The Ontario Readers: The High School Reader, 1886
by Ontario. Department of Education · English · Gutenberg #19923 · 768,626 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Ontario Readers: The High School Reader, 1886
Author: Ontario. Department of Education
Release date: November 27, 2006 [eBook #19923]
Language: English
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=The Ontario Readers.=
THE
HIGH SCHOOL READER.
AUTHORIZED FOR USE IN THE PUBLIC AND HIGH SCHOOLS
AND COLLEGIATE INSTITUTES OF ONTARIO BY THE
DEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION.
Toronto:
ROSE PUBLISHING COMPANY.
1886.
_Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and eighty-six, by the_ MINISTER OF EDUCATION
_for Ontario, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture._
PRINTED AND BOUND BY
HUNTER, ROSE & CO.,
TORONTO.
PREFACE.
The selections in the HIGH SCHOOL READER have been chosen with the
belief that to pupils of such advancement as is required for entrance
into High Schools and Collegiate Institutes, oral reading should be
taught from the best literature, inasmuch as it not only affords a wide
range of thought and sentiment, but it also demands for its appropriate
vocal interpretation such powers of sympathy and appreciation as are
developed only by culture; and it is to impart culture that these
institutions of higher learning have been established.
Experience has shown that it is from their ordinary reading books that
pupils obtain their chief practical acquaintance with literature, and
the selections here presented have been made with this in remembrance.
They have been taken from the writings of authors of acknowledged
representative character; and they have been arranged for the most part
chronologically, so that pupils may unconsciously obtain some little
insight into the history of the development of the literary art. They
have also been so chosen as to convey a somewhat fair idea of the
relative value and productivity of authorship in the three great
English-speaking communities of the world--the mother countries, our
neighbours' country, and our own.
While a limited space, if nothing else, prevents the collection here
made from being a complete anthology, yet it does pretend to represent
the authors selected in characteristic moods, and (in so far as is
possible in a school book, and a reading text-book) to present a
somewhat fair perspective of the world of authorship. It may be said
that, if this be so, some names are conspicuously absent: McGee,
Canada's poet-orator; Parkman, who has given to our country a place in
the portraiture of nations; William Morris, the chief of the modern
school of romanticism; Tyndall, who of the literature of science has
made an art; Lamb, daintiest of humorists; Collins, "whose range of
flight," as Swinburne says, "was the highest of his generation." Either
from lack of space, or from some inherent unsuitableness in such
selections as might otherwise have been made, it was found impossible
to represent these names worthily; but as they are all more or less
adequately represented in the _Fourth Reader_, the teacher who may wish
to correct the perspective here presented may refer his pupils to the
pieces from these authors there given. It may be added, too, that
the body of recent literature is so enormous, that no adequate
representation of it (at any rate as regards quantity) is possible
within the limits of one book.
The selections in poetry, with but three necessary exceptions, are
complete wholes, and represent, as fairly as single pieces can, the
respective merits and styles of their authors. The selections in prose
cannot, of course, lay claim to this excellence; but they are all
complete in themselves, or have been made so by short introductions; and
it is hoped that they too are not unfairly representative of their
authors. In many cases they are of somewhat unusual length; by this,
however, they gain in interest and in representative character.
In some of the prose selections, passages have occasionally been
omitted, either because they interfered with the main narrative, or
because, as they added nothing to it, to omit them would be a gain of
space. In most cases these omissions are indicated by small asterisks.
All the selections, both in prose and in verse, have been made with
constant reference to their suitableness for the teaching of reading.
They are fitted to exemplify every mode of expression, except, perhaps,
that appropriate to a few of the stronger passions. It is not pretended
that they are all simple and easy. Many of them will require much
study and preparation before they can be read with that precision of
expression which is necessary to perfect intelligibility. The
chronological arrangement precludes grading; the teacher will decide
in what order the selections are to be read.
The introductory chapter is mainly intended to assist the teacher in
imparting to his pupils a somewhat scientific knowledge of the art of
reading. Of course the teacher will choose for himself his mode of
dealing with the chapter, but it has been written with the thought that
he should use it as a convenient series of texts, which he might expand
and illustrate in accordance with his opportunities and judgment.
Examples for illustration are indispensable to the successful study of
the principles described, and they should be sought for and obtained by
the teacher and pupils together (whenever possible they should be taken
from the READER), and should be kept labeled for reference and practice.
If the application of these principles be thus practically made by the
pupils themselves, they will receive a much more lasting impression of
their meaning and value than if the examples were given to them at no
cost of thought or search on their part.
To the teacher it is recommended that he should not be contented with
the short and necessarily imperfect exposition of the art of reading
therein given. The more familiar he is with the scientific principles
the more successfully will he be able to direct the studies and
practices of his pupils. Works on elocution are numerous and accessible.
Dr. Rush's _Philosophy of the Voice_ is perhaps the foundation of all
subsequent good work in the exposition of voice culture. Professor
Murdoch's _Analytic Elocution_ is an exhaustive and scholarly treatise
based upon it, and to the plan of treatment therein fully developed the
practical part of the introductory chapter has largely conformed.
The pleasing task remains of thanking those authors who have so kindly
responded to requests for permission to use selections from their works:
to President Wilson, for a sonnet from _Spring Wild Roses_, and for _Our
Ideal_; to Mr. Charles Sangster, for two sonnets from _Hesperus_; to Mr.
John Reade, for two poems from _The Prophecy of Merlin_; to Mr. Charles
Mair, for the scenes from _Tecumseh_; and to Professor C. G. D. Roberts,
for _To Winter_.
To Miss A. T. Jones, thanks are due for permission to use _Abigail
Becker_, recently published in the _Century Magazine_. The heroic acts
described in this poem seem so wonderful, so greatly superior to woman's
strength, even to human strength and endurance, to accomplish, that were
it possible to doubt its truthfulness, doubt one certainly would.
Nevertheless the poem is not only strictly in accordance with the facts,
it is even within and below them.
CONTENTS.
_(The Titles of the Selections in Poetry are printed in Italics.)_
NUMBER. TITLE. AUTHOR. PAGE.
I. King Solomon's Prayer and Blessing at the
Dedication of the Temple. HOLY BIBLE 33
II. Invitation. HOLY BIBLE 39
III. _The Trial Scene in the "Merchant of
Venice."_ SHAKESPEARE 40
IV. Of Boldness. BACON 53
V. _To Daffodils._ HERRICK 55
VI. Of Contentedness in all Estates and
Accidents. TAYLOR 56
VII. _To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars._ LOVELACE 61
VIII. Angling. WALTON 62
IX. _On the Morning of Christ's Nativity._ MILTON 67
X. Character of Lord Falkland. CLARENDON 76
XI. _Veni, Creator Spiritus._ DRYDEN 81
XII. _Lines printed under the Portrait of
Milton._ DRYDEN 82
XIII. _Reason_ DRYDEN 83
XIV. On the Love of Country as a Principle of
Action. STEELE 83
XV. The Golden Scales. ADDISON 88
XVI. Misjudged Hospitality. SWIFT 93
XVII. _From the "Essay on Man."_ POPE 96
XVIII. _Rule, Britannia._ THOMSON 101
XIX. The First Crusade. HUME 102
XX. _The Bard._ GRAY 111
XXI. On an Address to the Throne concerning
Affairs in America. CHATHAM 116
XXII. From "The Vicar of Wakefield." GOLDSMITH 127
XXIII. Meeting of Johnson with Wilkes. BOSWELL 133
XXIV. The Policy of the Empire in the First
Century. GIBBON 142
XXV. On the Attacks upon his Pension. BURKE 147
XXVI. Two Eighteenth Century Scenes. COWPER 155
XXVII. From "The School for Scandal." SHERIDAN 159
XXVIII. _The Cotter's Saturday Night._ BURNS 171
XXIX. _The Land o' the Leal._ LADY NAIRN 177
XXX. The Trial by Combat at the Diamond of
the Desert. SCOTT 179
XXXI. _To a Highland Girl._ WORDSWORTH 202
XXXII. _France: an Ode._ COLERIDGE 205
XXXIII. _Complaint and Reproof._ COLERIDGE 208
XXXIV. _The Well of St. Keyne._ SOUTHEY 209
XXXV. _The Isles of Greece._ BYRON 211
XXXVI. _Go where Glory Waits Thee._ MOORE 214
XXXVII. _Dear Harp of My Country._ MOORE 215
XXXVIII. _Come, ye Disconsolate._ MOORE 216
XXXIX. _On a Lock of Milton's Hair._ HUNT 217
XL. _The Glove and the Lions._ HUNT 217
XLI. _The Cloud._ SHELLEY 219
XLII. _On First Looking into Chapman's Homer._ KEATS 222
XLIII. _On the Grasshopper and the Cricket._ KEATS 222
XLIV. The Power and Danger of the Caesars. DE QUINCEY 223
XLV. Unthoughtfulness. DR. ARNOLD 227
XLVI. _The Bridge of Sighs._ HOOD 234
XLVII. _A Parental Ode to my Son._ HOOD 237
XLVIII. Metaphysics. HALIBURTON 239
XLIX. _Indian Summer._ LOVER 246
L. _To Helen._ PRAED 246
LI. _Horatius._ MACAULAY 247
LII. _The Raven._ POE 258
LIII. David Swan--A Fantasy. HAWTHORNE 262
LIV. _My Kate._ MRS. BROWNING 270
LV. _A Dead Rose._ MRS. BROWNING 271
LVI. _To the Evening Wind._ BRYANT 272
LVII. Death of the Protector. CARLYLE 274
LVIII. _Each and All._ EMERSON 282
LIX. Waterloo. LEVER 284
LX. _The Diver._ LYTTON 294
LXI. The Plague of Locusts. NEWMAN 299
LXII. _The Cane-bottom'd Chair._ THACKERAY 306
LXIII. The Reconciliation. THACKERAY 308
LXIV. _The Island of the Scots._ AYTOUN 315
LXV. The Gambling Party. BEACONSFIELD 321
LXVI. The Pickwickians Disport themselves on Ice. DICKENS 327
LXVII. _The Hanging of the Crane._ LONGFELLOW 336
LXVIII. Earthworms. DARWIN 342
LXIX. "_As Ships, Becalmed at Eve._" CLOUGH 346
LXX. _Duty._ CLOUGH 347
LXXI. _Sonnets._ HEAVYSEGE 349
LXXII. Dr. Arnold at Rugby. DEAN STANLEY 350
LXXIII. _Ode to the North-east Wind._ KINGSLEY 354
LXXIV. From "The Mill on the Floss." GEORGE ELIOT 356
LXXV. _The Cloud Confines._ ROSSETTI 359
LXXVI. _Barbara Frietchie._ WHITTIER 361
LXXVII. _Contentment._ HOLMES 364
LXXVIII. The British Constitution. GLADSTONE 367
LXXIX. _The Lord of Burleigh._ TENNYSON 370
LXXX. "_Break, Break, Break._" TENNYSON 373
LXXXI. _The "Revenge"._ TENNYSON 373
LXXXII. _Herve Riel._ BROWNING 378
LXXXIII. _Sonnet._ DR. WILSON 383
LXXXIV. _Our Ideal._ DR. WILSON 383
LXXXV. From the Apology of Socrates. JOWETT 384
LXXXVI. The Empire of the Caesars. FROUDE 389
LXXXVII. Of the Mystery of Life. RUSKIN 390
LXXXVIII. The Robin. LOWELL 397
LXXXIX. _The Old Cradle._ LOCKER 400
XC. _Rugby Chapel._ MATT. ARNOLD 401
XCI. _In the Orillia Woods._ SANGSTER 408
XCII. Morals and Character in the Eighteenth
Century. GOLDWIN SMITH 409
XCIII. A Liberal Education. HUXLEY 412
XCIV. _Too Late._ MRS. CRAIK 416
XCV. _Amor Mundi._ MISS ROSSETTI 417
XCVI. _Toujours Amour._ STEDMAN 418
XCVII. _England._ ALDRICH 419
XCVIII. _Rococo._ ALDRICH 420
XCIX. _Kings of Men._ JOHN READE 420
C. _Thalatta! Thalatta!_ JOHN READE 421
CI. _The Forsaken Garden._ SWINBURNE 422
CII. _A Ballad To Queen Elizabeth
of the Spanish Armada._ DOBSON 424
CIII. _Circe._ DOBSON 426
CIV. _Scenes from "Tecumseh."_ MAIR 426
CV. _The Return of the Swallows._ GOSSE 437
CVI. _Dawn Angels._ MISS ROBINSON 438
CVII. _Le Roi Est Mort._ MISS ROBINSON 439
CVIII. _To Winter._ ROBERTS 440
CIX. _Abigail Becker._ MISS JONES 442
SHORT EXTRACTS.
FIRST LINES. AUTHOR. PAGE.
He that cannot see well BACON 54
_Stone walls do not a prison make_ LOVELACE 55
When the heart is right BERKELEY 87
_It must be so--Plato, thou reasonest well_ ADDISON 92
_England, with all thy faults, I love thee still_ COWPER 154
_Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast_ COWPER 158
_Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us_ BURNS 170
_Life! we've been long together_ MRS. BARBAULD 178
_Rough wind, that moanest loud_ SHELLEY 218
_There is a book, who runs may read_ KEBLE 233
_There is no great and no small_ EMERSON 245
_Wellington, Thy great work is but begun_ ROSSETTI 293
_Sacrifice and self-devotion_ LORD HOUGHTON 320
_Flower in the crannied wall_ TENNYSON 366
_It fortifies my soul to know_ CLOUGH 369
_And yet, dear heart! remembering thee_ WHITTIER 372
_There is no land like England_ TENNYSON 377
_The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above_ CLOUGH 382
Be of good cheer then, my dear Crito SOCRATES 388
_What know we greater than the soul_ TENNYSON 407
_That is best blood that hath most iron in't_ LOWELL 411
_Such kings of shreds have woo'd and won her_ ALDRICH 419
INDEX OF AUTHORS.
NAME. PAGE.
ADDISON, JOSEPH 88, 92
ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY 419, 420
ARNOLD, MATTHEW 401
ARNOLD, THOMAS 227
AYTOUN, WM. EDMONDSTOUNE 315
BACON, LORD (FRANCIS) 53, 54
BARBAULD, ANNA LAETITIA 178
BEACONSFIELD, LORD (BENJAMIN DISRAELI) 321
BERKELEY, BISHOP (GEORGE) 87
BIBLE, THE HOLY 33, 39
BOSWELL, JAMES 133
BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT 270, 271
BROWNING, ROBERT 378
BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN 272
BURKE, EDMUND 147
BURNS, ROBERT 170, 171
BYRON, LORD (GEORGE GORDON NOEL) 211
CARLYLE, THOMAS 274
CHATHAM, LORD (WM. PITT) 116
CLARENDON, LORD 76
CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH 346, 347, 369, 382
COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR 205, 208
COWPER, WILLIAM 154, 155, 158
CRAIK, DINAH MARIA MULOCK 416
DARWIN, CHARLES 342
DE QUINCEY, THOMAS 223
DICKENS, CHARLES 327
DOBSON, AUSTIN 424, 426
DRYDEN, JOHN 81, 82, 83
ELIOT, GEORGE (MARIAN EVANS CROSS) 356
EMERSON, RALPH WALDO 245, 282
FROUDE, JAMES ANTHONY 389
GIBBON, EDWARD 142
GLADSTONE, WILLIAM EWART 367
GOLDSMITH, OLIVER 127
GOSSE, EDMUND WILLIAM 437
GRAY, THOMAS 111
HALIBURTON, THOMAS CHANDLER 239
HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL 262
HEAVYSEGE, CHARLES 349
HERRICK, ROBERT 55
HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL 364
HOOD, THOMAS 234, 237
HOUGHTON, LORD (RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES) 320
HUME, DAVID 102
HUNT, LEIGH 217
HUXLEY, THOMAS HENRY 412
JONES, AMANDA T. 412
JOWETT, BENJAMIN 384
KEATS, JOHN 222
KEBLE, JOHN 233
KINGSLEY, CHARLES 354
LEVER, CHARLES JAMES 284
LOCKER, FREDERICK 400
LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH 336
LOVELACE, RICHARD 55, 61
LOVER, SAMUEL 246
LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL 397, 411
LYTTON, LORD (EDWARD BULWER) 294
MACAULAY, LORD (THOMAS BABINGTON) 247
MAIR, CHARLES 426
MILTON, JOHN 67
MOORE, THOMAS 214, 215, 216
NAIRN, BARONESS (CAROLINA OLIPHANT) 177
NEWMAN, CARDINAL (JOHN HENRY) 299
POE, EDGAR ALLAN 258
POPE, ALEXANDER 96
PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH 246
READE, JOHN 420, 421
ROBERTS, CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS 440
ROBINSON, A. MARY F. 438, 439
ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA GEORGINA 417
ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL 293, 359
RUSKIN, JOHN 390
SANGSTER, CHARLES 408
SCOTT, SIR WALTER 179
SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM 40
SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE 218, 219
SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINSLEY 159
SMITH, GOLDWIN 409
SOUTHEY, ROBERT 209
STANLEY, DEAN (ARTHUR PENRHYN) 350
STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE 418
STEELE, SIR RICHARD 83
SWIFT, JONATHAN 93
SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES 422
TAYLOR, BISHOP (JEREMY) 56
TENNYSON, LORD (ALFRED) 366, 370, 373, 377, 407
THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE 306, 308
THOMSON, JAMES 101
WALTON, IZAAK 62
WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF 361, 372
WILSON, PRESIDENT (DANIEL) 383
WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM 202
INTRODUCTORY.
The ability to read well cannot be attained without much pains and
study. For even a moderate proficiency in the art of reading two
requirements are essential: (1) A cultivated mind quick to perceive the
sequence of thoughts which the words to be read logically express, and
equally quick in its power sympathetically to appreciate the sentiment
with which the words are informed--the feeling, emotion, passion, which
pervades them--but which they suggest rather than actually portray; and
(2) a voice so perfected that its utterances fall upon the ear of the
listener with pleasing effect, and so flexible that it can be managed
skilfully to convey to him the full meaning and force of all the ideas
and sentiments formally expressed by the words or latent in them. Of
these two requirements the first is undeniably the more important; and
that training in the art of reading in which the close, persistent, and
liberal study of literature for its own sake has not proceeded _pari
passu_ with the requisite exercises for the development of the powers of
the voice and with the study of the principles of vocal interpretation,
has resulted in a meretricious accomplishment of very illusive value.
