Home Fun

The first class is most difficult of successful achievement. In it, the whole gamut of emotions common to mankind may be symbolized, and in these attitude and gesture are governed by the mind, which should be revealed in every muscle, curve, and limb of the human frame.

Strength, courage, fidelity, chivalry, purity, and honesty should be posed in such a manner that the simple grandeur and dignity of these attributes cannot be mistaken. The hero, the martyr, the ascetic, the fanatic have each a commonly recognized type and pose.

The shrinking form of the coward—he who fears all things greater than himself—must bear the stamp of the puny soul unveiled. The eye of the hypocrite, the cunning, the evil and degraded, is as different from the gaze of the pure of heart as the muddy, stagnant pool is different from the wide, blue expanse of salt sea—the air of a foul room from the breath inhaled beneath the open sky.

And in the same way that grand music is expressive of all human emotions, and as welcome to the ear as the song of birds, so form and color, attitude and character, in living pictures are potent emblems of the strength and weakness of complex humanity.

The figure that is to symbolize Hope must possess that wondrous attribute in herself, otherwise no trickery of dress or limelight can make her anything but a caricature of the spirit of optimism.

So that, in order to portray virtues and vices as they are, the stage manager’s craft reaches beyond superficial knowledge. Psychology and intuition are even more important to him than experience regarding blending of colors, arrangement of lights and grouping of forms, for the human mind is the keynote in which his music is revealed, the touchstone of his secret, the mystic spirit dominating the symmetry of gesture.

In the choice of individuals, personal character is weighty—pink and white flesh tints, however perfectly blended in a face, do not stand for Patience, Charity, or Sympathy unless the heart behind is pulsed on the pivot-springs of these virtues, for the experienced eye of the spectator probes beyond paint and attitude, and knows perfectly well whether these virtues are rightly embodied or merely distorted mimicry.

Therefore the stage manager of tableaux vivants, before all else, needs penetration in recognizing and choosing exponents suitable to interpret the abstract conditions he is anxious to depict, and it is only when his choice is made that the training, grouping, and scenic effects need be considered.

Tableaux vivants are in character not unlike a symphony. The theme in both is important. In the latter, the interweaving of other parts enhances the beauty of the dominating strain, as in the former, where harmonizing colors and stage effects, important as they are, remain ever subordinate to the principal conception aspired.

Of course, in the training of subjects, it is very necessary that one attitude should be maintained by each figure and remain unbroken from the lift to the fall of the curtain, and this without rigidity of body, unless the characteristic is typified in rigid lines; but even more important is the necessity that the mind should not waver nor the features change to an expression not in harmony with the attribute typified.

Hope does not frown or smile, and all nervous twitching is absent from the tranquil face and figure of Serenity. Courage shows a lofty brow and steady eye—the shoulders are squared resolutely, but not aggressively.

Mercy, Pity, Love, Gentleness, Sweetness, and Charity are most perfectly imaged by women, who naturally possess these virtues; Dignity, Determination, Steadfastness, and Chivalry by men. But the stage manager need not limit himself by any conventions in this particular, for it sometimes happens that a woman’s face and form breathe characteristics usually found in certain types of manhood, while a man’s countenance may be eloquent of the gentle virtues typical of womanhood.

The thoughts of each character must be concentrated on the part undertaken, and the onlookers absolutely forgotten. As far as possible the actors should forget that there is a certain amount of strain in the immovable pose, otherwise limbs will twitch and the balance and pose be in peril. With sufficient practice it will not be difficult to remain in the attitude fixed upon for the few minutes after the curtain is lifted. It is only at first that the limbs, either through inexperience or nervousness, prove rebellious. The impersonators should not be afraid to breathe regularly, for this prevents artificial rigidity.

Figures should not be crowded together. A small stage, such as would be used in a drawing-room, requires a picture in proportion. The dresses and lights should blend harmoniously with the background and frame.

