be acquired. Hence, dwelling for a long period upon a phrase or sentence gives opportunity for the enkindling of the imagination and emotion. It has been frequently found that where a student’s movement was out of harmony with the sentiment of the passage, his emotional interpretation was equally poor. A farther careful study of the text to improve the movement has generally resulted in the improvement of the emotional expression.

The following will illustrate fast movement. Let there be no attempt to accelerate the speed, but let the thought and emotion themselves govern that. No examples are given to illustrate moderate time, since the student gets sufficient practice of this kind in almost everything he reads.

Let it not be supposed that any one of the foregoing extracts is to be read in uniformly slow or uniformly fast time; that will change with each variation in the importance of the thought. Without attempting to force any interpretation upon the student, an illustration is appended in which he[26] may note how the relative importance of the ideas affects the rate of movement in the various phrases.

It must be evident that it is very difficult to suggest by a word the rate of speed at which one should render a given line. Fast and slow are relative terms. Certain speakers would consider slow reading what another would consider moderate. Yet there is on the whole a pretty general agreement as to the use of these terms. With this statement, we may proceed to an analysis of the selection to justify the marking.

The citizens of Rome have just declared to the tribunes, enemies of Caesar, why the people are making holiday: “We make holiday to see Caesar, and to rejoice in his triumph.” Whereupon Marullus, one of the tribunes, begins his speech, endeavoring to convince the mob that there is absolutely nothing Caesar has done to merit this ovation. After the word “tributaries,” the time is accelerated for the reason that all that follows, to the end of the query, is virtually repetitious, being included in the idea of tributaries. The indicated marking of lines four and five needs no justification. “Knew you not Pompey?” is a question containing reproach. The latter element will tend to retard the movement. “Many a time and oft” is repetitious; he is simply reminding them of well-known facts. When the speaker reaches “yea, to chimney-tops,” the importance of the idea is at once manifest in the slower time, which continues to “arms,” when it again changes to medium and fast. The student may find it a good drill to examine the remaining lines, to see whether he agrees with or differs from the time-markings.

Thus far we have been considering the element of time without regard to details. It is now necessary to note that time may be affected in two ways: by quantity and by pause. By dwelling upon the words the time may be retarded, and the same effect may be produced by frequent or long pauses. In the former instance, the mind is dwelling upon the thought while the voice is giving it expression; and in the latter, the mind is dwelling upon the idea or the collateral thought between the words or groups. The two methods may be illustrated in the following extract: “Our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name.” One may read this with but one pause, after “Heaven”; or he may appropriately pause after “Father,” “Heaven,” and “hallowed.”

GROUPING

We notice a tendency to break up the sentence into groups of varying length. This tendency is more or less instinctive; and while there may be some difference of opinion as to the number of groups, yet it must be conceded that there is a definite underlying principle, which admits of no exception. For instance, one might read the fourth line as if it were but one group; another, with virtually the same idea in mind, might divide it into two groups at the word “abroad.” On the other hand, no one would read in this way: “And went abroad into the”—“cold wet fog through”—“the dim camp to Peran-Wisa’s tent.”

Read the following sentences aloud carefully, and it will be noticed that the same principle of grouping obtains:

The reading of these illustrations shows that grouping is entirely independent of punctuation. It is true that the spoken group may coincide with the grammatical group, but that[29] is merely an accident. We group as we do, not because of punctuation marks, but for more fundamental and less conventional reasons. The function of the punctuation mark is to assist the reader in getting the author’s thought. The following example will illustrate this:

It is plain that the clause introduced by “who” is a restrictive one, and implies that there were other slaves on the vessel besides those mentioned. If we now insert commas after “slaves” and “vessel,” the sentence becomes equivalent to, The slaves, and they were all in the hold of the vessel, had been captured in Africa.

Note, again, how the sense would be obscured if the author had omitted the comma after “all” in this extract:

We are not like swimmers in the sea, but poised on the top of a huge wave of fate, as swimmers in the sea are poised on waves of water.

To prove that grouping is independent of punctuation, let the student read aloud the following illustrations:

In the two preceding extracts, the reader would hardly pause after “But,” “you,” and the “and’s.”

While we are on the subject of punctuation, it may be advisable to look at a few examples in which the understanding of the force of punctuation vitally affects the reading. In these lines from Tennyson’s Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington, students carelessly connect the phrase “sad and slow” with “Lead out the pageant.” As a matter of fact, a moment’s thought must show us that the opening sentence is complete in itself, and that “sad and slow” modifies “go.” A careful reading of the text would reveal this, but a mind that had been trained to observe these matters of punctuation would have observed at once that the colon separated the two ideas, and, further, that the word modified by “sad and slow” was to be sought further on. Here is the passage:

Another passage, from The Merchant of Venice, is equally interesting and instructive. Shylock says:

Seven students out of ten read the last sentence as if “hath squandered” were the verb. The comma after “hath” shows this to be a mistake, and, moreover, denotes a shade of meaning that is very significant of Shylock’s character.

The object in giving these illustrations has been to free the student from a very common misconception that the group[31] is determined by the punctuation mark, and, further, to draw his attention to the necessity of scanning the punctuation with the utmost care. As a rule, the words are in themselves sufficient index of the author’s meaning; but, as in the cases cited, there are times when carelessness regarding punctuation leads to serious and ridiculous misunderstanding. The punctuation will make the sense clear wherever such help is necessary; but after that, as far as grouping is concerned, the student need give it no further attention. In order to impress the fact that grouping and punctuation are independent of each other, the following examples should be thoughtfully considered and then read aloud:

Note that “only” modifies “greatest,” and hence should be separated from “are.” If the sentence were prose, it would read, “And as only the greatest are,” in which case there would be no difficulty in the reading. As it is, we must bring out the relation by careful grouping.

The following example is an excellent one to illustrate the necessity of paying careful attention to grouping:

It is to be remarked that the spirit did not teach the shepherd “in the beginning,” but “how the Heav’ns and Earth rose” in the beginning, “out of Chaos.” If we turn this last sentence into prose, it will assist us in getting the poet’s meaning and consequently in giving the correct rendition.

THE PAUSE AS AN EXPRESSIVE ELEMENT

In the study of grouping, the student noticed that the groups were separated by pauses of varying duration. It may be said that the pauses were the results of the grouping rather than that the grouping was the result of the pauses. In other words, the pause could hardly be called expressive.

We are now to study the pause as an expressive element. No definite rule can be laid down for pausing; that is determined, to a large extent, by the temperament, the nature of the thought, and the occasion. It must be borne in mind, however, that the pause is not mere silence. A very little observation will show us that while the voice ceases, the thought[33] continues to manifest itself in pantomimic expression. What is it, then, that determines the pause? The answer has a twofold aspect. First, pausing is an instinctive process, and comes as the result of certain psychological processes. We think in ideas, not in individual words, and these ideas are separated in our minds by pauses of varying length. We do not stop to consider whether or no we shall pause between the phrases of a sentence; the pause, as has been stated, comes instinctively, and is a manifestation of psycho-psychological action. In the second place, the pause is made as the result, to a greater or less degree, of collateral thinking. In other words, any given idea may call up another train of thought, with which the mind may engage itself, and such engagement would find actual expression in the pause. It must be remembered that the collateral thinking may take the mind backward or forward. According to the amount of this collateral thinking will be the duration of the pause.

An extract from the play of Julius Caesar will illustrate this point. In the fifth act, Brutus and Cassius have taken their “everlasting farewell,” and Brutus ends the interview with these words:

The first four words of this speech are addressed to the onlookers. The word “on” takes the mind of the thoughtful and considerate leader to the battlefield where the fate of Rome is to be decided. He perceives that the future of his beloved city hangs trembling in the balance. The appearance on the preceding night of the ghost of Caesar, warning him that it will see him at Philippi, fills Brutus with apprehension.[34] And then, how many of his followers, now so ready to do battle under his standard, will, ere night, lie cold in death upon the bloody field! All this and more passes through his mind, and his solicitude and apprehension manifest themselves in his features and in his body. Then even the stoical Brutus cannot repress his anxiety, which we note in the words, “O, that a man might know.” This extract, therefore, well illustrates what was said above,—that the pause, as we here consider it, is not mere silence, but cessation of voice while the expression continues in the body. In the second place, it is plain that the collateral thinking determines the length of the pause.

Another element that determines the duration of the pause is the distance apart of the thoughts separated by the pause. Let us illustrate this:

Let it not be understood that there are no occasions when the phrase “from the Atlantic to the Pacific” would not be uttered with scarcely any pause after Atlantic. This phrase, and others like it, may have become a mere commonplace to describe extent; but in such a passage as the above, where the speaker is hyperbolically expressive, he no doubt intends to convey the idea that not one objection would be heard even in all the three thousand miles between the oceans. If the student will stop for a moment to analyze his own consciousness while uttering this sentence, he will scarcely fail to see the vast extent of territory separating the two oceans.

Many writers on the subject have given emotion as a reason for the pause. Strictly speaking, however, emotion, as distinct from thinking, seldom or never is the cause of the[35] pause, unless it completely choke the utterance. In the example quoted above from Julius Caesar there is no doubt considerable emotion during the pause; but it is the thought, and not the emotion arising out of it, that leads to the silence.

The following excerpt is from the speech of Satan in Paradise Lost. Satan has been cursing his lot and the author of his punishment. Finally, his judgment tells him that he himself, and not God, is responsible for the downfall. The pauses, indicated by the vertical lines, are suggestive of the proper rendition. Of course, the pauses vary in duration from the briefest cessation of voice to pauses of considerable length:

The student should practice the following examples until he perceives clearly the force of the preceding principles. The group is the thought unit, and the proper rendition of the sentence depends upon our grasp of the units that compose it. Hence, a conscientious study of the phrasing will lead not only to careful grouping, but to a grasp of the thought in its entirety that cannot fail to affect for good the reading of the whole selection:

PEDAGOGICAL ASPECTS

From what has been stated, it must be clear that drills in fast time or slow time are useless and fraught with much danger of affectation. Any of us can read slowly or rapidly; that is merely a matter of mechanics. The object to be attained is the development of such power of discrimination in the child that the value of each phrase and sentence shall be carefully determined; and then the degree of extent, depth, sublimity or grandeur of the thought will determine the rate of movement. Training in Time for its own sake is valueless. From the very beginning, the teacher must use Time as a test, as a standard of criticism; and all corrections must be made with a clear perception on the part of the teacher of the psychology of Time. If a child read too rapidly, it is because his mind is not sufficiently occupied with the thought; if he read too slowly, it is because he does not get the words; or because he is temperamentally slow; or because, and this is the[39] most likely explanation, he is making too much of a small idea.

The only excuse for drills in Time is when a pupil reads everything at about the same rate. In such a case, in the upper grades, the teacher may choose certain selections for the proper expression of which approximately fast or slow movement, as the case may be, would be required. Then let the teacher, through careful analysis and question, lead the child to understand the passages as the teacher understands them, and the proper rate of utterance will follow. This process may seem slow; but let us bear in mind that we are dealing with fundamental principles of thinking, and too much time cannot be spent in building our foundations strong and solid. Furthermore, if the rate of utterance is not the instinctive manifestation of the child’s thought measurement, it is nothing at all. To tell him to read fast or slowly is but to make him affected, and incidentally, even if unconsciously, to impress upon him that reading is a matter of mechanics and not of thought-getting and thought-giving.

In order to teach grouping, various rules have been laid down. Pupils have committed a long list of these without much practical benefit. A few of these rules are given to show the mechanical nature of such a method of teaching. “In every direct period, the principal pause comes at that part where the sense begins to form, or the expectation excited by the first member begins to be answered.” Or, “A loose sentence requires a longer pause between its first member (usually a period direct or inverted), and the additional member which does not modify it.” And, again, “Where the adjective follows the substantive or noun it modifies, and has modifiers of its own, constituting a descriptive phrase, it should be separated from its noun by a short pause.” Now, it may be quite true that these rules are valid, but is it not clear that the[40] pedagogy which makes use of them in the earlier stages approaches the subject from the wrong side? It lays stress upon the objective rather than upon the subjective aspect.

The pause should never be taught merely as pause. If the principles herein discussed have any meaning, they must surely teach us that the pause must come spontaneously. The pedagogic point to be remembered is that the pupil must be trained to extract the thought piece by piece, and to express it. The pause will then appear without consciousness. The attempt to teach pauses as such must result in mechanical silences, during which the face of the pupil is a perfect blank, the indubitable sign of mental blankness.

It should certainly now be clear that it is wrong to draw the attention of the pupil to the pause as such, and that it is useless and often misleading to give him at the beginning rules of pausing. We must approach the printed page in the spirit with which we approach one who is speaking to us, and, having grasped the meaning, repeat the ideas. Then the pauses will come as the unconscious expression of certain definite mental action.

Perhaps there is no better way of bringing home to the reader the psychological action lying behind grouping and pausing than by calling his attention to a chapter from a brief but most attractive work by Ernest Legouvé, of the Conservatoire Française:

CHAPTER II
THE CRITERION OF PITCH

The second criterion is that of Pitch. By Pitch is meant everything that has to do with the acuteness or gravity of the tone,—in other words, with keys, melodies, inflections and modulations. Again we are indebted to Professor Raymond for a clear statement regarding this most subtle of all the elements of expression. His words are as follows: “The melody of the movement taken by the voice represents, therefore, like the melody in music, the mind’s motive,—indicates its purpose in using the particular phraseology to which the melody is applied; and because pitch, through the kinds of inflections and melody chosen, reveals the motives, we shall find that the use of this element in ordinary conversation is constantly causing precisely the same phraseology to express entirely opposite meanings.” Before proceeding further, it may be well to illustrate this principle, in order that the reader may follow more clearly the subsequent discussion.

Let us suppose some one to ask the question, “Do you think Mr. Jones is a good teacher?” and that the reply is given, “Oh, yes,” with a melody that virtually says, “Oh, I suppose so; he is not a very great teacher; in fact, there are many things about his teaching that might be a great deal better, but he manages to get along.” Now, all of this paraphrase, which reveals the motive, is manifested in the significant melody upon the two words, “Oh, yes.” Let us suppose further that a few days later Mr. Jones comes to us and calls us to account for speaking disparagingly of his teaching. “What,” we reply, “we say anything against your teaching![43] Why, when Smith asked us whether we considered you a good teacher, we said in the most unequivocal manner, ‘Oh, yes’!” And this time we utter the words with strong, positive assertiveness. The words in both cases are the same, but the different melodies indicate entirely opposite motives behind the words.

Read aloud such a sentence as, “John rode to the park last Christmas,” changing the meaning by transferring the significant inflection successively to all the important words, thus:

We often hear it said that in such cases as the last we have been changing the emphasis. This is true. But emphasis is a broad term, and one often confused with force. As a matter of fact, the changes in the successive readings were changes of melody due in every case to changes of motive.

Again, “When we are in our graves our children will honor it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivities, with bonfires, with joy.” The inflections on the last four nouns would probably be falling. Why? Because each would be held to be of sufficient importance to be emphasized by itself, and cut off from the others. To read them with rising inflections would be to manifest the fact that the mind was thinking of them in the aggregate. Once again, the melody shows the motive.

The melody is an indubitable sign of the discriminative ability of the reader. It is the severest test of his power to perceive sense, or logical, relations. So important a feature of the work is this that it appears necessary to emphasize it and to illustrate it in many ways.

It is evident that he does not wish to assert that he is married, nor that he is married to a wife; but that he is married to a wife as dear as life itself. And yet many a pupil reads the passage as if Bassanio were desirous of insisting upon the fact that he is married to a wife. Not a very remarkable condition of affairs, truly. It is no argument to say that the comma after “wife” indicates the necessity of a rising inflection on that word. As has been already intimated, and as will be later developed, the punctuation has nothing to do with the inflection.

In the preceding passage, note that from the third line to the clause at the end of the sentence the mind is glancing forward, and this fact will be evident in the rising inflection at the end of every important statement. Notice, further, that all of these statements will be uttered in what is virtually the same melody. The reason for this is that they are co-ordinate, and having the same motive behind them will be read with the same melody.

Observe the different melodies in the following sentences, and how the difference manifests the varying motive:

I said one, two, three, four, five.
I said one, two, three, four, five.
I said one, two, three, four, five.
I said one, two, three, four, five.
I said one, two, three, four, five.

When Mark Antony uses the phrase, “honorable men,” in the beginning of his oration, there can be no doubt that he avoids even the slightest indication of sarcasm in his voice. Whatever his ultimate purpose may be, his immediate intention is to conciliate the mob. This purpose, his motive, is shown by the unequivocal melody with which he says:

It is hardly necessary to consider this aspect farther. Let us, however, examine the subject in detail. The first consideration is that of Key. Key has been defined as “the fundamental tone of a movement to which its modulations are referred, and with which it generally begins and ends; keynote.” (Webster.) Perhaps the meaning of the current phrases “high key” and “low key” will make the definition clear. When we say of one that he speaks in a high key, we should be understood as meaning that his pitch is prevailingly high; and that the[46] reverse is true when we say of one that he speaks in a low key. While it is true that the key differs in individuals, yet experience shows that within a note or two we all use the same keys in expressing the same states of minds. The question for us is, What determines the key? It can be set down as a fixed principle that controlled mental states are expressed in the low keys, while the high keys are the manifestation of the less controlled mental conditions.[1] This principle will be more readily understood when we consider the states finding expression in low or high key in music. We should hardly awaken much enthusiasm by playing Yankee Doodle in a key an octave below that in which it is written; nor should we catch the subtle meaning of Chopin’s Funeral March if it were played in a key an octave higher than the original key. Let the reader study the spirit of the following extracts, and read them aloud. He will find in such practice the best proof of the truth of the principle we are here discussing:

The reason for low pitch or high pitch is psycho-physiological. Nerve tension means muscular tension, and, since the muscles controlling the vocal chords are subject to the same laws as the other muscles, the greater the tension the higher the pitch. Hence, since what we have called the controlled states are accompanied by relatively low muscular tension, it necessarily follows that they will be expressed in relatively low keys.

The desire to communicate thought to another has a tendency to raise the key. To illustrate: if we are addressing an audience in a small room, we shall speak in a moderately low key. If the auditorium is large, the key will be higher. If we are speaking in the open air, the chances are that we shall use a key considerably above that of ordinary conversation. On the other hand, when one is communing with himself, the absence of desire to reach others removes the tension, and in consequence the pitch is low. It is well to bear in mind that all soliloquies are not read in low key.[50] Soliloquies are often full of uncontrolled passion, in which case the principle first laid down would apply, and the pitch would be high, according to the degree of tension. What has been said in this paragraph we may sum up in a few words: those states in which there is strong desire to communicate (objective states) are manifested in high key; while the introspective (subjective) states find expression in the lower keys. Henry V., inciting his soldiers to attack the enemy’s fortifications, says:

The tension of the speaker is evidently high, owing to the exhilaration of the moment, and to the desire to project his[51] voice (of which he may be unconscious), and consequently the key will be high. It is the joy of the English people that Tennyson voices in his Welcome to Alexandra. Again the key is relatively high.

Hamlet’s soliloquy will find expression in moderately low[52] key when one grasps the idea that Hamlet is meditating upon:

The following lines are delivered by Hamlet when he appreciates the fact that while his father’s blood cries out for[53] vengeance he stands idle, beset by doubts and fears. The speech is a soliloquy, but it would be rendered in a moderately high pitch owing to the mental tension of the speaker:

The principle just discussed,—that key depends on the degree of tension, first mental, then physical,—is of very wide application. As a matter of fact, it explains the whole subject of melody. In passing from a controlled to a less controlled state, the voice rises, and vice versa. To illustrate: Brutus says to Cassius, “You yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm”; and Cassius replies, “I an itching palm!” On the word “I” the voice of Cassius strikes upward through, perhaps, an octave of the scale, and this inflection manifests the increasing tension of Cassius’ mind as he utters the exclamation. It is almost impossible to restrain the tension of throat and hand while reading the passage. Note how the muscular tension increases while one is speaking the words of Cassius. Bearing in mind what has been said of the relation of bodily tension to pitch, the explanation of Cassius’ inflection will not be far to seek. Again, Brutus says, “The name of Cassius honors this corruption, and chastisement doth therefore hide his head.” Cassius replies in one word, “Chastisement.” There are two interpretations of this word: one, that Cassius replies, as if questioning, “Do you dare say this to me?” and the other, that, astounded at the bluntness of Brutus’s speech, Cassius replies, speaking to himself, “He dared speak of chastisement to me!” In the first case the inflection would be rising, denoting the increase of tension; in the second case, the inflection would be falling, marking a gradual decrease of tension. Let the reader experiment on this example, and observe how the mental tension corresponds with the physical tension.

The melody in which any phrase or sentence is given consists of a series of waves, the crests of which mark the maximum of tension. It is a difficult matter to indicate speech melody, but it is hoped the following illustrations will be at least sufficiently suggestive to make clear the psychology[55] of melody. In the following sentence there is a gradual ascent of the voice, since the intensity increases from the first word to the end.

Came I not forth upon thy pledge my father’s hand to kiss?

The descending melody, denoting that the maximum of tension is at the beginning of the sentence, is found in the following:

All gloom, all silence, all despair!

“Dead” marks the crest of the wave of tension in the following. Observe how the melody rises to that word and descends after it:

As vapors breathed from dungeons cold strike pleasure dead,
So sadness breathes from out the mould where Burns is laid.

For those who have no musical ear, it may be somewhat difficult to catch these speech melodies. But, fortunately, in most cases, an acute musical ear is not necessary. Melody takes care of itself. When we have determined the principal word in each phrase, the melody will rise or fall from that without any effort on our part. And furthermore, even those without an ear for tune recognize instinctively the appropriateness of a given melody which they may be unable to analyze in detail. Nevertheless, the ability to analyze speech tunes is a great aid to the teacher; and it is to be hoped that the foregoing explanation will materially assist him in his work of developing the logical acumen of his class.

Melody is made up of skips and inflections. The inflection needs no definition; the skip is simply a discreet passage from one note to another. As the violinist draws his bow over the string and simultaneously runs his finger up or down the string, we have the analogy of the inflection. The pianist cannot do more than skip from one note to another, although there is an approximation to the glide, or inflection, in legato playing. The skip is found in such a sentence as this:

Give Brutus a statue with his ancestors?