Nor will the special study and accurate mastery of a number of
individual selections give that readiness of mental apprehension which
is indispensable to a good reader. The ability quickly to recognize
word-forms and to utter them with ease, to catch the drift of ideas, and
to feel ready sympathy with change and flow in sentiment, is not to be
had without a long course of wide and varied reading. No one can become
a good reader by passing through, no matter how carefully, a set of
reading text-books merely. Pupils should be encouraged to read for
themselves. They should, of course, be guided in their selection of
reading matter, and they should be helped to acquire a taste for that
which is purest and most helpful in literature; but unless they form a
_habit_ of reading, and of reading thoughtfully and with precision, they
can never become good readers.
In oral reading, readiness and accuracy depend largely upon the
alertness and flexibility of the vocal organs, and to secure ease and
excellence in the working of their delicate mechanism much practice is
necessary. The pupil should persistently read aloud. A practice of this
sort, watchfully pursued, with a reasonable degree of self-discipline in
the correction or avoidance of errors, is helpful not alone in obtaining
a mastery of the reading art, and in mental culture,--it is equally
beneficial as a physical exercise. It will, however, be much more
efficacious of good, both of mind and of body, if pursued in accordance
with those principles of voice culture and of vocal interpretation,
which experience and special study have established.
But only a small proportion of all the reading that is done, is oral
reading. It is _silent_ reading that is universally employed as an
instrument of study, of business, of amusement. As a rule, however, very
little provision is made for the acquirement of a facility in silent
reading; this, it is thought, will result as a by-product of the regular
training in oral reading. Almost the reverse of this is true. Ease and
flexibility of articulation, quickness in catching the drift of ideas,
and readiness in varying the tones of the voice in the utterance of
words so as impressively to portray their latent sentiment,--all this is
possible with those alone to whom difficult word-forms, complex
sentence-structures, and the infinite variety and play of thought and
emotion, are more or less familiar through such a wide range of reading
as only the silent prosecution of it makes possible.
The art of oral reading, however, though not so generally needful as
silent reading, is still of great importance to everyone in respect of
its practical utility simply,--though few of those whose duty it is to
read aloud in public, do so either with accuracy or grace; as an
accomplishment which may be used to give pleasure to others, it is, when
perfectly possessed, not excelled by any other; so that as an
acquisition which puts one in a position of vantage either for
benefitting one's self or for bestowing delight or benefit upon others,
it is worth every necessary struggle for its attainment.
One of the most valuable results of oral reading when systematically
pursued as a school study, is the effect which it has in improving the
tones of the voice for ordinary conversation and discourse, and in
securing some measure of orthoepy as a fixed habit of utterance.
Conversational speech is notoriously slovenly. The sonority of our
vowels is lost, and their distinguishing qualities are obscured;
and with unnoticed frequency our consonants are either dropped or
amalgamated with one another. Yet, while amendment in these matters
is to be striven for, there is nothing that the teacher who wishes
to establish habits of orthoepy has to be more watchful in guarding
against, than bestowing upon his pupils an affected or mincing
utterance, all the more ludicrous and objectionable, it may be,
in that a certain set of words are pronounced with over-nicety,
while almost all others are left in a state of neglected vulgarity.
Too frequently the study of oral reading is pursued with reference
solely to the prospective public use of the art in the declamation of
prepared passages; and the elocution-master's science has been brought
into some discredit by wide discrepancies between the performances of
his pupils in their well-drilled and often hackneyed selections and
their ability to read unfamiliar pieces at sight. It is quite true that
voice culture is greatly aided by the close study and frequent rendering
of selections suitably chosen for the elocutionary difficulties which
they present; but it should never be forgotten that good reading, the
sort of reading which the schoolmaster should above all else endeavor to
make his pupils proficient in, implies the ability so to read a plain
account, a story, an oration, a play, or what not, _at sight_, with
absolute correctness as to pronunciation, with such clearness of
articulation and appropriateness of sentence utterance as will make it
perfectly audible and intelligible to one's auditors, and with such
suitable and impressive intonations as will put them in full possession
of those emotions which may be said to be the essence or spirit of the
piece;--and, moreover, to do all this with pleasure to one's hearers and
with ease to one's self. Now as comparatively few readers are ever
required to read in public, and as in the home-circle everyone ought to
read, it is plain that the first duty of the teacher of elocution is to
develop in his pupils a mastery of such a style of reading as is
appropriate to small audiences; and, _then_, if he have time and
opportunity, to extend and amplify the practice of his art so as to fit
such as are capable of fuller mastery of it to appear before greater
audiences. For though all voices are capable of being much improved
through cultivation, few only can be adapted to the requirements of
a large auditorium; and the care and attention which should be devoted
to the benefit of all should not be spent for the advantage merely of
the few.
And moreover, those practices and studies which voice culture and the
attainment of a knowledge of the principles of vocal interpretation
demand, may be pursued by all in common. That alone which is necessary
for the public reader or orator, is a more extended, and, perhaps, a
more earnest and thoughtful practice.
Although practices for the improvement of the voice cannot proceed far
without attention to the principles of vocal interpretation, and though
the study of the latter necessarily includes the former, yet for the
sake of clearness the elementary principles of voice culture may be
discussed separately from their application in the interpretation of
thought and sentiment.
With respect both to articulation and expression _the generic properties
of the voice are five_, namely: _Quality_, _Pitch_, _Force_, _Time_,
_Abruptness_. Of these properties there are, of course, many modes or
degrees, but the voice must, in every tone that it utters, manifest
itself in some mode or other of each; and it is the possibility of
infinite choice in the ways of combining the modes that gives to vocal
expression its infinite possibility of variety. The principles of voice
culture will be best understood, however, if these properties be
considered separately.
=Quality= has reference to the _kind_ of the voice in respect of its
smoothness or roughness, sonority or thinness, musicalness or harshness;
also in respect of the completeness of its vocality.
=Pitch= has reference to the degree of elevation or depression in what
is called in music the _scale_. It may be used specifically, in
reference to single tones or syllables (either as to their opening, or
as to their whole utterance), or generally, as descriptive of the
prevailing tone or note which the voice assumes in reading a sentence or
passage.
=Force= has reference to the power or intensity with which the sounds of
the voice are uttered. When force is used in the utterance of single
syllables, in whole or in part, it is spoken of as =Stress=.
=Time= is rate of utterance. It is used with reference both to single
syllables, and to phrases, sentences, and passages. In regard to single
syllables it is sometimes called =Quantity=. In the consideration of
time may be included that of _pauses_ and _rhythms_.
=Abruptness= has reference to the relative suddenness with which
syllables may be uttered. It may vary from the most delicate opening to
a forcible explosion.
Vocality depends upon respiration. All exercises, therefore, which are
effective in increasing the vigor, freedom, and elasticity of the
breathing apparatus, may be taken as initiatory steps in voice culture;
and, in moderation, they should be practised continually. Full, slow
inspirations followed by slow, and, as far as possible, complete
expirations; full, quick inspirations similarly followed; full
inspirations followed by sudden and forcible expirations; full, deep
inspirations, followed by slow, slightly but distinctly audible
expirations, as in deep sighing; these and similar practices may be
pursued. What is to be aimed at is to secure complete control of the
breath, especially to the degree that, with perfect deliberateness, it
can be equably and smoothly effused.
In all exercises where vocality is required it is best _first_ to use
the sound of _ae_, as in _far_, for in this sound the quality of the
human voice is heard in most perfection, and in uttering it the vocal
organs are most flexible and most easily adapt themselves to change. It
may be preceded by the aspirate _h_, or by some consonant, as may be
thought necessary.
In effective speaking or reading, _with respect to the abruptness and
rapidity of expiration there are three modes of utterance_: the
=effusive=, by which the voice is poured forth smoothly and equably, the
=expulsive= and the =explosive=. Of these three modes the effusive is by
far the most important, but the others, and especially the expulsive,
have their uses also. These modes will be illustrated in the following
exercise:
EXERCISE.--1. After a full and deliberate inspiration let the
expiration of the element _h_ be gently effected, until the
lungs are exhausted--the aspiration coming from the very depths
of the throat. Let this be repeated with the syllable _haeh_,
audibly whispered. This is _effusive_ utterance.
2. After a full and deliberate inspiration let the expiration of
the element _h_ be suddenly effected, the expiration being
continued until the whispering sound vanishes in the bottom of
the throat. Let this be repeated with the syllable _haeh_,
audibly whispered. This is _expulsive_ utterance.
3. Let the exercise be the same as in (2) except that the
expiration is to be much more forcibly effected, and completed
almost instantaneously. This is _explosive_ utterance.
In the cultivation of the voice either one of two ends is generally kept
in view--its improvement for speaking or its improvement for singing;
but progress may be made towards both ends by the same study, and those
exercises which benefit the singing voice benefit the speaking voice,
and _vice versa_. _The distinction between speaking tones and singing
tones should be clearly understood._ Musical tones are produced by
isochronous (equal-timed) vibrations of the vocal organs continued for
some length of time. Hence, a musical tone is a _note_, which may be
prolonged at will without varying in pitch, either up or down. A
speaking tone, on the contrary, is produced by vibrations which are not
isochronous; it is not a _note_, properly so called, and can not be
prolonged, without varying in pitch. Musical tones are _discrete_,--the
voice passes from pitch to pitch through the intervals silently. In
speaking, _every_ tone, however short the time taken in uttering it,
passes from one pitch to some other through an interval _concretely_,
that is, with continuous vocality; though, with respect to one another,
speech syllables, like notes in music, are discrete. This may be
exemplified by uttering the words, "_Where are you going?_" In singing
these words, they may be uttered on the same note, or on different
notes, or, indeed, with different notes for the same word; but the voice
_skips_ from note to note through the intervals. In speaking the words,
each is uttered with an inflection or intonation in which the voice
varies in pitch, but passes through the interval concretely; the
separate words, however, and the separate syllables (if there were any)
being uttered discretely. Musical utterance might be graphically
illustrated by a series of horizontal lines of less or greater length
succeeding one another at different distances above or below a fixed
horizontal line. In a similar notation for speech utterance the lines
would all be curved, to represent the concrete passage through the
various intervals. _It is the concrete intonation of every syllable and
monosyllabic word which gives to speech its distinctive character from
music._ Each syllable and monosyllabic word is called a =concrete=, and
_it is with the concrete in all its various possibilities of utterance
that voice culture has mainly to do_.
The intervals traversed by the voice in uttering the concrete are very
variable. Using the musical scale for reference it may be said that in
ordinary speech they are generally of but one, or, at most, two notes.
In animated discourse or passionate utterance the intervals may be
greater. For illustration, let the pronoun "_I_" be uttered in a tone of
interrogative surprise; a concrete with a rising interval will be the
result. The more the surprise is emphasized, especially if indignation
be conjoined with it, the greater will be the interval that the voice
passes through in uttering the concrete. If the word "_lie_" be given
immediately after the pronoun with the same intensity of feeling, the
voice discretely descends from the high pitch heard at the end of the
utterance of the pronoun, and in uttering the next concrete, again
ascends through an interval, of less or more extent according to the
emphasis which is imparted to it.
Again, in speech of sorrow, murmuring, piteous complaint, and the like,
concrete intervals of less extent than those used in ordinary discourse
are often heard. Thus, if the sentence "_Pity me, kind lady, I have no
mother_," be uttered with a plaintive expression, concretes with small
intervals will be distinctly noticeable; but it will be also noticed
that with respect to one another the syllables are discretely uttered,
just as in the sentence where the concrete intervals were much greater.
Without intending a scientifically accurate and rigid statement, it may
be said (again borrowing the terminology of music) that in ordinary
speech the concretes are uttered with intervals of a _second_, or at
most a _third_; that in very expressive or impassioned utterance
intervals of a _fifth_ or an _octave_ are frequently used; and that the
mode of progression from syllable to syllable is _diatonic_, that is,
not concretely, but discretely from tone to tone; and further, that in
plaintive language, the syllables are uttered concretely with intervals
of a _semitone_ only, but that the mode of progression from syllable to
syllable is still discrete.
Sometimes, but rarely, syllables are uttered _tremulously_, or with a
_tremor_; that is, with constituent intervals of less than a semitone,
uttered discretely in rapid succession, and passing, in the aggregate,
through an interval of more or less width. An exaggerated form of this
utterance may be heard in the neighing of a horse.
EXERCISE.--1. Utter the syllable _pae_ as a concrete, with rising
and falling intervals, severally, of a _second_, _third_,
_fifth_, and an _octave_; also with intervals of a _semitone_;
also with a _tremor_. Let the exercise be varied so as to
include many degrees of initial pitch. Use a diagram of a
musical staff for reference.
2. Read with exaggerated impressiveness, "_Am_ =I= _to be your
slave?_ =No!="
In the pronunciation of the letter [=a], as in _pate_, two sounds are
heard: the first is that of the name of the letter, which is uttered
with some degree of fulness; the second is that of _[=e]_ in _mete_,
but, as it were, tapering and vanishing;--in the meantime the voice
traverses a rising interval of one tone, that is, of a second. The
utterance of these two sounds, although the sounds themselves are
distinct, is completely continuous, from the full opening of the one to
the vanishing close of the other, and it is impossible to say where the
first ends and where the last begins. It is essential, however, to
consider them separately. The first is called the =radical movement=,
and the second the =vanishing movement=; and these together constitute
the entire concrete.
All the vowels do not equally well exemplify in their utterance a
_distinction of sound_ in their radical and vanishing movements, because
some vowel sounds are less diphthongal than others, and some, again, are
pure monophthongs; but _these two movements and the concrete variation
of pitch, the result of one impulse of the voice, are the essential
structure of every syllable_, and are characteristic of speech-notes as
contradistinguished from those of song.
When the radical and vanishing movements are effected smoothly,
distinctly, and without intensity or emotion, commencing fully and with
some abruptness, and terminating gently and almost inaudibly, the result
is the =equable concrete=. This of course may be produced with
intervals, either upward or downward, of any degree--tone, semitone,
third, fifth, or octave. It must be said, however, that some syllables,
and even some vowels, lend themselves more easily than others to that
prolonged utterance which is essential to the production of wide
intervals and the perfectness of the vanishing movement.
The equable concrete is the natural, simple mode of utterance; but under
the influence of interest, excitement, passion, and so on, the utterance
of the concrete may be greatly varied from this by means of _stress_, or
force applied to some part or to all of its extent. The different
variations may be described as follows:
(1) =Radical Stress=, where force is applied to the opening of the
concrete. (It should be said that a slight degree of radical stress is
given even in the equable concrete, producing its full, clear opening.)
(2) =Loud Concrete=, where force is applied throughout the whole
concrete, the proportion of the radical to the vanish remaining
unaltered.
(3) =Median Stress=, where force is applied to the middle of the
concrete, producing a swell, or impressive fulness.
(4) =Compound Stress=, where force is applied in an unusual degree
to each extremity of the concrete.
(5) =Final Stress=, where force is applied to the end of the concrete,
the radical stress being somewhat diminished in fulness.
(6) =Thorough Stress=, where force is so applied that the concrete has
the same fulness throughout.
EXERCISE.--With the syllable _pae_ exemplify the _equable
concrete_ and the several varieties of _stress_, using different
degrees of initial or radical pitch, and the various intervals
of the tone, semitone, third, fifth, and octave. The exercises
for the radical stress should be first aspirated, then repeated
with full vocality.
Besides the forms of the simple rising and falling intervals in which
the concrete is generally uttered, there is another form, called the
=wave=, effected by a union of these modes. It is of two varieties: (1)
where a rising movement is continued into a falling movement, called the
=direct wave=; (2) where a falling movement is continued into a rising
movement, called the =inverted wave=. Waves may pass through all
varieties of intervals, and may be either (1) _equal_, where the voice
in both members passes through the same interval; or (2) _unequal_,
where in one flexion the interval traversed by the voice is greater than
in the other.
EXERCISE.--With the syllable _p[=a]_ exemplify the different
kinds of _waves_, with the same variations of radical pitch,
interval, and stress, as before.
The elementary sounds of speech are of three natural divisions; the
_tonics_, the _subtonics_, and the _atonics_.
The =Tonics= are the simple vowels and diphthongs. They are of perfect
vocality; they admit the concrete rise and fall through all the
intervals of pitch; they may be uttered with more abruptness than the
other elements; and being capable of indefinite prolongation they can
receive the most perfect exemplification of the vanishing movement. They
may be said to be: _[a:]_, as in _all_; _ae_, as in _arm_; _[.a]_, as in
_ask_; _[)a]_, as in _an_; _[=a]_, as in _ate_; _a_, as in _air_;
_[=e]_, as in _eve_; _[)e]_, as in _end_; _e_, as in _err_; _[=i]_, as
in _ice_; _[)i]_, as in _inn_; _[=o]_, as in _old_; _oe_, as in _or_;
_[)o]_, as in _odd_; _[=u]_, as in _use_; _[)u]_, as in _up_;
_[=o][=o]_, as in _ooze_; _[)o][)o]_, as in _book_; _oi_, as in _oil_;
_ou_, as in _out_. (There are various ways of arranging and classifying
these.)
EXERCISE.--Exemplify generally the equable concrete, loud
concrete, radical stress, and median stress, with upward and
downward intervals, with clear, sharp openings, and with
gradually attenuated vanishes, upon each of the _tonic
elements_.
The =Subtonics= possess the properties of vocality and prolongation in
some degree, but much less perfectly than the tonics, and their vocality
(known as the _vocal murmur_) is the same for all. They are as
follows:--_b_, _d_, _g_, _v_, _z_, _y_, _w_ (as in _woe_), _th_ (as in
_then_), _zh_ (as _z_ in _azure_), j (as in _judge_, by some considered
not elementary), _l_, _m_, _n_, _ng_ (as in _sing_), _r_ (as in _ran_),
and _r_ (as in _far_). They can not, without great effort, be given an
abrupt opening, and so are not capable of much radical fulness, but from
their property of vocality they can receive, to a considerable degree,
an exemplification of the vanishing movement.
EXERCISE.--Utter the word _bud_ slowly, and detach from the rest
of the word the obscure murmur heard in pronouncing the first
letter: this is the _subtonic_ represented by _b_. Utter this
sound with different degrees of initial pitch, and with
different intervals, both downward and upward. Produce as full
an opening of the radical movement as possible, but do not
attempt to give it much stress. Obtain in every case a distinct
vanish. Be careful not to convert the subtonic into a tonic.
Proceed in a similar manner with the other subtonics. Then,
distinctly obtaining the subtonics, unite them severally with
the sound of _ae_, first forcibly, then more gently, producing
such syllables as _bae_, _dae_, etc., which may be rendered with
upward and downward intervals, and with different degrees of
initial pitch. Finally, with such syllables as _aeb_, _aed_, _aeg_,
_aev_, etc., exemplify all the varieties of stress.
The =Atonics= correspond with the first eleven of the subtonics as given
above, from which they differ almost alone in having _no_ vocality. They
are _p_, _t_, _k_, _f_, _s_, _h_, _wh_ (as in _when_), _th_ (as in
_thin_), _sh_, and _ch_ (as in _child_, by some considered not
elementary).