Staging

Fig. 1 depicts the lighting arrangement at back of frame. The guard-wires, running from side to side, are to prevent the possibility of dresses catching fire. The footlights usually consist of ordinary night-lights with illumination glass covers. Behind these are tin shades for reflectors. Electric light, if available, can be substituted for oil lamps as shown. In the same sketch a curtain-raising apparatus also appears. Two persons should be chosen for its manipulation, and be always stationed in such a position that they can draw and divide the curtain at the given signal.

Every separate production is timed by the stage manager or some other reliable person, and the duration of each should be exact. Three, or at the most four, minutes are ample time for the audience to take in the details of the picture, and the instant the curtain is drawn another group is arranged, the actors being perfectly familiar with the position and pose they are to take, going to their places without confusion or disorder.

In a succession of group-pictures different groups of actors are necessary, for it is impossible for the same persons to change their costumes in the minute or so that intervenes before the succeeding spectacle.

Where the number of players amounts to fifteen, twenty, or twenty-five, the number of tableaux arranged upon can be divided between them, and the productions, consisting of from two to five figures, arranged in such a way that during group A’s tableaux group B is ready in the wings and takes the stage the instant group A disappears through a different exit to the dressing-room. Next, group C takes group B’s place in the wings, and so on with all the groups. In this way each has a few minutes in which to change.

Confusion and fussing will be prevented by each group knowing exactly their manner and mode of entrance. Some plan, which renders it impossible for group A leaving the stage to collide with group B in the wings, must be fixed upon. Because the tableaux take place in a strange drawing-room, where there is not much accommodation possible behind the platform, and few entrances and exits, is no adequate excuse for any bungling or confusion.

However limited the space, the stage manager and his company should hit upon some plan that makes for order and precision. To do this, the performers should come early to rehearse entrances and exits, and then memorize them, for any mistake behind the scene, even if of so slight a character that it does not retard the productions, is apt to disturb the nerves of the players, and rob them of their necessary calm.

There should be no laughing or talking, for sounds easily penetrate through a drawing-room, and not only disturb the audience, but draw from their task the attention of the group occupying the stage.

The stage manager, who feels unable to represent abstract qualities perfectly, would do well to avoid them altogether.

It may happen that his actors include a few who are absolutely raw material where tableaux are concerned, and upon such occasions he should always have a few studies in his repertoire in which motionless poses are not necessary.

Penelope and Ulysses

For example, a pretty novice, sitting at a spinning-wheel, weaving imaginary threads from a spindle of flax, will do very well as Penelope, spinning her endless garment during the absence of Ulysses. In a simple white or colored gown, with her hair falling over her shoulders, and her head bent slightly over the wheel, she makes a pleasing picture.

Cinderella, seated on the floor, gazing into the cinders, with her hands clasped round her knees, is another quite easily adopted attitude.

Another pretty scene, acted over the spinning-wheel, is the Lady of Shalott, weaving “a magic web with colors gay,” and peering from time to time at the mirror above her, which reflects “the highway near, winding down to Camelot.”

In this tableau the facial expression is wholly different from that which dominates Penelope’s features. Penelope’s labor is inspired by stratagem, to keep her unwelcome suitors at bay. Her soul is steeped in a patience so melancholy that it verges on despair, whereas the Lady of Shalott “weaves by night and day,” because she believes she is chained to her task by an awful power. If she pauses a moment, a curse will fall upon her. Her eyes, therefore, are wild with fear, her face contorted, her fingers pluck the threads feverishly, and there is none of Penelope’s listlessness in her wild agonized concentration.

History and fiction teem with incidents that can be easily translated into groups, wherein an absolutely motionless attitude is not required.

The three witches in “Macbeth,” in their cone-shaped hats, tattered rags, and disheveled hair, their wild, evil prophecy, seared in the deep lines of their withered faces, haunched on the ground conspiring together.

Guinevere, prone on the convent floor of “the holy house at Almesbury”; King Arthur, fully armed, and stained with battle, bending over her in agonized tenderness, pity, and shame; and many other examples, which will easily be found by the stage manager, ambitious to exhibit pictures more unique than those usually adopted.