The psychology of the skip is precisely that of the inflection, i. e., transition from less to more tension, or the reverse. In such an exclamation as, “Thou tattered upstart!” it is next to impossible to use the wide rising inflection that would be natural on the first syllable of “upstart,” owing to the nature of the syllable. Hence, there would be a skip between “up” and “start.” But let it be carefully observed that, including the skip, the voice traverses exactly the interval[57] it would have passed through had it been possible to use one inflection, as, for instance, on “boy” in “Thou tattered boy!” Our attention may now be turned to inflections.

Inflections are not a matter of accident, nor are they a conventional device. Their meaning is definite and fixed, and their force instinctively recognized by all. Although we do not stop to analyze them, they convey to all alike a distinct shade of thought. And further, the same shade of thought will always find expression through the same inflections. We must bear in mind that it is not claimed that all will be moved in the same way by the same stimulus, nor that all will take the same meaning from a given passage. What is claimed is, that the same purpose will find expression, with all, in fundamentally the same melody (of which inflections form the larger part). If this were not so, how should we understand one another? We discern a speaker’s purpose quite as much in his melody as in his words. For example, if one were to ask, “Are you going out?” with the object of acquiring information, he would use instinctively a rising inflection on “out.” If he were surprised at our intention to go out, he would use a wider rising inflection. And if he had asked the question several times without receiving a reply, and were now insisting on an answer (his motive now being to assert his right to an answer) he would use a wide downward inflection on “out.” And so should we all under like conditions, and the meaning of all would be alike understood by all. We need enlarge no further on this. Let it suffice that if given inflections had not always the same meaning and were not always instinctively used to express the same purpose, conversation would be impossible.

The rising inflection is the sign of incomplete sense. Whenever the mind points forward the significant inflection is upward. Test this in the following illustrations. The rising[58] inflection will be particularly noticed on the italicized words, which are not necessarily to be strongly emphasized:

When, for any reason, we do not desire to assert strongly; when what we have to say is trite, trivial, repetitious; when we are uncertain or doubtful; when we entreat; when we ask a question to which the answer yes or no is expected, we also use the rising inflection.

Uncertainty, confusion, hesitation, and other forms of doubt, are really questions,—the mind seeking solution of difficult and perplexing problems.

Care must be taken not to confuse this form of interrogation with Figurative Interrogation. The latter is often strongly assertive. For instance:

This is equivalent to asking a question and answering it at the same time. It asks in words, “was ever?” It answers in inflection, “there never was.” Grammatically, then, it is a question; rhetorically, it is an exclamation. Here is another form of Figurative Interrogation:

In this case, the second question becomes a demand. The speaker cares for an answer not so much because of any interest in it as such, but because he desires his authority respected.

A very interesting psychological question arises in connection with Figurative Interrogation. It has been shown how the grammatical question becomes an oratorical assertion; but there is a point in assertion beyond which it may pass and become an intense emotional question. In this sentence, “Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?” we have an illustration. There are three possibilities here. First: a simple question looking for information. Second: an exclamation equivalent to, Who does not know that the Judge of all the earth shall do right? Third: a skeptical question (with considerable emotion) is it possible that any one would deny that the Judge of all the earth shall do right?

It would be easy to multiply examples and make many refinements of this principle underlying the use of the rising inflection. A careful study, however, of those given should suffice to impress upon the reader that the rising inflection will be given whenever for any reason whatsoever there is no desire to assert.

Incompleteness (implied or otherwise) is marked by the rising inflection; completeness by the falling. We are all aware that the falling inflection marks completed sense, so that this principle will require neither elaboration nor illustration. Attention must be called, however, to the fact that we often assert strongly in the middle of a sentence. This phase of the subject has been so well described by another [3] that we quote as follows:

“Momentary Completeness.—This applies to any clause, phrase, or even word, which has, for any reason, enough separate force to constitute, at the moment, an entire thought, and[62] to call for a separate affirmation of the mind. This momentary completeness may arise:

“1. From the logical importance of the clause, phrase, or word requiring a strong affirmative emphasis.

“2. From an elliptical construction—one in which each part could be reasonably expanded into a complete proposition.

“Here the ideas of spontaneity, originality, nativeness, are each so important to the thought that the mind is called upon to make a separate affirmation upon each one.

“Examples of 2 are found in some of the connected clauses in this passage from Byron’s Dream of Darkness:

“The ‘loose’ sentence presents a typical case of momentary completeness, each added clause or element giving a separate, subjoined thought.

“In the following cases the period mark inclosed in brackets, [.], indicates the place at which the sentence might close; and the words in parentheses are those which might be supplied in constructing separate complete propositions. The reconstruction suggests the probable process of thought.

“The Englishman in America will feel that this is slavery [.]. (The mere fact) that it is legal slavery will (in his estimation) be no compensation (at all). (It will not be (in any degree) satisfactory) either to his feelings or his understanding.

“Completeness is marked in the voice by a falling slide; that indicating finality usually descends at least a fifth (from sol down to do), and is preceded by a more or less distinct rising melody. This cadential melody may carry the voice so high in pitch that the falling slide will be as great as an octave. The indication of momentary completeness is also a falling slide, varying in extent from a third to a fifth, but not so marked as that of finality, and usually not preceded by any special rising melody.

“In the following example note momentary completeness on ‘man,’ ‘woman,’ ‘child,’ and finality on the climacteric word ‘beast.’ Thus:

“It is especially important to study the relation of momentary completeness in connection with dependent clauses. As a rule, a definitive clause does not stand in the relation of momentary completeness, but in that of subordination or anticipation. A supplemental clause, on the other hand, is distinctively complete. This relation is not always shown, either by the punctuation, or by exact use of relative pronouns.[64] In strictness, ‘who’ and ‘which’, as already said, should always mark supplemental relations; ‘that,’ definitive. Considerations of euphony, however, often overrule grammatical and rhetorical principles. The problem in regard to dependent clauses is; to decide whether the subordinate clause contains additional thought, or only modifying thought. The best practical test will be found in paraphrasing. If a dependent clause is truly definitive, it may be reduced to a brief element,—often to a single word, which may be incorporated in the first clause.

“In this example, it is obvious that the clause introduced by ‘which’ and the one beginning with ‘that’ stand in precisely the same relation, the change being made for euphony. It is obvious also that both dependent clauses are supplemental rather than definitive. In both of these clauses, therefore, there is an added thought, and this gives the relation of momentary completeness at the words ‘complicated’ and ‘perilous.’

“The ear, under the guidance of the logical and rhetorical insight, gives a much more sensitive and more accurate punctuation than can be indicated by printer’s marks or grammarian’s rules. Not the words, nor the grammatical elements, nor the customary and traditional rendering, determine grouping or inflection, but rather the speaker’s immediate purpose at the moment of the utterance.

“The principle of momentary completeness is strikingly exemplified in the case of a ‘division of the question’ in parliamentary proceedings. Division is called for because each item is considered as separately important enough to demand the[65] entire attention. The same is often true in the announcement of a proposition containing several different elements, or of a text of Scripture suggesting many separate thoughts.”

It need hardly be said that the rule so often given, that “the voice should rise at a comma,” is ridiculous. It often does, it is true,—not because of the comma, but because of the motive.

The purpose of the following drills is not to train the student in the manner of making inflections, but rather to impress upon his mind the fact that rhetorically a sentence may be complete even though the point of completion be not marked by a full stop. In other words, the drill is one in mental, rather than vocal, technique.

The student must determine the purpose in every case, and then trust his voice to manifest that purpose.

It is often a matter of judgment whether we shall interpret a phrase as momentarily complete or as pointing forward, incomplete. Sometimes either interpretation would be acceptable, but, as a rule, one conveys the author’s intention better than the other. For instance, in the following extract from The American Indian, the author says:

It seems clear that in the second sentence the author is not enumerating minor details which form one larger whole, but that each statement is a sentence complete in itself, and so important that spontaneously we separate it from the others not merely by a pause but by a downward inflection.

If we were saying to another, “I bought my children firecrackers, torpedoes, skyrockets, and pinwheels,” we should use rising inflections until we closed our sentence on “pinwheels.” But it would be quite natural for the child, greatly excited by his presents, to use the downward inflection on those words, and these inflections would mark the importance, to him, of each separate gift. He would say, “I have firecrackers,—torpedoes,—skyrockets,—and pinwheels.”

Circumflex inflections are the expression of complex mental states. Note this in the following examples:

Difficult as is the subject of circumflex inflections, the difficulty is very much reduced when we bear in mind that the elements which compose them are the same as those with which we have been dealing. In Longfellow’s King Robert of Sicily, the Angel asks the king, “Who art thou?” To which Robert answers, sneeringly, “I am the King.” Now, on the word “I” we may expect to hear the rising circumflex (composed of a falling followed by a rising inflection) which the following paraphrase will justify: He dares ask me who I am! What audacity! Do you dare ask such a question of me? Would you know who I am? Perhaps a diagram will make this clearer:

Ĭ.
He dares ask me who I am. Do you not know? I am. etc.

Professor Chamberlain has made this question so clear that we quote from him again:

“Paraphrase for Complex Relations: These, as already seen, are cases of combined ideas, expressed by composite motions of the voice, called circumflexes. In order to justify such double motion of the voice, the mind of the reader needs[69] to recognize the combination implied in the words. He will make himself surer of this by analyzing, or separating into its component parts, each composite idea.

“Here is a plain implication of one member of the antithesis; and it might be expanded thus, As you are not to be too extrávagant in your expression, so you are not to be too quìet.

“This combination of separable elements might be illustrated by diagram, thus:

As you are not to be extravagant, so you are not to be too quiet.
Be not too tâme neither.

“Here the negative, or anticipatory, clause is, in the condensed form, suggested by the negative, or rising, part of the circumflex; the positive clause, by the falling part of the tone.

“In a similar way two separate elements, both of which are verbally expressed, may be combined in one elliptical or complex clause; e. g.:

I come not to praise Caesar. but I come to bury him.
I come to bûry Caesar.

There is one feature of circumflex inflection somewhat common but seldom treated, the understanding of which is very helpful to the teacher. This feature is observed when there are assertion and incompleteness in the same word. For instance, “John Brown,” being the important idea in the following sentence, would be uttered with a falling inflection; but since the mind is glancing forward from “Brown” the rising inflection would mark that fact. Hence, the two states of mind would be manifested in a combined inflection the psychology of which should now be clear.

We have the same phenomenon on the word “Sicily” in the following extract, except that the falling inflection is on the first two syllables and the rising on the third:

The extent, or width, of the inflection depends upon the amount of collateral thinking. Thus a simple question as, “Is your name Brown?” will take an inflection of about a third of the musical scale, while the inflection of Cassius on “Chastisement,” in the example previously given, will be probably a full octave. The length of the inflection is explained by the philosophy of “Time”: it is a matter of the importance or non-importance of the idea. The direction of the inflection is explained by the philosophy of “Pitch”: it is determined by the purpose, or motive.

Varied melody is found in the speech of every-day life. Note how the voice continually runs up and down in a conversation[71] on commonplace topics. The moment the subject grows serious and dignified, the discriminative elements largely disappear and with them the varied melody; until in solemn prayer, invocation, and certain forms of meditation in the absence of desire to insist on the importance of any one word, or the absence of the purpose to discriminate between one phase and another, we approach very close to the monotone. Let us remember, however, that it is not the emotion as such that affects the melody, but the mental content of the emotion.

In order that the reader may see the application of the foregoing principles, an analysis of a complete poem is appended. There may be a difference of opinion concerning details, but it must be remembered that the value of this analysis for the student lies in the fact that it should teach him that some interpretation is to be definitely decided on. The average reading is haphazard; so that one must gain a great deal through the mental drill necessary to decide the various questions that come up in the course of such an analysis as that here undertaken. It is a common experience to hear a pupil read a passage one way at one time and a different way at another. It would therefore seem to be better to read a passage incorrectly with some reason behind the error, than to read it correctly as a matter of accident, with the chance that the next time it is read the expression will be quite different. The greatest value of such analyses is found in the improvement in the student’s power of discrimination. The melody, which manifests the purpose, the motive, is the very life of good reading.

l. 5, 6.—Each line a complete affirmative statement, although separated from the rest of the poem only by commas.

l. 8.—Rising inflection on “horde,” since the sense is[74] incomplete until we come to “wall.” A good example, since lines 9 and 10 would make very good sense without the succeeding two.

l. 13-14.—The motive being the same in both lines, note that the melody is the same.

l. 16.—“Noon” is contrasted with “morning”; hence the rising circumflex on the former word.

l. 19.—This line is anticipative. Supply “being” before “bravest,” and note how the temptation to use the falling inflection on “town” disappears.

l. 24.—What difference in motive would be conveyed by rising and falling inflections on “Jackson”?

l. 25-28.—Transitions on “under,” “halt,” “the,” “fire,” “out.” Explain.

l. 31.—Observe that “as it fell” is subordinate. Many read this couplet incorrectly. The idea is not “as it fell from the broken staff,” but that she snatched it “from the broken staff.”

l. 37.—(1) Observe how the key lowers. Why? (2) What shades of meaning are conveyed by the following readings: a, momentary completeness on “sadness,” and “shame”; b, anticipation on “sadness,” momentary completeness on “shame.” Which do you prefer? Why?

l. 49-50.—Many opportunities for choice of inflection on “hill-gaps,” “light,” “over.”

No attempt has been made in this analysis to do more than direct attention to the portions of the poem in which inflection and melody are affected by the interpretation.

PEDAGOGICAL ASPECTS.

Much of what has been said concerning the pedagogical aspects of the discussion of “Time” may be repeated here. Drills in inflections as such are of very little value and potentially very harmful. Occasionally we hear the argument that a pupil has no ear for inflections, and that the drill is to train his ear. Most pupils have no difficulty in making proper inflections, so that for them class drills are time wasted; for those whose reading is monotonous, because of lack of melodic variety, the best drills are those which teach them to make a careful analysis of the sentences, and those which awaken them to the necessity of impressing the thought upon others. We deceive ourselves when we proceed to correct the error of monotony in any mechanical, artificial way.

We have learned that, when a pupil has the proper motive in mind and is desirous of conveying his intention to another, a certain melody will always manifest that intention. The melody, then, is the criterion of the pupil’s purpose. We expect a certain melody with certain phrases. When that melody is heard, we are scarcely conscious of its presence; when another is heard, we are struck as by a discord of music when we expect concord. The moment a pupil loses sight of[76] the exact meaning of a phrase and its relation to the other phrases, that moment his melody betrays him. Now the teacher must be able to translate the false melody. He must determine the pupil’s purpose (or absence of any purpose) behind the incorrect melody, remove the wrong purpose, put in its stead the true purpose, and rely upon natural instincts to do the rest. Herein lies the great value to the teacher of a knowledge of the psychology of the criterion of pitch.

Suppose a pupil reads, “Up from the meadows green with corn,” using a rising circumflex on “meadows.” This would show at once that “meadows” was contrasted in his mind with something else. Remove the contrast, direct his mind forward from that word to the next phrase, and the proper melody will come. Some teachers, especially those engaged in the teaching of young children, have a somewhat patronizing melody in all they say and read. This melody is overflowing with circumflexes, which are soon copied by the class. Let the teacher free himself from this patronizing mental condition and talk to the children as if they were men and women, and the peculiar melody will disappear from the voices of both teacher and pupil. It is rather difficult to present this melody in graphic form, but the following diagram may prove suggestive:

Now children let us all take our books.

It is hardly to be believed that there is so much ignorance as to the meaning of inflection. During the past two years, in schools of our largest cities, the author has heard teachers reprimand their pupils for allowing their voices “to fall at a comma.” As if commas were intended to indicate vocal[77] expression! Once when a bright lad used a falling inflection on “want,” in such a sentence as “What do you want?” a class nearly shook their hands off in their endeavors to attract the teacher’s attention, in order that, when he said, “What’s wrong?” they might shout at the top of their voices, “He let his voice down at a question mark.”

One of the commonest of misunderstandings that prevail among us, is that the rising inflection is always to be given upon words preceding commas, and also that it must never be given at the end of a sentence. It is hoped that these fallacies have been entirely exploded, and that the teacher has learned that motive, and motive only, governs the inflection. We used to be told to count one at a comma, two at a semi-colon, and four at a period. Such admonitions are exactly on a par with those just referred to.

Teachers should bear in mind that pupils do not need to have a musical ear in order to read with correct melody. As we have stated again and again, melody is the result of varying tension, and that has nothing to do with the ability to recognize tones. With singing this is different. There we must strike certain notes, and ear training is necessary; but speech melody is instinctive, and all that is necessary for its development is mental training and practice in reading—not voice drills as such.

The melody of long sentences presents a case of peculiar difficulty. Where the sentence is long, especially where it is long and involved, the pupil’s melody is often faulty because he cannot hold the thought in mind from beginning to end. Pupils should be trained on sentences specially chosen to develop their powers of continuous thinking. These sentences should be carefully analyzed and thoroughly discussed before reading. The following examples, while too difficult for younger pupils, will afford good practice for the teacher:

[78]

While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise. God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind. When my eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood! Let their last feeble and lingering glance, rather, behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original luster, not a stripe erased or polluted, not a single star obscured—bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as, “What is all this worth?” nor those other words of delusion and folly, “Liberty first, and Union afterward;” but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart—“Liberty and Union, now and forever, one and inseparable.”—Reply to Hayne. Webster.

Note that the force of “may I not see him” continues to “fraternal blood,” and consequently that there should be rising inflections on “Union,” “dissevered,” “discordant,” “belligerent,” “feuds,” and “blood.” And note further that “What is all this worth?” and “Liberty first, and Union afterward,” are anticipative and hence will take a rising inflection on “worth” and “afterward.”

At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town

Of ancient Roman date but scant renown,

One of those little places that have run

Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun,

And then sat down to rest, as if to say,

“I climb no further upward, come what may,”

The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame,

So many monarchs since have borne the name,

Had a great bell hung in the market place.

—The Bell of Atri. Longfellow.

[79]

The town would have used a falling inflection on “may” because for it the sense would have been completed with that word; but with us this phrase is subordinate, and hence the inflection on “may” will be rising.

And as a hungry lion who has made

A prey of some large beast—a hornèd stag

Or mountain goat—rejoices, and with speed

Devours it, though swift hounds and sturdy youths

Press on his flank, so Menelaus felt

Great joy when Paris, of the godlike form,

Appeared in sight, for now he thought to wreak

His vengeance on the guilty one, and straight

Sprang from his car to earth with all his arms.

—The Iliad, Book II. Homer (Bryant).

But when public taste seems plunging deeper and deeper into degradation day by day, and when the press universally exerts such power as it possesses to direct the feeling of the nation more completely to all that is theatrical, affected, and false in art; while it vents its ribald buffooneries on the most exalted truth, and the highest ideal of landscape, that this or any other age has ever witnessed, it becomes the imperative duty of all who have any perception or knowledge of what is really great in art, and any desire for its advancement in England, to come fearlessly forward, regardless of such individual interests as are likely to be injured by the knowledge of what is good and right, to declare and demonstrate, wherever they exist, the essence and the authority of the beautiful and the true.—Modern Painters. Ruskin.

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CHAPTER III
THE CRITERION OF QUALITY

Thus far we have been considering the criteria of states essentially intellectual. “Time” has to do with the extent of the thought; “Pitch” with the purpose. Quality manifests emotional states. By Quality we mean that subtle element in the voice by which is expressed at one time tenderness, at another harshness, at another awe, and so on through the whole gamut of feeling.

In order to prove that the quality (timbre, the French call it) of the voice is the result of emotional conditions, we must first understand what we may term the physics of quality. The number of air waves striking the ear in a given time determines the pitch; the width of the waves determines the volume of sound; the shape of the waves determines the quality. But how is the shape of air waves affected? It would take us too far from our subject to discuss this question in detail.[5] Let it suffice that the shape of the air wave, and hence the quality, is dependent upon the texture of the vibrating body. We recognize at once the different qualities respectively of the flute, piano, violin, harp or cornet; it is the difference in the texture of the vibrating substances that enables us to do this. Why will the artist pay thousands of dollars for a Stradivarius or Cremona violin? Not because of its age, but because of the quality of the tone he can bring out on that instrument, which is impossible on other makes of violins. The fashioners of these old instruments possessed a secret of treating or seasoning the wood that gave to their[81] products a tone quality the violin-makers of to-day endeavor in vain to reproduce. This treatment affected the texture of the wood, and hence the quality.

To him who plays upon the human instrument of the voice, is given a great advantage over other artists. He can change the quality of his tone almost at will, while they can only approximate these changes. The tone as it comes from the vocal bands is comparatively colorless, but the size and shape of the reinforcing cavities (the larynx, pharynx, mouth, and nares), and the texture of their membranes, determine the quality of the tone that reaches the ear. Now, the size and shape of some of these can be changed at will, and are often modified unconsciously by emotion. The same may be said of the texture of the surface against which the tone impinges as it comes from the larynx. The shape of the nares and the texture of its membrane are virtually fixed, as is the texture of the roof of the mouth and the pharynx. Herein is the explanation of the individuality of voices. But the shape of the mouth and of the pharynx may be considerably modified by the action of the tongue, the raising, lowering, or contracting of the larynx, and the movements of the soft palate. It is, therefore, clear that the quality of the voice is partly fixed and partly changeable.

Before we proceed to discuss the effect of emotion upon the quality, we must first recognize that voice defects are of three kinds: (1) Those arising from disease or accident, such as catarrh, obstructions in the nose, enlarged tonsils, broken nose, and many others. These require medical or surgical treatment. (2) Those arising from congenital defects, which can be only partially removed, such as cleft palate, abnormally narrow nares, and the like. (3) Those arising out of the temperament of the man and the improper use of his voice.

It should now be plain that when we say that emotion[82] affects the quality of the tone, we mean the peculiar quality of a particular man. If a speaker’s voice is nasal, we do not claim that that quality is expressive of any emotion. On the contrary, nasal quality is the distinguishing characteristic of his voice, but that quality can be modified by emotion. In other words, there can be a nasal-tender quality, or a nasal-harsh quality, the tender or harsh feeling accounting for the difference.

Paul Heyse has said, “The voice is the man.” What did he mean by that? He did not mean that a throaty voice indicated one temperament, and a nasal voice another, but that the emotional man, the spiritual man, has a certain texture of muscle. This texture affects the quality of his natural voice, whatever that voice may be, and consequently the quality of the voice manifests the man. If we will interpret this dictum broadly, no fault will be found with it. Who does not recognize the blustering man by his bellowing tone? the fawning hypocrite by his oily quality? the aggressive, assertive individual by his harsh guttural? In all probability, Heyse meant more than quality, in the sense in which we use it here; but granting this, his saying is of very wide application even in this restricted realm.