EXERCISE.--1. Form a list of such words as _pipe_, _tote_,
_kick_, _fife_, _siss_, etc., and severally utter them slowly,
holding the final element for a moment, and then letting the
breath escape suddenly; then, holding the initial letter firmly
for a moment let it come forcibly against the sound of the
remainder of the word, producing an abrupt opening, and radical
stress of the vowel concrete. 2. Aspirate strongly the atonics
as given above.
EXERCISE RECAPITULATORY.--1. Produce the syllable _pae_ in an
articulate whisper in all the different varieties of pitch,
interval, and stress. 2. Repeat with such syllables as _paw_,
_pooh_, _p[=o]h_, etc. 3. Utter these syllables (1) expulsively,
(2) explosively, with varying intervals both upward and
downward, and producing distinct and clearly attenuated
vanishes. 4. Select some passage of poetry involving passionate
thought, and read in articulated whispers, with appropriate
intonations, somewhat exaggerated, it may be. Let the intervals
and stresses be slowly and distinctly given. 5. Repeat the
exercise in a half whisper. 6. Next read the passage over
several times in pure vocality, without exaggeration, increasing
the strength of the utterance until it is as full and ringing as
possible. Care must be taken that the utterance is in reality
full and ringing, not sharp and hard. Let the pitch chosen be
not too high--as low as possible; and let the tones come mainly
from the chest and lower part of the throat.
NOTE.--In all the exercises care should be taken that they be performed
easily and naturally, with perfect deliberation and without undue force;
else they will be harmful rather than useful.
EXERCISE IN CONCRETE INTERVALS CONTINUED.--1. Read with
appropriate intonations: "_Did you say [a:], as in all?_"--"_No,
I said ae, as in arm_,"--producing in the emphatic syllables
suitable rising or falling intervals of _one tone_. Then repeat,
but with greater emphasis, producing intervals of a third, a
fifth, or an octave. Vary the sentences so as to include all the
tonic elements. 2. With each tonic element, severally, produce
first a rising and then a falling interval, each of a tone; then
intervals of a third, a fifth, and an octave. 3. Extend the
exercise so as to produce with each element, and with all the
various intervals, a series or succession of rising and falling
intervals, thus: _rising, falling, rising, falling_, etc. Use
the blackboard and the musical scale for illustration and
reference.
Syllables vary greatly in their capacity for prolongation, and in this
respect are classified into _immutable_, _mutable_, and _indefinite_.
=Immutable Syllables= are almost incapable of prolongation; they are
those which end in one of the abrupt atonic elements, _p_, _t_, _k_; as
_tip_, _hit_, _kick_; or in one of the abrupt subtonics, _b_, _d_, _g_;
as _tub_, _thud_, _pug_. Some syllables that so end, by virtue of tonic
or subtonic elements which they may contain, are capable of _some_
prolongation; for example, _warp_, _dart_, _block_, _grab_, _dread_,
_grog_. These are called =Mutable Syllables=.
=Indefinite Syllables= are capable of almost indefinite prolongation;
they are those which terminate in a tonic, or any subtonic except one of
the three abrupt subtonics, _b_, _d_, _g_; for example, _awe_, _fudge_,
_hail_, _arm_.
NOTE.--It must be remembered that when for the sake of exercise or
effect syllables are extended in time, they must be so uttered that
their identity is not impaired,--that is, their enunciation must be
free from mouthing.
As has been remarked before our pronunciation of vowels is notoriously
careless; but by a little attention anyone can easily free himself from
this reproach. Frequent practice in the accurate enunciation of the
tonic elements as given above, and a habit of watchfulness established
as to the orthoepy of those which are most easily obscured, in all words
in which they occur, will soon secure, if not a resonant, sonorous
utterance with respect to the tonic elements, at least a correct
pronunciation. But the correct and distinct pronunciation of the
subtonic, and especially of the atonic, elements, when they occur,
as is so frequent in English words, in combination, is not so easily
accomplished; and orthoepy, in this respect, as a _habit_, cannot be
secured without great care and incessant practice. For example, the
word _months_ is habitually pronounced by almost everyone as if it
were spelled _munce_. The following list for practice will afford
material to begin with; other lists should be prepared by the teacher.
_Plinth, blithe, sphere, shriek, quote, whether, tipt, depth, robed,
hoofed, calved, width, hundredth, exhaust, whizzed, hushed, ached,
wagged, etched, pledged, asked, dreamt, alms, adapts, depths, lefts,
heav'ns, meddl'd, beasts, wasps, hosts, exhausts, gasped, desks,
selects, facts, hints, healths, tenths, salts, builds, wilds, milked,
mulcts, elms, prob'd'st, think'st, hold'st, attempt'st, want'st,
heard'st, mask'st._
EXERCISE.--Utter the words in the above list in distinct
articulate whispers; then with vocality, softly and gently.
Avoid hissing and mouthing.
While, in reading, distinct enunciation is an excellence to be aimed at,
yet the words of a sentence should not be uttered as if completely
severed from one another. Every sentence falls naturally into _groups_,
the several groups being composed of words related in sense; and for
impressive reading the words of each group should be _implicated_, or
tied together. For example, in the line, _Once upon a midnight dreary,
while I ponder'd, weak and weary_, there are naturally three groups; in
the line, _The quality of mercy is not strain'd_, there is but one. In
these groups the terminal sound of each word is implicated with the
initial sound of the succeeding word. If the terminal sound is a tonic,
or a flowing subtonic, the implication consists of a gentle murmuring
prolongation of the terminal element coalescing with the initial element
of the next word; if the terminal element is a flowing atonic the
prolongation will not be accompanied by a murmur; but in either case the
vocal organs, while prolonging the sound of one word, prepare, as it
were, to begin the next. If the terminal element be one of the abrupt
subtonics the vocal murmur is difficult to produce, and in this case,
and also when the terminal element is an abrupt atonic, there is a
suspension of the voice for a time equal to that occupied by the
murmuring prolongation in the other cases; but the organs keep the
position which they have in finishing the one word until they relax to
take position for the utterance, with renewed exertion, of the opening
sound of the next.
It must be added that this implication is not confined to the component
words of a group; for the sake of impressiveness the groups themselves
are often implicated,--but by suspension of the voice and a maintenance
of the vocal organs in their previous position, before they suddenly
relax to form the opening sound of the first word in their next group,
rather than by the murmuring prolongation above described.
EXERCISE.--Read with suitable implication: (1) _O Tiber! father
Tiber! to whom the Romans pray, a Roman's life, a Roman's arms,
take thou in charge this day!_ (2) _But still the patriot, and
the patriot-bard, in bright succession raise, her ornament and
guard._
The nicety with which implication should be effected depends, like
exactness of articulation, upon the gravity, complexity, fervor, grace,
beauty, or other distinguishing and elevated quality of the thoughts and
sentiments contained in the words to be read. Common-place ideas are
couched, as a rule, in common-place language, and require no nice
discrimination of sounds, or other refinement of utterance, for their
full rendering; but in true poetry and impassioned prose implication is
no mean instrument of effectual interpretation.
The speaking voice, like the singing voice, is capable of utterance
through a considerable range of pitch--in highly cultivated voices, of
three octaves; in less highly cultivated voices, of one octave; but for
all voices, not perverted by bad habit, there are three or four notes,
of moderate height, upon which utterance is most easy and natural, and
most capable of great and sustained effort. These notes should be
selected as the =normal pitch= of discourse.
In speaking or reading, except in certain infrequent cases, the _whole_
of the breath expired from the lungs should be utilized in producing
=pure vocality=. Should any breath be spent in aspiration, or in
hissing, or in guttural enunciation, the vocality is said to be
=impure=. Impure vocality, it is true, has its own appropriate use, in
the representation of certain emotional states of the mind. Pure
vocality is heard naturally in the tones of children at play; but in
adults, through carelessness or injudicious education, it is often
wanting.
The mechanism of the voice is very complicated and not thoroughly
understood. It is a matter of common experience, however, that in the
utterance of tones of low pitch, whether speech tones or musical, the
voice seems to come from the chest rather than from the head; and, in
the utterance of tones of high pitch, on the other hand, it seems to
come from the head rather than from the chest; so that all tones are
said to belong either to the _lower_ or _chest register_, or to the
_higher_ or _head register_. As both chest tones and head tones may be
obscured by impurities, and their resonance diminished or destroyed by
defective enunciation, the pure, clear, ringing utterance of tones of
both registers should be constantly striven for. The normal pitch of
utterance, referred to above, should always be such that the tones
comprised in it can be produced either from the head or from the chest,
at will; but for sustained efforts, for the best effects both of reading
and of oratory, the chest tones are much to be preferred, since, as
compared with head tones, they are capable of being produced with
greater resonance and penetrating power, and, for any considerable
length of time, with greater ease to the speaker.
All tones of the human voice, whether speaking or musical, whether of
the head or of the chest, are spoken of as having =quality=, or
=timbre=, and the term is also used more generally in reference to the
whole compass of utterance. The quality of the voice is its most
distinguishing characteristic, and it is upon its cultivation and
improvement that the greatest efforts of the student should be spent.
Pure voice is usually spoken of as being manifested in two qualities,
the _natural_ and the _orotund_.
=Natural Quality= may be described as a head tone to which some degree
of resonance is given by the chest; but the brilliancy of its resonance
is produced by its reverberation against the bony arch of the mouth. It
may, of course, vary in pitch, but tones of low pitch that are intended
to be impressive are most suitably rendered in orotund quality. In its
perfect manifestations, the natural quality should be clear, ringing,
light, and sparkling,--if it be possible to describe its characteristics
by such metaphorical words.
=Orotund Quality= is the result only of cultivation, but no speaker or
reader can produce those finer effects which are the appropriate symbols
of strong and deep emotion, whose voice cannot assume this mode at will.
It differs from the natural mode in obtaining from the chest a greater
supply of air, and a deeper and fuller resonance, and the reverberations
seem to be against the walls of the pharynx, or posterior regions of the
mouth, rather than against the palate, or upper part of the mouth. In
fulness, strength, and ringing quality, it is superior to the natural
mode, but not distinct from it; in clearness and smoothness it should be
equal to it. As it befits a chest tone rather than a head tone, it is
natural to utterances in medium and low pitch; but it must not be
confounded with low pitch simply, nor must its characteristic fulness be
taken for loudness simply. With the orotund, as well as with the natural
quality, all the voice modes previously described may be conjoined.
EXERCISE.--1. With the syllable _haeh_, make an expiration in the
voice of whisper, forcing slowly all air out from the chest.
Then give to this expiration vocality, producing the
reverberation far back in the mouth: the resulting utterance is
a _hoarse exemplification of the orotund_. With the mouth in the
position of a yawn, making the cavity of reverberation as large
as possible, repeat the exercise until the utterance can be
produced smoothly and without hoarseness. 2. Form similar
syllables containing other tonic elements, and make similar
exercises, taking care to produce a smooth, effusive utterance.
3. Select a sentence such as "_Roll on thou deep and dark blue
ocean, roll_," abounding in long open vowels and indefinite
syllables, and using suitable intonations read it in low pitch,
with full, resonant chest tones. Then gradually raise the pitch,
still obtaining the tones from the chest and uttering them with
full resonance. 4. With such syllables as _haeh_, _you_, _now_,
_man_, _war_, _hail_, _fool_, practise in orotund voice the
various exercises for pitch, concrete intervals, waves, stress,
etc., previously suggested. 5. Read with feeling and appropriate
intonations selected sentences from compositions of elevated or
impassioned diction, as "Solomons's Prayer" (p. 35), "The Hymn"
(p. 68), "France" (p. 205).
Of the various qualities (as they are called) of impure voice, the
=Aspirate=, the =Sibilant=, and the =Guttural= are defined with
sufficient clearness, by their names. Though these modes can be
appropriately used only occasionally, nevertheless they are of great
value to the reader, and the voice should be trained to assume them
whenever necessary. Great care must be exercised, however, that
impurities shall never be present as characteristics of _normal_
utterance; this, whether from the head or chest, should be distinct,
sonorous, and smooth, and should exhaust every particle of air expired.
Another impure quality is the =Pectoral=, which is an aspiration
produced, as it were, from the lowest cavities of the chest; and still
another is the =Falsetto=, an unnatural voice, that seems to be produced
entirely in the upper cavities of the head. The employment of the
Falsetto at any time, either in speaking or reading, is of doubtful
taste.
EXERCISE.--1. With the syllable _haeh_ exemplify severally the
aspirate, guttural, and pectoral qualities, first with
insufficient vocality, then with sufficient. Exemplify the
sibilant impurity with such syllables as _pish_, _false_,
_traitress_, _miscreant_. In those exercises employ intervals of
varying lengths, different degrees of initial pitch, and the
several varieties of stress; and let the utterances be made
effusively, expulsively, and explosively. 2. Select appropriate
passages in "The Raven" (p. 258) for exercise in natural,
orotund, aspirate, guttural, and pectoral qualities. Read the
passages severally with appropriate intonations,--it may be
somewhat exaggeratingly. Then read the whole poem feelingly,
with appropriate, but not exaggerated intonations.
So far, what has been said has had reference mainly to the cultivation
and improvement of the voice, by the analogies and description of the
various effective modes in which it can be manifested, and by the
suggestion of suitable exercises for increasing its endurance, strength,
flexibility, and resonance. It remains now to discuss shortly some of
the principles of _vocal interpretation_,--that is, to discuss what
modes of voice-action are appropriate to the representation of the
various emotions which the wide range of literature presents to the
reader.
It must be said in respect of principles that only broad and easily
verifiable ones are of use, and even these may be abused by a too
rigorous adherence to them. The best rule that can be given, as indeed
it is founded on a principle of widest application, is that laid down in
the _Fourth Reader_:--_To give a faithful sympathetic attention to the
full meaning and sentiment of what is read, and to manage the voice so
as effectively to express this meaning and sentiment;_ since this will
always ensure a certain measure of appropriateness, if not the full
perfection of it. And it cannot be too much emphasized that even the
fullest knowledge and most patient study can establish for the reading
of any selection, or passage, or sentence, _none but general
directions_, since the same words may very frequently be rendered in
several ways, with differences of pitch, time, stress, quality,
implication, and so on, but with equal effectiveness and equal
appropriateness. And, on the other hand, any whole selection, even the
simplest, is far too complex in its thought and sentiment to be disposed
of in one general analysis, which shall predetermine the pitch, tone,
and stress, and the prevailing width of the intervals, and the direction
of the inflections; all these will vary from paragraph to paragraph, and
from sentence to sentence, even from word to word. To sum up, it may be
said that good reading demands as indispensable, quick-witted
intelligence, ready sympathy, and a voice so trained as to be flexible
and resonant; if the reader have this much endowment his reading will
always be effective, and, moreover, appropriate and impressive.
_All diction may be roughly described as exhibiting one of three states
of feeling:_ (1) that in which feeling, as it is generally understood,
is almost wanting; (2) that in which it is present in some considerable
degree; (3) that in which the feeling is present in an extreme degree,
dominating the ideas which the several sentences logically express. To
the first division, which may be called the =diction of discourse=,
belongs all language indicative of a quiet state of mind--formal
statement, narrative, description, simple argument or reasoning: it is
the language of all ordinary writing. To the second division, which may
be called the =diction of sentiment or feeling=, belongs all language
which indicates that the mind of the speaker, real or supposed, is in a
state of moderate excitement; that he is interested in the relation of
himself to others, and, consequently, in the effect of his utterances
upon them; or that, subjectively, he is interested in himself: it is the
language of admiration, reverence, awe, sincerity, dignity, of pathos,
supplication, penitence. To the third division, which may be called the
=diction of passion=, belongs all language expressive of deeper
excitement and more vehement interest than that described as animating
the diction of feeling: it is the language of earnest or anxious
interrogation, of passionate ejaculation, of powerful appeal, strong
accusation, and fierce denunciation; also, of contempt, derision, scorn,
loathing, anger, hate, and so on.
Voice, as we have seen, possesses five generic properties, pitch, force,
quality, time, and abruptness; and, in every spoken word, it must assume
some mode of _each_ of these properties, manifesting them in
co-existence. This conjoint mode, or _vocal sign_, as it is called,
should be the appropriate expression of the thought and feeling of which
the word, in its place in the sentence, is the _graphical sign_. Hence,
as each word in a sentence may be said to have its appropriate vocal
sign, so each variety of diction may be said to have its appropriate
vocal expression,--a latitude of choice in the constituent modes, and a
consequent indeterminateness in the resulting expression, being, of
course, always conceded.
The appropriate vocal expression for the diction of discourse may be
said to consist of the following modes:--normal pitch, simple
intonations, and waves of a second, moderate force, the equable
concrete varied by slight radical stress, in quality the natural mode,
in abruptness sufficient sharpness of opening to effect clear
articulation, and in time a moderate rate with effusive utterance.
As the diction rises above this plain unimpassioned character, and
becomes more and more informed with feeling and sentiment, the
constituent vocal signs, and hence the whole vocal expression, become
more and more expressive. In pitch there is frequent variation: in
expressions of joy, astonishment, or for command, the voice assumes
naturally a somewhat higher elevation; and with equal naturalness it
descends below its normal level to utter the language of grave, solemn,
and reverential feeling. Again, inasmuch as the interval of the second
is the plainest and simplest within the command of the voice, in such
diction as we are now considering, intervals of a third, a fifth, or
even an octave, may be heard, both in simple intonations and in waves.
Force, too, will not be unvaryingly applied, but will be greater or less
according as energy or passion may demand. In stress the equable
concrete will give place to the radical or to the final, to express
energetic resolve; or, in the language of pathos, exaltation, reverence,
supplication, and so on, to the median--the most effective of all modes
for the expression of such deep feeling as is compatible with slow
utterance. In time the rate of utterance will vary with the syllabic
quantities, these being short and crisp in the language of vivacious
conversation, but extended, and with distinct, attenuated vanishes, in
grave and important monologue. In quality, whenever the diction,
departing from its simple character, becomes pervaded by some deep
emotion, the natural mode will give place to the orotund. And while
effusive utterance is always the prevalent mode, it will give place to
the expulsive mode or to the explosive, when energy of thought or force
of passion requires it so.
Thus, _as the diction rises_ from plain discourse to the language of
feeling, _the appropriate vocal expression gathers intensity and becomes
more varied_, assumes, as may be said, brighter colors and displays
greater contrasts; and so, in the third class of diction, the diction of
passion, it displays its intensest and most vivid modes--its brightest
colors, its deepest contrasts.