Stage “Props”

The materials used for characters need not be expensive or difficult to procure. Cheap sateens, muslins, velveteens, gold paper pasted over cardboard and large buttons, glass diamonds and emeralds, tinsel and silver braid, bright-colored ribbons from the remnant basket, discarded shoes and stockings, transformed by cheap dyes, vari-colored beads, imitation ermines, tin swords and armor—all these are useful and effective beneath the lime-light.

Backgrounds may be arranged by means of curtains draped over the walls in colors that blend or contrast harmoniously as desired with the tableau produced. Properties, such as old wine flagons, lamps, &c., may be fashioned by means of cardboard, cut in the necessary shape, gummed together, and covered with gold or silver paper.

Fancy dress magazines and illustrated histories will reveal many secrets to the stage manager. Better still, a visit to a museum, when he is in doubt about the shape and period of some article he requires, and observation of the properties utilized in historic or Shakespearean plays will well repay time and trouble spent. Duplicates in lead, wood, or tin of almost any old article can be fashioned well enough to answer his purpose.

When a large group of figures is to be arranged, light wooden ladders, placed in a semicircle, and covered with some appropriate color, make easy and adaptable tiers, on each step of which a figure is posed, or an arrangement of tiers for back-stage grouping can be made as shown in Fig. 2.

The most expensive aids in the stage manager’s paraphernalia—and these, alas, there is no overcoming—are the supply of the lime-light and the loan of the wigs. But in this direction he should not be too ambitious, contenting himself at the start with a moderate outfit in accordance with his means and inexperience.

CHAPTER IX
CHARADES

An Old Favorite for Indoor Parties

One of the most popular indoor entertainments for winter evenings, or indoor parties, both with children and “grown-ups,” is charades. Not only do they afford amusement to the audience, but the players themselves obtain a good deal of fun from their efforts to baffle those who are listening to them.

Suppose, for instance, that a “party” is composed of some twenty people. About five or six of them are selected to go outside, choose a word, which can easily be split into syllables, each making a word in itself.

The players must not waste too much time in planning how best to act the words, or the audience will show signs of impatience. This can also be averted by the hostess arranging for a musical, or other little “stop-gap” to fill up the time which must necessarily elapse between the moment when the players retire and their subsequent appearance.

Having thought of a little sketch which will take in all the several parts of the word chosen, the players arrange impromptu scenery and start the first act, taking care to bring in the first syllable, and yet not giving it undue prominence. This care must be observed all the way through the charade, as the fun is much greater when the listeners cannot guess the word too easily.

If the word chosen is “Indignation,” it is split into three syllables—In, dig, nation.

These words having been acted, in the last scene the complete word is brought in, and as it is through this act the audience will listen most carefully for a clew, the players, if they wish to baffle them, should do their best to bring in a variety of words in order to mislead the listeners.

In many cases a little scenery adds considerably to the successful presentation of charades. A “window” frequently proves of service. But it may happen that the end of the room where the actual window is situated does not lend itself conveniently to the performance of the charade, and in this circumstance the best plan is to improvise an “artificial window,” which, being portable, can be used in any required position.

An “Artificial Window”

A start can be made in construction by procuring a sheet of strong white paper of the requisite size. With India ink or chalk the thick black lines, as shown in Fig. 1, are painted in. The dotted lines represent the sheet of paper, the four holes the positions at which the nails fasten it to the wall, and the finished effect of an interior window is obtained by the draping of art muslin or curtains, as suggested by the diagram.

Oftentimes a little exterior scene is wanted. A simple way of improvising a cottage is that of using two screens placed as shown (A, A, Fig. 2). A plank or the shelf of a cupboard is placed across the top (D, Fig. 2), and kept in position either by nails or gimlets screwed into the top of the screens.

A tablecloth of any bright color, preferably red, is stretched from points (B, B, Fig. 3), slanting downwards and slightly over the edge of the screens.