How does emotion affect the quality of the voice? Emotion is essentially a muscular condition. This condition is determined by the amount of nervous energy sent to the muscles, and this energy determines the muscular texture. Tender emotions mean tender texture, a relaxed condition of the muscles; while harsh quality is the result not only of throat contraction (change in the shape of the reinforcing cavity) but of constricted muscle, harsh texture. This is all there is to the philosophy of “Quality.”

Dr. Rush, in his Philosophy of the Human Voice, has named many of these qualities. He calls them Normal, Orotund,[83] Guttural, Pectoral, Falsetto, and so on; and mentions the emotional conditions that manifest themselves through these various forms. On the whole, his classification is sound; but there is one gross error, due either to himself or his followers, that must be considered here. The Orotund (the enlarged natural) quality is more than a loud voice. It is a full voice with a quality that cannot better be described than by the term richness. Many students have endeavored to obtain this quality by shouting, or by holding the mouth as if gaping, and have developed only loudness without a trace of soulfulness, or merely a round, hollow hot-potato-in-the-throat kind of voice. There is no objection to the use of the term Orotund to characterize that rich, full tone suggestive of deep, full, enlarged feeling; but we must bear in mind that loudness is not only not necessary for the Orotund, but is often no part of it at all. The Orotund, as we have said, is that quality of which the main characteristics are roundness and richness. One who is restricted is not likely to use this quality. It can come only when there is the utmost freedom of the entire vocal region. When we have removed the tension which may be “the man,” or the result of bad vocal training, we shall get that enlarged quality, which should not, as is so often the case, manifest merely the larger emotional states, but should be the natural voice of the speaker. The Orotund manifests dignity above all else; it manifests the large, grand spirit. Of course, we do not mean an affected Orotund, but an easy, large, unrestricted quality showing the largeness of the soul behind it. To develop this quality, let the student use his imagination. Let him dwell for a long time upon the sublimity and grandeur of such passages as follow. Then let him abandon himself to the emotion aroused through his contemplation, and in time the genuine Orotund will come. And so only can it come. So important[84] is this phase of the subject that we repeat: The tone expressive of elevated feeling “cannot be mechanically produced, or manufactured independently of the general mental and physical conditions.” The imagination must lead, otherwise we shall have big voices without big quality. That peculiar quality expressive of enlarged feeling is not necessarily loud. In fact, the voice may not be strong, but, at the same time, it may suggest grandeur and sublimity far better than a voice that has sheer loudness. But, if the student will practice faithfully, he may be assured that his voice will receive more genuine training through these exercises than through a whole volume of merely technical drills. Develop the imagination, the soul, and the voice will grow through the effort of the soul to go out in expression. But let him avoid mere shouting and vociferating, even if he never gets a voice.

If the student has not the imagination, he must develop it. There are many loud voices, but few with soulful quality. But what avails this loudness? Certainly it enables one to be heard above the din of voices and the roar of the waves, but it never stirs the nobler emotions of an audience; and unless one can do that he is anything but an orator. Mere loudness is rant—nothing less.

Many students, for one reason or another, either have no ability to express elevated feeling in public, or repress it through diffidence or shyness. Let such remember that we are constantly experiencing and expressing this feeling in our everyday life; that it is simply an enlargement of a more or less commonplace feeling; and let him begin with the simple examples that are set down first. Any one can say, What a lovely day this is! Well, that is a mild form of elevated feeling. Let him imagine it is graduation day, and that rain had been threatening to fall all the previous night. It is daylight now; and as he opens his eyes and looks up at the cloudless[85] sky, will he not exclaim with elevated feeling, What a glorious day we’re going to have!

By “elevated feelings” one must not understand those only that are serious and solemn. Whenever the imagination is enkindled by the contemplation of what is large, dignified, grand, sublime, the emotions are stirred, and find expression in enlarged, soulful quality.

Ay, every inch a king.

Think of it! a building that could hold a hundred thousand people!

Here will be their greatest triumph.

Who shall put asunder the best affections of the heart?

We loved the land of our adoption!

A good name is better than precious ointment.

Gird up thy loins now, like a man.

Comfort ye my people.

O Zion, that bringest good tidings, get thee up into the high mountain!

He is as honest a man as ever breathed.

Search creation round, where will you find a country that presents so sublime a spectacle, so interesting an anticipation?

Most of all, fellow-citizens, if your sons ask whose example they shall imitate, what will you say? For you know well it is not music, nor the gymnasiums, nor the schools, that mold young men; it is much more the public proclamations, the public example. If you take one whose life has no high purpose, one who mocks at morals, and crown him in the theater, every boy who sees it is corrupted. When a bad man suffers his deserts, the people learn; on the contrary, when a man VOTES AGAINST WHAT IS NOBLE AND JUST, and then comes home to teach his son, the boy will very promptly say, “Your lesson is impertinent and a bore.” Beware, therefore, Athenians, remembering posterity will rejudge your judgment, and that the character of a city is determined by the character of the men it crowns.

[86]

Right forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne; But that scaffold sways the future, and behind the dim unknown Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own.

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!

Sail on, O Union, strong and great!

Humanity, with all its fears,

With all the hopes of future years

Is hanging breathless on thy fate!

We know what Master laid thy keel,

What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,

Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,

What anvils rang, what hammers beat,

In what a forge, and what a heat,

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!

Fear not each sudden sound and shock;

’Tis of the wave, and not the rock;

’Tis but the flapping of the sail,

And not a rent made by the gale!

In spite of rock and tempest’s roar,

In spite of false lights on the shore,

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee:

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,

Our faith triumphant o’er our fears,

Are all with thee,—are all with thee!

—The Ship of State. Longfellow.

See what a grace was seated on this brow;

Hyperion’s curls; the front of Jove himself;

An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;

A station like the herald Mercury

New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;

A combination and a form indeed,

Where every god did seem to set his seal,

To give the world assurance of a man.

—Hamlet, Act iii., Sc. 4.

[87]

Awake, my soul! Not only passive praise

Thou owest; not alone these swelling tears,

Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy. Awake,

Voice of sweet song! Awake my heart, Awake!

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn!

—Coleridge.

And the evening star was shining

On Schehallion’s distant head,

When we wiped our bloody broadswords,

And returned to count the dead.

There we found him, gashed and gory,

Stretched upon the cumbered plain,

As he told us where to seek him,

In the thickest of the slain.

And a smile was on his visage,

For within his dying ear

Pealed the joyful note of triumph,

And the clansman’s clamorous cheer:

So, amidst the battle’s thunder,

Shot, and steel, and scorching flame,

In the glory of his manhood

Passed the spirit of the Græme!

Open wide the vaults of Atholl,

Where the bones of heroes rest,—

Open wide the hallowed portals

To receive another guest!

Last of Scots and last of freemen,—

Last of all that dauntless race,

Who would rather die unsullied

Than outlive the land’s disgrace!

—Aytoun.

Bury the great Duke

With an empire’s lamentation,

Let us bury the Great Duke

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation,

Mourning when their leaders fall,

Warriors carry the warrior’s pall,

And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.

[88]

Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore?

Here, in streaming London’s central roar,

Let the sound of those he wrought for,

And the feet of those he fought for,

Echo round his bones forevermore.

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,

As fits a universal woe,

Let the long, long procession go,

And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,

And let the mournful martial music blow;

The last great Englishman is low.

All is over and done:

Render thanks to the Giver,

England, for thy son.

Let the bell be toll’d.

Render thanks to the Giver,

And render him to the mold.

Under the cross of gold

That shines over city and river,

There he shall rest forever

Among the wise and the bold.

Let the bell be toll’d:

And a reverent people behold

The towering car, the sable steeds:

Bright let it be with his blazon’d deeds

Dark in its funeral fold,

Let the bell be toll’d:

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll’d;

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll’d

Thro’ the dome of the golden cross;

And the volleying cannon thunder his loss;

He knew their voices of old.

For many a time in many a clime

His captain’s ear has heard them boom,

Bellowing victory, bellowing doom:

When he with those deep voices wrought,

Guarding realms and kings from shame;

With those deep voices our dead captain taught

[89]

The tyrant, and asserts his claim

In that dread sound to the great name

Which he has worn so pure of blame,

In praise and in dispraise the same,

A man of well-attemper’d frame.

O civic Muse, to such a name,

To such a name for ages long,

To such a name,

Preserve a broad approach of fame,

And ever-echoing avenues of song.

—Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington. Tennyson.

Venerable men! you have come down to us from a former generation. Heaven has bounteously lengthened out your lives, that you might behold this joyous day. You are now where you stood fifty years ago, this very hour, with your brothers and your neighbors, shoulder to shoulder, in the strife for your country. Behold, how altered! The same heavens are indeed above your heads; the same ocean rolls at your feet; but all else how changed!

You hear now no roar of hostile cannon, you see no mixed volume of smoke and flame rising from burning Charlestown. The ground strewed with the dead and dying; the impetuous charge; the steady and successful repulse; the loud call to repeated assault; the summoning of all that is manly to repeated resistance; a thousand bosoms freely and fearlessly bared in an instant to whatever of terror there may be in war and death; all these you have witnessed, but you witness them no more.

All is peace. The heights of yonder metropolis, its towers and roofs, which you then saw filled with wives and children and countrymen in distress and terror, and looking with unutterable emotions for the issue of the combat, have presented you to-day with the sight of its whole happy population come out to welcome and greet you with a universal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a felicity of position appropriately lying at the foot of this mount, and seeming fondly to cling around it, are not means of annoyance to you, but your country’s own means of destruction and defense.—Webster.

What lesson shall those lips teach us? Before that still, calm brow let us take a new baptism. How can we stand here without a[90] fresh and utter consecration? These tears! how shall we dare even to offer consolation? Only lips fresh from such a vow have the right to mingle their words with your tears. We envy you your nearer place to these martyred children of God. I do not believe slavery will go down in blood. Ours is an age of thought. Hearts are stronger than swords. That last fortnight! How sublime its lesson! the Christian one of conscience,—of truth. Virginia is weak, because each man’s heart said amen to John Brown. His words,—they are stronger even than his rifles. These crushed a State. Those have changed the thoughts of millions, and will yet crush slavery. Men said, “Would he had died in arms!” God ordered better, and granted to him and the slave those noble prison hours,—that single hour of death; granted him a higher than the soldier’s place,—that of teacher; the echoes of his rifles have died away in the hills,—a million hearts guard his words. God bless this roof,—make it bless us. We dare not say bless you, children of this home! you stand nearer to one whose lips God touched, and we rather bend for your blessings. God make us all worthier of him whose dust we lay among these hills he loved. Here he girded himself and went forth to battle. Fuller success than his heart ever dreamed God granted him. He sleeps in the blessings of the crushed and the poor, and men believe more firmly in virtue, now that such a man has lived. Standing here, let us thank God for a firmer faith and fuller hope.—Wendell Phillips.

A great deal of space has been given to the preceding illustrations because the quality necessary to express the emotions in those selections is very rare. Rare for two reasons: first, because we dwell so much of the time in the realm of the so-called practical that we lose interest in the sublimer aspects presented in poetry; and, secondly, we do not express these larger emotions freely and often. Expression, like all other powers, comes through practice.

The second distinct quality is what has been called the Normal. This is the voice of everyday life, the voice in which we carry on the conversation of the home, the schoolroom, and the business of life generally. We need no special[91] practice in this quality, but it is well to recognize it in order that we may compare with it the other qualities. The following extract would be expressed in Normal quality.

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. And do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus; but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. Oh, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious, periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o’erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you avoid it.

Be not too tame either, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of Nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to Nature, to show Virtue her own feature, Scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must, in your allowance, o’erweigh a whole theater of others. Oh, there be players that I have seen play—and heard others praise, and that highly—not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, or man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature’s journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.—Hamlet, Act iii., Sc. 2.

In a work which makes no pretension to cover the whole realm of elocution, it would be out of place to discuss the more extravagant forms of emotion, such as terror, rage, hate, and the like. In order, however, to give this phase of the[92] subject a certain approximation to complete treatment, it may be well to touch upon these abnormal emotional states and the respective qualities in which they find expression.

There is a wide range of feeling that so affects the action of the vocal apparatus as to produce a breathy tone. It would be idle and misleading to enumerate all the occasions upon which we might expect to hear this aspirated voice. Suffice it that a sense of oppression resulting from any one of many causes: the desire not to be overheard; the weakness of old age and disease—any of these conditions may produce the aspirated tone. Aspiration does not manifest any one emotion, but may accompany many. There may be considerable aspiration mixed with the expression of joy, as well as with the expression of hate or despair. It is well to bear this in mind, for many text books give the “Aspirated Quality” as a specific kind of voice manifesting specific emotions and those only. When we observe that this quality is found in awe, terror, hate, and like emotions; in debility; and when we wish to whisper; the unscientific nature of such a classification becomes sufficiently clear. A few examples are appended:

St! Don’t make any noise: he’s asleep.

Walk softly: I think they’re listening.

Go away! I hate you.

Oh! I’m so tired; help me along.

How can I tell him the truth!

There is no hope.

“Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!”

Were the last words of Marmion.

O horror! horror! horror!

Tongue, nor heart, cannot conceive, nor name thee!

Measureless liar!

[93]

Spare me, great God! Lift up my drooping brow;

I am content to die; but, oh, not now.

I pray you, give me leave to go hence;

I am not well.

Dear master, I can go no further: O, I die for food! Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master.

How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here?

I think it is the weakness of my eyes

That shapes this monstrous apparition.

It comes upon me. Art thou any thing?

Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil,

That mak’st my blood cold, and my hair to stare?—

Speak to me what thou art.

—Julius Caesar, Act iv., Sc. 3.

Lady Macbeth. Alack! I am afraid they have awak’d,

And ’tis not done. The attempt, and not the deed,

Confounds us. Hark!—I laid their daggers ready,

He could not miss them.—Had he not resembled

My father as he slept, I had done ’t. My husband!

Macbeth. I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise?

Lady Macbeth. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry.

Did you not speak?

Macbeth. When?

Lady Macbeth. Now.

Macbeth. As I descended?

Lady Macbeth. Ay.

Macbeth. Hark!

Who lies i’ th’ second chamber?

Lady Macbeth. Donalbain.

Macbeth. This is a sorry sight. [Looking at his hands.

Lady Macbeth. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.

Macbeth. There’s one did laugh in ’s sleep,

And one cried, “Murder!” that they did wake each other;

I stood and heard them: but they did say their prayers,

And address’d them again to sleep.

—Macbeth, Act ii., Sc. 2.

[94]

Stern, severe, harsh feelings have a tendency to contract the throat; hence, we get a quality that is called the Guttural. It is heard only where the passion grips the throat.

Mend, and change home,

Or by the fires of heaven, I’ll leave the foe,

And make me wars on you: look to ’t: Come on!

“Curse on him!” quoth false Sextus:

“Will not the villain drown?

But for this stay, ere close of day

We should have sacked the town!”

Never, Iago. Like to the Pontic Sea,

Whose icy current and compulsive course

Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on

To the Propontic and the Hellespont,

Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace,

Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to humble love,

Till that a capable and wide revenge

Swallow them up. Now, by yond’ marble heaven,

In the due reverence of a sacred vow

I here engage my words.

—Othello, Act iii., Sc. 3.

There are two opposite qualities of voice well known to singers: the bright, ringing tone, and the dark, sombre, covered tone. This distinction is, for the purposes of the public-school teacher, far more valuable than most others.[95] Joy, happiness, buoyancy, exuberance, are likely, when there are no marked physical defects, to find expression in the bright tone; while sorrow and the moods of introspection may often modify the texture of the vibrating substances so as to produce the darker quality.

EXTRACTS TO ILLUSTRATE “DARK” QUALITY.

EXAMPLES TO ILLUSTRATE “BRIGHT” QUALITY.

PEDAGOGICAL ASPECTS.

For the third time, it is well to be reminded that drills in the elements of expression as such have no place in public-school training. Perhaps in no part of the work is more care[99] necessary than in the development of the pupil’s power to express feeling. If we were discussing methods of teaching elocution outside of the public school, the author would be compelled to protest strongly against a prevalent practice of endeavoring to develop the different vocal qualities apart from the emotion that produces these qualities. But the difficulty in public-school methods is that they pay comparatively little attention to emotional expression. As a general thing, so educators say, there is either no feeling (“no expression,” some put it), or, what is worse, there is a palpable affectation of feeling. Somehow, it has come to be considered “girlish” for a boy to put feeling into his reading, especially tender feeling; and for the girl to do so is considered a sure indication of weakness. The atmosphere of the school-room is not conducive to the development of emotional power, and if, by any chance, a shoot should peep out of the soil, it dies for want of light and warmth. Emotion in itself is a good thing, when properly guided; but we need emotion in reading because it is a sign that the pupil can be moved by the contemplation of the noble, the tender, the true. It is a sign that the children have that precious gift of imagination. Where there is no opportunity for the expression of feeling, there must result a great loss in expressive power and eventually in power of imagination. Such a loss is irremediable, for there follows in its wake inability to appreciate the finer breath and spirit of literature.

Our public schools, except in particularly favored districts, can do very little towards training the voices of the pupils. Even when there are special teachers the best results are found not so much in the voices as in the ability to read music. To train the human voice requires genius and much particular training, and we cannot expect that school communities will appoint such teachers for many, many generations. But[100] development of the child’s powers of expression through the stimulation of his imagination and emotions will do wonders for his voice. So that here we have a third reason for pleading so earnestly for more careful attention to this aspect of vocal expression. One hears so often the excuse, “Oh, he hasn’t any voice; that’s why he can’t read.” The author believes with that great specialist in the child voice, William L. Tomlins, that, except when there are serious structural defects, the imagination and soul will make a voice. Let it be remarked, that the claim is not made that vocal training is unnecessary. But when we look at the conditions that make impossible the appointment of skilled specialists in voice, we give up in despair of effecting for some time to come any radical change. Further, a good voice does not imply a good reader. Since, then, we can not get the voice teacher; and since, when we can, we are not assured he will develop good expressionists, it should be a great stimulus to the conscientious teacher to learn that the very highest quality of the voice, soulfulness, may be developed through stimulation of the imagination. And, further, let us note that expression that comes in this way can never be affected.

The teacher now knows that emotion affects the quality of tone. Let him then use this knowledge as he has learned to use his knowledge of the other criteria. We recognize instinctively the quality that expresses sorrow, tenderness, joy and the other states of feeling. When the proper quality does not appear it is because the child has no feeling or the wrong feeling—generally the former. There is but one way to correct the expression, i. e., by stimulating the imagination.

This is a most difficult task, but that fact does not excuse us from attempting it. In Part II this feature will be treated at length.

CHAPTER IV
THE CRITERION OF FORCE

Force manifests the degree of mental energy. When we speak in a loud voice there is much energy; when softly, there is little. This criterion is the easiest of the four to understand, because, perhaps, it is the most tangible. We need not stay, therefore, to illustrate, but may pass on to consider a subdivision of Force, the understanding of which is very necessary to good teaching.

In reading the following lines note how explosive is the utterance on the emphatic words:

Now observe how differently we apply the force on the emphatic words of this extract:

In the first example, upon the emphatic words, there was heard a loud explosion of the voice, followed by a gradual diminution in force; in the second, the voice perceptibly swelled on the significant words. This swell or diminish has been called “Stress.” Perhaps it is not the best word, but since its meaning in the sense in which we are using it here is generally understood, it may be well to retain it. “Stress” refers to the manner of applying the force to the emphatic syllable. In the first of the preceding illustrations, the greatest force was at the beginning of the emphatic syllable. This form is called “Radical” stress. In the second, the force[102] was applied in the opposite manner. This form is denominated “Final” stress.

Radical stress marks all forms of animated utterance. It is the result of the normal action of the vocal chords, which, coming together before syllabic impulses, suddenly part, causing a slight degree of explosion. Absence of this form of stress gives the delivery a kind of drawling effect. It is further to be noted that even in those utterances characterized by other forms of stress this form yet manifests itself on most of the syllables. After the student has practiced the other forms of stress, he will better understand this remark. He will have noticed that the other forms are significant just in so far as they differ from this one, which is the normal; and, further, that because the radical stress is normal, the use of other forms of stress on a comparatively few (emphatic) syllables will give a very significant coloring to a whole paragraph.

We must guard against over-developing this abruptness. If we do not, our delivery will be very likely to become explosive, and then we shall create the impression of being too dogmatic. On the other hand, slovenliness and drawling may be overcome by drilling on this element of expression, and much vitality will thereby be imparted to the speaking.

All speech, then, has this abrupt character. It has become so familiar to us that we do not notice it except, as it were, in its absence, when the delivery becomes drawling or slovenly. Hence, we can say that radical stress in its milder forms is not essentially expressive; it is an inherent part of our vocal production. It becomes expressive only in its stronger forms. The student whose delivery is sufficiently vital need not practice on the milder form. It need hardly be said that the form and the thought should not be separated in this practice.

It should also be borne in mind that there are different degrees of stress as well as kinds. Professor Raymond truly says, “Never confuse the kind of stress with the degree.” To illustrate: the decided stroke of the voice is heard in,

but a strong attack would spoil the daintiness. Let us remember that a grain of gunpowder explodes as well as a ton. This admonition applies as well to other forms of stress.

It has been urged, that if the claim is true that the complete assimilation of the thought and feeling will, through practice, lead to adequate expression, why bother the student with such drills as these? The answer is plain. One’s temperament may be of such a nature that he cannot express a single sentence without, say, the greatest insistency. The insistency is temperamental, and it shows in everything the speaker does. By a careful study of “Stress,” he is introduced to his own consciousness, soon recognizes his weakness, and his delivery is improved through improving his mental action. If this is true for the creative speaker, the orator, how much more is it true of him who reads or recites the words of another.