As it is in a general sense only, that diction can be understood to be
referrible to three classes, so also, in a general sense only, can it be
understood that any particular sentence or passage has its appropriate
vocal expression. All that is intended is simply this: an analysis of
the sentence, or passage, or selection, gives to the careful student a
certain conception of the quality and intensity of the feeling or
passion that pervades it; this is to be interpreted, as well as may be,
by the most appropriate vocal signs possible--the whole constituting the
vocal expression suitable to the piece. In respect to its pervading
emotion, the selection will have what is called a =drift=, or general
tendency, towards one of those states described as characteristic of the
diction of discourse, the diction of feeling, and the diction of
passion, respectively; and it is the business of the reader to watch for
this drift, which of course may vary from passage to passage, from
sentence to sentence, and sometimes from word to word, and to interpret
it as best he may.
To indicate what modes of voice utterance are naturally most appropriate
to the expression of these various emotional states and drifts, it will
be best to take up, one by one, the different properties of the voice,
and the several modes in which they are manifested, and to state
briefly, and in general terms, the emotional state or drift of which it
is an appropriate expression. (With respect to quality and abruptness
this will be sufficiently done indirectly.) The student then must for
himself, if he wishes to apply these results to the reading of any
selected passage, first by analysis ascertain what are the emotional
states which it involves, what are its prevailing drifts, then in
respect to each property of the voice choose the suitable mode for the
interpretation of these several states or drifts, conjoin the selected
modes into appropriate vocal signs, and with these form the vocal
expression that suitably interprets the whole passage. _The teacher, or
the teacher and student together, should select from the_ READER, _or
elsewhere, sentences or passages that fitly exemplify the different
modes; these should be written upon a black-board, or in some other way
preserved, and be referred to frequently for practice both in voice
culture and in vocal interpretation._
I. PITCH. Pitch must be considered under three heads: first, as
referring to the prevailing elevation of tone assumed by the voice in
the reading of a whole sentence, passage, or selection, called _general_
or _sentential pitch_; second, as referring to the degree of elevation
assumed by the voice in the utterance of the opening, or radical, of any
syllable, called _initial_ or _radical pitch_; third, as referring to
the tone-width of the intervals in the utterance of the syllable
concrete.
=Sentential Pitch= in its various modes is descriptive of the general
position in the scale taken by the tones of the voice in uttering a
sentence or passage. It may be spoken of as _medium_, _high_, and _low_.
=Medium Pitch= should correspond with the _normal pitch of discourse_
previously described. It is natural to the expression of all
unimpassioned thought, and also of all emotions, except the livelier,
and the deeper and more intense. =High Pitch= and =Low Pitch= are only
relative terms. They do not represent fixed and definite modes of
utterance; and all that can be said is, that for the interpretation of
what may be called the lighter feelings and emotions, such as
cheerfulness, joy, exultation, interest, and so on, also for the
expression of raillery, facetiousness, humorous conversation, laughter,
and the like, sentential pitch of a degree somewhat higher than normal
pitch is appropriate; and, on the other hand, for the interpretation of
what may be called the graver and deeper feelings, such as awe,
reverence, humility, grief, and melancholy, and the more impassioned
emotions, as disgust, loathing, horror, rage, despair, as well as for
the expression of all very serious and impressive thought, sentential
pitch of a degree somewhat lower than normal pitch is appropriate. The
degree of elevation and depression must be determined by the judgment
and good taste of the reader; but it must be borne in mind that this
degree may vary from passage to passage, and from sentence to sentence,
and even from phrase to phrase.
In every style of diction, no matter how unimpassioned it may be, there
will be frequent changes in the train of thought, and frequent changes
in the intensity of feeling; to represent these changes there should be
corresponding variations, or =transitions in sentential pitch=. These
transitions also serve another purpose, namely, to indicate an
interpolated or parenthetical idea. In making transitions the voice
follows the general law of all vocal interpretation; strong contrasts in
thought and feeling are marked by transitions of wide intervals, and
lesser contrasts by lesser intervals.
_Transitions in pitch are naturally accompanied by corresponding changes
in force, rate of utterance, and phrasing_; and, like all other modes of
expression, these receive their color from the intensity of thought and
feeling of which they are the symbols. For example, in the rendering of
a parenthetical clause (since, as a rule, the thought expressed in the
parenthesis is of less gravity than the thought in the main sentence),
the voice will manifest itself in lighter force and generally in quicker
movement, that is, in lighter, less contrasting colors; but whether the
pitch be raised or lowered depends upon the sentential pitch appropriate
to the main sentence,--it should be in contrast with that. And it may be
remarked in passing, that the reading of the parenthesis should end with
a phrase melody similar to that appropriate to the words immediately
before the parenthesis, so that the ear may naturally be carried back to
the proper place in the main clause for the continuation of the
expression of the principal thought.
=Radical Pitch=, that is the pitch with which the opening of a syllable
is uttered, is, in respect of appropriate employment, the most important
element of reading or speaking; but all that can be done here, is to
call attention to this, and leave the student to exercise his taste and
judgment in regard to its use. The importance of appropriately varying
radical pitch so as to impart melody to continued utterance will be seen
at once if a simple sentence (for example, "_Tom and Jim sat on a log_")
be read, first in that monotonous voice (that is, with unvarying radical
pitch) so often heard in the labored reading of improperly taught young
children, and then with those appropriate intonations heard in animated
colloquy. When properly rendered, even if read with but little
animation, each syllable, or concrete, passes through an interval of a
second, and the several syllables are discretely uttered; but the
_radical pitch varies from syllable to syllable_, forming a diatonic
melody. _For the rendering of any given sentence in appropriate diatonic
melody, positive direction as to the order of succession in respect of
radical pitch cannot be given_; the same words may be uttered with equal
appropriateness in many varieties of melody. The ignoring of this fact
has led to the most absurd pretensions.
A group of two or three syllabic concretes is called a =phrase of
melody=; and as phrases vary with respect to pitch, in the order of
succession of the radicals of their constituent syllables, they receive
different names: such as the _monotone_, in which the radicals are all
on the same pitch; and the _ditone_ and the _tritone_, groups of two
tones and three tones respectively, with radicals of different pitch;
and, again, the concretes in these phrases may have upward or downward
intonations: but fixed rules cannot be laid down for their use. The
reader must bear in mind, however, that it is upon the tasteful use of
phrases and cadences, that is, upon the tasteful employment of
variation in radical pitch, that the melody of uttered language depends;
and that if it be devoid of this melody, it is both wearisome and
unimpressive to the hearer.
The intonations of the voice must necessarily be through either rising
intervals or falling intervals, and there is a generic difference in the
meaning of these. =The rising interval= is heard naturally at the end of
a direct question; that is, one to which "_yes_" or "_no_" is an
expected answer, as "_Are you going home?_" The suspensive tone which
the voice assumes at the end of the interrogation is indicative of
incompleteness of thought; and _indication of incompleteness is the
characteristic function of all rising intervals_.
=The falling interval= is heard naturally at the close of a complete
statement, as "_I am here_"; and hence, _words indicating completeness,
positiveness, resolution, are appropriately uttered with downward
intervals_. In effecting a downward intonation the voice operates in one
of two ways: either the _weaker mode_, in which it descends from a
radical pitch at or near the current tone to a lower pitch; or the
_stronger mode_, in which it assumes discretely a radical pitch as much
_above_ the current tone as the emphasis requires, and descends
concretely either to the current tone or below it.
As every sentence is more or less incomplete until the end is reached,
_rising intervals are the rule in intonation, and falling intervals the
exception_, and it is this infrequency of use which gives to the falling
movement its value as a mode of emphasis. But where the emphasis is that
of doubt, uncertainty, surprise, or interrogation, the suspensiveness of
these emotional states is appropriately expressed by rising intonations;
and hence, too, in all sentences in which the interrogative element is
strongly present, the rising interval should characterize every syllable
in it, and the sentences be uttered with interrogative intonations
throughout. If in any such sentence, a particular word is to be
especially emphasized, this is effected by giving to the word a low
radical pitch and retaining the rising interval indicative of
interrogation.
=The width of the interval= depends, as is natural, upon the intensity
of the thought or emotion of which the concrete is intended to be an
expression. For example, suppose the statement, "=You= _are the
culprit_," be answered by the surprised and indignant interrogation,
"=I?=" The emphatic words here used may be appropriately uttered with
intervals of a tone, a third, a fifth, or an octave, according to the
emphasis supposed necessary.
=The Semitone=, as has been said before, is an interval sometimes heard
in language of distress, complaint, grief, sorrow, tenderness,
compassion, pity. Occasionally it is introduced in diatonic melody as an
appropriate emphatic mode of uttering a single word; as, for example,
"_Other friends have flown before; on the morrow_ HE _will leave me_."
At times diction may assume what may be called a _pathetic drift_, and
for the suitable interpretation of this drift semitonic intervals may be
used, and the mode of progression cease for a space to be diatonic and
become semitonic, or _chromatic_, as it is called.
=The Wave= is one of the most impressive of the elements of expression;
but its proper use demands great flexibility in the vocal organs and a
high degree of taste in the reader. Like all other unusual modes, its
employment lends color and contrast to utterance; that is, it makes it
more effective for the purposes of emphasis or distinction. The wave, as
has been described, is a concrete with an upward and a downward movement
united; but its last constituent is that which most affects the ear and
leaves upon it the stronger impression, and hence, especially if it be
given with a wide interval, _its dominant characteristic will be that of
the second movement_; for example, if the second movement be upward, the
wave may express interrogation mingled with surprise or scorn; if the
second movement be downward, the wave may express astonishment mingled
with indignation. The intervals which are given to the wave depend upon
the diction to which it is applied. To express great surprise or
vehement indignation it may sweep through a fifth or a whole octave. In
these extreme modes _the wave frequently is given a wider interval in
the second movement than in the first_, and its effect intensified by
the appropriate use of stress, and (for the expression of such emotions
as scorn, contempt, irony, ridicule, and so on) of the impure qualities
of voice. When used with intervals of the second, the characteristics of
direct and inverted forms lose some of their distinctness; but in this
degree the wave is effectively used to put into relief occasional words,
or, with median stress and long quantities, to give to the otherwise
short and tripping character of the second a dignified and impressive
effect suited to the rendering of all serious and important diction that
is not impassioned.
=The Wave of the Semitone= is generally employed when time, or syllabic
quantity, is needed as an element in the expression of the language of
complaint or pathos. The effect is much the same whether it be direct or
indirect.
=The Tremor= may be used to express grief, supplication, tenderness, in
which the interval through which it ranges may be wide, or, for a more
plaintive effect, be limited to the semitone. With constituent intervals
other than the semitone (that is, of a tone or otherwise), and ranging
through an aggregate interval of less or greater width, it may be used
to express laughter; as, for example, in the utterance of the syllables
"_ha_, _ha_, _ha_, _ha_, _ha_," which, when rapidly effected, resembles
one syllable uttered with discrete intervals. Combined with stress,
aspiration, and guttural vibration, in suitable modifications, this
laughing tone may be made to express scorn, derision, exultation,
triumph, and so on.
II. FORCE. Force must be considered under two aspects: first, as to the
_degree of its intensity_ in the utterance of syllables, words, phrases,
and sentences; and second, as to the _form of its application in the
utterance of the concrete_. When the term is used without qualification,
the first of these considerations is intended; when the second is
intended, force is generally spoken of as =stress=.
_Force must be contradistinguished from loudness._ In mere loudness the
vocal organs are comparatively relaxed--the intensity of sound being
produced by the violent discharge of a great volume of air from the
lungs. In forceful utterance the vocal organs are compressed and tense,
and though the volume of air effused be small, the resulting
sound-vibrations are strong, and distinct, and of penetrating power.
In respect of intensity, force may be manifested in infinite variation,
but the degrees usually spoken of are _very light_, _light_,
_moderate_, _strong_, and _very strong_. As with all other modes, these
degrees will vary from word to word, and from sentence to sentence; and
great judgment and taste must be exercised in employing them, so that
they appropriately represent the intensity of the thought and feeling of
which they are to be the expression.
=Moderate Force= is the natural expression of tranquillity, and,
therefore, of all unimpassioned diction. As the diction becomes pervaded
by the more positive emotions, the tones of the voice naturally become
stronger. Certainty requires strong force with pure quality. So all the
passions, the lighter as well as the more vehement, require the degree
of force to be heightened: cheerfulness, joy, ecstacy, requiring force
moderately strong; and anger, hate, terror, revenge, being suitably
rendered by very strong force. Again, doubt, uncertainty, secrecy, as
well as the gentler and more plaintive emotions, are most suitably
represented by the lighter shades of force.
As the voice assumes the intenser modes of force, the vocal organs
become more and more compressed, and utterance is more and more labored;
the breath forced out cannot all be vocalized; the voice becomes less
and less pure, and manifests itself in the aspirate and guttural
qualities. _Hence, strongly suppressed utterance in impure vocality,
rather than mere loudness in pure vocality, is the appropriate
expression for all the intenser passions._
III. STRESS. Stress is force considered with respect of the form of its
application to the concrete. Since the equable concrete is the natural
colorless expression of unimpassioned thought, force applied to any part
of it changes its character, and gives it a more or less significant
emphasis. The three most usual forms of stress are the _radical_, the
_median_, and the _final_; these may be effected in any of the degrees
of force. _Compound stress_ and _thorough stress_ admit of but little
variation.
=Radical Stress=, to some extent an essential, but not an expressive
element in the equable concrete, is, in a somewhat stronger form, an
element in all utterance that is intended to be vivid and energetic,
emphasizing these characteristics by its own incisive clearness. The
more animated and energetic the diction the clearer and more determined
should be the opening of the concrete, that is, the more distinct and
forcible should be its radical stress; while in graver language the
radical stress is less pronounced. In its emphatic degree it ought at no
time to be allowed to become a current mode, imparting its peculiar
incisive character to every syllable; though, for especial emphasis, it
may be appropriately used in this way in the utterance of the several
words of a phrase.
=Final Stress= differs from radical stress principally in this, that
while it equally indicates energy and positiveness, it does so as in
accordance with predetermination and reflection. _Radical stress
denotes, as it were, an involuntary state of energy; final stress, the
energy or fixedness of resolve._ Hence, final stress is appropriate to
the expression of resolution, of obstinacy, of earnest conviction, of
passionate resolve. It emphasizes the characteristics of wide intervals,
giving to rising intonations a more decidedly interrogatory character,
and making falling intonations more vehemently and passionately
positive.
=Median Stress=, as it can be effectively applied to none but indefinite
or mutable syllables, is compatible only with such a rate of utterance
as will permit of these receiving long quantities. It may receive any
degree of force, from that gentle swell which indicates a tranquil flow
of emotion, to that firm and swelling energy which is the appropriate
expression of the language of elevated feeling. With the wider intervals
it should be used only for occasional emphasis; but in its lighter forms
it may prevail as a drift of dignified expression. Median stress, being
always necessarily associated with long quantity in syllables, is not an
appropriate mode in the language of colloquy, or in vivacious discourse
of any kind. It is, however, the fit interpreter of that fervid and
lofty imagination which clothes itself in forms of grace and grandeur;
and hence, with intonations and waves of the lesser intervals, with
medium or low sentential pitch, a moderate degree of force, and the pure
or orotund quality, it is the appropriate expression of all exalted
prose and poetry, not strongly dramatic.
=Thorough Stress= is effected by continuing the force and fulness of the
radical stress throughout the whole concrete. Used as a current mode,
which should be but rarely, it is expressive of bluntness, arrogance,
bravado; and, with short quantities, of ignorant coarseness.
Occasionally it may be used instead of final stress to give emphasis to
a syllable whose vanishing movement is but little capable of receiving
an increase of force.
=Compound Stress= combines the qualities of both radical and final
stress; it is therefore of extreme character, and can be only
occasionally used. With wide intervals, in its stronger modes, it is
expressive of the utmost intensity of feeling; in its lighter modes it
is the natural expression of strong surprise.
=The Loud Concrete= is simply the equable concrete uttered with greater
fulness of breath and loudness of tone. It is used to break a current of
light force for the sake of emphasizing some word or phrase; and, in
impassioned discourse, it may be used as a current mode, individual
words or phrases being then put in relief by receiving the forcible
radical, or thorough, or compound stress.
In reference to stress it must be remembered that, as with all other
varieties of emphatic utterance, no one form should prevail as an
exclusive mode. Even a prevalent drift of thought or feeling will be
most effectively rendered by vocal signs which change in color and
intensity from word to word. It must also be borne in mind in reference
both to force and stress, and to pitch and time as well, that the modes
which are employed must sustain a suitable relation to the situation and
surroundings of the speaker. Where considerable space has to be filled
and distance overcome, the energy of utterance should be correspondingly
intense; but for great distances, what is called =level speaking= is the
only effectual mode,--that is, speaking exclusively in those tones of
normal pitch in which the voice has most penetrating power, with force
of almost constant intensity, and in a somewhat slow movement with long
syllabic quantities, but of course with as much needful variation of
expression as is possible within these limits.
IV. TIME. Time is rate of utterance. It comprehends _quantity_, or rate
considered in reference to the duration of individual syllables; and
_movement_, or rate considered in reference to the utterance of
syllables and words in succession. With it may be considered _pauses_,
or cessations of the voice, helpful in the expression of thought and
feeling, and necessary to the working of the vocal mechanism.
=Quantity=, as defined above, is an arbitrary thing, dependent almost
entirely upon the will of the speaker. But many words and syllables are
more expressive of their meaning when, in uttering them, the voice is
somewhat prolonged,--hence _quantity is an element of expression_.
Again, many words and syllables can receive this prolongation of
utterance more readily than others,--hence _quantity is a natural
element of spoken language_. As indefinite syllables are much more
capable of prolongation than mutable or immutable syllables, they are
said to possess long quantity, or, more shortly, "to possess quantity";
mutable syllables possess quantity in a less degree, and immutable
syllables are naturally deficient in quantity.
As an element of expression, quantity (that is, long quantity) lends
dignity and grace to the movement of the voice, and affords ground for
the display of those expressive modes of vocal action which are
incompatible with the rapid or ejaculatory utterance of the concrete;
and hence, with median stress, the wave, moderate intervals, medium or
low sentential pitch, it is used as naturally interpretative of
solemnity, reverence, awe, deep pathos, ardent admiration, and all
elevated emotion. Colloquial tones, excited argument, wit, raillery, and
all the lighter emotions, require for their expression, brilliancy
rather than grace, and so are more fittingly interpreted by short
quantities and radical stress.
The discerning reader, in his work of vocal interpretation, will not
fail to take advantage of the inherent character of syllables with
respect to quantity. Our language abounds in indefinite syllables to
which he may impart whatever quantity he may desire. On the other hand,
immutable syllables, while not admitting the wave and the median stress,
are eminently fitted to receive the more forcible forms of radical
stress; and mutable syllables, with their abrupt closes, permit of
perfect exemplifications of thorough and final stress.