Two “artificial windows” (C, C, Fig. 3) should be then pinned to the screens, and the exterior of cottage is complete, an additional artistic effect being produced by fixing flower-stands with ferns in positions as shown (E, E, Fig. 2).

“A Seaside Scene”

At first sight it might seem out of the question to produce a really passable scene representing “the rolling deep.” This may be easily carried out, however, by a careful study of Fig. 4, and the requisitioning of such commonplace articles as a large white sheet, which is stretched and nailed to the wall, a few rolls of stout white-backed wall-paper, hassocks, boxes, and old brown or gray cloths.

The wall-paper is cut into three lengths corresponding with the width of the sheet, one about 18 inches in depth (A, Fig. 4), the next 28 inches (B, Fig. 4), and the third 34 inches (C, Fig. 4).

At each end a piece of wood is fastened (D, Fig. 4), behind which is glued a block of wood or small weighted box (E, Fig. 4).

The lengths of paper, marked A and B, are cut in zig-zag fashion at the top in order to produce the appearance of waves, the effect being enhanced by an application of blue paint used as shown in the diagram. The strip of paper marked C forms the horizon, therefore the top of this should be left straight and painted blue to a depth of about 10 inches.

To complete the effect, boxes, hassocks, and stools of different heights are grouped round and covered with the gray cloths to represent rocks (F, F, Fig. 4).

An empty barrel and a few coils of rope flung carelessly about help to make a more realistic scene, and well guarded lamps placed between the slips representing waves throw them up into necessary prominence.

A Portable Tent

A portable tent is made from a few sheets of brown paper glued together to form a huge square (A, A, A, A, Fig. 5), the paper cut out to the shape described (B, B, B, B, Fig. 5), and folded at the dotted lines, C, C, C, C.

The whole is then arranged over three poles, crossed and tied together at the top, an opening or entrance being formed by the segment cut away.

Outfit for Highwayman

A highwayman’s mask will prove easy of construction, and a thing of delight to the average boy. Moreover, it will often find a place in charades.

On a width of black sateen or any other suitable material a design is drawn as shown in Fig. 6, marked with chalk and cut away to fit the face. A piece of thin black tape is fixed to either side, so that the mask may be tied round the head just above the ears.

Amongst the highwayman’s outfit there must certainly be a pair of high boots, but as these are not found in every household, it may be as well to give a few simple directions for the making of them.

From several sheets of stout brown paper four pieces of the shape indicated at (A, Fig. 7), are cut. So that the tops of the boot shall not crack when the leg is bent, small pieces of paper are gummed at either side, as shown (B, Fig. 7).

Only the fixing of a piece of tape, or double fold of the paper for the instep, remains to be done (C, Fig. 7), and an excellent pair of highwayman’s boots is to hand.

An ordinary pliable felt or straw hat can be easily and quickly transformed into a three-cornered highwayman’s hat. A study of Fig. 8 will explain where the stitches are to be taken from the brim to the crown.

A Policeman’s Helmet

Two hard felt derby hats properly treated make an excellent representation of a policeman’s helmet, which will very often be found useful for charade acting.

It is first of all necessary to cut off the brim of one of the hats at the point where the band comes. The crown of the second one is also cut off, but some three inches above the band.

The first crown is next carefully fitted over the brim portion of the other one, and tacked round firmly so that the two pieces do not slip.

The headgear now presents the appearance of an abnormally high derby hat.

The curved part of the brim is cut away, and the front shaped to a point, as shown in Fig. 9, and the brim at the back is nicely rounded.

The usual ornamentation may be suggested by the application of chalk, the addition of a large-sized wooden button mold glued to the top of the crown, a chin-strap of shiny black leather completing the article.

A Chinaman’s Head Covering

A Chinaman is a character quite easily portrayed, and one which can be simply represented by pressing into service articles of everyday use.

From a piece of pale pink sateen the head covering (A, Fig. 10) is fashioned, a string run through at C to be drawn out or in at will; and a piece of rope or twist of darning cotton, B, sewn on at the back for a pigtail.