A few years ago, a well-known minister spoke these words: “You may read the tragedies of Sophocles, and the philosophy of Plato and Aristotle; you may be familiar with the lore of the Hindus and the Brahmins; you may know your Shakespeare, your Milton, and your Dante, your Wordsworth, your Browning, and your Tennyson, but [raising aloft a limp-covered Bible] it’s all here!” And he brought the book down on the palm of his hand with a thwack that was heard throughout the building. He fairly exploded on “all here,” and the congregation laughed. Paraphrased, his stress said,[104] I—I, who know what I am talking about, tell you people—deny it if you can—it’s all here. There was no appeal, no tenderness, no gentle persuasiveness. His purpose ought to have been (to avoid argument, let it be said that the context justifies this remark—he was appealing for a more careful and reverential study of the Bible) to express, Oh, my friends, this holy work, this revelation of God’s goodness, contains all you need. Why not take it up, and study it? You read all literatures; will you not read this too? The trouble was that the preacher, being naturally of an aggressive nature, lost sight of his final purpose, and spoiled what might have been a very effective appeal, by obtruding himself between his illustration and his audience. It may be of interest to state that the speaker’s attention was called to this; and he admitted the justice of the criticism, while disclaiming all knowledge of what he had done, and how he had done it.

This illustrates the contention. He had had no idea that he had become so assertive that he virtually said, I tell you so, on every emphatic word. A study of “Stress” and its psychology would certainly have helped him.

In The Orator’s Manual the author sums up this matter of radical stress thus: “The radical stress is exerted on account of a subjective ... motive; in other words, because a man desires chiefly to express an idea on his own account.... In [this] case the sound bursts forth abruptly, as if the man were conscious of nothing but his own organs to prevent the accomplishment of his object.... It is used whenever one’s main wish is to express himself so as to be distinctly understood. In its mildest form, it serves to render articulation clear and utterance precise; when stronger, it indicates bold and earnest assurance, positiveness, and dictation.... Without [this] stress, gentleness becomes an inarticulate and timid drawl, and vehemence mere brawling bombast.[105] With too frequent use of it, one’s delivery becomes characterized by an appearance of self-assertion, assurance, or preciseness.” In other words, it is the “I” stress.

Of final stress, Professor Raymond says: “It is exerted on account of an objective idea. The sound is pushed forth gradually, as if the man were conscious of outside opposition, and of the necessity of pressing his point. It is used whenever one’s main wish is to impress his thoughts on others. It gives utterance, in its weakest form, to the whine or complaint of mere peevishness demanding consideration; when stronger to a pushing earnestness or determination; in its strongest form, to a desire to cause others to feel one’s own astonishment, scorn, or horror.... Without final stress there can be no representation of childish weakness or obstinacy, or of ... resolution; used too exclusively, or excessively, it causes delivery to be characterized by an appearance of wilfulness, depriving it of the qualities of persuasion that appeal to the sympathies.”

A very little of final stress will give a decided coloring to the delivery. The student should be careful, therefore, not to overdo it. To illustrate: a speaker is urging the colonists to abandon the idea of war, claiming that they are weak, and so on. Patrick Henry rises and says, “Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us.” On the word “not,” the speaker is plainly pushing aside the argument of his opponent. When he utters “liberty,” we note again the insistent idea. He tells us by his stress, Other revolutions may have failed through lack of numbers, but the gentleman forgets that ours will be a struggle for liberty. Again, in “we,” “invincible,”[106] and “any,” we plainly discern the idea of overcoming opposition. Now, it must be clear that while it is only on the five words italicized we note the insistence, yet the whole statement is strongly tinged by it.

There is a third form of stress commonly called “Median.” This is a combination of the final and radical, and manifests a combination of the objective and subjective states. There are other combinations and forms of stress, but they are rarely heard and need not be dwelt upon here.

Attention needs to be directed to the fact that stress sometimes extends through several words and gives a characteristic color to an entire phrase or sentence. For instance, we note that the swell continues from the opening word to “despised,” in the following speech of Cassio, who is opposing Iago’s plan. Note further the same effect on phrases italicized:

Observe how the force increases up to “Lord” and dies away to the end in the following:

It may be well to remark here that there are certain writers who hold that the study of stress is misleading, or at best useless. To these answer is made that music uses these stresses very much in the sense in which they are used here. The attack necessary for pure singing or instrumental tone is our radical (normal) stress. The “staccato” and “sforzando” are more intense forms of this stress. The “crescendo,”[107] “diminuendo,” and “swell” are respectively equivalent to “final,” prolonged “radical,” and “median” stresses.

It may be well to call attention to a very general confusion of ideas in the use of the word “low.” It is applied to force and pitch indiscriminately, to the loss of an important distinction. Low pitch is the result of low tension, while soft force is diminished mental energy. High pitch may accompany soft force, and loud force may be simultaneous with low pitch. It is because low pitch has generally accompanied soft force that the confusion has arisen.

EXAMPLES ILLUSTRATING THE USE OF RADICAL STRESS.

EXAMPLES ILLUSTRATING THE USE OF FINAL STRESS.[6]

EXAMPLES ILLUSTRATING THE USE OF MEDIAN STRESS.

PEDAGOGICAL ASPECTS.

These aspects, having been dwelt upon at some length in the preceding discussion, may be dismissed with a few words.[113] The knowledge of the psychology of Force and Stress is to serve as a standard of criticism, not as a foundation for mechanical drills. There is a school of reading pedagogy, with lamentably extended sway, that argues, since there are found various kinds of stress in our speech, therefore we must drill our pupils on these. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Stress denotes a state of mind. If our philosophy of stress is sound, it should teach us that the mental state finds instinctive expression in one form of stress or another, and consequently we must get the state before we can get the stress. We might add that this is true of Time, Pitch, and Quality, as well as of Stress.

Do not tell a child to read louder. If you do, you will get loudness—that awful, grating schoolboy loudness—without a particle of expression in it. Many a child reads well, but is bashful. When we tell him to read louder, he braces himself for the effort and kills the quality, which is the finer breath and spirit of oral expression, and gives us a purely physical thing—force. Put your weak-voiced readers on the platform; let them face the class and talk to you, seated in the middle of the room, and you will get all the force you need. On the whole, we have too much force rather than too little. Let the teacher learn that we want quality, not quantity, and our statement of the mental action behind force will be of much benefit in creating the proper conditions.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] In describing what is small, delicate, nice, we often note the tendency to use a rather high key. This is no doubt due to the tension that results from unconscious imitation. The voice is to a certain extent squeezed in endeavoring to express the smallness of the idea, with the result that the key is raised. Note how the child’s key rises when he asks for a “leetle, teeny bit.”

[2] The rising inflection will be heard only on the last syllable of this word. Note the discreet skip of the voice between the first and second syllables.

[3] Prof. W. B. Chamberlain in his “Rhetoric of Vocal Expression.” This work is now out of print, but a revision and enlargement of it is published by Scott, Foresman & Co., of Chicago, under the title “Principles of Vocal Expression and Literary Interpretation.”

[4] The falling inflection may properly be given on the italicised words; but the latter are not therefore necessarily to be emphasized.

[5] See Tyndall on “Sound;” or Prof. Halm on the same subject.

[6] A few words are italicized in order to draw attention to the places where we should be likely to use this stress. Observe, too, how the stress impresses us with the desire of the speaker to push away opposition.

PART TWO

METHOD OF INSTRUCTION

CHAPTER V
THE MENTAL ATTITUDE OF THE READER

In our knowledge of the psychology of the elements of expression, we have the solution of the difficulties resulting from the complexity and intangibility of vocal expression. The teacher now knows what to look for, and hence is enabled to diagnose the case. There is now the second step to be taken in the development of the teacher: he must have method. It can hardly be claimed that there is any definite progression in our instruction. In the primary grades, the pupils learn the letters, their sounds, and a meagre amount of expression. After that the teaching is haphazard. This is not the case with arithmetic or history, or geography; why should it be so in reading? The answer is clear. For many reasons, not difficult to ascertain, the child has a vague idea that reading is simply vocal utterance; that his work as a reader is done when he has pronounced the words. This state of mind may be attributed, first, to his primary training, and, second, to the perfunctoriness of the reading lesson in the grammar grades. We seem to be satisfied, in the beginning, if a pupil learns to recognize and pronounce words. This is a serious error. We should never for a moment forget that our purpose in giving pupils the ability to recognize words is to enable them to extract the thought from the printed page. Hence, from the outset, as was enjoined in the Introduction, we should lay the least possible stress upon word-getting, and, contrariwise, all possible stress on thought-getting. If the primary teachers should succeed in developing the state of mind that would cause the pupils to go to the printed page as[118] they go to the feet of one who has a story to tell, we should be willing to ask for nothing else of them as a result of all their teaching.

But let us accept reading as we find it to-day, and let us suppose the pupil is about ten or eleven years of age. What is the first step? To impress upon him that the printed page is a picture; that it contains ideas, sights, sounds; that it takes the place of the author, and that he must listen to it as to the voice of the author. This is the all-important factor. Many of us think we are following this plan, when, in reality, we defeat our ends by the way we use the means. We allow slovenly reading and pass over the grossest carelessness; so that, unconsciously, the pupil forms the loosest habits of expression. Then the pupil must be stimulated to hold the thought; to let it hold him, if you will. This, too, is a very necessary part of the training. The defective reading of preachers and authors is not due to the fact that they cannot get the thought, but that they are not dwelling upon it in detail while reading. The third stage in the first step is to train the pupil so that he will never get up to read without the consciousness that he has something to give. Let the pupils, and, first of all, the teacher, close their books, and so give the poor reader some encouragement. Do not have him read to the backs of the class. How should we like to address an audience of inexpressive backs? The following of this last suggestion will produce wonderful results, and quickly too. But it has another value: it compels the class to think, to follow the reader, to get thought through the ear (a talent becoming rarer every day), and, above all, it stimulates the imagination. Summarized, the first step means, Get the thought, hold the thought, give the thought. Keep at this for a month, if necessary.

The one object of this lesson is to impress upon the mind[119] of the pupil that words have no meaning unless they stimulate thought. It is, perhaps, needless to add that the teacher should be on his guard against teaching inflections and pauses and the like, as such. No other aim should be held in mind than that of getting the pupil to see clearly and to express forcibly.

The teacher should use constantly such criticism as, “Is that the thought?” or, “Won’t you tell that to me?” This method will soon set the pupil to thinking. It will gradually impress upon him the true function of the reading lesson. There will soon disappear that dreadful perfunctoriness so characteristic of class-room reading. How much preparation does the pupil now give to his reading? Practically none. He prepares those lessons in which he gradually learns he can be definitely tested: his arithmetic, spelling, composition, geography. Then, if he has any time, he may look over his reading lesson to discover if there are any “hard” words, and when he has mastered these he thinks his work is done. But let us remember that such preparation is by no means adequate. There are passages in every lesson which require patient study, even though each word may be simple. Words in themselves mean little; it is words in relation that we must study.

This first step includes all the others. It may be asked then, “Why are there others?” The subsequent chapters will deal with this question, but it may be explained here that the purpose of this first step is to create and make permanent the proper atmosphere of the reading hour. The criticisms should be general, not particular, and the teacher should be careful to offer no discouraging criticism. Every effort should be made to stimulate the pupil. He should be urged to get the thought, and especially impressed with the idea that the class depends upon him for their understanding of the text.

Choose selections from all sources—from the history lesson, and from the geography lesson. Let these selections be fairly simple, and above all, vital and interesting. Barbara Frietchie, Longfellow’s Peace-Pipe from Hiawatha, and Browning’s Ride from Ghent to Aix, or The Pied Piper, and even shorter extracts of prose or poetry, are excellent material. Give out a dozen of these, let each pupil learn one by heart, and tell it,—not declaim it,—to his classmates.

Let the teacher not worry because this process is slow and threatens to leave the work outlined for a given term incomplete. It is not the quantity but the quality we are after. But by this method we shall in time cover more ground than we now do in a given period. If we continually offer such criticism as will impress the pupil that thought-getting is everything, that reading is but the expression of that thought, he will go to his history, and geography, and arithmetic lesson for thought; so that the time spent in the reading hour is virtually just the training for every other lesson. Finally, this is the true preparation for the making of sight-readers. It is true, one should be able to read better after some preparation than he does at sight; but everyone should be able, by the time he leaves the public school, to read any ordinary passage at sight without blundering. The mental attitude formed by the method urged will cause the student to approach the printed page warily, prepared to deal with its difficulties, and will thus produce better reading.

A word to those who ride the sight-reading hobby too hard. It is only the experienced reader who can read well at sight. To ask an immature pupil to read at sight is to do one of two things: if he is timid, it frightens him; if he is a poor reader it simply fastens the careless habits upon him, by leading him to believe, by implication, that reading is merely pronunciation. In the upper grades, there should be sight-reading,[121] but only where the previous training has been methodical. It is well to give the class a chance to read over the selection for a few minutes before the test is made.

Each teacher must decide for himself how he will develop the foregoing principles. The following plan, however, representing the actual work of a teacher before his class, will be suggestive:

In closing this chapter, it should be remarked that the time to be spent on this and subsequent steps depends upon the circumstances. In the lower grades more time will be necessary than in the upper. If the teacher of the eighth grade[124] (the highest) wishes to devote some time to teaching reading, he should make a careful study of the needs of the class, and then use such of the steps, and in such order, as are most likely to meet those needs. In the lower classes it is suggested that the teacher follow in a general way the plan set forth in this book. About one step a month is all that a pupil can grasp. After he has the principle, let the teacher take up the regular reading lesson, laying special stress upon the principles already covered.

[8]It is believed that the reading lessons contained in this series are the first attempt to present in an orderly and philosophic manner the difficulties the pupils have in learning to read.

There is very little doubt that the reading lesson hardly pays for the time spent upon it. All authorities are agreed that, except in rare cases, pupils do not read any better at the end of the school year than they do at the beginning, except that they may pronounce with a little more facility or are possessed of a somewhat wider vocabulary. In many class rooms, reading becomes a lesson in composition, spelling, definition, and the like.

The method in vogue in certain districts of telling pupils about Inflections, and Time, and Kinds of Emphasis, is certainly faulty. On the other hand, very little more progress has been made by those who, in a very general and vague manner, tell the pupil to get the thought. As a result of the methods heretofore in use, it has been found impossible for the teacher in any given grade to determine how much real knowledge of reading a pupil has who has just been promoted from a lower grade.

In the lessons here presented, it is impressed upon the pupil not only that he must get the thought, but he is shown how to get it. The various difficulties of reading are presented one at a time, and further, are so graded that the least difficult shall precede the more complex. It is well known that the reading lesson, as a reading lesson, gets little or no preparation by the pupils. By the method here laid down careful preparation is a necessity; and the lesson[125] which, as a rule, is very ill prepared, may now be studied at home with a very definite object in view, and more important still, the pupil can be held responsible for definite results.

It must be remembered that the young pupil knows nothing of inflections, emphasis, etc., and cares still less about them. While the teacher may be thoroughly conversant with the whole range of vocal technique in reading, he should try to avoid the use of technical terms with the pupils, especially with the younger ones. This is the very essence of the present method, which is based upon a well-established psychological law: If the thought is right, the expression will be right. Talking to pupils about technique, only confuses them and in many cases results in gross affectations. The mind is taken from the thought to the form of its expression. We must remember that shyness, and other forms of self-consciousness (which so often mar the reading) are really but signs that the pupil’s mental action is awry. The reading may be more quickly and more permanently improved by eradicating the self-consciousness than by resorting to technical drills. Make the pupil want to read, and the chances are strongly in favor of his losing self-consciousness.

While it is not possible in the space allotted the author of these articles to give the fullest possible instruction, yet these lessons will serve a definite purpose by presenting to the pupils, in a rational order, the various difficulties everyone has to overcome in learning to read. There may be certain phases of technique that a teacher may miss in this series of lessons, but it is certain, that if they are carefully taught, the pupils will improve not only along the particular line laid down in each lesson, but along the whole line of reading in general.

This method is introduced in the hope that the measure of a pupil’s progress will not be gauged by the number of selections he reads in a given period. It is better to prepare carefully and philosophically six or eight lessons in one-half of the school year, than to endeavor to cover three times as many in the usual hurried fashion. The teacher may be sure that when the first six or eight lessons are thus carefully prepared, the progress thereafter will be more rapid. There is no doubt that the pupil who will spend two years in this graded work will be able to read any ordinary selection with ease, and with pleasure to the listener.

It is urged (1) that the teacher use additional examples under[126] each new principle, in order that the pupil may have the principle impressed upon him by selecting new examples for himself and by reading them aloud in class; (2) that the same lesson be repeated as many times, with the same or new illustrations, as may be necessary to assure the teacher that the class has thoroughly grasped the spirit of the lesson; and (3) that the teacher insist upon most careful and adequate preparation. So, and so only, can we hope to teach reading.

The main objects of the first lessons are two. First; to develop what may be termed the logical side of reading; in other words, the intellectual side. The greatest stress should be laid on getting the sense, which is, of course, the basis of all reading. The emotional side need not be altogether neglected, but should be always subsidiary to the intellectual. If the teacher succeed in getting the expression vital, nothing more should be expected. To get the sense and to express it with earnestness is the first step. Second; the teacher is urged not to follow mechanically the order of the general reading lessons. If Lesson XX offer a better opportunity than, let us say, Lesson X for illustrating the principle laid down in any of the special lessons, the former should be used, no matter what the preceding general lesson may have been. The teacher should be acquainted with the pedagogical possibilities of all the general lessons, and should use such, irrespective of their place in the book, as are best adapted at the moment to assist the pupils in mastering the principle in any given special reading lesson. I have found much good in keeping a little note book on the following plan: I give a page to each of the steps, and every example I come across, no matter in what book—history, geography, reader—is noted. Thus:

EXAMPLES OF CONTRAST.
Book.	Page.	Paragraph.
——’s History,	250	3
——’s “	109	1
Reader (3)	87	8

In this way, the teacher has always plenty of illustrative matter on hand.

While not in entire sympathy with the method that compels teachers to cover a certain number of reading lessons in a given[127] time, yet I am sensible that it would be useless to attempt to change all this at once. Recognizing the futility of such an effort, I advise the teacher to conform to this arbitrary and unscientific method until the community is educated to the newer method. The best results may be obtained, under the circumstances, by following some such plan as this: Begin with the first special lesson as soon as possible. Then, having dwelt on that as long as necessary, pass to the regular reading lessons, bearing in mind that until the second special lesson, the principle of the first should be constantly reiterated. For the entire time (say a month) between the first and second special lessons let the teacher revert to the former again and again. Let the corrections be made over and over by asking such questions as, “Is that the way you would say it if you were talking?” or, “You are not trying to make us see the picture,” and so on. After the second special lesson has been taken up in class, and before the third, the endeavor of a teacher should be to enforce the principles of the first two lessons. This plan should be kept up until the last lesson has been taught.

CHAPTER VI
GROUPING

If the work of the first step has been carefully done, the transition to the second step will present few difficulties. As a matter of fact, the pupil has been grouping unconsciously, but in a way more or less uncertain. The purpose of the next step is to fix firmly the habit of grouping. As a general rule, the pupil pronounces as many words in one group as his eye can take in and his voice utter; consequently, his reading is choppy and often meaningless.

At the outset care should be exercised in the choice of extracts. Any extract will not do. Simple passages, with simple ideas, are needed. Avoid complex, involved, inverted rhetoric. Later on, when proper habits have been formed, the difficulties may be increased; but we shall meet only with discouragement if we introduce them too soon. The following is just difficult enough to bring out the efforts of an ordinary child of ten or eleven:

The teacher should use a great many isolated extracts. These may not be so interesting as entire selections, but if chosen carefully and read with a definite object, it is surprising how they hold the attention of the class. It may also be possible[129] to find short stories to supplement the extracts. Many good extracts may be found in the reader or even in some of the other books the children are using.

The reason for urging this plan is that few reading books present the difficulties of reading, in a rational, graded manner. Any selection may contain the simplest problem and the most difficult in one paragraph. The pupil must be trained to get his ideas from the printed page in groups, and such training can surely be gained better by using carefully selected passages than by the present aimless wandering among a labyrinth of words. It is admitted that a good teacher of reading may be able to get along without calling the attention of the class to grouping as a definite step; but he must certainly have that step in mind as part of the development of a reader.

In this lesson we begin exercises in what might be called “mental technique.” It must be borne in mind that these lessons are planned with the object of presenting one element at a time, and the pupil must not be expected to read well where he has had no previous drill. In this lesson, therefore, the pupil should be held responsible for what he has learned in the first and second lessons only. It must further be remembered that all corrections should be made by putting such questions as, “Is that the whole picture?” or, “Have you not given us more than one picture?” Never tell a pupil to make a pause here or a pause there, or to read faster or more slowly. Such corrections are useless. We must learn to rely upon the thinking to govern the rate of speed, or the length and frequency of the pauses.

It might be well to bear in mind that in colloquial speech pauses are less frequent. In other words, the groups are longer.

As a result of such training as the pupil gets in this lesson[130] we shall note that he will learn to look ahead, and so rid himself of the too general tendency to utter words as soon as he sees them, regardless of the sense. The process of recognizing words and pronouncing them simultaneously is attended with no small amount of danger. It begets a fatal facility in reading that is a positive detriment to the pupil. There are thousands who read glibly and yet are utterly ignorant of the meaning of what they read. To prevent the formation of such a habit or to break it up where it already exists, there is no better plan than that herein advocated for the study of grouping. It need hardly be said that the method of telling a pupil “to pause before a relative pronoun, inverted adjectives, prepositional phrases,” and the like, is virtually useless. The thought, and not the grammatical construction, determines the pause.

CHAPTER VII
SUCCESSION OF IDEAS

The next step is but a very short one in advance of the second, and yet one of exceeding importance. It deals with the succession of ideas. Every long sentence is made up of small phrases more or less intimately connected. The inflection denotes this connection. If several phrases point forward to a thought further on, the end of each of these will be marked by a rising inflection; if any one of the phrases be of sufficient importance to demand particular emphasis, its end will be marked by the falling inflection.

As was said in Chapter II, the reading of a long sentence presents great difficulties for the child. He loses himself in the maze of words, and his mental condition is clearly shown in his melody, which drifts about here and there, like a rudderless ship. It is the purpose of this step to train him in the development of his powers of continuous thinking; to enable him to keep in mind the main idea, no matter how numerous the details. This step and that dealing with subordinate ideas have much the same object in view.

The following excerpt from the Introduction to The Song of Hiawatha is a good illustration of a sentence in which the sense is suspended through many lines:

It is in sentences like the following that the pupil is likely to fail. Speaking of rain, the poet says:

There may be some justification for the falling inflection on “roofs”; there can be no doubt that the same inflection would be incorrect on “out.” And yet, the very structure of the verse would be likely to cause the careless reader to read it with that very inflection. This is a typical case, and, if this point has been made clear, one that should be very helpful to the teacher. The following passage, from the same poem, affords another exercise in succession of ideas:

Let us observe that the plain does not stretch to the dry grass. There will be a falling inflection on “plain,” and a rising on “grain.”