=Movement=, though it depends for its slower and more expressive forms
upon the capacities of syllables for the reception of long quantities,
is, in its more rapid forms, quite independent of syllabic structure,
and dependent only on the will of the speaker; hence it may be spoken of
as being altogether under his control. A medium rate of utterance is,
with respect to time, the natural expression of an equable flow of
thought. The livelier emotions should be indicated by quicker rates, and
hence, cheerfulness, joy, vivacious dialogue, animated narration,
naturally find their expression in movements more or less brisk, with
short quantities, varied intonations, and pitch higher than the normal;
the more vehement emotions, eagerness, anger, excited anxiety, demand
simply heightened forms of these modes. Contrariwise, thought of grave
and meditative character, admiration, reverence, and all the deeper and
calmer feelings, require a deliberative, slow-timed utterance, with long
quantities for accented syllables, and extended time for even unaccented
syllables. As these serious emotions become stronger and deeper, the
syllabic quantities become proportionately longer, and with impressive
median swells, orotund quality, low pitch, waves and simple intonations
of the second, frequent phrases in monotone, and an occasional tremor,
constitute the most impressive utterance of adoration.
_Occasionally an abrupt change in quantity, or movement, may be employed
as a mode of emphasis_, either positive or negative; for example, in a
current of rapid movement, a word may be put into strong relief by being
uttered with quantity much extended; contrariwise, a parenthetical or
explanatory phrase is usually touched upon lightly and with a more rapid
movement than that of the current in which it is found.
=Pause= _may be used as an element in the expression of thought simply,
that is, as a help to the interpretation of the mere sense of the words
read_; or, _more emphatically, as an element in the expression of
feeling and emotion_. As interpretative of thought, pauses should
correspond mainly with the graphical marks of punctuation. Two things,
however, must be borne in mind: _first_, the use of punctuation marks in
writing and in printing is always more or less an arbitrary matter,
scarcely any two authors agreeing in their employment of them; and
therefore the reader's own good sense must be to him his principal
authority as to the closeness with which he follows them: and _second_,
pauses are to an auditor what punctuation marks are intended to be to a
reader; but, whereas the eye may constantly keep within its vision the
relation of each word uttered, both to those which preceded it and to
those which are to follow, the ear hears the words that are read only
_ictus_ by _ictus_, stroke by stroke, and therefore can not aid the mind
to grasp this relation--the memory alone helping to do that; and hence,
in reading, pauses should be more frequent, and perhaps more prolonged,
than the punctuation marks might seem to necessitate. The reader should
also bear in mind that even the plainest and simplest diction, or that
requiring the most rapid utterance, may be so marked by appropriate
pauses that those stoppages of the voice necessarily required for
inspiration, shall never occur except when they assist to interpret the
sense,--they must not interrupt it.
As interpretative of emotion pauses do not necessarily correspond to
grammatical structure; but, as with all the modes of expression
previously considered, their frequency and length--their only
modifications--must harmonize with the feeling which they are to assist
in interpreting. In length, for example, they should correspond with the
movement of which they may be said to form a part; when the movement is
slow, as in the expression of awe, reverence, and the like, they are
naturally long; in the brisk movement required to interpret the livelier
emotions, they should be short. As a mode of emphasis pause serves to
fix the attention of the hearer,--either _backward_ upon a word or
phrase, that the mind may dwell upon it, or _forward_ to awaken
curiosity and expectation: it is evident then that a frequent use of it
for this purpose would destroy its value.
_Pauses may be used in reading to simulate an appropriate labor of
utterance_, as when the mind is supposed to be overcome by sorrow, or
disturbed by anger. At such times also, they serve as fit rests for the
voice in its efforts to express the disturbed condition of the mind, and
as appropriate avenues for the escape of emotion otherwise than by
vocality, as by sibling. _Pauses should be used also to indicate sudden
transitions from one state of caution to another._
_THE HIGH SCHOOL READER_.
* * * * *
I. KING SOLOMON'S PRAYER AND BLESSING AT THE DEDICATION OF THE TEMPLE.
_From_ THE FIRST BOOK OF KINGS.
_Translated 1611--Revised 1885._
Then Solomon assembled the elders of Israel, and all the heads of the
tribes, the princes of the fathers' houses of the children of Israel,
unto king Solomon in Jerusalem, to bring up the ark of the covenant of
the LORD out of the city of David, which is Zion. And all the men of
Israel assembled themselves unto king Solomon at the feast, in the month
Ethanim, which is the seventh month. And all the elders of Israel came,
and the priests took up the ark. And they brought up the ark of the
LORD, and the tent of meeting, and all the holy vessels that were in the
Tent; even these did the priests and the Levites bring up. And king
Solomon and all the congregation of Israel, that were assembled unto
him, were with him before the ark, sacrificing sheep and oxen, that
could not be told nor numbered for multitude. And the priests brought in
the ark of the covenant of the LORD unto its place, into the oracle of
the house, to the most holy place, even under the wings of the cherubim.
For the cherubim spread forth their wings over the place of the ark, and
the cherubim covered the ark and the staves thereof above. There was
nothing in the ark save the two tables of stone which Moses put there at
Horeb, when the LORD made a covenant with the children of Israel, when
they came out of the land of Egypt. And it came to pass, when the
priests were come out of the holy place, that the cloud filled the house
of the LORD, so that the priests could not stand to minister by reason
of the cloud: for the glory of the LORD filled the house of the LORD.
Then spake Solomon, The LORD hath said that he would dwell in the thick
darkness. I have surely built thee an house of habitation, a place for
thee to dwell in for ever. And the king turned his face about, and
blessed all the congregation of Israel: and all the congregation of
Israel stood. And he said, Blessed be the LORD, the God of Israel, which
spake with his mouth unto David my father, and hath with his hand
fulfilled it, saying, Since the day that I brought forth my people
Israel out of Egypt, I chose no city out of all the tribes of Israel to
build an house, that my name might be there; but I chose David to be
over my people Israel. Now it was in the heart of David my father to
build an house for the name of the LORD, the God of Israel. But the LORD
said unto David my father, Whereas it was in thine heart to build an
house for my name, thou didst well that it was in thine heart:
nevertheless thou shalt not build the house; but thy son that shall come
forth out of thy loins, he shall build the house for my name. And the
LORD hath established his word that he spake; for I am risen up in the
room of David my father, and sit on the throne of Israel, as the LORD
promised, and have built the house for the name of the LORD, the God of
Israel. And there have I set a place for the ark, wherein is the
covenant of the LORD, which he made with our fathers, when he brought
them out of the land of Egypt.
And Solomon stood before the altar of the LORD in the presence of all
the congregation of Israel, and spread forth his hands toward heaven:
and he said, O LORD, the God of Israel, there is no God like thee, in
heaven above, or on earth beneath; who keepest covenant and mercy with
thy servants, that walk before thee with all their heart: who hast kept
with thy servant David my father that which thou didst promise him: yea,
thou spakest with thy mouth, and hast fulfilled it with thine hand, as
it is this day. Now therefore, O LORD, the God of Israel, keep with thy
servant David my father that which thou hast promised him, saying, There
shall not fail thee a man in my sight to sit on the throne of Israel; if
only thy children take heed to their way, to walk before me as thou hast
walked before me. Now therefore, O God of Israel, let thy word, I pray
thee, be verified, which thou spakest unto thy servant David my father.
But will God in very deed dwell on the earth? behold, heaven and the
heaven of heavens cannot contain thee; how much less this house that I
have builded! Yet have thou respect unto the prayer of thy servant, and
to his supplication, O LORD my God, to hearken unto the cry and to the
prayer which thy servant prayeth before thee this day: that thine eyes
may be open toward this house night and day, even toward the place
whereof thou hast said, My name shall be there: to hearken unto the
prayer which thy servant shall pray toward this place. And hearken thou
to the supplication of thy servant, and of thy people Israel, when they
shall pray toward this place: yea, hear thou in heaven thy dwelling
place: and when thou hearest, forgive. If a man sin against his
neighbour, and an oath be laid upon him to cause him to swear, and he
come and swear before thine altar in this house: then hear thou in
heaven, and do, and judge thy servants, condemning the wicked, to bring
his way upon his own head; and justifying the righteous, to give him
according to his righteousness. When thy people Israel be smitten down
before the enemy, because they have sinned against thee; if they turn
again to thee, and confess thy name, and pray and make supplication unto
thee in this house: then hear thou in heaven, and forgive the sin of thy
people Israel, and bring them again unto the land which thou gavest unto
their fathers. When heaven is shut up, and there is no rain, because
they have sinned against thee; if they pray toward this place, and
confess thy name, and turn from their sin, when thou dost afflict them:
then hear thou in heaven, and forgive the sin of thy servants, and of
thy people Israel, when thou teachest them the good way wherein they
should walk; and send rain upon thy land, which thou hast given to thy
people for an inheritance. If there be in the land famine, if there be
pestilence, if there be blasting or mildew, locust or caterpiller; if
their enemy besiege them in the land of their cities; whatsoever plague,
whatsoever sickness there be; what prayer and supplication soever be
made by any man, or by all thy people Israel, which shall know every man
the plague of his own heart, and spread forth his hands toward this
house: then hear thou in heaven thy dwelling place, and forgive, and do,
and render unto every man according to all his ways, whose heart thou
knowest; (for thou, even thou only, knowest the hearts of all the
children of men;) that they may fear thee all the days that they live
in the land which thou gavest unto our fathers. Moreover concerning the
stranger, that is not of thy people Israel, when he shall come out of a
far country for thy name's sake; (for they shall hear of thy great name,
and of thy mighty hand, and of thy stretched out arm:) when he shall
come and pray toward this house; hear thou in heaven thy dwelling place,
and do according to all that the stranger calleth to thee for; that all
the peoples of the earth may know thy name, to fear thee, as doth thy
people Israel, and that they may know that this house which I have built
is called by thy name. If thy people go out to battle against their
enemy, by whatsoever way thou shalt send them, and they pray unto the
LORD toward the city which thou hast chosen, and toward the house which
I have built for thy name: then hear thou in heaven their prayer and
their supplication, and maintain their cause. If they sin against thee,
(for there is no man that sinneth not,) and thou be angry with them, and
deliver them to the enemy, so that they carry them away captive unto the
land of the enemy, far off or near; yet if they shall bethink themselves
in the land whither they are carried captive, and turn again, and make
supplication unto thee in the land of them that carried them captive,
saying, We have sinned, and have done perversely, we have dealt
wickedly; if they return unto thee with all their heart and with all
their soul in the land of their enemies, which carried them captive, and
pray unto thee toward their land, which thou gavest unto their fathers,
the city which thou hast chosen, and the house which I have built for
thy name: then hear thou their prayer and their supplication in heaven
thy dwelling place, and maintain their cause; and forgive thy people
which have sinned against thee, and all their transgressions wherein
they have transgressed against thee; and give them compassion before
those who carried them captive, that they may have compassion on them:
for they be thy people, and thine inheritance, which thou broughtest
forth out of Egypt, from the midst of the furnace of iron: that thine
eyes may be open unto the supplication of thy servant, and unto the
supplication of thy people Israel, to hearken unto them whensoever
they cry unto thee. For thou didst separate them from among all the
peoples of the earth, to be thine inheritance, as thou spakest by
the hand of Moses thy servant, when thou broughtest our fathers out
of Egypt, O Lord GOD.
And it was so, that when Solomon had made an end of praying all this
prayer and supplication unto the LORD, he arose from before the altar of
the LORD, from kneeling on his knees with his hands spread forth toward
heaven. And he stood, and blessed all the congregation of Israel with a
loud voice, saying, Blessed be the LORD, that hath given rest unto his
people Israel, according to all that he promised: there hath not failed
one word of all his good promise, which he promised by the hand of Moses
his servant. The LORD our God be with us, as he was with our fathers:
let him not leave us, nor forsake us: that he may incline our hearts
unto him, to walk in all his ways, and to keep his commandments, and his
statutes, and his judgments, which he commanded our fathers. And let
these my words, wherewith I have made supplication before the LORD, be
nigh unto the LORD our God day and night, that he maintain the cause of
his servant, and the cause of his people Israel, as every day shall
require: that all the peoples of the earth may know that the LORD, he is
God; there is none else. Let your heart therefore be perfect with the
LORD our God, to walk in his statutes, and to keep his commandments, as
at this day. And the king, and all Israel with him, offered sacrifice
before the LORD.
II. INVITATION.
_From_ ISAIAH.
_Translated 1611--Revised 1885._
Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no
money; come ye, buy, and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money
and without price. Wherefore do ye spend money for that which is not
bread? and your labour for that which satisfieth not? hearken diligently
unto me, and eat ye that which is good, and let your soul delight itself
in fatness. Incline your ear, and come unto me; hear and your soul shall
live: and I will make an everlasting covenant with you, even the sure
mercies of David....
Seek ye the LORD while he may be found, call ye upon him while he is
near: let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his
thoughts: and let him return unto the LORD, and he will have mercy upon
him; and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon. For my thoughts are
not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the LORD. For as
the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your
ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts. For as the rain cometh down
and the snow from heaven, and returneth not thither, but watereth the
earth, and maketh it bring forth and bud, and giveth seed to the sower
and bread to the eater; so shall my word be that goeth forth out of my
mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that
which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it. For
ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace: the mountains and
the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees
of the field shall clap their hands. Instead of the thorn shall come up
the fir tree, and instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle tree:
and it shall be to the LORD for a name, for an everlasting sign that
shall not be cut off.
III. THE TRIAL SCENE IN THE "MERCHANT OF VENICE."[A]
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.--1564-1616.
_Scene_--A Court of Justice. _Present_--THE DUKE, the Magnificoes,
ANTONIO, BASSANIO, GRATIANO, SOLANIO, and others.
_Duke._ What, is Antonio here?
_Antonio._ Ready, so please your grace.
_Duke._ I am sorry for thee: thou art come to answer
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch
Uncapable of pity, void and empty
From any dram of mercy.
_Antonio._ I have heard
Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify
His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate,
And that no lawful means can carry me
Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose
My patience to his fury; and am arm'd
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit,
The very tyranny and rage of his.
_Duke._ Go one, and call the Jew into the court.
_Solanio._ He's ready at the door: he comes, my lord.
_Enter_ SHYLOCK.
_Duke._ Make room, and let him stand before our face.--
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice
To the last hour of act; and then 'tis thought
Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse, more strange
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty;
And where thou now exact'st the penalty,--
Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,--
Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture,
But, touch'd with human gentleness and love,
Forgive a moiety of the principal;
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,
That have of late so huddled on his back,
Enough to press a royal merchant down
And pluck commiseration of his state
From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint,
From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd
To offices of tender courtesy.
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.
_Shylock._ I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose;
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn
To have the due and forfeit of my bond:
If you deny it, let the danger light
Upon your charter and your city's freedom.
You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have
A weight of carrion flesh than to receive
Three thousand ducats; I'll not answer that;
But, say, it is my humor; is it answer'd?
What if my house be troubled with a rat,
And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand ducats
To have it ban'd? What, are you answer'd yet?
Some men there are love not a gaping pig;
Some, that are mad if they behold a cat;
And others, when the bagpipe sings i' the nose,
Cannot contain themselves: for affection,
Master of passion, sways it to the mood
Of what it likes, or loathes. Now, for your answer:
As there is no firm reason to be render'd,
Why he cannot abide a gaping pig;
Why he, a harmless necessary cat;
Why he, a woollen bagpipe,--but of force
Must yield to such inevitable shame
As to offend, himself being offended;
So can I give no reason, nor I will not,
More than a lodg'd hate and a certain loathing
I bear Antonio, that I follow thus
A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd?
_Bassanio._ This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,
To excuse the current of thy cruelty.
_Shylock._ I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
_Bassanio._ Do all men kill the things they do not love?
_Shylock._ Hates any man the thing he would not kill?
_Bassanio._ Every offence is not a hate at first.
_Shylock._ What, would'st thou have a serpent sting thee twice?
_Antonio._ I pray you, think you question with the Jew.
You may as well go stand upon the beach,
And bid the main flood bate his usual height;
You may as well use question with the wolf,
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;
You may as well forbid the mountain pines
To wag their high tops, and to make no noise,
When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven;
You may as well do anything most hard,
As seek to soften that--than which what's harder?--
His Jewish heart: therefore, I do beseech you,
Make no more offers, use no further means,
But, with all brief and plain conveniency,
Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will.
_Bassanio._ For thy three thousand ducats here is six.
_Shylock._ If every ducat in six thousand ducats
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat,
I would not draw them; I would have my bond.
_Duke._ How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend'ring none?
_Shylock._ What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?
You have among you many a purchas'd slave,
Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules,
You use in abject and in slavish parts,
Because you bought them: shall I say to you,
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?
Why sweat they under burdens? let their beds
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates
Be season'd with such viands? You will answer,
"The slaves are ours:" so do I answer you:
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,
Is dearly bought; 'tis mine, and I will have it:
If you deny me, fie upon your law!
There is no force in the decrees of Venice.
I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?
_Duke._ Upon my power I may dismiss this court,
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor,
Whom I have sent for to determine this,
Come here to-day.
_Solanio._ My lord, here stays without
A messenger with letters from the doctor,
New come from Padua.
_Duke._ Bring us the letters; call the messenger.
_Bassanio._ Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet!
The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all,
Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.
_Antonio._ I am a tainted wether of the flock,
Meetest for death: the weakest kind of fruit
Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me:
You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio,
Than to live still, and write mine epitaph.
_Enter_ NERISSA, _dressed like a lawyer's clerk._
_Duke._ Came you from Padua, from Bellario?
_Nerissa._ From both, my lord: Bellario greets your grace.
[_Presents a letter._
_Bassanio._ Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?
_Shylock._ To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.
_Gratiano._ Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,
Thou mak'st thy knife keen; but no metal can,
No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness
Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?
_Shylock._ No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.
_Gratiano._ O, be thou damn'd, inexorable dog!
And for thy life let justice be accus'd.
Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith,
To hold opinion with Pythagoras,
That souls of animals infuse themselves
Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit
Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter,
Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,
And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam,
Infus'd itself in thee; for thy desires
Are wolfish, bloody, starv'd, and ravenous.
_Shylock._ Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond,
Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud:
Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall
To cureless ruin. I stand here for law.
_Duke._ This letter from Bellario doth commend
A young and learned doctor to our court:--
Where is he?
_Nerissa._ He attendeth here hard by,
To know your answer, whether you'll admit him.
_Duke._ With all my heart.--Some three or four of you
Go give him courteous conduct to this place.--
Meantime the court shall hear Bellario's letter.
[Clerk reads.] _Your grace shall understand, that, at the receipt of
your letter, I am very sick: but, in the instant that your messenger
came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome; his name
is Balthazar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy between the
Jew and Antonio the merchant: we turned o'er many books together: he is
furnished with my opinion: which, bettered with his own learning, the
greatness whereof I cannot enough commend, comes with him, at my
importunity, to fill up your grace's request in my stead. I beseech you,
let his lack of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend
estimation; for I never knew so young a body with so old a head. I leave
him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his
commendation._
_Duke._ You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes:
And here, I take it, is the doctor come.--
_Enter_ PORTIA, _dressed like a doctor of laws._
Give me your hand: came you from old Bellario?
_Portia._ I did, my lord.
_Duke._ You are welcome; take your place.
Are you acquainted with the difference
That holds this present question in the court?
_Portia._ I am informed, throughly of the cause.
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?
_Duke._ Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.
_Portia._ Is your name Shylock?
_Shylock._ Shylock is my name.
_Portia._ Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;
Yet in such rule that the Venetian law
Cannot impugn you as you do proceed.--
You stand within his danger, do you not? [_To_ ANTONIO.
_Antonio._ Ay, so he says.
_Portia._ Do you confess the bond?
_Antonio._ I do.
_Portia._ Then must the Jew be merciful.
_Shylock._ On what compulsion must I? Tell me that.
_Portia._ The quality of mercy is not strain'd;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,--
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.
_Shylock._ My deeds upon my head! I crave the law,
The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
_Portia._ Is he not able to discharge the money?
_Bassanio._ Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;
Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice,
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er,
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart:
If this will not suffice, it must appear
That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you,
Wrest once the law to your authority:
To do a great right, do a little wrong;
And curb this cruel devil of his will.
_Portia._ It must not be; there is no power in Venice
Can alter a decree established:
'Twill be recorded for a precedent;
And many an error, by the same example,
Will rush into the state. It cannot be.
_Shylock._ A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!
O wise young judge, how do I honour thee!
_Portia._ I pray you, let me look upon the bond.
_Shylock._ Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.
_Portia._ Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.
_Shylock._ An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?
No, not for Venice.
_Portia._ Why, this bond is forfeit;
And lawfully by this the Jew may claim
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off
Nearest the merchant's heart.--Be merciful;
Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.
_Shylock._ When it is paid according to the tenor.
It doth appear you are a worthy judge;
You know the law, your exposition
Hath been most sound: I charge you by the law,
Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,
Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear
There is no power in the tongue of man
To alter me: I stay here on my bond.
_Antonio._ Most heartily I do beseech the court
To give the judgment.
_Portia._ Why, then, thus it is:
You must prepare your bosom for his knife;--
_Shylock._ O noble judge! O excellent young man!
_Portia._--For the intent and purpose of the law
Hath full relation to the penalty,
Which here appeareth due upon the bond.
_Shylock._ 'Tis very true: O wise and upright judge!
How much more elder art thou than thy looks!
_Portia._ Therefore, lay bare your bosom.
_Shylock._ Ay, his breast:
So says the bond:--doth it not, noble judge?--
"Nearest his heart:" those are the very words.
_Portia._ It is so. Are there balance here, to weigh
The flesh?
_Shylock._ I have them ready.
_Portia._ Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.
_Shylock._ Is it so nominated in the bond?
_Portia._ It is not so express'd; but what of that?
'Twere good you do so much for charity.
_Shylock._ I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond.
_Portia._ Come, merchant, have you anything to say?
_Antonio._ But little: I am arm'd, and well prepar'd.--
Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well!
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you;
For herein Fortune shows herself more kind
Than is her custom: it is still her use
To let the wretched man outlive his wealth,
To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow
An age of poverty; from which lingering penance
Of such a misery doth she cut me off.
Commend me to your honorable wife:
Tell her the process of Antonio's end;
Say how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death;
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge
Whether Bassanio had not once a love.
Repent not you that you shall lose your friend,
And he repents not that he pays your debt;
For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough,
I'll pay it instantly with all my heart.
_Bassanio._ Antonio, I am married to a wife
Which is as dear to me as life itself;
But life itself, my wife, and all the world,
Are not with me esteem'd above thy life:
I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all
Here to this devil, to deliver you.
_Portia._ Your wife would give you little thanks for that,
If she were by, to hear you make the offer.
_Gratiano._ I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love:
I would she were in heaven, so she could
Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.
_Nerissa._ 'Tis well you offer it behind her back;
The wish would make else an unquiet house.
_Shylock._ [_Aside._] These be the Christian husbands! I have a daughter;
Would any of the stock of Barrabas
Had been her husband rather than a Christian!--
[_To_ PORTIA.] We trifle time; I pray thee, pursue sentence.
_Portia._ A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine:
The court awards it, and the law doth give it.
_Shylock._ Most rightful judge!
_Portia._ And you must cut this flesh from off his breast:
The law allows it, and the court awards it.
_Shylock._ Most learned judge! A sentence!--Come, prepare.
_Portia._ Tarry a little; there is something else.
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;
The words expressly are "a pound of flesh":
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate
Unto the state of Venice.
_Gratiano._ O upright judge!--Mark, Jew:--O learned judge!
_Shylock._ Is that the law?
_Portia._ Thyself shalt see the act:
For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.
_Gratiano._ O learned judge!--Mark, Jew:--a learned judge!
_Shylock._ I take this offer, then: pay the bond thrice,
And let the Christian go.
_Bassanio._ Here is the money.
_Portia._ Soft!
The Jew shall have all justice;--soft! no haste:--
He shall have nothing but the penalty.
_Gratiano._ O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!
_Portia._ Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh.
Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less nor more
But just a pound of flesh: if thou tak'st more
Or less than a just pound,--be it but so much
As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance,
Or the division of the twentieth part,
Of one poor scruple; nay, if the scale do turn
But in the estimation of a hair,--
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.
_Gratiano._ A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!
Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.
_Portia._ Why doth the Jew pause? Take thy forfeiture.
_Shylock._ Give me my principal, and let me go.
_Bassanio._ I have it ready for thee; here it is.
_Portia._ He hath refus'd it in the open court:
He shall have merely justice, and his bond.
_Gratiano._ A Daniel, still say I; a second Daniel!--
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.
_Shylock._ Shall I not have barely my principal?
_Portia._ Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture,
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.
_Shylock._ Why, then the devil give him good of it!
I'll stay no longer question.
_Portia._ Tarry, Jew:
The law hath yet another hold on you.
It is enacted in the laws of Venice,
If it be prov'd against an alien
That by direct or indirect attempts
He seek the life of any citizen,
The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive
Shall seize one half his goods; the other half
Comes to the privy coffer of the state;
And the offender's life lies in the mercy
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.
In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st;
For it appears, by manifest proceeding,
That, indirectly, and directly too,
Thou hast contriv'd against the very life
Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr'd
The danger formerly by me rehears'd.
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.
_Gratiano._ Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself:
And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state,
Thou hast not left the value of a cord;
Therefore, thou must be hang'd at the state's charge.
_Duke._ That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit,
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it:
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's;
The other half comes to the general state,
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.
_Portia._ Ay, for the state; not for Antonio.
_Shylock._ Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that:
You take my house when you do take the prop
That doth sustain my house; you take my life,
When you do take the means whereby I live.
_Portia._ What mercy can you render him, Antonio?
_Gratiano._ A halter gratis; nothing else, for God's sake.
_Antonio._ So please my lord the duke, and all the court,
To quit the fine for one half of his goods,
I am content, so he will let me have
The other half in use, to render it,
Upon his death, unto the gentleman
That lately stole his daughter:
Two things provided more,--that, for this favor,
He presently become a Christian;
The other, that he do record a gift,
Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd,
Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter.
_Duke._ He shall do this; or else I do recant
The pardon that I late pronounced here.
_Portia._ Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say?
_Shylock._ I am content.
_Portia._ Clerk, draw a deed of gift.
_Shylock._ I pray you, give me leave to go from hence;
I am not well: send the deed after me,
And I will sign it.
_Duke._ Get thee gone, but do it.
_Gratiano._ In christening thou shalt have two godfathers;
Had I been judge, thou should'st have had ten more,
To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. [_Exit Shylock._
_Duke._ Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner.
_Portia._ I humbly do desire your grace of pardon:
I must away this night toward Padua,
And it is meet I presently set forth.
_Duke._ I am sorry that your leisure serves you not.
Antonio, gratify this gentleman,
For, in my mind, you are much bound to him.
[_Exeunt omnes._
FOOTNOTES:
[A] As an introduction read "The Merchant of Venice," FOURTH READER,
page 311.
IV. OF BOLDNESS.
LORD BACON.--1561-1626.
_From_ ESSAYS.
It is a trivial grammar-school text, but yet worthy a wise man's
consideration: question was asked of Demosthenes, what was the chief
part of an orator? He answered, action: what next? action: what next
again? action. He said it that knew it best, and had by nature himself
no advantage in that he commended. A strange thing, that that part of an
orator which is but superficial, and rather the virtue of a player,
should be placed so high above those other noble parts, of invention,
elocution, and the rest; nay, almost alone, as if it were all in all.
But the reason is plain. There is in human nature generally more of the
fool than of the wise; and therefore those faculties by which the
foolish part of men's minds is taken, are most potent. Wonderful like is
the case of boldness in civil business; what first? boldness: what
second and third? boldness. And yet boldness is a child of ignorance and
baseness, far inferior to other parts: but, nevertheless, it doth
fascinate, and bind hand and foot those that are either shallow in
judgment or weak in courage, which are the greatest part; yea, and
prevaileth with wise men at weak times; therefore we see it hath done
wonders in popular states, but with senates and princes less; and more,
ever upon the first entrance of bold persons into action, than soon
after; for boldness is an ill keeper of promise. Surely, as there are
mountebanks for the natural body, so are there mountebanks for the
politic body--men that undertake great cures, and perhaps have been
lucky in two or three experiments, but want the grounds of science, and
therefore cannot hold out. Nay, you shall see a bold fellow many times
do Mahomet's miracle. Mahomet made the people believe that he would call
a hill to him, and from the top of it offer up his prayers for the
observers of his law. The people assembled: Mahomet called the hill to
come to him again and again; and when the hill stood still, he was never
a whit abashed, but said, "If the hill will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet
will go to the hill." So these men, when they have promised great
matters, and failed most shamefully, yet, if they have the perfection of
boldness, they will but slight it over, and make a turn, and no more
ado. Certainly, to men of great judgment, bold persons are sport to
behold; nay, and to the vulgar also boldness hath somewhat of the
ridiculous: for, if absurdity be the subject of laughter, doubt you not
but great boldness is seldom without some absurdity; especially it is a
sport to see when a bold fellow is out of countenance, for that puts his
face into a most shrunken and wooden posture, as needs it must--for in
bashfulness the spirits do a little go and come--but with bold men, upon
like occasion, they stand at a stay; like a stale at chess, where it is
no mate, but yet the game cannot stir: but this last were fitter for a
satire than for a serious observation. This is well to be weighed, that
boldness is ever blind, for it seeth not dangers and inconveniences:
therefore it is ill in counsel, good in execution; so that the right use
of bold persons is, that they never command in chief, but be seconds,
and under the direction of others; for in counsel it is good to see
dangers, and in execution not to see them, except they be very great.
* * * * *
_He that cannot see well, let him go softly._
BACON.
V. TO DAFFODILS.
ROBERT HERRICK.--1594-1674.
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you;
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to be found again.
* * * * *
_Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for a hermitage:
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty._
RICHARD LOVELACE.--1618-1658.
VI. OF CONTENTEDNESS IN ALL ESTATES AND ACCIDENTS.
JEREMY TAYLOR.--1613-1667.
_From_ HOLY LIVING.
Virtues and discourses are, like friends, necessary in all fortunes; but
those are the best, which are friends in our sadnesses, and support us
in our sorrows and sad accidents: and in this sense, no man that is
virtuous can be friendless; nor hath any man reason to complain of the
Divine Providence, or accuse the public disorder of things, or in his
own infelicity, since God hath appointed one remedy for all the evils in
the world, and that is a contented spirit: for this alone makes a man
pass through fire, and not be scorched; through seas, and not be
drowned; through hunger and nakedness, and want nothing. For since all
the evil in the world consists in the disagreeing between the object and
the appetite, as when a man hath what he desires not, or desires what he
hath not, or desires amiss; he that composes his spirit to the present
accident, hath variety of instances for his virtue, but none to trouble
him, because his desires enlarge not beyond his present fortune: and a
wise man is placed in the variety of chances, like the nave or centre of
a wheel, in the midst of all the circumvolutions and changes of posture,
without violence or change, save that it turns gently in compliance with
its changed parts, and is indifferent which part is up, and which is
down; for there is some virtue or other to be exercised, whatever
happens, either patience or thanksgiving, love or fear, moderation or
humility, charity or contentedness, and they are every one of them
equally in order to his great end and immortal felicity: and beauty is
not made by white or red, by black eyes and a round face, by a straight
body and a smooth skin; but by a proportion to the fancy. No rules can
make amiability; our minds and apprehensions make that: and so is our
felicity; and we may be reconciled to poverty and a low fortune, if we
suffer contentedness and the grace of God to make the proportions. For
no man is poor that does not think himself so: but if, in a full
fortune, with impatience he desires more, he proclaims his wants and his
beggarly condition. But because this grace of contentedness was the sum
of all the old moral philosophy, and a great duty in Christianity, and
of most universal use in the whole course of our lives, and the only
instrument to ease the burdens of the world and the enmities of sad
chances, it will not be amiss to press it by the proper arguments by
which God hath bound it upon our spirits; it being fastened by reason
and religion, by duty and interest, by necessity and conveniency, by
example, and by the proposition of excellent rewards, no less than peace
and felicity.
Contentedness in all estates is a duty of religion; it is the great
reasonableness of complying with the Divine Providence, which governs
all the world, and hath so ordered us in the administration of his great
family. He were a strange fool that should be angry because dogs and
sheep need no shoes, and yet himself is full of care to get some. God
hath supplied those needs to them by natural provisions, and to thee by
an artificial: for he hath given thee reason to learn a trade, or some
means to make or buy them, so that it only differs in the manner of our
provision: and which had you rather want, shoes or reason? and my
patron, that hath given me a farm, is freer to me than if he gives a
loaf ready baked. But, however, all these gifts come from him, and
therefore it is fit he should dispense them as he pleases; and if we
murmur here, we may, at the next melancholy, be troubled that God did
not make us to be angels or stars. For if that which we are or have do
not content us, we may be troubled for every thing in the world which is
beside our being or our possessions.
God is the master of the scenes; we must not choose which part we shall
act; it concerns us only to be careful that we do it well, always
saying, "If this please God, let it be as it is:" and we, who pray that
God's will may be done in earth as it is in heaven, must remember that
the angels do whatsoever is commanded them, and go wherever they are
sent, and refuse no circumstances; and if their employment be crossed by
a higher decree, they sit down in peace, and rejoice in the event; and
when the angel of Judea could not prevail in behalf of the people
committed to his charge, because the angel of Persia opposed it, he only
told the story at the command of God, and was as content, and worshipped
with as great an ecstasy in his proportion, as the prevailing spirit. Do
thou so likewise: keep the station where God hath placed you, and you
shall never long for things without, but sit at home, feasting upon the
Divine Providence and thy own reason, by which we are taught that it is
necessary and reasonable to submit to God.
For is not all the world God's family? Are not we his creatures? Are we
not as clay in the hand of the potter? Do we not live upon his meat, and
move by his strength, and do our work by his light? Are we any thing but
what we are from him? And shall there be a mutiny among the flocks and
herds, because their lord or their shepherd chooses their pastures, and
suffers them not to wander into deserts and unknown ways? If we choose,
we do it so foolishly that we cannot like it long, and most commonly not
at all: but God, who can do what he pleases, is wise to choose safely
for us, affectionate to comply with our needs, and powerful to execute
all his wise decrees. Here, therefore, is the wisdom of the contented
man, to let God choose for him; for when we have given up our wills to
him, and stand in that station of the battle where our great General
hath placed us, our spirits must needs rest while our conditions have
for their security the power, the wisdom, and the charity of God.
Contentedness in all accidents brings great peace of spirit, and is the
great and only instrument of temporal felicity. It removes the sting
from the accident, and makes a man not to depend upon chance and the
uncertain dispositions of men for his well-being, but only on God and
his own spirit. We ourselves make our fortunes good or bad; and when God
lets loose a tyrant upon us, or a sickness, or scorn, or a lessened
fortune, if we fear to die, or know not to be patient, or are proud or
covetous, then the calamity sits heavy on us. But if we know how to
manage a noble principle, and fear not death so much as a dishonest
action, and think impatience a worse evil than a fever, and pride to be
the biggest disgrace, and poverty to be infinitely desirable before the
torments of covetousness; then we who now think vice to be so easy, and
make it so familiar, and think the cure so impossible, shall quickly be
of another mind, and reckon these accidents amongst things eligible.
But no man can be happy that hath great hopes and great fears of things
without, and events depending upon other men, or upon the chances of
fortune. The rewards of virtue are certain, and our provisions for our
natural support are certain; or if we want meat till we die, then we die
of that disease--and there are many worse than to die with an atrophy or
consumption, or unapt and coarser nourishment. But he that suffers a
transporting passion concerning things within the power of others, is
free from sorrow and amazement no longer than his enemy shall give him
leave; and it is ten to one but he shall be smitten then and there where
it shall most trouble him; for so the adder teaches us where to strike,
by her curious and fearful defending of her head. The old Stoics, when
you told them of a sad story, would still answer, "_What is that to
me?_" Yes, for the tyrant hath sentenced you also to prison. Well, what
is that? He will put a chain upon my leg; but he cannot bind my soul.
No; but he will kill you. Then I will die. If presently, let me go, that
I may presently be freer than himself: but if not till anon, or
to-morrow, I will dine first, or sleep, or do what reason or nature
calls for, as at other times. This, in Gentile philosophy, is the same
with the discourse of St. Paul, "I have learned, in whatsoever state I
am, therewith to be content. I know both how to be abased, and I know
how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed, both to be
full and to be hungry; both to abound and suffer need."
We are in the world like men playing at tables; the chance is not in our
power, but to play it is; and when it is fallen we must manage it as we
can: and let nothing trouble us, but when we do a base action, or speak
like a fool, or think wickedly,--these things God hath put into our
powers; but concerning those things which are wholly in the choice of
another, they cannot fall under our deliberation, and therefore neither
are they fit for our passions. My fear may make me miserable, but it
cannot prevent what another hath in his power and purpose; and
prosperities can only be enjoyed by them who fear not at all to lose
them; since the amazement and passion concerning the future takes off
all the pleasure of the present possession. Therefore, if thou hast lost
thy land, do not also lose thy constancy; and if thou must die a little
sooner, yet do not die impatiently. For no chance is evil to him that is
content: and to a man nothing is miserable unless it be unreasonable. No
man can make another man to be his slave unless he hath first enslaved
himself to life and death, to pleasure or pain, to hope or fear: command
these passions, and you are freer than the Parthian kings.