The pause has nothing to do with succession of ideas. It[134] would make little difference how long the pause after “plain” if it were read with a rising inflection. This principle must never be lost sight of.

Pupils who should know better frequently make mistakes of the kind we have been discussing, in reading the following passage:

The following extracts from Gulliver’s Travels are within the comprehension of fairly young children, and will afford good practice:

It need hardly be noted that there are many examples of[136] momentary completeness in the preceding passages; as, for instance:

It will be seen that the purpose of this step is to draw the pupil’s attention to two possibilities in every sentence: Does the phrase point forward, or is it momentarily complete? Great care must be observed not to confuse him with statements regarding inflections.

Momentary completeness has been so fully discussed in a preceding chapter that it need not be dwelt upon further.

CHAPTER VIII
THE CENTRAL IDEA

A little reflection must make it manifest that every sentence, or even phrase, has a central idea. When this idea is brought out in vocal expression it is by means of some form of emphasis, such as inflection or force or time, and so forth. The exact form of the manifestation need not concern us here.

Now that the pupils have been trained to look for the thought, the average sentence will take care of itself as far as the leading idea is concerned; but it must be admitted that in the sentence of more than average difficulty we find much obscure and more faulty reading, due, no doubt, to ignorance of the central idea. It is perhaps not wise in all cases to teach this step, as a step, to pupils under eleven years; but when it is taught, great care must be exercised to keep the class from forming the habit of pounding out every important word. Be this as it may, the attention of teachers should be directed to the great importance of such studies as are included in the present chapter. Furthermore, there can be no doubt that the step may be undertaken in the higher grades and in high schools to great advantage.

Perhaps there is no more severe test of the student’s apprehension of the meaning than his emphasis—using that term in its broadest sense. Determining the central idea is essentially a logical process; the student weighs and determines the value of every word, and by a process of elimination finally fixes upon the exact thought to be conveyed.

Rules for emphasis so commonly given are, comparatively, of little value. If the student has the thought, his emphasis may be trusted to take care of itself; where he has not, the rules are confusing and misleading. Mr. Alfred Ayres says facetiously, but truly, “There is only one rule for emphasis—Gumption.”

It is understood that emphasis has a much wider meaning than that of merely making a word stand out distinctly by means of force; it includes any manner of making a thought prominent. What we are here studying is simply that form of emphasis which is manifested by inflection or force, or both. The central idea in colloquial utterance is generally made significant through force; but by far the most suggestive method, when occasion requires, is through inflection. Of course, these two are very often combined in various proportions.

In the following illustrations, two classes of examples will be noticed. In the first, the central ideas are indicated by means of italics and capitals. It is not claimed that some other interpretation might not be possible; but that suggested is at least justifiable. The teacher will study these examples carefully with the object of determining the reason for the marking. In the second list of illustrations, the teacher himself will determine the central idea, and manifest it through his rendition.

By following this plan, the teacher’s own reading will show much improvement, and he will probably learn better how to work out the problem with his classes.

It is to be regretted that we have no recognized symbols for showing shades and degrees of emphasis. The teacher will, no doubt, be able to determine for himself whether the element of force or that of inflection predominates.

Note that “his” and “robes” are of about equal importance, the former perhaps weighing a little heavier than the latter. In the next phrase the inflection on “his” is much narrower than on the first “his,” while the “crown” becomes more important. Finally, the last “his” has no emphasis, while the climax of thought and emotion is reached on “signet-ring.”

Note the climax: “best attire” is weaker than “holiday,” and it than the strewing of flowers. Conversely, the emphasis on “now” diminishes at each repetition. The context should be carefully digested.

An actor (?) was once heard to read the above passage, putting his emphasis on “thee” and the second “I.” How illuminating!

The above is a fine illustration of the claim that the study of the “Central Idea” is essentially a logical process. Any other emphasis is puerile, and yet every other emphasis is heard except this. Let us look a little closer. The passage beginning with this line resolves itself into this: I am hampered with doubts and fears; I can find no rest by day or night until I kill the king or resolve to abandon the attempt. But if I can be assured that there shall be no after consequences here, I’ll risk the life to come. Hence, the following paraphrase is the equivalent of the first line: If it [the murder] were out of people’s minds, if it were blotted out of recollection, consigned to oblivion, when it is committed [when I do the murder], then the sooner it is done the better for my peace of mind. In a word, if it is all over when it is committed, “then ’twere well it were done quickly.” Many purposely avoid repeating the emphasis on “done” because they believe the two “done’s” are identical in meaning. Nothing could be farther from the truth, as shown above. The truth is, this line is one of those grim plays upon words in which Shakespeare is so prolific. It need hardly be added that when properly read the sense will be made clear by keeping in mind the paraphrase just given. The result will be that the first “done” will be read with a very decided falling inflection, and the second with a rising circumflex inflection (the mind looking forward at the end to the conclusion of the sentence). Perhaps to the sensitive student of literature there is another argument. Shakespeare’s vocabulary would indeed have been very limited had he found it necessary to use three “done’s” in the opening line of a most important soliloquy. To one who is alive to æsthetic effects, the very fact that Shakespeare does use them suggests a more careful analysis, and one soon discovers the cause. The play on the words makes the salient idea more striking.

This reading brings out most clearly the rationale of Brutus’s attitude. The soliloquy should be studied in its entirety.

This example is used in Fulton and Trueblood’s Practical Elocution. The authors state:

There are those who argue that “lip” and “eye” should not be emphasized. This is a serious error. The phrases “on her lip” and “in her eye” are elaborative, and hence the emphasis is distributed over the entire phrase. If this is wrong, we must blame the writer for tautology. But literature has many similar examples. Here is another:

There is a rule telling us to emphasize words in antithesis. In many cases we do so; but these cases would emphasize themselves, so to speak. There are, however, many cases of rhetorical antithesis where it interferes with the sense to emphasize both members of the antithesis, and here the rule[144] steps in to lead astray the pupil. To illustrate: “I am going to town to-morrow, but you need not go until the day after.”

Mr. A. Melville Bell has put this very clearly. In his Essays and Postscripts on Elocution, he says:

Is it not clear that the anticipatory emphasis on “my” is not only unnecessary, but would, if given, weaken the force of the succeeding phrase?

It is evident that the speakers have been conversing about the two parts of the battle, and Titinius has told his friend that Cassius has been overthrown. To this Messala replies, comfortingly, Affairs are balanced, then, etc. The entire extract needs and will amply repay most critical study. It would be hard to find one containing more difficulties.

Very few directions are necessary except to warn the teacher against speaking about the various kinds of emphasis. No matter what the kind, the thought will find its natural channel if the conditions be right. It is true, that sometimes a word is made prominent by inflection (rising, falling, circumflex), sometimes by slower time, sometimes by force alone. But let us remember, these various forms are the results of various forms of thinking. If those are right, correct reading will follow.

It is further worth noting that the best authorities use “emphasis” as signifying any means of making the thought stand out. Hence, the teacher is urged not to use the term “emphasis” at all. If a pupil err, tell him he has not given you the central, or leading, idea.

CHAPTER IX
SUBORDINATION

The analysis for determining the central idea must have led the student to discern subordinate ideas. As a rule, the expression of these will not be difficult, but there are certain phases of subordination that require special study. We have noted that in our desire to impress the leading thought upon another we have used significant inflection, or force or time. It must follow then that the relatively unimportant words will be read in a manner less striking. In the following speech of Portia, observe how naturally we slight the relatively unimportant ideas:

There will be degrees of subordination, of course: the above marking is meant only to draw attention to the purely instinctive process as a result of which the vocal modulations manifest the relative degrees of thought value.

It is something of an art to touch lightly upon the unimportant and yet not to slur it. We are not advocating that the teacher should at any length dwell upon this, though it is well for him to recognize this feature of expression. There are two reasons for this: first, in the earlier stages of reading there is a tendency to overemphasize; second, in the later[150] stages, the unimportant words are hurried, with the result that the reading becomes indistinct.

As there are slighted words in every phrase, so there are slighted phrases and clauses in many sentences. We are all acquainted with the time-honored advice concerning the manner in which one should read words in parentheses: “Lower the voice and read faster.” It is not to be denied that the average parenthetical thought is expressed in that way, but there are many examples in which the injunction will not apply. Whether the key will be raised or lowered, and whether the time will be accelerated or retarded, will depend entirely upon the mental attitude of the reader. To illustrate: “The battle of Waterloo,—the most important battle of the nineteenth century,—ended the career of Napoleon.” If one has been speaking of the great importance of this battle, and takes for granted that his audience recognizes this importance, he will probably lower the key in the subordinate sentence, and read it faster; but otherwise he would read it more slowly (as a result of the importance of the thought), even if he did not raise the key. This leads us to the conclusion that a phrase or clause may be grammatically subordinate and yet of the greatest importance. The degree of importance determines how it shall be read, and not arbitrary rules. The main result to be obtained in this step is the training of the student’s mind in apprehending thought-modulation; to enable him to weigh the thought in order that he may perceive more clearly the relative values of the various phrases. This perception leads in expression to that most desirable phase of utterance—variety.

A few simple illustrations are added as examples of what may be used for class drill. The more difficult illustrations may be used for advanced classes, and for practice by the teacher himself:

In the illustrations that follow, the student will note three distinct degrees of importance of thought; in other words, there is the main idea, its modifier, and the modifier of the modifier. The vocal expression of these illustrations will be affected just to the extent that the student appreciates the value of the different phrases.

Many students who find no difficulty in silently reading such extracts as the above, will often fail in their vocal expression because of the fact that the latter is more deliberate; and consequently they may lose the trend of the main thought in rendering the explanatory and parenthetical portions. To overcome this difficulty, they are advised to read the sentence, with the omission of all but the most essential idea; then let them add one idea after another to the main idea, until the sentence is read correctly in its entirety. In the last example quoted, the main idea is, “It is my purpose ... to institute a close comparison between the great works of ancient and modern landscape art.” Read this three or four times, until the idea is clearly apprehended. Now read the sentence, omitting “and especially in one or two of their number,” until this larger thought is grasped; after which let the sentence be read as a whole.

The teacher should ask the pupils to bring in other examples, and have them read in the class. He should also select examples from the reading book.

CHAPTER X
VALUES

This feature of expression is one of the most vital. It has to do with the value of each phrase of the sentence and each phase of the whole selection. With every change of thought and emotion comes another form of expression, and these different forms we may call Values. We apply the term Transition to the act of passing from one shade of thought or feeling to another. All transitions are not necessarily emotional, and yet those most significant are certainly of this character. Let us first consider a few examples not strongly marked with emotion:

In the foregoing we have a picture of the country dance. We hear the figures called out by the old fiddler, and see the ever-varying changes of The Money Musk. Study the lines so as to be able to bring out the calls clearly, noting the two distinct calls at the opening, and the abrupt break in the sixth line.

The next extract presents a wife confiding to a friend the story of her courtship. Her husband is a true knight, and[158] would perhaps resent it to have even his bravery form the subject of conversation. The story has reached its conclusion when the speaker says:

and she is probably about to add some such statement as, “It behooves one to look out,” when suddenly the husband appears on the scene. With a woman’s ready wit, she breaks off the sentence abruptly, saying:

We might put into words what passes through her mind. She is about to add something further concerning the eyes of her boy, when she hears the sound of feet along the walk. Expecting her husband, the concluding words of her sentence pass from her mind as she turns to see the visitor. It is Gismond. He must not know that she has been speaking of him. The tercel in his hand gives her the opportunity of opening the conversation, which she is quick to do, adroitly pretending that it was of that very tercel she and her friend had been conversing before his arrival.

One more illustration of this kind will suffice. A tender, loving woman is talking to her husband. He is a learned poet, and perhaps just a trifle of a pedant. He is most minute and exact in all he does, ever losing sight of the spirit in the letter. The wife is the true poet, caring nothing for the archæology and philology and the geography, but quick to perceive the inner meaning of the poetic. He has told her a[159] story in the past, and she is going now to tell it back to him with a new moral.

When the woman comes to “somewhere,” she finds she has forgotten the source of the original story. That means so much to him! It is so important! With a quizzical look, she pretends to rack her brains for the missing information, knowing all the time she will not find it, and knowing equally well that it makes no difference in the story. Then, with a coy expression and a look of mock humility on her face, she lets fall her eyes, meekly acknowledging her awful guilt, and stands prepared to accept her just punishment, saying, Scold me! I deserve it. I have sinned; my punishment is just.

Many students find it no easy task to make these transitions naturally. Some do not make them at all, but run the two phases of thought or emotion together. Others anticipate the coming idea, and hurry the last two or three words before the break. The proper training is to write or think out the incomplete sentence, then let it more or less quickly vanish from the mind as the new conception grows clearer, without betraying the fact that one is conscious of a coming interruption. For instance, in the second example, one must read up to and through “it” without the slightest suggestion of the coming of Gismond, and even think the conclusion of the sentence. Then hear or suddenly see Gismond just as the word “it” falls from the lips, and dismissing from the mind the former idea, conclude with the joyous, wifely welcome and question.

It might be proper to remark here that the same principle applies to the reading of dialogue. Except in rare cases the reader should not in any way anticipate the speech of one character while rendering the words of another.

For those who do not intend to become readers, but who would be preachers or lawyers, the practice here recommended will prove of great value. Too many speakers, in their excitement on the one hand and in their spiritlessness on the other, glide along line after line in one monotonous drift. A study of these exercises will teach the necessity of transitions, and train in the control of the mental action in this regard,—a control antecedent to that most important requisite, variety. After almost every paragraph or stanza there is more or less of change in the thought, and the apprehension of this change will be sufficient to modulate the vocal expression.

Even where there is no abrupt change in the flow of ideas, there is often a gradual transition from one emotion to another, and these transitions may occur several times within one paragraph. Take the following excerpt from Webster’s reply to Hayne. It is one paragraph; but it is divided into four smaller paragraphs, each of which is a marked “phase” of the thinking. Practice in the analysis of selections to determine these phases is the best and only rational training in transitions. But its value does not stop here; for the student not only makes transitions, but is led, through careful analysis, to discern shades of meaning and emotion he might otherwise overlook:

Transitions in emotion do not differ in principle from those we have been considering. The student must pursue the same method with these as with the others, expressing the first emotion until he comes to the break, making then an elliptical paraphrase, and then presenting the new emotion. An excellent model is the following speech of King Lear.

The aged monarch has, in a fit of rage, cast adrift his youngest child, and his eldest has turned him from her home. He turns in despair to his remaining daughter, assured that he will here receive a filial welcome. To his surprise, she refuses to meet him; says she is sick and travel-weary; and his amazed feeling finds vent in an uncontrolled explosion of passion:

and he then proceeds to find excuses for her action, and that of her husband, the Duke of Cornwall. There is hardly a more pathetic incident in a most pathetic play than this, in which the old man, past his eightieth year, after holding undisputed sway through his long reign, is at last compelled to temporize. He is about to send a message to the Duke, the character of which is easily judged from his previous language. If that message is sent, Lear will be alone in the world. But suddenly his fearful position flashes upon him. The threat dies upon his lips, gradually blending into apology and conciliation.

EXAMPLES OF EMOTIONAL TRANSITIONS.

Note how, after the words, “whom they loved,” the atmosphere changes from that of joy to that of dread and scorn—scorn at the cowardice of the Persians, and the dread that the speaker would sympathetically feel as he recounted the deed.

STUDIES IN “PHASES.”

This extract from Tennyson’s Charge of the Heavy Brigade contains five distinct phases, or strata, ending respectively[164] with the words, “fight,” “close,” “then,” “thousands,” and “Brigade.”

It is especially in the reading of description that the study of values will prove most beneficial. There are very few readers who can make description interesting, and their failure is in most cases due to the monotony arising from their inability to perceive and make palpable the different values. The reply of Achilles to Priam becomes most interesting reading when values are carefully observed.

The subject may be presented to the class somewhat in the manner of the following lesson:

A few examples for class use are appended. The teacher may easily invent suitable contexts:

In the above, Wordsworth laments that the death of Burns should have deprived them of the joy of communion. Note the force of the semicolon after “flow,” and the pathos of “even so.” The following lines are from the same poem:

There is a change of feeling in almost every stanza of the following poem. If the pupils can grasp its meaning it will be an excellent exercise in training them to perceive the relative values. It may be well to delay the study of this selection until after the principle of the next two chapters has been thoroughly grasped and put into practice:

CHAPTER XI
EMOTION

Teaching children to read with feeling is one of the most difficult tasks falling to the lot of the teacher, and yet it is one that has, if successfully accomplished, far-reaching results. For, apart from the legitimate development of emotion, it enlarges their sympathy and lays the foundation for a genuine love of literature.

We must confess that emotional expression is rarely found in our public schools. It would avail little to discuss the causes of this condition in detail. In this chapter we shall try to discover a remedy. Emotion in reading comes largely through the imagination. Unless the mind conceives the thought, how can the nerves thrill and tingle? It is for this that we need teachers who are themselves lovers of the beautiful, sublime, tender, in order that they may impart their appreciation and feeling to their classes. Emotion is catching, and so is the absence of it! Time, time, time, is here the great need. It takes time to think; time for the picture to come forth in its fulness out of subconsciousness. Is not imagination the basis of literary interpretation, of historical study, yes, even of mathematics and science? The time spent on the development of imagination and emotion in the reading lesson will show its results in every other study.

If, then, the teacher would get the right emotion, he must see to it that the child has the proper and adequate stimulus. Appeal to his everyday experience and make that serve as an introduction to the new experience of the poem.

The teacher will observe that the two illustrations are chosen from two distinct fields: one near to the child’s experience, the other far removed from it. It is further observed that both are direct discourse rather than description.

It seems the best plan to begin the definite study of emotional expression by using extracts in which the pupil uses direct rather than indirect discourse. The reason for this is that it is far more difficult to read, with expression, a passage of description in which the pupil would be expected to put emotion, than a piece of direct quotation. For instance, is it not easier for a child to enter into the spirit of the first of the[175] following stanzas than into that of the second, granting even that it is difficult to conceive the anguish of the father?

In the second place, the reason for choosing selections in which the emotion is akin to those of the child’s own experience must be clear. How many pupils ten or eleven years old can be expected to enter into the spirit of Whittier’s The Barefoot Boy?

It is only to discourage him, to ask him to feel like an adult who looks back upon the joys of boyhood. One hears this[176] selection read in an affected voice and manner, where it is clear that the child is simply trying to imitate his teacher. But such experiences simply go to prove the contention that children should not be called upon to represent emotions far removed from their own experience.

But how shall we get our pupils to express emotions beyond their experience? The answer is: the teacher should strive to find those experiences in the child’s life that are similar to those of the selection to be read. We have shown how this might be done in the line from Wolsey’s speech. The child has experienced regret; let us make use of this experience to get him to feel something of Wolsey’s feeling. Again (and this applies largely to advanced classes), it is by no means necessary that the pupil should ever have come into contact with the picture that stirs the writer, in order to represent the latter’s feelings. It is the joy that the lover of nature feels that finds expression in these lines:

But how can we get the true expression from one who knows nothing of the joy we take in contemplating the pictures of this stanza? By reminding him that our joy is not far different from his when rejoicing in a beautiful book, a lucky hit at baseball, or a pretty Christmas gift. Let us remember that it is not enough that he shall get the pictures: he must get the joy. And if he cannot get the joy from the pictures of the poet, he must get it from the memory of his[177] own past joy, no matter under what circumstances. It is simply a question of transferring his own past emotion to the present moment.

Second, transfer his past experiences and emotions to the particular poem or stanza to be read.

Perhaps it would not be advisable to use selections in our reading lessons that call for an extremely difficult exercise of imagination on the part of the child, but since these selections are found in our reading books it is well to know how to do the best possible under the circumstances.

The most important point of all is that children must be brought into contact with nature. We cannot expect them to delight in a description of a sunset, or a robin’s nest, or a bunch of pansies, when they have never delighted in sunsets, or robins’ nests or pansies. When their early training is wise they will not need to transfer their emotions from another realm to read with true expression.

We are now to enter the more complex realm of expression, in which the emotion is more intense, and instead of being a single emotion is a blending of many. Take, for example, the trial scene from The Merchant of Venice. There are many speeches of Shylock that might illustrate our point, and we shall take the first that presents itself. The Duke of Venice has been urging Shylock to abandon his suit, whereupon the latter replies:

What emotions does Shylock portray? There is the emotion of hatred of Antonio and the feeling of obstinacy; and there is,[178] further, the sense of wrong that has been heaped upon his race in general, and himself in particular. It would be useless to discuss how far each of these elements is an emotion. It is sufficient for our purpose to have shown that these three mental conditions are present virtually at one time in the brain of the speaker. Now, if any one of these elements (to say nothing of others that might be mentioned) is omitted, the characterization will lack truthfulness.

There is another element in complexity of expression that needs a moment’s attention. The emotion itself may be a simple one, but the character we aim to represent may be so far removed from our own that one must assume or take on many attributes. For instance, if one were portraying old Adam in As You Like It, he would be compelled to manifest the weakness of old age in body and voice. Now, when the old man says, “Dear master, I can go no further; O, I die for food,” it is not sufficient for the reader to portray simply the pathos of the line, but his expression becomes more complex in so far as it must manifest both the pathos and the weakness.

In preparing to present the emotions in the following extracts it is well for the student to study carefully the nature of the thought, the emotion, and the character separately, and conceive each of the simpler emotional elements by itself. If he is representing, let us say, pathos and dignity, let him hold dignity before his mind until the whole being responds; then let him conceive pathos by itself; and, finally, let him conceive pathos and dignity, and endeavor to present them. This process will not be necessary in all cases; for there are those who can conceive these more complex conditions with one effort, as it were. But unless the student has this ability, the preceding process should be followed. And even when a student has the necessary ability to conceive the[179] complete expression at once, he is very likely to lose some of what might be called the ingredients of a composite emotion. For instance, in representing the strong language of one who might be said never to lose his anger, the student who is particularly choleric by nature is very likely to forget the dignity of the character. He may be reminded of his error by recalling dignity to his mind, and at once the natural temperament of the speaker will be modified by the new stimulus.

It might also be well to consider here another reason for the practice of these illustrations. Many students are temperamentally restricted and shy, and others have become so through training and environment. Before these can hope to become effective readers there must be a certain amount of genuine abandon. Hence, even if a student may never have any use for the ability to impersonate, the practice here recommended will prove to be one of the best, surest, and quickest methods of bringing him out of himself. The abandon thus gained will stand him in good stead in any effort he may be called upon to make as a public speaker.

Let it be remembered that niceties of form are not to be expected for a long time. If the student’s abandon is developed, that is all that should be expected.

In the following speech the student must never forget that Othello is a warrior, one accustomed to command, and of large heart. His dignity, therefore, must be manifest throughout the address:

Another excellent extract for practice is the following speech of Cassius from the first act of Julius Caesar. Note the dignity, the sarcasm, the ridicule, the contempt, and the sense of triumph:

These speeches of Cassio in Othello show remorse, self-contempt, with anger and regret:

In conclusion, begin with simple emotions. Do not ask the younger pupils to represent intense pathos, great solemnity, and the like. Reserve these for the upper grades of the high school. Again, avoid the baser emotions, such as anger, hate, jealousy. Time does not permit us to enlarge on this, but the whole trend of the best psychology is in favor of this admonition. Select extracts in which the characters manifest simple, noble, inspiring, and uplifting feeling. Patriotism, self-sacrifice, love of nature, these are the themes with which the imagination of the pupils should come into contact.

The teacher is heartily advised to gather a dozen or more extracts and speeches (from this book and elsewhere) under three or four significant heads, such as patriotism, love of nature, etc., and to keep the class at each phase until definite results are attained. There is no hesitation in deprecating the method that compels teachers to teach any lesson simply because it follows, numerically, the preceding lesson. The proper method is hinted at elsewhere. A few words are now added to justify that method. In many readers there may be two patriotic selections; one at the beginning, one at the end. Probably a year will intervene between these two. Is it not good pedagogy to take up these lessons in succession? To keep the pupils in a patriotic mood for five consecutive days must be certainly productive of better results than can be obtained by the other method of Lesson I, Lesson II, Lesson III. So also with other emotions. When a certain emotion is present in only one or two paragraphs of a selection, only those paragraphs need, of course, to be prepared.

CHAPTER XII
ATMOSPHERE

This element of expression, perhaps more than any other, manifests the artistic nature of the reader; artistic, inasmuch as the atmosphere, or vocal color, shows the sensitiveness of the reader to sense stimuli; shows that he is moved by the contemplation of the beautiful, the sublime, the tender, the pathetic. This element is called by different names, but perhaps none is more significant than Atmosphere. This effect is not easy to describe, and yet it is as real as rhythm or inflection or any other of the elements discussed in this book. Atmosphere is that sympathetic quality of voice that manifests the spirit of literature. Who can fail to notice the tender motherly sympathy that pervades every word of the lyric Sweet and Low? Now compare this with the knights’ chorus from The Coming of Arthur. This is permeated throughout with the spirit of the Round Table. The spirit of motherly love in the former, and of knightly courage and the clang of arms in the latter, completely envelop these poems, and permeate every letter. Therefore, in the rendering the reader must exercise the greatest care not to dissipate this atmosphere. The least misstep, one false note, and the atmosphere is dissipated.

In longer selections there may be variety of atmosphere in the different stanzas or paragraphs, provided always that the variety enhances the poem as a whole. Mere variety in reading is not art, but chaos, says Professor Corson.

The following lines from Matthew Arnold’s Sohrab and[185] Rustum [13] illustrate the principle of variety in unity. The poem purports to be an extract from the epic of Rustum, the Persian Achilles, and is especially marked by a dignity truly Homeric. This atmosphere of dignity envelops every line. Hence pathos and joy, patriotism and defiance, scorn and contempt, and all the other emotions, are always dignified. The Tartar champion, Sohrab, challenges the bravest Persian champion to meet him in single combat; and the Tartar leader, Peran-Wisa, announces the challenge. The Tartars love their hero, and the thrill that pervades their army is significant of that love. But the Persian champion, Achilles-like, sulks in his tent; and the knowledge of this fact, when the announcement of the challenge is heard by the Persians, fills them with awe and dismay. Read the following lines, bringing out the significant atmosphere of the two parts of the contrast, but being careful to bear in mind the general atmosphere of dignity:

The reader must also bear in mind that from the very beginning of each picture the atmosphere of joy and fear respectively must be in the mind, and must never be lost sight of under any circumstances.

Sometimes the atmosphere is modified by the fact that the speaker is quoting the words of another person, and then it is often a matter of the most subtle analysis to determine the extent to which the quoted words will modify the atmosphere of the reader, whether speaking in his own person or in the person of another.

There are two kinds of literature that must be considered in this connection. First, that class in which the reader tells the story in his own person. Second, when the reading is a personation throughout. An example of the first class is The Idylls of the King; and of the second, the “Instigation” speech of Cassius in Julius Caesar. The principle governing atmosphere applies equally and in the same way to both kinds of selections. The knowledge of this fact will often be valuable to the reader.

We get a good example in the “Instigation” speech, where Cassius tells Brutus that Caesar, when he had a fever, cried, “‘Give me some drink, Titinius,’ as a sick girl.” The whole matter of atmosphere, as far as quoted words are concerned, will be made clear by a study of this simple passage. Cassius is so exercised over the success of Caesar and his own consequent humiliation, that his scorn and rage[187] are well-nigh boundless. As the torrent of his emotion rushes forth, is it not entirely inconsistent with our knowledge of human nature to suppose that that torrent would be so impeded or arrested when Cassius came to the above words, that he would stop to reproduce the actual manner and tones of Caesar? What Cassius probably does is to suggest something of the effeminate manner of Caesar enveloped in Cassius’ own atmosphere of bitterest loathing and contempt. One will be helped in work of this kind by asking himself the question, What is the atmosphere of the speaker? Then, having determined this, he must next make up his mind, through his knowledge of human nature, to what extent this atmosphere is modified by the quoted words that are introduced into the body of the story. He may be assisted in determining this by putting a second question to himself, Is what the quoted words convey, or the manner in which they are conveyed, of the greater importance? This is well illustrated in King Robert of Sicily. It makes no difference in this particular poem how the sexton uttered the words, “Who is there?” and, consequently, it would be a mistake to give them any very significant atmosphere. As a matter of fact, the words are really equivalent to indirect discourse; the expression would convey exactly the same meaning to the listener if read, Asking who was within. The following from King Lear is full of suggestiveness in this connection. We recall that Kent has sent a gentleman to Cordelia to tell her of the condition of her father. Later in the drama, Kent meets the gentleman, and from him gets the story of the manner in which Cordelia received the sad news of her father’s suffering. How truly ridiculous it would be for the gentleman to imitate the manner of Cordelia! The psychological explanation of what happens is probably this: As he relates the story to Kent, the tearful face and voice of Cordelia come into his[188] mind, and, since there is always in human nature a tendency to become that which one describes, something of the manner of Cordelia will be suggested in the voice of the speaker; but let us bear in mind that the imitation is not intentional and detailed, but instinctive and suggestive only. It is not meant that the reader is not conscious of what he is doing, but that the gentleman (to use a concrete illustration) is not consciously imitating Cordelia. The artistic reader in reproducing this scene is conscious of what he is doing, but consciously sympathetic, not imitative:

This leads to another feature of the study of atmosphere. In the following lines from the Elegy in a Country Churchyard, we certainly speak slowly; but let it be remembered that this is done, not in imitation of the slow movement of the objects described, but in sympathy with them. The solemnity and dignity of the occasion so affect us that our movement becomes slow, and this movement and the right vocal quality give us the proper atmosphere.

Let us remember, too, that an event which once filled us with joy may be recalled with pain and sorrow, and that it is our present condition that determines the atmosphere. Browning’s Patriot will illustrate this.

The untrained reader is altogether too prone to imitation; but let him bear in mind that imitation, if ever art, is its lowest form. The province of the reader is to manifest, through his interpretation, the innermost spirit of the poem. Very often by imitating, by literally reproducing the voice, manner,[190] and movements, we obscure the underlying spirit of the line, paragraph or poem. There are certain readers, for instance, who sing, Non ti scordar di me, in Aux Italiens. For the sake of argument, we might admit, that at the end of the poem there might be some slightest justification for this procedure; but in the beginning, it is absolutely indefensible. The speaker is in a deep reverie; he dwells in the past. His mind goes back to a visit to the opera-house in Paris, years before. The opera is Il Trovatore; and the heroine comes before us seeking her lover, who has been snatched from her arms through the jealousy of another. She arrives before the monastery as the monks chant the Miserere. Her prayer ascends heavenward; and when she ceases, there rises clear and passionately the voice of her lover from within his cell, singing, Non ti scordar di me (Forget me not). As the audience in the opera-house hear these words, their minds go back to the past. The king goes back to his early triumphs; the queen’s mind reverts to her life in Spain; the wife of the Marquis of Carabas lets her thoughts glide back to her first husband; and to the speaker’s mind there comes the vision of his early love. Non ti scordar di me, then, is the source of the poem. The tie that binds us to the past is the poet’s theme, “Old things are best.” Now let us look at the stanza at the end of which occurs the line we are discussing:

In the first place, when one sings these lines, he is just a little likely to be deemed presumptuous when it is recalled that the previous stanza has said:

It is hardly likely that the reader is a Mario; but this is a small criticism, comparatively speaking. The atmosphere of the poem is one of reverie; and what possesses the speaker is not the literal way the words were sung, but the memory of the thrill that passed through him and through the audience as these words rang out in a pause of the solemn Miserere of the monks. Let it be borne in mind that the argument is not against the singing as singing, but against the method that would completely destroy the atmosphere of the poem for the sake of a vocal affectation. What should be expressed is the rapture of the speaker as he recalls those passionate words and tones, in his present moment of contemplation. There are certain reprints of this poem that leave out the stanzas describing the effect of the song on the king, the queen, and the marchioness. Does this not prove that those who print such versions have missed the very essence of the story?

There is one more element that we are to discuss in this connection, and that is the atmosphere of sympathy that envelops the reading of description. This atmosphere shows the effect upon us of that which the author describes.

The tendency of most readers is toward imitation,—to groan and moan, and laugh and cry, whenever these words appear in the selection interpreted. In such passages as the following from Aldrich’s Face Against the Pane, we have heard more than one reader imitate the screeching and the moaning, and the groaning and the breaking:

In these passages and all similar ones, as, for instance, those already quoted from the Elegy in a Country Churchyard, our aim should be to manifest through the atmosphere the effect of the description upon ourselves.

Perhaps it will assist us to get a clearer conception of this important feature if we discuss a few typical examples, even repeating some of the selections already used in the discussion.

Example 1 (from Sohrab and Rustum). The atmosphere of the first simile is that of joy; not in imitation of the joy of the Tartars, but because we are moved to joy by our sympathy with Sohrab.

Example 2 (ibid.). We do not express the fear of the Persians or of the peddlers, but our contempt for the former—perhaps slightly tinged, through sympathy, with their fear.

Example 3 (from King Robert of Sicily). The atmosphere is that of simple narrative, which is in no wise changed by the words of the sexton.

Example 4. Eugene Field’s Little Boy Blue presents a father standing before the dust-covered toys of his dead child. The father speaks throughout, and yet there are those who actually imitate the voice and manner of the child in the opening lines of the second stanza:

Example 5 (from the Elegy in a Country Churchyard). We read the passage slowly, not because we desire to imitate the slow movement of the objects described, but because we are impressed by their solemnity.

It may be thought that the principle here discussed has no[193] value except for advanced pupils or for those who desire to make a specialty of reading. This is a grave error and one that has had much to do with the spiritless reading of our schools. At least one-half of the selections in our readers, above the second, present opportunities for the expression of what we have termed sympathy. In the chapter on Values we observed that there were ever-varying phases of thought and feeling, each one of which would be read with a different atmosphere. Let us look at another complete poem solely with a view to applying the principles of phases and of atmosphere:

l. 13-16.—The important part this pathway is to play in the poem and the danger of the rider will bring the suggestion of fear into the voice of the reader. It is the effect of the picture upon us that we must manifest; this is half the art of reading.

l. 17-24.—The joy of Pablo will find an echo in our reading, as will his joyous defiance in l. 23, 24.

l. 25-27.—Simple description to “behind him,” when the coming event casts its shadow before; the color of the next line is clearly anticipated on these two words.

l. 28.—The atmosphere is difficult to characterize in a word, but not to manifest.

l. 29-32.—Note the marked change. The atmosphere is largely that of sympathy—fury and dogged, gloomy determination.[196] Perhaps there might be something of our horror and loathing in l. 29.

l. 50-56.—Virtually the same atmosphere, throughout, of terror, strife, determination, hate.

The most important fact to be borne in mind in endeavoring to develop the pupil’s sympathy with what he describes is this: imitation of sounds, and of gestures, and of movement, is a very low order of art. We can not imitate thunder, but we can show in our voices the awe that it inspires. When we unconsciously hurry our reading under the impulse the imagination receives from contemplating, let us say, the rapid movement of a cavalry charge, we do so not in imitation of, but in sympathy with, the picture. This is not primarily a question of art, but of nature. It is only ignorant teaching that says to a pupil, “Is that the way the thunder roars?” or “Read more rapidly; don’t you see that you are describing the flight of the horses?” Furthermore, if we read slowly a passage describing a funeral procession, there is no conscious[197] imitation of slowness, but a sympathy with the solemnity, stateliness and dignity of the occasion.

A very little observation will show us whether the imitation is conscious or sympathetic. In the former case, the voice will be expressing merely speed or slowness. In the latter, there will be speed or slowness, too, but accompanied by an indefinable and yet recognizable quality of voice, which is the expression of our sympathy. This is an infallible criterion.

Lastly, it must be urged that we give more time to this work. The imagination cannot be developed in a week or a month; and unless there is imagination, there can be no sympathy. It is difficult to restrain one’s self and not dwell longer on the value of the training of the imagination. We have no hesitation in saying that that feature of education is the most neglected. Such training as is here suggested will, in many cases, do much to bring about a more favorable condition of affairs. But it takes time, and plenty of it. The teacher should read to the class quite often such passages as are likely to stimulate the imagination. Make the class follow attentively and get them to give back the picture, as far as possible, in minutest detail. Do this again and again and improvement must follow. Just in proportion as the imagination is stimulated may we hope for a better class of reading. We have no time to teach any subject poorly!

This phase of the subject may be presented to pupils in some such manner as this:

Let us, in closing this long but most vital discussion, direct attention in a few words to the psychology of the atmosphere of description. When we are giving the description for its own sake, desiring simply to impress the picture upon the audience, we should probably use the normal quality. To illustrate:

When, however, we are somewhat moved through the contemplation of what we see, when it takes possession of us, we should be likely to manifest our feeling in a suggestive imitation of the object described. See the third stanza of The Fight of Paso del Mar. The third stage is reached when the picture moves us to such an extent that imitation and suggestion disappear, and we show merely our own feelings. See lines 69 and 70 of the same poem. In reading these we do not utter the cry, nor do we show the death anguish, but our own feelings of pity and perhaps terror. There is a fourth stage, in which the conditions of the second and third are blended. Again we may use the same poem as an illustration. In lines 53 and 54, one could conceive a reader partaking through sympathy of the passion of Bernal, and yet manifesting his own feeling of fear and horror at the same time.

It is believed that this classification is psychologically sound, and that it will repay close study. It need hardly be[200] added that the attention of the pupil is not to be drawn to the details. Selections for practice follow:

It would hardly be appropriate to imitate the blow of the trumpet; and, striking as the effect would be, it would not be the highest art to have an accompaniment of clanging arms.

Note that when Rustum utters the supposed words of Sohrab he would still speak in the musing mood. It is still the voice and manner of Rustum, with the faint suggestion of the other’s supposed boastfulness.

The above is an interesting illustration. We are not to be eagles and the wind and the sand, but to manifest the awe which overwhelms us as we describe the terrible struggle of this father and son, each ignorant of the identity of the other.

Rustum has mortally wounded his son in the combat, and now the poet introduces the exquisite simile given above. It is a fine study in the reading of description.

CHAPTER XIII
CONTRASTS

It is because contrasts are a distinct feature of literature that it is well to make the study of them and their vocal presentation a feature of the reading course. It is understood, of course, that the teacher must use his discretion as to the time when the definite study of contrasts should be undertaken; but when clearly presented and discriminatingly illustrated, even young children can be led to perceive the artistic value of contrast, to enjoy it as art, and to manifest their appreciation of it in their reading. It should not be difficult to show young children that Cinderella’s character is made to appear more lovable because it is set over against those of her sisters. Children enjoy such effects as well as adults, when pleasantly and suggestively presented to them.

In literature there are found illustrations of contrast upon every page. There are contrasts of ideas, contrasts of emotions, contrasts of scenes, contrasts of characters, and many others. Under the head of “The Central Idea” will be found numerous examples of the first class. We shall here consider a few illustrations of the other classes, while in later pages will be found illustrations for more extended study.

Contrast of emotion is admirably illustrated in the following scene from The Merchant of Venice, Act iii., Sc. 1:

We cannot fail to remark how the contrast between Shylock’s emotions (when bemoaning the loss of his ducats at one[207] moment, and cursing the daughter who has robbed him and eloped with a Christian at another) serves to bring out his peculiar character.

Contrast of character is brought out in every great play. Horatio and Hamlet, Cordelia and her sisters, Macbeth and his wife, suggest themselves as examples. The third act of King Lear, where the jester’s jibes are interpolated between the fearful outbursts of the king, is a striking example of character, as well as of emotional contrast.

It may be well to remark that the two parts of a contrast do not always occur in succession. Do not the last three or four speeches of Shylock depend, for their effect, upon the keeping in mind by the audience of his emotions and bearing during the former scenes? Let the audience forget these, and they have lost a most significant æsthetic detail. Similarly, when King Robert utters the speech beginning, “Thou knowest best,” the whole effect is lost unless we bear in mind that never for three years has his answer to the angel’s question been other than, “I am, I am the king.”

The selection entitled the “Choric Song,” a part of Tennyson’s The Lotos-Eaters, is a fine study in contrast. The speakers are the followers of Ulysses, who are debating whether they shall remain in this new found land of the Lotos or return to their homes. The first, third, fifth, and seventh stanzas are in striking contrast to the others. The feelings of[209] the sailors as they alternately contemplate their life as it is and has been, in contrast with what it might be should they remain here, are strikingly depicted.

The subject of contrasts may be presented to the class in some such manner as the following:

Let us remember that contrasts are of two kinds: logical and emotional. The former are largely antitheses, such as “I said John, not Charles,” and will need but casual attention. The pupils will perceive them without difficulty. The other class need much care. Perhaps the most important fact that the teacher must bear in mind concerning these, is that their successful rendition depends upon the pupils’ keeping both parts of the contrasts in mind, the first serving as a background, or relief, for the second. Just as contrasts in literature afford variety and relief, so the reading aloud of contrasts gives great variety in vocal expression.

CHAPTER XIV
CLIMAXES

In Genung’s Practical Rhetoric we find the following definition of Climax: “This figure, which depends upon the law that a thought must have progress, is the ordering of thought and expression so that there shall be uniform and evident increase in significance, or interest, or intensity.”

An excellent illustration of increase in Significance is found in the following speech from Regulus:

Here the author desires to show that the return of Regulus had thrown all Carthage into a state of intense excitement. The artisan, who could ill afford to lose his day’s labor, had left his shop to join the throng that was taking its way to the great square of the city. The judge, whose duty it was to administer justice, could not refrain from joining the crowd. The priest, whose sacred office was to tend the altars of the gods, he too, for once, was neglecting his duty. And even the stern stoic, whose philosophy taught him to remain unmoved under any and all conditions of life, even he, perforce, must mix with the multitude thronging the Carthaginian streets. Each succeeding clause presents to us a more unusual disturbance of the normal condition of Carthaginian affairs; and the climax is reached when even the man whose whole philosophy teaches him never to be moved, is impelled to do violence to his life-long convictions.

In the following lines from Lord Chatham’s speech we have an illustration of the climax of Intensity:

The verbal expression does not progress; and yet the emotion increasing in force, as the mind dwells upon the thought, finds vent in increasing intensity of vocal expression. It may be well to note that by increasing the intensity is not necessarily meant greater loudness or higher pitch; but greater intensity of feeling, which may result in greater loudness or higher pitch, or, on the other hand, in deeper, more controlled, or more dignified expression.

We have thus far been considering simple and palpable forms of climaxes. Let us turn now to the examination of the more difficult and complex. The following speech is uttered by Marullus, one of the tribunes, in the first scene of the first act of Julius Caesar. We recall the fact that Marullus appears to be greatly surprised that the citizens of Rome should dress themselves in holiday garb and make holiday to celebrate the return of the victorious Caesar. He inquires of them what is their purpose in thus celebrating; and, after considerable bantering, one of the crowd remarks that they make holiday to see Caesar, and to rejoice in his triumph, whereupon Marullus speaks:

The first three ideas are arranged in order of climax. It may be termed a climax of Significance. But we must not lose sight of the fact that, throughout the speech, as the emotion of Marullus increases, we shall have a climax in Intensity. In line 4, we have another climax, reaching its height on the word “worse.” Then, with “many a time and oft,” begins another climax, which, with occasional diminutions, continues to “shores.” In the next four lines we have a climax which is intensified by contrast. The word “now” is full of reproof and condemnation; and by the time the speaker utters the words “over Pompey’s blood” he is so overcome with the enormity of the crime that, with the utmost fervor, he urges the mob to run to their houses and pray to the gods to refrain from visiting upon their heads the rightful punishment of their ingratitude.

This cursory analysis of the speech has shown us that while there is a steady increase in intensity from the first word to the last, there are, besides, many smaller climaxes in Significance. We find these in lines 1 to 3, line 4, lines 6 to 16,[215] lines 17 to 20, lines 22 to 24. It may be said in passing, that the climax in lines 17 to 20 forms a very interesting study. “Best attire,” “holiday,” “strew flowers in his way,” are plainly arranged in order of climax, while the three “now’s” are evidently an anti-climax. The first “now” is most significant, while the last is of very little importance. On the other hand, the fact of strewing flowers in Caesar’s way is clearly a very much more striking mark of their ingratitude than that of merely putting on their best attire.

Just as in the long paragraph that we have analyzed we find a climax, so in a drama or in a poem we find this steady progression. That scene which is the climax of the action is gradually led up to by successive steps, each one more significant and intense than the preceding. The artist is careful not to destroy his effect by anti-climax, for to do so would be to lessen the interest of the audience, and consequently defeat the very purpose of the drama or story. The play of The Merchant of Venice illustrates this. Each scene manifestly increases the intensity which finally culminates in the trial scene, after which the play, being a comedy, descends to a restful close at the end of the fifth act.