VII. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.
RICHARD LOVELACE.--1618-1658.
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore,--
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Lov'd I not honor more.
VIII. ANGLING.
IZAAK WALTON.--1593-1683.
_From_ THE COMPLETE ANGLER.
_Venator._--O my good master, this morning walk has been spent to my
great pleasure and wonder; but I pray, when shall I have your direction
how to make artificial flies, like to those that the trout loves best,
and also how to use them?
_Piscator._--My honest scholar, it is now past five of the clock; we
will fish till nine, and then go to breakfast. Go you to yon
sycamore-tree, and hide your bottle of drink under the hollow root of
it; for about that time, and in that place, we will make a brave
breakfast with a piece of powdered beef, and a radish or two, that I
have in my fish-bag: we shall, I warrant you, make a good, honest,
wholesome, hungry breakfast, and I will then give you direction for the
making and using of your flies; and in the meantime, there is your rod
and line, and my advice is, that you fish as you see me do, and let's
try which can catch the first fish.
_Venator._--I thank you, master; I will observe and practise your
direction as far as I am able.
_Piscator._--Look you, scholar, you see I have hold of a good fish: I
now see it is a trout. I pray put that net under him, and touch not my
line, for if you do, then we break all. Well done, scholar! I thank you.
Now for another. Trust me, I have another bite: come, scholar, come, lay
down your rod, and help me to land this as you did the other. So now we
shall be sure to have a good dish for supper.
_Venator._--I am glad of that; but I have no fortune: sure, master,
yours is a better rod and better tackling.
_Piscator._--Nay, then, take mine; and I will fish with yours. Look you,
scholar, I have another. Come, do as you did before. And now I have a
bite at another. Oh me! he has broke all: there's half a line and a good
hook lost.
_Venator._--Ay, and a good trout too.
_Piscator._--Nay, the trout is not lost; for pray take notice, no man
can lose what he never had.
_Venator._--Master, I can neither catch with the first nor second angle:
I have no fortune.
_Piscator._--Look you, scholar, I have yet another. And now, having
caught two brace of trouts, I will tell you a short tale as we walk
towards our breakfast. A scholar, a preacher I should say, that was to
preach to procure the approbation of a parish that he might be their
lecturer, had got from his fellow-pupil the copy of a sermon that was
first preached with great commendation by him that composed it; and
though the borrower of it preached it, word for word, as it was at
first, yet it was utterly disliked as it was preached by the second to
his congregation; which the sermon borrower complained of to the lender
of it; and thus was answered: "I lent you, indeed, my fiddle, but not my
fiddle-stick; for you are to know, that every one cannot make music with
my words, which are fitted to my own mouth." And so, my scholar, you are
to know, that as the ill pronunciation or ill accenting of words in a
sermon spoils it, so the ill carriage of your line, or not fishing even
to a foot in a right place, makes you lose your labor; and you are to
know, that though you have my fiddle, that is, my very rod and tacklings
with which you see I catch fish, yet you have not my fiddle-stick, that
is, you yet have not skill to know how to carry your hand and line, nor
how to guide it to a right place; and this must be taught you; for you
are to remember, I told you angling is an art, either by practice or a
long observation, or both. But take this for a rule: when you fish for a
trout with a worm, let your line have so much and not more lead than
will fit the stream in which you fish; that is to say, more in a great
troublesome stream than in a smaller that is quieter; as near as may be,
so much as will sink the bait to the bottom, and keep it still in
motion, and not more.
But now let's say grace and fall to breakfast. What say you, scholar, to
the providence of an old angler? does not this meat taste well? and was
not this place well chosen to eat it? for this sycamore-tree will shade
us from the sun's heat.
_Venator._--All excellent good, and my stomach excellent good too. And
now I remember and find that true which devout Lessius says: "That poor
men, and those that fast often, have much more pleasure in eating than
rich men and gluttons, that always feed before their stomachs are empty
of their last meal, and call for more; for by that means they rob
themselves of that pleasure that hunger brings to poor men." And I do
seriously approve of that saying of yours, "that you would rather be a
civil, well-governed, well-grounded, temperate, poor angler, than a
drunken lord." But I hope there is none such: however, I am certain of
this, that I have been at many very costly dinners that have not
afforded me half the content that this has done, for which I thank God
and you.
And now, good master, proceed to your promised direction for making and
ordering my artificial fly.
_Piscator_.--My honest scholar, I will do it; for it is a debt due unto
you by my promise....
... Look how it begins to rain!--and by the clouds, if I mistake not, we
shall presently have a smoking shower, and therefore sit close: this
sycamore-tree will shelter us; and I will tell you, as they shall come
into my mind, more observations of fly-fishing for a trout....
... And now, scholar, my direction for fly-fishing is ended with this
shower, for it has done raining: and now look about you, and see how
pleasantly that meadow looks; nay, and the earth smells as sweetly too.
Come, let me tell you what holy Mr. Herbert says of such days and
flowers as these; and then we will thank God that we enjoy them, and
walk to the river and sit down quietly, and try to catch the other brace
of trouts.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky:
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave;
And thou must die.
Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
Thy music shows ye have your closes;
And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season'd timber, never gives;
But, though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.
_Venator._--I thank you, good master, for your good direction for
fly-fishing, and for the sweet enjoyment of the pleasant day, which is
so far spent without offence to God or man; and I thank you for the
sweet close of your discourse with Mr. Herbert's verses, who, I have
heard, loved angling; and I do the rather believe it, because he had a
spirit suitable to anglers, and to those primitive Christians that you
love and have so much commended.
_Piscator._--Well, my loving scholar, and I am pleased to know that you
are so well pleased with my direction and discourse.... And now, I think
it will be time to repair to our angle-rods, which we left in the water
to fish for themselves: and you shall choose which shall be yours; and
it is an even lay, one of them catches.
And, let me tell you, this kind of fishing with a dead rod, and laying
night-hooks, are like putting money to use; for they both work for the
owners, when they do nothing but sleep, or eat, or rejoice; as you know
we have done this last hour, and sat as quietly, and as free from cares
under this sycamore, as Virgil's Tityrus and his Meliboeus did, under
their broad beech tree. No life, my honest scholar, no life so happy and
so pleasant, as the life of a well-governed angler; for when the lawyer
is swallowed up with business, and the statesman is preventing or
contriving plots, then we sit on cowslip banks, hear the birds sing, and
possess ourselves in as much quietness as these silent silver streams,
which we now see glide so quietly by us. Indeed, my good scholar, we may
say of angling as Dr. Boteler said of strawberries, "Doubtless, God
could have made a better berry, but doubtless, God never did;" and so,
if I might be judge, "God never did make a more calm, quiet, innocent
recreation than angling."
IX. ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.
(1629).
JOHN MILTON.--1608-1674.
I.
This is the month, and this the happy morn,
Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King,
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,
That he our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.
II.
That glorious form, that light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,
Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
He laid aside; and, here with us to be,
Forsook the courts of everlasting day,
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.
III.
Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
Afford a present to the Infant God?
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,
To welcome him to this his new abode,
Now while the heaven, by the Sun's team untrod,
Hath took no print of the approaching light,
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
IV.
See how from far upon the eastern road
The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet!
O run, prevent them with thy humble ode,
And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;
Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet,
And join thy voice unto the Angel Choir,
From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.
* * * * *
THE HYMN.
1.
It was the winter wild,
While the Heaven-born child,
All meanly wrapt, in the rude manger lies;
Nature, in awe to him,
Had doff'd her gaudy trim,
With her great Master so to sympathize:
It was no season then for her
To wanton with the Sun, her lusty paramour.
2.
Only, with speeches fair,
She woos the gentle Air
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow,
And on her naked shame,
Pollute with sinful blame,
The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes
Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
3.
But he, her fears to cease,
Sent down the meek-ey'd Peace:
She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding
Down through the turning sphere,
His ready harbinger,
With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;
And, waving wide her myrtle wand,
She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
4.
No war, or battle's sound,
Was heard the world around:
The idle spear and shield were high up hung;
The hooked chariot stood,
Unstain'd with hostile blood;
The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;
And kings sat still with awful eye,
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
5.
But peaceful was the night
Wherein the Prince of Light
His reign of peace upon the earth began:
The winds, with wonder whist,
Smoothly the waters kiss'd,
Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
6.
The stars, with deep amaze,
Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,
Bending one way their precious influence;
And will not take their flight,
For all the morning light,
Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;
But in their glimmering orbs did glow,
Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.
7.
And, though the shady gloom
Had given day her room,
The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed;
And hid his head for shame,
As his inferior flame
The new-enlighten'd world no more should need;
He saw a greater Sun appear
Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear.
8.
The shepherds on the lawn,
Or ere the point of dawn,
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;
Full little thought they then
That the mighty Pan
Was kindly come to live with them below:
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.
9.
When such music sweet
Their hearts and ears did greet,
As never was by mortal finger strook,
Divinely-warbled voice
Answering the stringed noise,
As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
The Air, such pleasure loth to lose,
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.
10.
Nature, that heard such sound
Beneath the hollow round
Of Cynthia's seat, the Airy region thrilling,
Now was almost won
To think her part was done,
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling:
She knew such harmony alone
Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union.
11.
At last surrounds their sight
A globe of circular light,
That with long beams the shame-faced Night array'd;
The helmed cherubim,
And sworded seraphim,
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,
Harping in loud and solemn choir,
With unexpressive notes to Heaven's new-born Heir.
12.
Such music (as 'tis said)
Before was never made,
But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,
While the Creator great
His constellations set,
And the well-balanced world on hinges hung,
And cast the dark foundations deep,
And bid the welt'ring waves their oozy channel keep.
13.
Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
Once bless our human ears,
(If ye have power to touch our senses so,)
And let your silver chime
Move in melodious time;
And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow;
And with your ninefold harmony
Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.
14.
For, if such holy song
Enwrap our fancy long,
Time will run back, and fetch the Age of Gold;
And speckled Vanity
Will sicken soon and die;
And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;
And Hell itself will pass away,
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
15.
Yea, Truth and Justice then
Will down return to men,
Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,
Mercy will sit between,
Thron'd in celestial sheen,
With radiant feet the tissu'd clouds down steering;
And Heaven, as at some festival,
Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.
16.
But wisest Fate says, No,
This must not yet be so;
The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy,
That on the bitter cross
Must redeem our loss;
So both himself and us to glorify:
Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep,
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.
17.
With such a horrid clang
As on Mount Sinai rang,
While the red fire and smould'ring clouds out brake:
The aged Earth, aghast,
With terror of that blast,
Shall from the surface to the centre shake;
When, at the world's last session,
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.
18.
And then at last our bliss
Full and perfect is,
But now begins; for from this happy day
The Old Dragon under ground,
In straiter limits bound,
Not half so far casts his usurped sway;
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
19.
The Oracles are dumb;
No voice or hideous hum
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more divine,
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.
No nightly trance, or breathed spell,
Inspires the pale-ey'd priest from the prophetic cell.
20.
The lonely mountains o'er,
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;
From haunted spring, and dale
Edg'd with poplar pale,
The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
With flower-inwoven tresses torn
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
21.
In consecrated earth,
And on the holy hearth,
The Lars, and Lemures, moan with midnight plaint;
In urns, and altars round,
A drear and dying sound
Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;
And the chill marble seems to sweat,
While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.
22.
Peor, and Baaelim,
Forsake their temples dim,
With that twice-batter'd God of Palestine;
And mooned Ashtaroth,
Heaven's queen and mother both,
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine:
The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn;
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
23.
And sullen Moloch, fled,
Hath left in shadows dread,
His burning idol all of blackest hue
In vain with cymbals' ring
They call the grisly king,
In dismal dance about the furnace blue;
The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.
24.
Nor is Osiris seen
In Memphian grove or green,
Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud;
Nor can he be at rest
Within his sacred chest;
Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;
In vain, with timbrell'd anthems dark,
The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark.
25.
He feels from Juda's land
The dreaded Infant's hand;
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
Nor all the gods beside
Longer dare abide,
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,
Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.
26.
So, when the sun in bed,
Curtain'd with cloudy red,
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
The flocking shadows pale
Troop to the infernal jail,
Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
And the yellow-skirted fays
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-lov'd maze.
27.
But see! the Virgin blest
Hath laid her Babe to rest.
Time is our tedious song should here have ending:
Heaven's youngest-teemed star,
Hath fix'd her polish'd car,
Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending;
And all about the courtly stable
Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.
X. CHARACTER OF LORD FALKLAND.
LORD CLARENDON.--1608-1674.
_From_ HISTORY OF THE REBELLION.
In this unhappy battle [of Newbury] was slain the Lord Viscount
Falkland; a person of such prodigious parts of learning and knowledge,
of that inimitable sweetness and delight in conversation, of so flowing
and obliging a humanity and goodness to mankind, and of that primitive
simplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no other brand upon
this odious and accursed civil war, than that single loss, it must be
most infamous, and execrable to all posterity.
Before this parliament, his condition of life was so happy that it was
hardly capable of improvement. Before he came to be twenty years of age,
he was master of a noble fortune, which descended to him by the gift of
a grandfather, without passing through his father or mother, who were
then both alive, and not well enough contented to find themselves passed
by in the descent. His education for some years had been in Ireland,
where his father was lord-deputy; so that, when he returned into
England, to the possession of his fortune, he was unentangled with any
acquaintance or friends, which usually grow up by the custom of
conversation; and therefore was to make a pure election of his company;
which he chose by other rules than were prescribed to the young nobility
of that time. And it cannot be denied, though he admitted some few to
his friendship for the agreeableness of their natures, and their
undoubted affection to him, that his familiarity and friendship, for the
most part, was with men of the most eminent and sublime parts, and of
untouched reputation in point of integrity; and such men had a title to
his bosom.
He was a great cherisher of wit, and fancy, and good parts in any man;
and, if he found them clouded with poverty or want, a most liberal and
bountiful patron towards them, even above his fortune; of which, in
those administrations, he was such a dispenser, as, if he had been
trusted with it to such uses, and if there had been the least of vice in
his expense, he might have been thought too prodigal. He was constant
and pertinacious in whatsoever he resolved to do, and not to be wearied
by any pains that were necessary to that end. And, therefore, having
once resolved not to see London, which he loved above all places, till
he had perfectly learned the Greek tongue, he went to his own house in
the country, and pursued it with that indefatigable industry, that it
will not be believed in how short a time he was master of it, and
accurately read all the Greek historians.
In this time, his house being within little more than ten miles of
Oxford, he contracted familiarity and friendship with the most polite
and accurate men of that university; who found such an immenseness of
wit, and such a solidity of judgment in him, so infinite a fancy, bound
in by a most logical ratiocination, such a vast knowledge, that he was
not ignorant in anything, yet such an excessive humility, as if he had
known nothing, that they frequently resorted and dwelt with him, as in a
college situated in a purer air; so that his house was a university in a
less volume; whither they came not so much for repose as study; and to
examine and refine those grosser propositions, which laziness and
consent made current in vulgar conversation....
He was superior to all those passions and affections which attend vulgar
minds, and was guilty of no other ambition than of knowledge, and to be
reputed a lover of all good men; and that made him too much a contemner
of those arts, which must be indulged in the transactions of human
affairs....
He had a courage of the most clear and keen temper, and so far from
fear, that he seemed not without some appetite of danger; and therefore,
upon any occasion of action, he always engaged his person in those
troops which he thought, by the forwardness of the commanders, to be
most like to be farthest engaged; and in all such encounters, he had
about him an extraordinary cheerfulness, without at all affecting the
execution that usually attended them; in which he took no delight, but
took pains to prevent it, where it was not by resistance made necessary:
insomuch that at Edge-hill, when the enemy was routed, he was like to
have incurred great peril, by interposing to save those who had thrown
away their arms, and against whom, it may be, others were more fierce
for their having thrown them away: so that a man might think he came
into the field chiefly out of curiosity to see the face of danger, and
charity to prevent the shedding of blood. Yet, in his natural
inclination, he acknowledged he was addicted to the profession of a
soldier; and shortly after he came to his fortune, before he was of
age, he went into the Low Countries, with a resolution of procuring
command, and to give himself up to it; from which he was diverted by the
complete inactivity of that summer; so he returned into England, and
shortly after entered upon that vehement course of study we mentioned
before, till the first alarm from the north; then again he made ready
for the field, and though he received some repulse in the command of a
troop of horse, of which he had a promise, he went a volunteer with the
earl of Essex.
From the entrance into this unnatural war, his natural cheerfulness and
vivacity grew clouded, and a kind of sadness and dejection of spirit
stole upon him, which he had never been used to; yet being one of those
who believed that one battle would end all differences, and that there
would be so great a victory on one side, that the other would be
compelled to submit to any conditions from the victor--which supposition
and conclusion generally sunk into the minds of most men, and prevented
the looking after many advantages that might then have been laid hold
of--he resisted those indispositions. But after the king's return from
Brentford, and the furious resolution of the two Houses not to admit any
treaty for peace, those indispositions, which had before touched him,
grew into a perfect habit of uncheerfulness; and he, who had been so
exactly unreserved and affable to all men, that his face and countenance
was always present, and vacant, to his company, and held any cloudiness,
and less pleasantness of the visage, a kind of rudeness or incivility,
became, on a sudden, less communicable; and thence, very sad, pale, and
exceedingly affected with the spleen. In his clothes and habit, which he
had minded before always with more neatness, and industry, and expense,
than is usual to so great a soul, he was not now only incurious, but too
negligent; and in his reception of suitors, and the necessary or casual
addresses to his place, so quick, and sharp, and severe, that there
wanted not some men--strangers to his nature and disposition--who
believed him proud and imperious; from which no mortal man was ever more
free....
When there was any overture or hope of peace, he would be more erect and
vigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to press anything which he thought
might promote it; and sitting among his friends, often, after a deep
silence, and frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad accent,
ingeminate the word _Peace, Peace_; and would passionately profess,
"that the very agony of the war, and the view of the calamities and
desolation the kingdom did and must endure, took his sleep from him, and
would shortly break his heart." This made some think, or pretend to
think, "that he was so much enamoured of peace, that he would have been
glad the king should have bought it at any price;" which was a most
unreasonable calumny. As if a man, that was himself the most punctual
and precise in every circumstance that might reflect upon conscience or
honor, could have wished the king to have committed a trespass against
either....
In the morning before the battle, as always upon action, he was very
cheerful, and put himself into the first rank of the Lord Byron's
regiment, then advancing upon the enemy, who had lined the hedges on
both sides with musketeers; from whence he was shot with a musket in the
lower part of the belly, and in the instant falling from his horse, his
body was not found till the next morning; till when, there was some
hope he might have been a prisoner; though his nearest friends, who knew
his temper, received small comfort from that imagination. Thus fell that
incomparable young man, in the four-and-thirtieth year of his age,
having so much despatched the true business of life, that the oldest
rarely attain to that immense knowledge, and the youngest enter not into
the world with more innocency: whosoever leads such a life, needs be the
less anxious upon how short warning it is taken from him.