In recitation the ordinary climax of Significance presents no great difficulty for the reader. As soon as he appreciates the fact of the growth in significance, he will manifest that increase in greater loudness or intensity, or increase of passion. It may be well to repeat that the increase need not be in loudness, nor is it necessary that the pitch of the voice be raised; but there will unquestionably be some form of climax in the expression. The difficulty begins when the climax is made up of smaller climaxes, as in the example from Julius Caesar, or when a climax is, so to speak, one of considerable length. In the latter case, the utmost care must be used to husband one’s resources, that when the moment of intensest[216] feeling is reached, there shall be sufficient power to produce the required result. One of the most striking defects in oratory, recitation, and acting, is the inability to present climaxes artistically. Either from a failure to perceive their literary value, or from lack of control, or other limitations of technique, the effect is often spoiled, with most disastrous results. The student, then, is advised to determine carefully that point of a passage or story where the strongest effect is to be made, and then to be careful to subordinate all else to this.

GRADATION

This feature of literary art may appropriately be considered in connection with Climax. The law of gradation demands that the progress from the smaller to the greater be gradual and regular. In the musical and elocutionary arts this is by no means an easy task, and great care must be taken to reserve the strongest effects for the culmination of the climax. This is not difficult when the climax is short, but in the longer examples one requires all the art at his command.

To assist in rendering a climax artistically, let the reader bear in mind the end from the beginning. Then the temptation to overdo the less important details will be reduced.

In the preceding illustration it must be remembered that the description of the rescue of Caesar from the Tiber is only the beginning of Cassius’ plan; and that his object is to cite the illustrations of Caesar’s weakness, and finally to lead up to that subtle flattery with which the “Instigation” speech closes.

This last example is a peculiar one. Under ordinary circumstances thirteen provinces would be more valuable than six islands, and surely one hundred thousand lives are more valuable than seventy millions of money. On the other hand, the figures in the last three phrases certainly rise to a climax. On the whole, I think it better to regard this as an oratorical climax, understanding Burke not to have had in mind anything more than to present the losses of England, as each occurred to him, while his emotion and indignation rise with each enumeration.

The climax is a very important feature in reading. It stimulates the imagination and feelings, and, through them, the voice. It should be remembered that no definite method of expressing a climax vocally can be laid down. In one case the pitch may rise; in another it may fall. Sometimes the force increases; at other times it diminishes. Hence, the admonition so often given must be repeated: Do not tell[221] the pupil to raise his voice, or to speak louder. Work at his imagination. If there be a climax there, it will come out in his expression.

Frequent drills in climax will do much to give flexibility, power, and range to the voice. And that, too, in a far more rational way than through any mechanical exercises in pitch and force.

The following plan of presenting climaxes to classes has been found extremely helpful:

CHAPTER XV
CONCLUDING REMARKS ON METHOD

In taking leave of the pedagogy of the subject it may be profitable to review some of the principal features of the method advocated, and add a few hints on minor topics not treated elsewhere.

The method herein laid down aims to present one principle at a time; calls for specific preparation on the part of the pupils; urges that there be definite grading of the difficulties encountered by children in learning to read; advises strongly against calling their attention to the vocal technique of expression; and lastly, holds out the hope that the impression will eventually find an outlet in true expression.

As at present taught, no distinction is drawn, in reading, between the easy and the difficult, the simple and the complex. We trust that in the suggestions of this book will be found at any rate a partial solution of the difficulty.

It should be impressed upon pupils from the outset that they are studying the thoughts and feelings of others that find expression in words upon the printed page. They must discover the thoughts behind the words and then express them; that is all there is to reading.

While it is believed that the order of the steps as here outlined is a rational one, it is not claimed that this order is hard and fixed. In advanced classes, where the method has not been used in the lower grades, the teacher should endeavor to discover the particular weakness of his pupils, and use with them the step most likely to produce the desired effect. Or if it is thought advisable, he may start with the first step and[225] cover all the ground in one grade as fast as the pupils can absorb the spirit of each step. But it must never be forgotten that carelessness in reading is a habit not easily eradicated; and, further, that because a pupil satisfactorily prepares a lesson in, let us say, grouping, he will not necessarily have formed the habit of grouping correctly. We are dealing with complicated psychical phenomena, and until the eye, the memory, the voice, in fact, all the elements of expression are thoroughly co-ordinated, we are in constant danger of error.

The time deemed necessary in public schools to complete all the steps, is about two years, beginning with the grade third or fourth below the highest. Before the pupils reach that grade, the sole effort of the teacher should be directed to making the reading vital and meaningful. If this is done the work of subsequent teachers will be relatively easy.

Avoid, and the admonition is repeated once more, talking to the pupils about inflection, pause, and the like. These are instinctive manifestations of mental states, and will appear when the conditions are right.

Let the teacher not follow slavishly the order of lessons in the regular reading book. Let him choose such selections or parts of them as offer the best opportunity for practice where the class most needs it. Let him further find extracts from outside sources for class use. These may be written on the board or mimeographed.

It has been said that we must have a technique if we would read. This may be granted; but it is equally to be granted that the principal technique is mental, and, moreover, that, in the public schools, our aim is to produce simple, natural, expressive readers, not artistic actors and orators. There is, then, no necessity for drills on inflection, time, modulation, and the like, as such. Give the pupil all the drill that is necessary on the states of mind producing these effects, but let[226] us never separate the technique from the mental condition that will find instinctive expression in that technique.[14] Expression grows through expressing. If we will bear this in mind, and present the right thoughts and emotions to be expressed, at the right time, there should and will be no difficulty.

It is suggested that, perhaps once a week, short extracts be committed and recited before the class. There need be no gesture, just simple saying. Such a procedure will give the pupil confidence, develop his earnestness, improve his voice, and in every way affect for good the reading spirit of the class. Where a suitable selection can be found, it will be well to give a stanza to each pupil. A word may be added about the recitations that form so large a part of the closing exercises in our schools. If the recitation were an honest, legitimate presentation of the reading as taught in the school, there could be no objection to it; but in most cases it is anything but this. Special teachers are called in to “coach” the students, and the result is far from satisfactory. A few lessons can seldom make a reader, and where that plan partially succeeds, so much greater is the hypocrisy; for the reading stands for the work of the school rather than for that of an individual teacher. A true showing of the work of the school, and one that would in time be heartily appreciated by parents, would be to select the good readers (a few hints to them are all[227] that would be necessary), and let them, book in hand, read as they would in class. If the class reading has been good, so will be the individual reading; otherwise it has no business to parade under false colors at public exercises.

To what extent shall pupils imitate? No fixed rule should be laid down, but one might say that they should never attempt to imitate inflections, pauses, rate of movement, and the like. On the contrary, there seems to be much value in stimulating the pupils’ imagination by having the teacher read certain emotional passages for them. They then may catch the spirit of the selection without any conscious effort at imitation. There are many who train a class to read in concert from imitation. The results of such training are worse than baneful, leading only to inane, affected expression.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Other examples should be found by the teacher. With a little care much valuable material may be selected.

[8] From the introduction to the author’s “How to Read Aloud,” which is out of print. All the essential features, however, are included in the present work.

[9] The teacher should select the examples, not too many, and write them on the board; or they may be selected from the reader. Drills of this kind should be continued until correct habits are formed, but should cease before the pupils become tired of them.

[10] The sources of most of the following excerpts are given in order that the student may refer to the context when necessary. It is urged, however, that, since the extracts are taken from literature quite available, the teacher refer to the context as often as possible.

[11] I. e., instant.

[12] A good example to illustrate succession of ideas.

[13] It would occupy too much space to insert the complete poems mentioned in this chapter. These are all, however, easily available, and it is hoped that the teacher will read them.

[14] A great deal of what seems to be unnecessary confusion exists regarding the meaning of this term. It is used very freely to mean not only mechanical facility, but also that facility plus the knowledge of where and how to use it, a meaning which leads to confusion. Technique is “a collective term for all that relates to the purely mechanical part of either vocal or instrumental performance. The technique of a performer may be perfect, and yet his playing ... fail to interpret intelligibly the ideas of the composer.” These words from the Century Dictionary ought to settle this misunderstanding effectually.

PART THREE

LITERARY INTERPRETATION

CHAPTER XVI
LITERARY INTERPRETATION

In the concluding part of this work it is purposed to lay before the teacher some examples of literary interpretation. The object of these is to assist him to a deeper insight into literature, and hence to become a better reader and teacher of reading.

It is not too much to say that we accept as good reading what is often the reverse simply because the subject matter does not appeal to us or is only partly appreciated. A pupil may read such a passage as the following in a commonplace way, and be complimented by one teacher for his distinct articulation and forceful utterance, whereas a teacher who appreciated the true spirit of the lines would severely condemn the reading.

The explanation of the difference in the attitudes of the teachers is that the former has no appreciation of the spirit of the lines, while the latter keenly feels their tenderness, their beauty, and their pensive solemnity.

The best way to learn to love good literature is to study only good literature, and to study it again, again and again. What is truly great art cannot be apprehended at a glance, but requires time for its fullest appreciation. We believe, however, that it is good pedagogy, in a work of this kind, to[232] lay before the teacher certain examples of what careful analysis may reveal. The effect of such analysis upon the reading must be evident to all.

We have already discerned that all analysis preparatory to reading aloud is virtually literary analysis. This is well illustrated in the chapters on Climax and on Contrast. It remains, therefore, to deal only with certain broader aspects of literary appreciation, in connection with which we shall endeavor to show the application of the principles discussed in Parts I and II to vocal interpretation.

STUDY IN RHYTHM

It is a truism to state that every poem should be a unity, but we often forget a most important corollary, that every line should be scanned with a view to determine that unity. It is only in so far as we understand the parts that we understand the whole. Let us illustrate this principle in the following well-known poem:

The central idea in this poem is Roland; not the rider, not the historical element. As a matter of fact, the poem has no historical basis. Browning tells us somewhere that after a tiresome and tedious sea voyage he longed for a gallop over the English downs, and that this poem is a result of that longing. The rhythm of the poem is peculiarly adapted to express the bounding joy of the poet, and is in striking contrast to the long, monotonous roll of ocean waves.

On studying the poem, we note the absence of any but cursory reference to the rider, and, on the contrary, the constant reference to the real hero, Roland. One might imagine a setting for the lines something as follows: Around a camp-fire are gathered many veterans of the wars. They are telling of the gallant deeds of their war steeds, when one of their number starts up and says:

“You talk of your horses; have you ever heard of mine? Have you heard how my Roland helped to save Aix? No? Let me tell you. You remember so-and-so’s famous campaign, and how the enemy were preparing to take Aix. You know, too, that the officer in command had no hope of saving the city and was preparing to capitulate the moment the enemy began the attack. Well, one night, just after we[235] had turned in, a messenger came in hot haste to tell us that the king himself had that day started to relieve the city and that we must carry the good news to Aix and thus encourage them to hold out until his arrival. Our commander called for three volunteers to undertake the dangerous task of hearing the news. We—Joris, Dirck, and I—offered our services. They were accepted, and a moment after we had received our instructions,

The whole of the fifth stanza is devoted to praise of Roland; while the failure of the horses of Joris and Dirck serves but to enhance the glory of Roland’s feat.

As soon as we perceive the meaning of the poem—its central thought—the entire reading becomes permeated with the joy and exultation of the rider in his steed. The poem is well adapted to develop vocal flexibility, and freedom of expression.

Tennyson’s Charge of the Light Brigade affords another opportunity for analysis.

The atmosphere of this poem is that of a dirge. This does not mean that we snivel and whine while rendering it, but that the whole poem is enveloped in the atmosphere of dignified[236] solemnity. It is true that this is not the popular view, which seems to be that Tennyson wrote the poem to afford the reader an opportunity of making descriptive gestures. Tennyson’s heart ached for those brave fellows in their useless sacrifice; and he wrote the poem, not primarily to show how they fought, but that they fought in vain. True, there is a vein of stirring patriotism in the lines, but all that is inferior in importance to the dignified solemnity and controlled pathos of the speaker.

It is impossible to overlook the constant recurrence of the phrases “valley of Death;” “jaws of Death;” “mouth of Hell,” and their significance. The keynote of the poem is found in the line,

Here is the central thought. The men made a gallant charge, went boldly and willingly to their doom; but it was all a mistake, a fearful, horrible mistake. We care not for the fact that cannons were to the right, to the left, and to the front of them. The mere position is nothing. But who can repress the shudder of despair as he contemplates that heroic band surrounded by fires from death-dealing cannon?

On pages 200 and 201 will be found three poems from Tennyson, each of which presents a different aspect. The first is marked by an exquisite simplicity. It contains but one simple idea, which is set forth in the simplest language. Consequently, the reading should be equally unassuming. The least appearance of affectation or effort will dissipate the atmosphere.

The second is a lullaby. The rocking cradle is felt in every line, while in the last line of each stanza we have the rhythmic picture of the gradual cessation of the rocking, and it seems impossible to omit the long pause before the last word in each of these lines, a pause exactly equal to the time of one of the preceding feet.

The third poem is of an entirely different nature. Here we have the strength of spirit that animated King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table. When we bear in mind that this song is sung after King Arthur’s claim to the throne, which has long been in doubt, has been firmly established, and he has taken Guinevere to wife, we can better understand its passionate joy.

One of the most interesting features in connection with the study of literature is rhythm. The meaning of rhythm is not always clearly apprehended, many regarding it simply as poets’ playfulness, interesting in the nursery rhyme, tickling the childish ear, but beyond that a useless and even senseless filigree. Nothing could be farther from truth. Rhythm is[239] not a conventional appendage of poetry, but its very heart, life, spirit. It springs spontaneously from the poet’s heart, and is the manifestation of his deepest feeling. Who can fail to catch the bounding spirit of life and joy in the following:

What a dignity is imparted to the scene by the rhythm in the following extracts:

Often in the same poem the emotional changes are manifested in changes of rhythm. Observe this in the following lines:

Or in the concluding stanzas of Wordsworth’s ode on Intimations of Immortality:

In blank verse we get the best and clearest illustration of the meaning of rhythm. Here the poet has the utmost freedom, untrammeled by rhyme or any limitations as to the length of his stanza. The rhythm in the description of the overthrow of Satan is most suggestive of strength and determination:

How clearly the frantic passion of Lear is shown in the irregular, erratic, almost chaotic, rhythm of the following speech:

Note how the varying rhythm in the following passage corresponds with the ever varying moods of the King and the poet:

In order to give a clear conception of the meaning and purpose of rhythm, the analysis of an entire poem is given.

NOTES ON RHYTHM

l. 4-6.—The effect of the internal rhymes Howard—coward, here—gear, sick—quick, is very marked. Similar effects are frequently introduced in the poem.

l. 10.—The two emphatic syllables, I’ve and nine-, coming in succession, add force to Sir Richard’s statement.

l. 13.—Note how the author retards his movement and hence impresses us with the slow moving picture, by drawing his emphatic syllables together, as So Lord How-; five ships; and that day. This effect is one of the commonest in literature, and one of the most natural. This line will scan as a normal line; but let us bear in mind that sense accent determines the rhythm in English, not quantity.

l. 16.—A strange device, the effect of which is to cause Sir Richard’s gallantry to stand out most strikingly. In spite of the fact that fifty-three Spanish galleons were coming down upon him, the brave captain was as considerate in the handling of his sick sailors as a mother of her babe. And this is emphasized by making this statement in a line by itself.

l. 24.—Again note the strength imparted by the successive accents in huge sea-castles heaving.

l. 25-27.—The abruptness aptly fits in with the sentiment. Observe that the effect of the short line is brought out by the rhyme, fly—die. The further apart the rhyme, the less striking it becomes. See lines 43-45, and 57-59.

l. 36.—Again we observe the retardation and its effect. Observe further, that this is the first time the concluding line of a stanza has deviated from the normal, and note how appropriate is the deviation; not merely for the sake of variety, but the spontaneous expression of feeling.

l. 37-38.—How forceful is the effect of beginning each line with the accented syllable!

l. 42.—The contrast of this line with the preceding is most marked. Line 41 is long drawn out, while in 42 one can feel the shock of the abrupt stop.

l. 53-54.—The first four lines of this stanza are quite regular, but when we reach the last two, observe the correspondence between the rhythm and the sense.

l. 56-60.—How admirably the rhythm lends itself to the expression of the feelings of the narrator as he recalls the terrible strain of that never-ending night! One must read the passage aloud to appreciate this effect.

l. 63.—Observe the strength of Fight on! Fight on! and also the contrast between the rhythm of this stanza and that of Stanza IX.

The stanza as a whole moves quite rapidly, owing to the preponderance of unaccented syllables. The appropriateness of this rapid movement is recognized when we bear in mind that the stanza is intended to cite but one incident of that awful night, and serves only as a link between Stanzas IX and XI.

l. 70.—Compare this rhythm with that of line 56, and observe how the emotion of Stanza IX is recalled by the similarity of rhythm.

l. 112-119.—It is almost impossible to analyze the effect of these lines, so admirably do sound, sense, and rhythm correspond. We can, however, clearly observe the forceful effect of great gale blew; the accumulation of power and size in line 115; the exultant joy of the speaker as he describes[251] the effect of the storm in lines 116 and 117; and the gradual diminution of the passion as the poem comes back to normal movement in the concluding line.

INTERPRETATIVE NOTES

The poem as a whole is a magnificent specimen of vigorous Anglo-Saxon. There are few inversions, the style is simple and direct, and the imagery peculiarly appropriate. The speaker is a survivor, and brings us face to face with one of the proudest moments in the history of English naval warfare.

The poem deals with an event at the close of the expedition of the Spanish Armada against Great Britain, and it is interesting to know that it is almost literally true to fact and history.

l. 4-7.—The opening words seem a little like brag. But Sir Richard’s reply, which is borne out by history, proves the contrary. The oath is not the vain oath of a braggart, but the solemn words of one who believes in God and calls upon Him to bear witness to the truth of his statement.

l. 8.—The delivery of the first five words will certainly manifest the pride of the narrator in such a leader.

l. 15-18.—Be sure to bring out the speaker’s emotion. How the common sailor worships him who stayed to certain death to save the lives of his sick men!

l. 25-28.—The rhythm clearly indicates the abrupt manner in which these lines should be read.

l. 29.—We be all good English men: this is Sir Richard’s answer to their appeal.

l. 33.—Heart: right into the midst of the fleet. The Spaniards came down in double line of battle. It was evidently Sir Richard’s intention to attempt to escape with his fleet craft by running the gauntlet of heavy, large, unwieldy Spanish galleons. A picture of these galleons, with their triple and quadruple decks, will greatly assist us to comprehend the disastrous outcome of one of the most elaborate naval demonstrations in the history of the world. The vessels were so unwieldy that only a few at a time could attack the Revenge, and, by constant maneuvering, Sir Richard could almost always avoid the effect of their cannonading.

l. 37-38.—There is bitter sarcasm in these lines as the speaker recalls the outcome of the fight.

l. 56-60.—The emotion of these five lines is very striking. Oh! the anguish, horror, and suspense of that awful night. The sun went down, but the battle went on. The stars came out, but still no rest. And so on, on, on, through that dreadful night.

l. 83-90.—Note the contrast between the emotion of Sir Richard in these lines and that of the speaker in uttering lines 75-81.

l. 92-95.—The sailors would naturally speak rapidly. The rhythm helps us to understand their feelings.

l. 93.—And therefore we have no right to kill ourselves. A most significant line.

l. 99.—Observe the tribute the Englishman pays to his foe. See also line 108. The voice should manifest the speaker’s attitude and will when we grasp the situation.

l. 111.—How natural seems the use of her! It is expressive of the sailor’s love for his vessel. And further, we remark that the Revenge becomes human as she yearns for those who so long have seemed her very children.

l. 112.—Here we have one of the most significant lines in the whole poem. History tells us that a storm arose and shattered the remnant of the Armada, and sunk the battered hulk of the little Revenge. Poetry conjures up this storm as[254] an avenging Nemesis. Out of the lands they had ruined comes the storm that avenges the Revenge.

l. 118-119.—There is no regret in these lines. On the contrary, they are full of exultation. Remember, the poet was limited by history. He could not save the Revenge, but he could sink her on the spot where the glorious victory had been won. The picture of shattered greatness is not an inspiring one. If the Revenge had not sunk, she would have been dragged ignominiously at the hawser’s end into some Spanish port, to become the object of every Spaniard’s petty spite, and finally to fall into decay and ruin. Now she lives evermore as she was in that fight, a glorious inspiration to every son of England.

HINTS ON READINGS

We observe, in the first place, that the rhythm is very pronounced. It reminds us of the rhythm of The Ride from Ghent, and suggests, in fact, what we soon discover to be true, that the two poems are in spirit very closely allied.

l. 2-6 are intended to win our sympathy for the hero. Observe his courage in riding unarmed and alone.

l. 10.—The accent on gallant is on the final syllable. Observe how the emphasis on -lant, came, and late retards the movement and suggests the contrast between Lochinvar’s hope and his failure to arrive in time.

l. 11.—Note the contempt in laggard and dastard. Also in line 16, where the movement is again retarded.

l. 19-24.—How cleverly Lochinvar conceals his true intention, under the guise of indifference!

l. 20.—Love swells like ocean tides, but diminishes with equal rapidity: I can get along without your daughter.

l. 37.—Accelerate the movement, but not with a manufactured speed. Catch the spirit of haste and the movement will accelerate itself.

l. 46.—This is a summary. The time will be slow when we recognize and endeavor to express the full import of the passage.

Longfellow’s Peace-Pipe, from The Song of Hiawatha, is particularly adapted to analytic study. We shall confine our study principally to questions of sense relations, such as Momentary Completeness, Values, and the like.

On the Mountains of the Prairie,

On the great Red Pipe-Stone Quarry,

Gitche Manito, the mighty,

He the Master of Life, descending,

On the red crags of the quarry 5

Stood erect, and called the nations,

Called the tribes of men together.

From his footprints flowed a river,

Leaped into the light of morning,

O’er the precipice plunging downward 10

Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet.

And the Spirit, stooping earthward,

With his finger on the meadow

Traced a winding pathway for it,

Saying to it, “Run in this way!” 15

From the red stone of the quarry

With his hand he broke a fragment,

Moulded it into a pipe-head,

Shaped and fashioned it with figures;

From the margin of the river 20

Took a long reed for a pipe-stem,

With its dark green leaves upon it!