XI. VENI, CREATOR SPIRITUS.
JOHN DRYDEN.--1631-1700.
Creator Spirit, by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come, visit every pious mind;
Come, pour thy joys on humankind;
From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.
O source of uncreated light,
The Father's promis'd Paraclete!
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;
Come, and thy sacred unction bring
To sanctify us, while we sing.
Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in thy sevenfold energy!
Thou strength of his Almighty hand,
Whose power does heaven and earth command;
Proceeding Spirit, our defence,
Who dost the gift of tongues dispense,
And crown'st thy gift with eloquence.
Refine and purge our earthy parts;
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts!
Our frailties help, our vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand, and hold them down.
Chase from our minds the infernal foe,
And peace, the fruit of Love, bestow;
And lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.
Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe:
Give us thy self, that we may see
The Father and the Son by thee.
Immortal honor, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's name:
The Saviour Son be glorified,
Who for lost man's redemption died:
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to thee!
XII. LINES PRINTED UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF MILTON.
DRYDEN.
Three poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd,
The next in majesty, in both the last.
The force of Nature could no farther go;
To make a third she join'd the former two.
XIII. REASON.
DRYDEN.
_From_ RELIGIO LAICI.
Dim as the borrowed beams of moon and stars
To lonely, weary, wandering travellers,
Is Reason to the soul; and as on high
Those rolling fires discover but the sky,
Not light us here; so Reason's glimmering ray
Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way,
But guide us upward to a better day
And as those nightly tapers disappear,
When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere;
So pale grows Reason at Religion's sight;
So dies, and so dissolves, in supernatural light.
XIV. ON THE LOVE OF COUNTRY AS A PRINCIPLE OF ACTION.
RICHARD STEELE.--1672-1729.
_From_ THE TATLER, June 10, 1710.
When men look into their own bosoms, and consider the generous seeds
which are there planted, that might, if rightly cultivated, ennoble
their lives, and make their virtue venerable to futurity; how can they,
without tears, reflect on the universal degeneracy from that public
spirit, which ought to be the first and principal motive of all their
actions? In the Grecian and Roman nations, they were wise enough to keep
up this great incentive, and it was impossible to be in the fashion
without being a patriot. All gallantry had its first source from hence;
and to want a warmth for the public welfare, was a defect so scandalous,
that he who was guilty of it had no pretence to honor or manhood. What
makes the depravity among us, in this behalf, the more vexatious and
irksome to reflect upon, is, that the contempt of life is carried as far
amongst us, as it could be in those memorable people; and we want only a
proper application of the qualities which are frequent among us, to be
as worthy as they. There is hardly a man to be found who will not fight
upon any occasion, which he thinks may taint his own honor. Were this
motive as strong in everything that regards the public, as it is in this
our private case, no man would pass his life away without having
distinguished himself by some gallant instance of his zeal towards it in
the respective incidents of his life and profession. But it is so far
otherwise, that there cannot at present be a more ridiculous animal,
than one who seems to regard the good of others. He, in civil life,
whose thoughts turn upon schemes which may be of general benefit,
without further reflection, is called a projector; and the man whose
mind seems intent upon glorious achievements, a knight-errant. The
ridicule among us runs strong against laudable actions; nay, in the
ordinary course of things, and the common regards of life, negligence of
the public is an epidemic vice. The brewer in his excise, the merchant
in his customs, and, for aught we know, the soldier in his muster-rolls,
think never the worse of themselves for being guilty of their respective
frauds towards the public. This evil is come to such a fantastical
height, that he is a man _of_ a public spirit, and heroically affected
to his country, who can go so far as even to turn usurer with all he
has in her funds. There is not a citizen in whose imagination such a one
does not appear in the same light of glory, as Codrus, Scaevola, or any
other great name in old Rome. Were it not for the heroes of so much _per
cent._ as have regard enough for themselves and their nation to trade
with her with their wealth, the very notion of public love would long
ere now have vanished from among us. But however general custom may
hurry us away in the stream of a common error, there is no evil, no
crime, so great as that of being cold in matters relating to the common
good. This is in nothing more conspicuous than in a certain willingness
to receive anything that tends to the diminution of such as have been
conspicuous instruments in our service. Such inclinations proceed from
the most low and vile corruption, of which the soul of man is capable.
This effaces not only the practice, but the very approbation of honor
and virtue; and has had such an effect, that, to speak freely, the very
sense of public good has no longer a part even in our conversations. Can
then the most generous motive of life, the good of others, be so easily
banished the breast of man? Is it possible to draw all our passions
inward? Shall the boiling heat of youth be sunk in pleasures, the
ambition of manhood in selfish intrigues? Shall all that is glorious,
all that is worth the pursuit of great minds, be so easily rooted out?
When the universal bent of a people seems diverted from the sense of
their common good, and common glory, it looks like a fatality, and
crisis of impending misfortune.
The generous nations we just now mentioned understood this so very well,
that there was hardly an oration ever made, which did not turn upon
this general sense, "That the love of their country was the first and
most essential quality in an honest mind." Demosthenes, in a cause
wherein his fame, reputation, and fortune, were embarked, puts his all
upon this issue; "Let the Athenians," says he, "be benevolent to me, as
they think I have been zealous for them." This great and discerning
orator knew, there was nothing else in nature could bear him up against
his adversaries, but this one quality of having shown himself willing or
able to serve his country. This certainly is the test of merit; and the
first foundation for deserving good-will is, having it yourself. The
adversary of this orator at that time was AEschines, a man of wily arts
and skill in the world, who could, as occasion served, fall in with a
national start of passion, or sullenness of humor, which a whole nation
is sometimes taken with as well as a private man; and by that means
divert them from their common sense, into an aversion for receiving
anything in its true light. But when Demosthenes had awakened his
audience with that one hint of judging by the general tenor of his life
towards them, his services bore down his opponent before him, who fled
to the covert of his mean arts, until some more favorable opportunity
should offer against the superior merit of Demosthenes.
It were to be wished, that love of their country were the first
principle of action in men of business, even for their own sakes; for
when the world begins to examine into their conduct, the generality, who
have no share in, or hopes of any part in power or riches, but what is
the effect of their own labor or prosperity, will judge of them by no
other method, than that of how profitable their administration has been
to the whole. They who are out of the influence of men's fortune or
favor, will let them stand or fall by this one only rule; and men who
can bear being tried by it, are always popular in their fall. Those, who
cannot suffer such a scrutiny, are contemptible in their advancement.
But I am here running into shreds of maxims from reading Tacitus this
morning, which has driven me from my recommendation of public spirit,
which was the intended purpose of this lucubration. There is not a more
glorious instance of it, than in the character of Regulus. This same
Regulus was taken prisoner by the Carthaginians, and was sent by them to
Rome, in order to demand some Punic noblemen, who were prisoners, in
exchange for himself; and was bound by an oath that he would return to
Carthage, if he failed in his commission. He proposes this to the
senate, who were in suspense upon it, which Regulus observing, without
having the least notion of putting the care of his own life in
competition with the public good, desired them to consider that he was
old, and almost useless; that those demanded in exchange were men of
daring tempers, and great merit in military affairs; and wondered they
would make any doubt of permitting him to go back to the short tortures
prepared for him at Carthage, where he should have the advantage of
ending a long life both gloriously and usefully. This generous advice
was consented to; and he took his leave of his country and his weeping
friends, to go to certain death, with that cheerful composure, as a man,
after the fatigue of business in a court or a city, retires to the next
village for the air.
* * * * *
_When the heart is right there is true patriotism_.
BISHOP BERKELEY.--1684-1753.
XV. THE GOLDEN SCALES.
JOSEPH ADDISON.--1672-1719.
_From_ THE SPECTATOR, August 21, 1712.
I was lately entertaining myself with comparing Homer's balance, in
which Jupiter is represented as weighing the fates of Hector and
Achilles, with a passage of Virgil, wherein that deity is introduced as
weighing the fates of Turnus and AEneas. I then considered how the same
way of thinking prevailed in the eastern parts of the world, as in those
noble passages of Scripture, where we are told, that the great king of
Babylon, the day before his death, had been weighed in the balance, and
been found wanting. In other places of the holy writings the Almighty is
described as weighing the mountains in scales, making the weight for the
winds, knowing the balancings of the clouds; and, in others, as weighing
the actions of men, and laying their calamities together in a balance.
Milton, as I have observed in a former paper, had an eye to several of
these foregoing instances, in that beautiful description wherein he
represents the archangel and the evil spirit as addressing themselves
for the combat, but parted by the balance which appeared in the heavens,
and weighed the consequences of such a battle.
The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray,
Hung forth in Heaven his golden scales, yet seen
Betwixt Astrea and the Scorpion sign,
Wherein all things created first he weigh'd,
The pendulous round earth with balanced air
In counterpoise; now ponder; all events,
Battles and realms: in these he puts two weights,
The sequel each of parting and of fight:
The latter quick up flew, and kick'd the beam;
Which Gabriel spying, thus bespake the fiend.
"Satan, I know thy strength, and thou know'st mine,
Neither our own, but given; what folly then
To boast what arms can do! since thine no more
Than Heaven permits; nor mine, though doubled now
To trample thee as mire: for proof look up,
And read thy lot in yon celestial sign,
Where thou art weigh'd, and shewn how light, how weak,
If thou resist." The fiend look'd up and knew
His mounted scale aloft; nor more: but fled
Murm'ring, and with him fled the shades of night.
These several amusing thoughts having taken possession of my mind some
time before I went to sleep, and mingling themselves with my ordinary
ideas, raised in my imagination a very odd kind of vision. I was,
methought, replaced in my study, and seated in my elbow-chair, where I
had indulged the foregoing speculations, with my lamp burning by me, as
usual. Whilst I was here meditating on several subjects of morality, and
considering the nature of many virtues and vices, as materials for those
discourses with which I daily entertain the public; I saw, methought, a
pair of golden scales hanging by a chain in the same metal over the
table that stood before me; when, on a sudden, there were great heaps of
weights thrown down on each side of them. I found upon examining these
weights, they showed the value of everything that is in esteem among
men. I made an essay of them, by putting the weight of wisdom in one
scale, and that of riches in another, upon which the latter, to show its
comparative lightness, immediately "flew up and kicked the beam."
But, before I proceed, I must inform my reader, that these weights did
not exert their natural gravity, till they were laid in the golden
balance, insomuch that I could not guess which was light or heavy,
whilst I held them in my hand. This I found by several instances, for
upon my laying a weight in one of the scales, which was inscribed by the
word Eternity; though I threw in that of time, prosperity, affliction,
wealth, poverty, interest, success, with many other weights, which in my
hand seemed very ponderous, they were not able to stir the opposite
balance, nor could they have prevailed, though assisted with the weight
of the sun, the stars, and the earth.
Upon emptying the scales, I laid several titles and honors, with pomps,
triumphs, and many weights of the like nature, in one of them, and
seeing a little glittering weight lie by me, I threw it accidentally
into the other scale, when, to my great surprise, it proved so exact a
counterpoise, that it kept the balance in an equilibrium. This little
glittering weight was inscribed upon the edges of it with the word
Vanity. I found there were several other weights which were equally
heavy, and exact counterpoises to one another; a few of them I tried, as
avarice and poverty, riches and content, with some others.
There were likewise several weights that were of the same figure, and
seemed to correspond with each other, but were entirely different when
thrown into the scales, as religion and hypocrisy, pedantry and
learning, wit and vivacity, superstition and devotion, gravity and
wisdom, with many others.
I observed one particular weight lettered on both sides, and upon
applying myself to the reading of it, I found on one side written "_In
the dialect of men_," and underneath it, "CALAMITIES;" on the other side
was written, "_In the language of the gods_," and underneath,
"BLESSINGS." I found the intrinsic value of this weight to be much
greater than I imagined, for it overpowered health, wealth,
good-fortune, and many other weights, which were much more ponderous in
my hand than the other.
There is a saying among the Scotch, that "an ounce of mother is worth a
pound of clergy;" I was sensible of the truth of this saying, when I saw
the difference between the weight of natural parts and that of learning.
The observation which I made upon these two weights opened to me a new
field of discoveries, for notwithstanding the weight of natural parts
was much heavier than that of learning, I observed that it weighed an
hundred times heavier than it did before, when I put learning into the
same scale with it. I made the same observation upon faith and morality;
for notwithstanding the latter outweighed the former separately, it
received a thousand times more additional weight from its conjunction
with the former, than what it had by itself. This odd phenomenon showed
itself in other particulars, as in wit and judgment, philosophy and
religion, justice and humanity, zeal and charity, depth of sense and
perspicuity of style, with innumerable other particulars, too long to be
mentioned in this paper.
As a dream seldom fails of dashing seriousness with impertinence, mirth
with gravity, methought I made several other experiments of a more
ludicrous nature, by one of which I found that an English octavo was
very often heavier than a French folio; and by another, that an old
Greek or Latin author weighed down a whole library of moderns. Seeing
one of my _Spectators_ lying by me, I laid it into one of the scales,
and flung a twopenny piece in the other. The reader will not inquire
into the event, if he remembers the first trial which I have recorded in
this paper. I afterwards threw both the sexes into the balance; but as
it is not for my interest to disoblige either of them, I shall desire to
be excused from telling the result of this experiment. Having an
opportunity of this nature in my hands, I could not forbear throwing
into one scale the principles of a Tory, and in the other those of a
Whig; but as I have all along declared this to be a neutral paper, I
shall likewise desire to be silent under this head also, though upon
examining one of the weights, I saw the word TEKEL engraven on it in
capital letters.
I made many other experiments, and though I have not room for them all
in this day's speculation, I may perhaps reserve them for another. I
shall only add, that upon my awaking I was sorry to find my golden
scales vanished, but resolved for the future to learn this lesson from
them, not to despise or value any things for their appearances, but to
regulate my esteem and passions towards them according to their real and
intrinsic value.
* * * * *
_It must be so--Plato, thou reasonest well!--
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man._
_From Cato._--ADDISON.
XVI. MISJUDGED HOSPITALITY.
JONATHAN SWIFT.--1667-1745.
_From_ THE TATLER, March 6, 1711.
_Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes
Emollit mores._
OVID.
Those inferior duties of life which the French call _les petites
morales_, or the smaller morals, are with us distinguished by the name
of good manners or breeding. This I look upon, in the general notion of
it, to be a sort of artificial good sense, adapted to the meanest
capacities, and introduced to make mankind easy in their commerce with
each other. Low and little understandings, without some rules of this
kind, would be perpetually wandering into a thousand indecencies and
irregularities in behavior; and in their ordinary conversation, fall
into the same boisterous familiarities that one observeth amongst them
when a debauch hath quite taken away the use of their reason. In other
instances, it is odd to consider, that for want of common discretion,
the very end of good breeding is wholly perverted; and civility,
intended to make us easy, is employed in laying chains and fetters upon
us, in debarring us of our wishes, and in crossing our most reasonable
desires and inclinations. This abuse reigneth chiefly in the country, as
I found to my vexation, when I was last there, in a visit I made to a
neighbor about two miles from my cousin. As soon as I entered the
parlor, they put me into the great chair that stood close by a huge
fire, and kept me there by force, until I was almost stifled. Then a boy
came in great hurry to pull off my boots, which I in vain opposed,
urging that I must return soon after dinner. In the meantime, the good
lady whispered her eldest daughter, and slipped a key into her hand. The
girl returned instantly with a beer-glass half full of _aqua mirabilis_
and syrup of gillyflowers. I took as much as I had a mind for; but madam
avowed I should drink it off--for she was sure it would do me good,
after coming out of the cold air--and I was forced to obey; which
absolutely took away my stomach. When dinner came in, I had a mind to
sit at a distance from the fire; but they told me it was as much as my
life was worth, and set me with my back just against it. Although my
appetite was quite gone, I resolved to force down as much as I could;
and desired the leg of a pullet. "Indeed, Mr. Bickerstaff," says the
lady, "you must eat a wing, to oblige me;" and so put a couple upon my
plate. I was persecuted at this rate during the whole meal. As often as
I called for small-beer, the master tipped the wink, and the servant
brought me a brimmer of October. Some time after dinner, I ordered my
cousin's man, who came with me, to get ready the horses; but it was
resolved I should not stir that night; and when I seemed pretty much
bent upon going, they ordered the stable door to be locked; and the
children hid my cloak and boots. The next question was, what I would
have for supper. I said I never ate anything at night; but was at last,
in my own defence, obliged to name the first thing that came into my
head. After three hours spent chiefly in apologies for my entertainment,
insinuating to me, "that this was the worst time of the year for
provisions; that they were at a great distance from any market; that
they were afraid I should be starved; and that they knew they kept me to
my loss," the lady went, and left me to her husband--for they took
special care I should never be alone. As soon as her back was turned,
the little misses ran backward and forward every moment; and constantly
as they came in, or went out, made a courtesy directly at me, which, in
good manners, I was forced to return with a bow, and, "Your humble
servant, pretty miss." Exactly at eight the mother came up, and
discovered by the redness of her face that supper was not far off. It
was twice as large as the dinner, and my persecution doubled in
proportion. I desired, at my usual hour, to go to my repose, and was
conducted to my chamber by the gentleman, his lady, and the whole train
of children. They importuned me to drink something before I went to bed;
and upon my refusing, at last left a bottle of _stingo_, as they called
it, for fear I should wake and be thirsty in the night. I was forced in
the morning to rise and dress myself in the dark, because they would not
suffer my kinsman's servant to disturb me at the hour I desired to be
called. I was now resolved to break through all measures to get away;
and after sitting down to a monstrous breakfast of cold beef, mutton,
neats' tongues, venison-pasty, and stale-beer, took leave of the family.
But the gentleman would needs see me part of my way, and carry me a
short-cut through his own grounds, which he told me would save half a
mile's riding. This last piece of civility had like to have cost me
dear, being once or twice in danger of my neck, by leaping over his
ditches, and at last forced to alight in the dirt; when my horse, having
slipped his bridle, ran away, and took us up more than an hour to
recover him again. It is evident that none of the absurdities I met with
in this visit proceeded from an ill intention, but from a wrong judgment
of complaisance, and a misapplication in the rules of it.
XVII. FROM THE "ESSAY ON MAN."[B]
ALEXANDER POPE.--1688-1744.
Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate,
All but the page prescrib'd, their present state;
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know;
Or who could suffer being here below?
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flowery food,
And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.
O blindness to the future! kindly given,
That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven;
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.
Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;
Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore.
What future bliss he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always to be, blest.
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His soul proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heaven;
Some safer world in depth of woods embraced,
Some happier island in the watery waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To be, contents his natural desire;
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
What if the foot,
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