Filled the pipe with bark of willow,

With the bark of the red willow;

Breathed upon the neighboring forest, 25

Made its great boughs chafe together,

Till in flame they burst and kindled;

And erect upon the mountains,

Gitche Manito, the mighty,

Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe, 30

As a signal to the nations.

And the smoke rose slowly, slowly,

Through the tranquil air of morning,

First a single line of darkness,

Then a denser, bluer vapor, 35

Then a snow-white cloud unfolding,

Like the tree-tops of the forest,

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Ever rising, rising, rising,

Till it touched the top of heaven,

Till it broke against the heaven, 40

And rolled outward all around it.

From the Vale of Tawasentha,

From the Valley of Wyoming,

From the groves of Tuscaloosa,

From the far-off Rocky Mountains, 45

From the Northern lakes and rivers

All the tribes beheld the signal,

Saw the distant smoke ascending,

The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe.

And the Prophets of the nations 50

Said: “Behold it, the Pukwana!

By this signal from afar off,

Bending like a wand of willow,

Waving like a hand that beckons,

Gitche Manito, the mighty, 55

Calls the tribes of men together,

Calls the warriors to his council!”

Down the rivers, o’er the prairies,

Came the warriors of the nations,

Came the Delawares and Mohawks, 60

Came the Choctaws and Camanches,

Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet,

Came the Pawnees and Omahas,

Came the Mandans and Dacotahs,

Came the Hurons and Ojibways, 65

All the warriors drawn together

By the signal of the Peace-Pipe,

To the Mountains of the Prairie,

To the Great Red Pipe-Stone Quarry.

And they stood there on the meadow, 70

With their weapons and their war-gear,

Painted like the leaves of Autumn,

Painted like the sky of morning,

Wildly glaring at each other;

In their faces stern defiance, 75

In their hearts the feuds of ages,

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The hereditary hatred,

The ancestral thirst of vengeance.

Gitche Manito, the mighty,

The creator of the nations, 80

Looked upon them with compassion,

With paternal love and pity;

Looked upon their wrath and wrangling

But as quarrels among children,

But as feuds and fights of children! 85

Over them he stretched his right hand,

To subdue their stubborn natures,

To allay their thirst and fever,

By the shadow of his right hand;

Spake to them with voice majestic 90

As the sound of far-off waters,

Falling into deep abysses,

Warning, chiding, spake in this wise:—

“O my children! my poor children!

Listen to the words of wisdom, 95

Listen to the words of warning,

From the lips of the Great Spirit,

From the Master of Life, who made you!

“I have given you lands to hunt in,

I have given you streams to fish in, 100

I have given you bear and bison,

I have given you roe and reindeer,

I have given you brant and beaver,

Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl,

Filled the rivers full of fishes; 105

Why then are you not contented?

Why then will you hunt each other?

“I am weary of your quarrels,

Weary of your wars and bloodshed,

Weary of your prayers for vengeance, 110

Of your wranglings and dissensions;

All your strength is in your union,

All your danger is in discord;

Therefore be at peace henceforward,

And as brothers live together. 115

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“I will send a Prophet to you,

A Deliverer of the nations,

Who shall guide you and shall teach you,

Who shall toil and suffer with you.

If you listen to his counsels, 120

You will multiply and prosper;

If his warnings pass unheeded,

You will fade away and perish!

“Bathe now in the stream before you,

Wash the war-paint from your faces, 125

Wash the blood-stains from your fingers,

Bury your war-clubs and your weapons,

Break the red stone from this quarry,

Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes,

Take the reeds that grow beside you, 130

Deck them with your brightest feathers,

Smoke the calumet together,

And as brothers live henceforward!”

Then upon the ground the warriors

Threw their cloaks and shirts of deer-skin, 135

Threw their weapons and their war-gear,

Leaped into the rushing river,

Washed the war-paint from their faces.

Clear above them flowed the water,

Clear and limpid from the footprints 140

Of the Master of Life descending;

Dark below them flowed the water,

Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson,

As if blood were mingled with it!

From the river came the warriors, 145

Clean and washed from all their war-paint;

On the banks their clubs they buried,

Buried all their warlike weapons.

Gitche Manitou, the mighty,

The Great Spirit, the creator, 150

Smiled upon his helpless children!

And in silence all the warriors

Broke the red stone of the quarry,

Smoothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes,

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Broke the long reeds by the river, 155

Decked them with their brightest feathers,

And departed each one homeward,

While the Master of Life, ascending,

Through the opening of cloud-curtains,

Through the doorways of the heaven, 160

Vanished from before their faces,

In the smoke that rolled around him,

The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe!

It is to be hoped that the following notes will be carefully considered. Inflections are most subtle indications of interpretation, and their meaning none too well apprehended. Time spent in such an analysis as that herein undertaken should solve all the ordinary difficulties of the class-room.

l. 3-5.—(a) Gitche Manito is the central idea; hence there will be more force on those words. (b) Note that descending is separated from the next line by a comma. This is a good illustration of the function of punctuation; for if the comma were not inserted we should read, descending On the red crags of the quarry, and should not learn of our mistake until we came to the next line.

l. 6.—Nations: falling inflection. A good illustration of the principle that punctuation does not determine inflection: the sense is complete, and the falling inflection instinctively denotes that fact. The whole paragraph is pointing forward to the main statement, called the nations. There might be some reason in the use of a falling inflection on erect, but perhaps the other interpretation is to be preferred.

l. 10.—Rising inflection on downward. There is likelihood of misinterpretation here. Paraphrased, lines 10 and 11 are equivalent to, And the river, plunging downward over the precipice, gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet.

l. 11.—Falling inflection on Ishkoodah, because the river did not gleam like the comet Ishkoodah, but like Ishkoodah, which is the Indian name for comet.

l. 12-15.—It is surprising how careless pupils are in reading these lines. They nearly always read them to convey the idea that the Spirit stooped earthward with his finger on the meadow. Observe how the meaning is brought out by the following reading:

l. 17-19.—The melody is virtually the same in each of these lines, with a falling inflection on fragment, pipe-head and figures.

l. 21.—Rising inflection preferable on pipe-stem. The poem abounds in lines ending with falling inflections; hence, one should be on the alert for such lines as this.

l. 25-26.—Rising inflection on forest and on together. We note that these two lines point forward.

l. 28-31.—Rising inflections throughout, even on calumet, upon which word the pupil often errs.

l. 30.—The Peace-Pipe is not a subordinate idea; it is an idea coördinate with calumet.

l. 33.—Falling inflection on morning. Lines 32 and 33 contain the general statement, and

l. 34-39 contain the particular. When we perceive this latter fact we will use the rising inflection at the end of each line until we reach heaven in line 39, when, of course, we shall have the falling.

l. 40.—Observe that broke is the emphatic word, not against. Rising inflection on heaven.

l. 42-46.—It is an open question whether we should use a rising or a falling inflection at the end of each of these lines. To use the falling would convey the idea that each detail was important; to use the rising, to lay the stress upon the whole. (See Momentary Completeness, page 61, et seq.) The former reading seems the better.

l. 58.—An interesting point is presented in this line. The poet intends to convey the idea that some tribes came down the rivers and others o’er the prairies. Hence the melody and force of the two phrases will be identical.

l. 60-65.—The most natural interpretation seems to be to use a rising inflection on the name of the first tribe in each line, and a falling on the second.

l. 75-76.—Faces and hearts are not contrasted. The melody of the two lines is virtually the same.

l. 87-89.—These three lines should be construed as one idea. Hence rising inflection will be given on natures and on fever.

l. 90-93.—Rising inflections on majestic, waters, warning, chiding. Why? Falling inflection on abysses. Why?

l. 94.—Does he use rising inflection or falling on children? What would be the difference in the idea conveyed by each?

l. 95-96.—Do these lines mean “Will you not listen?” If so they are full of pleading. If the speaker is imperative the inflection will be falling.

l. 98.—Falling inflection on Life. Observe how meaningful are the words who made you.

l. 99-105.—Shall there be rising or falling inflection at the end of these lines? What would each convey respectively?

l. 112.—Observe the radical change in the speaker’s attitude. He has been asserting; now he argues and pleads.

l. 119.—Toil and suffer should be joined together, with the main pause after suffer. Do not emphasize with.

l. 124-127.—Falling inflection on all the emphatic words. There will be a tendency to use the rising inflection on war-paint, blood-stains, war-clubs.

l. 133.—Principal pause after brothers, with perhaps a brief pause after live.

l. 134-144.—This is the climax of the poem. When one grasps this idea the voice becomes full of joy. Be sure to get the picture of the clear and limpid water as it flows down to where the warriors are, and note the change as it passes below them, tinged with the war-paint it has washed away. Note the emphasis on clear above, and on dark below.

l. 158.—Note the pause after ascending. He ascended through and vanished in.

l. 158-160.—Rising inflection on Life, ascending, curtains, and heaven.

In the following poem it is purposed to offer comments principally as to the movement. There is nothing that conduces more to variety in reading than frequent changes in movement. Not that these changes should be haphazard; on the contrary, as we have seen in Chapter I, there is a definite principle underlying movement. The analysis should reveal that the various ideas are of different degrees of importance, and the recognition of these differences will lead to the variety of movement.

Every comment should be carefully considered and challenged. The printed page is a monochrome of type. The danger is, therefore, that we read monotonously. With the years we acquire a fatal facility for pronouncing words without getting the underlying thought. The object of these analyses is to take the mind from the words to the ideas which they express, and so to improve the reading.

l. 1-4.—The exalted position of Lars Porsena, the oath, and the grandeur of the Tarquin house, all contribute to make the movement slow and the atmosphere dignified.

l. 8.—According to the importance we attach to this line will be the rate of movement. If it means simply in all directions, the time will be moderate. If, however, we desire to emphasize that the messengers rode far to the east, and far to the west, and so forth, the time will be slow. Probably the former is the better interpretation.

l. 26.—Observe the transition to the atmosphere of fright and terror that pervades the entire stanza.

l. 30.—Conceive that mass of humanity and note how the length of the inflection on mile is extended.

Observe that the principal verb does not appear until line 49. Hence there will be a rising inflection at the end of every line of these stanzas except 49.

l. 66-67.—Fast time; not in imitation of the speed of the scout, but in sympathy with his feelings.

l. 68-69.—No effort should be made to shriek these words; it is sufficient to suggest the fact that he is calling, and his fear. The time will be fast.

l. 73.—A good illustration of the principle underlying movement. This line is read slowly, for it announces the doom of the city.

l. 76-79.—Note that the time grows gradually slower as the mind becomes more and more engrossed with the picture, and how the voice swells with increasing grandeur.

l. 84.—Rising inflection on bright because the speaker no doubt has in mind the two lines, 84 and 85.

The hatred and contempt of the speaker will color the entire stanza. The movement will be on the whole moderate.

l. 94.—Slower time, and an atmosphere of sadness. Bear in mind the speaker sympathizes with the Consul.

l. 102-103.—Manifest the speaker’s pride in Horatius, and note the striking contrast between the atmosphere of these lines and that of the concluding lines of the preceding stanza.

The stanza is in simple narrative style, and contains but little emotion. The significant idea is that the patricians in this hour of trial worked side by side with plebeians.

Observe the change in atmosphere in the last line. Once more it is well to remind the reader that the speaker is a patriot.

The movement of the first two lines is rather slow; after that it accelerates to the end, in sympathy with the fast moving picture.

The time is prevailingly slow, and the atmosphere in marked contrast to that of the preceding stanza. There is, too, a note of contempt and irony.

l. 190-196.—Time slow, and atmosphere in sympathy with the size and strength of Astur.

l. 197-198.—Observe the contrast between the atmosphere of these lines and that of the succeeding two.

l. 213-214.—The joy of the enemy serves but to increase the speaker’s sorrow.

l. 217-222.—Note the intensity of the speaker’s feeling and his savage joy at the close.

l. 231-234.—Transition to the proud and contemptuous defiance of Horatius. The time is moderate; the key is high, because Horatius is calling to the opposing army.

l. 246.—Very slow and contemptuous, especially the last four words. Falling inflection on dread.

This stanza is the climax of the poem. Horatius’ work is done! The atmosphere is that of joy, triumph, and exultation.

The excitement of the speaker carries him on with headlong speed as he recalls the picture described in this stanza.

l. 290.—Observe the difference between Lars Porsena and Sextus in their feelings toward Horatius.

l. 292.—Slower time. Is there not a note of pride in the speaker’s voice as he recalls the bravery of Horatius?

The entire stanza is permeated with the speaker’s suspense and with his sympathy with the struggles of the wounded man.

Observe again the contrast between Sextus and Lars Porsena, both enemies of Horatius.

If we will follow the picture and describe it as we see it and as the speaker now recalls it, we will make long pauses after bottom and stands.

The time increases in rapidity through the first four lines, and then is retarded to the end.

The atmosphere of the first four lines is that of joy, and it is hardly possible to keep back the tears as we utter the last four.

In the final selection we shall call attention to all the interpretative difficulties which the teacher is likely to meet with in the class-room. There is no reason why such a piece of literature as this cannot be used to advantage even in the public school, provided we take the time for careful analysis.

Cas. That you have wrong’d me doth appear in this:

You have condemn’d and noted Lucius Pella

For taking bribes here of the Sardians;

Wherein my letters, praying on his side,

Because I knew the man, were slighted off.

Bru. You wrong’d yourself to write in such a case.

Cas. In such a time as this it is not meet

That every nice offence should bear his comment.

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself

Are much condemn’d to have an itching palm; 10

To sell and mart your offices for gold

To undeservers.

Cas. I an itching palm!

You know that you are Brutus that speak this,

Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.

Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption,

[285]

And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.

Cas. Chastisement!

Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember:

Did not great Julius bleed for justice sake?

What villain touch’d his body, that did stab, 20

And not for justice? What, shall one of us,

That struck the foremost man of all this world

But for supporting robbers, shall we now

Contaminate our fingers with base bribes,

And sell the mighty space of our large honours

For so much trash as may be grasped thus?

I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,

Than such a Roman.

Cas. Brutus, bay not me;

I’ll not endure it; you forget yourself,

To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I, 30

Older in practice, abler than yourself

To make conditions.

Bru. Go to; you are not, Cassius.

Cas. I am.

Bru. I say you are not.

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself;

Have mind upon your health, tempt me no farther.

Bru. Away, slight man!

Cas. Is’t possible?

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.

Must I give way and room to your rash choler?

Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? 40

Cas. O ye gods, ye gods! must I endure all this?

Bru. All this! ay, more: fret till your proud heart break;

Go show your slaves how choleric you are,

And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?

Must I observe you? must I stand and crouch

Under your testy humour? By the gods,

You shall digest the venom of your spleen,

Though it do split you; for, from this day forth,

I’ll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,

When you are waspish.

Cas. Is it come to this? 50

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Bru. You say you are a better soldier;

Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,

And it shall please me well: for mine own part,

I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus;

I said, an elder soldier, not a better:

Did I say ‘better’?

Bru. If you did, I care not.

Cas. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me.

Bru. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him.

Cas. I durst not! 60

Bru. No.

Cas. What, durst not tempt him!

Bru. For your life you durst not.

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love;

I may do that I shall be sorry for.

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for.

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats,

For I am arm’d so strong in honesty

That they pass by me as the idle wind,

Which I respect not. I did send to you

For certain sums of gold, which you denied me: 70

For I can raise no money by vile means:

By heaven, I had rather coin my heart,

And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring

From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash

By any indirection: I did send

To you for gold to pay my legions,

Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius?

Should I have answer’d Caius Cassius so?

When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,

To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 80

Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts;

Dash him to pieces!

Cas. I denied you not.

Bru. You did.

Cas. I did not: he was but a fool that brought

My answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart:

A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities,

[287]

But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.

Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.

Cas. You love me not.

Bru. I do not like your faults.

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. 90

Bru. A flatterer’s would not, though they do appear

As huge as high Olympus.

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,

Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,

For Cassius is aweary of the world:

Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;

Check’d like a bondman; all his faults observed,

Set in a note-book, learn’d, and conn’d by rote,

To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep

My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger, 100

And here my naked breast; within, a heart

Dearer than Plutus’ mine, richer than gold:

If that thou be’st a Roman, take it forth;

Strike, as thou didst at Caesar; for, I know,

I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart:

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better

Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.

Bru. Sheathe your dagger:

Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;

Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour.

O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb 110

That carries anger as the flint bears fire;

Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,

And straight is cold again.

Cas. Hath Cassius lived

To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,

When grief, and blood ill-temper’d, vexeth him?

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper’d too.

Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.

Bru. And my heart too.

Cas. O Brutus!

Bru. What’s the matter?

Cas. Have not you love enough to bear with me,

When that rash humour which my mother gave me 120

[288]

Makes me forgetful?

Bru. Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth,

When you are over-earnest with your Brutus.

He’ll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

A few words of introduction are first necessary. We should understand the play as a whole, and be conversant with the events that lead up to this particular scene; further, we should bear in mind the tense, splenetic character of Cassius, and the calm, controlled, stoical disposition of Brutus.

l. 1.—In Scene 2 we get the keynote to Cassius’ manner. He is so full of his supposed wrong that he pays no heed to the surroundings, and bluntly plunges into the matter in hand. Brutus restrains him, and together they move to the former’s tent. No sooner do they enter than again Cassius bursts forth.

l. 4.—Cassius is piqued that his letters should have failed to shield Lucius Pella from the punishment for his wrongdoing.

l. 8.—Nice is equivalent to unimportant, small. There is a touch of contempt in this speech.

l. 9.—Again we note the directness of Brutus’s statement, and the absence of feeling. Note, too, that he in no way seeks to soften his charges.

l. 12.—Imagine the surprise and rage of Cassius. There will be a sweeping upward inflection on I. It is only with the utmost effort that the fiery Cassius can control himself.

l. 15-16.—Paraphrased, these lines mean, The name of Cassius is associated with this corruption, and hence the hands of justice are tied. For, to bring the corrupters to trial would be to drag in Cassius with them.

l. 18.—Unmoved by the anger of Cassius, Brutus proceeds calmly and perhaps too ruthlessly to arraign his friend.

l. 28.—During the speech of Brutus, Cassius can scarcely contain himself. Never has any one dared to arraign him. Now he is even forgetting the deference he has been wont to show to one whom he recognizes as his superior.

l. 37.—There is no anger in this. Brutus knows that Cassius is beside himself, and brushes him aside as one would brush an insignificant dust speck from his clothing.

l. 38.—Such treatment Cassius cannot understand. The line is exclamatory rather than interrogative. It is equivalent to, Can I believe my ears?

l. 38.—Brutus now begins to assert himself. It is a new aspect of his character, which we can comprehend only when we learn, as we do later, that Portia is dead.

l. 41.—The strain of listening to such words is becoming too great for Cassius to bear.

l. 42.—Brutus seems almost to enjoy the terrible lesson he is reading Cassius. It is well-nigh incredible that the thoughtful, loving husband of Portia, and the considerate master of Lucius, should speak thus to any one, let alone his best friend.

l. 50.—There seems to be no feeling but surprise in this,[290] surprise verging on bewilderment. As Brutus grows more passionate Cassius seems to subside.

l. 51-54.—It is Brutus now who appears to lose self-control. Cassius never said he was a better soldier.

l. 55-57.—Anger and bewilderment give way to a sense of having been wronged: the last sentence is almost pathetic in its humility.

l. 59-62.—Note the increasing astonishment in the speeches of Cassius, and the superciliousness of Brutus.

l. 63-64.—A threat uttered not so much in anger as in fear that he may not be able to control his feelings.

l. 65-82.—This speech needs no commentary. It is a plain and unmistakable arraignment, uttered in unequivocal language, and in simple, direct manner.

l. 82.—Cassius is pained that his friend should so misunderstand him. From now to line 93 Cassius seems to throw himself upon the mercy of his friend, while the latter repels his advances, each time with greater harshness.

l. 93-107.—Cassius’ heart is broken. If his best friend can so wantonly misunderstand him, what can he hope from his enemies? There is nothing left to live for, and he would eagerly welcome death even at the hands of Antony. The passage is overflowing with heartbreak, and gains our sympathy for one who else would seem but a crafty, self-seeking schemer.

l. 107.—The speech of Cassius brings Brutus back to himself. Here is the real Brutus, full of tenderness and love.

To understand fully the unusual display of feeling in this scene we should read further to the stage direction, Re-enter Lucius, with wine and taper.

FOOTNOTES:

[15] Let it be understood once for all that the various elements in expression should be the spontaneous outcome of the mental action. As has been so often stated, to tell a pupil to use a rising inflection or to emphasize this word or that, is a violation of the fundamental principle of correct teaching.

[16] The stanzas are numbered as in the original poem.

		PAGE
Preface		7
Introduction		9
Chapter I.	The Criterion of Time	19
II.	The Criterion of Pitch	42
III.	The Criterion of Quality	80
IV.	The Criterion of Force	101
V.	The Mental Attitude of the Reader	117
VI.	Grouping	128
VII.	Succession of Ideas	132
VIII.	Central Idea	138
IX.	Subordination	149
X.	Values	157
XI.	Emotion	172
XII.	Atmosphere	184
XIII.	Contrasts	205
XIV.	Climaxes	212
XV.	Concluding Remarks on Method	224
XVI.	Literary Interpretation	231
Index		291

Med.	Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?
Med.	What tributaries follow him to Rome,
Fast.	To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?
Slow.	You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
Very slow.	O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Med. and fast.	Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Fast.	Have you climb’d up to walls and battlements,
Fast.	To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Med.	Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
Med.	The livelong day, with patient expectation,
Med.	To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
Med.	And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Fast.	Have you not made an universal shout,
Fast.	That Tiber trembled underneath her banks,
Fast.	To hear the replication of your sounds
Fast.	Made in her concave shores?
Slow.	And do you now put on your best attire?
Med.	And do you now cull out a holiday?
Med.	And do you now strew flowers in his way,
Fast.	That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood?
	Begone!
Med.	Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Slow.	Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
Slow.	That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Barbara Frietchie	Whittier	71
Charge of the Light Brigade	Tennyson	236
Horatius (The Lays of Ancient Rome)	Macaulay	266
How They Brought the Good News From Ghent to Aix	Robert Browning	212
The Fight of Paso del Mar	Bayard Taylor	193
The Peace-Pipe (Hiawatha)	Longfellow	256
The Quarrel Scene (Julius Caesar)	Shakespeare	284
The Revenge	Tennyson	244
Young Lochinvar	Scott	254