Then if the would-be Chinaman wishes to cover his head still further, the lid of the linen basket provides him with a hat, when a piece of braid or black paper has been fixed to the rim, and a string sewn on for the chin-strap.

A highly-colored dressing jacket and a pair of rather loose white trousers complete the Chinaman’s outfit.

Advertisement Charades

Whilst some people consider the ordinary charades the best fun, there are others equally ready to admit that they prefer the “dumb” representation of words chosen, one of the most popular of these being the “advertisement” charade, wherein some well-known poster is chosen and acted in silence.

A well-known soap advertisement which has been so popular for years serves as an excellent illustration. There are few, if any, who could not recall the picture.

A man, dirty of face and hands, with torn clothing, sits at a table writing a letter.

A faithful representation of this can be easily produced by the aid of soot smeared carefully over the face and hands, and a wig of tousled hair.

Perhaps a dozen advertisements can be “played,” a few moments elapsing between each for the audience to write down their “guesses” on slips of paper, which are afterwards collected, and a prize awarded to the competitor who has the largest number of answers correct.

The two following examples of charades are given so that the players may fit in their own words. If the charades need to be written in dialogue form and committed to memory days before they are played, much more trouble is given, and the game becomes a somewhat irksome one.

Baronetcy
[BARON-ATE(ET)-CY(SEA).]

First Syllable.
BARON.

Enter two boys dressed as highwaymen. For this purpose art muslin scarves tied round the waist, hats and masks as already described, and toy pistols are enough, with a scenery of trees painted on some stout paper.

First boy addresses his comrade in tones of mystery, glancing to right and left as though he is expecting somebody. At length he holds up a warning finger: “Hist! The Baron comes this way!”

They secrete themselves and wait until the Baron approaches. He looks round, whereupon the two highwaymen jump out, secure him, and make off.

The Baron’s servants arrive on the scene too late, but vow they will track the robbers, and start off in hot pursuit.

End of First Act.

Second Syllable.
ATE-(ET).

Baron asleep in one corner of a tent (made as previously described).

The robbers are eating their dinner, and talking in low tones of the ransom they expect to get for their prisoner. Whilst they are talking the Baron awakes. They are so intent upon their conversation that they do not observe him arise, creep up, and steal their food. He eats it, and returns to his corner again.

The ruffians discover their food is gone and are furious, but do not suspect their prisoner, who they suppose is still slumbering.

The Baron is so amused at their efforts to find the thief that he begins to laugh, rocking himself to and fro, and at last shouts, “I ate it, I ate it.”

Just as they are about to flog him a noise of tramping feet is heard, and they hasten to see who is coming.

End of Second Act.

Third Syllable.
SEA-(CY).

Baron and his faithful retainers are sitting by the seashore, and he is telling them how he made his escape from the robbers.

As they are talking an old beggar comes along. The Baron at once recognizes him as one of the robbers, and gives orders that he is to be seized and bound. Presently the other one arrives, and he is treated in the same way.

Finally the Baron promises to forgive them if they will give up highway robbery and go to sea.

End of Third Act.

Baronetcy

Enter several boys in ragged clothes as newsboys. They are shouting papers for sale, and the chief thing that can be heard is “Extry—Capture of a Baron at Sea.”

The boys discuss the news, and at last one of them bursts into a fit of laughter after having opened the paper. The others crowd round to see what is causing the merriment.

Laughingly he explains that it is not an account of an exciting piratical affair, but merely the report of the capture of a Baronetcy in England by a fair cousin from the United States.

Beanstalk

First Syllable.
BEAN.

Scene.—Widow Frankey’s kitchen. Representation of this made by use of window described above, kitchen table and chairs, plates, pastry board, &c.

Widow Frankey, in apron and cap, is busy making pastry, and talking to herself about her son Jack, and wondering when he will return from the errand on which she has sent him.

Jack appears. Tells his mother where he has been, and she scolds him for being so slow.

He goes out in a temper, and Widow Frankey leaves her work, sits down and cries, finally falling asleep.

Jack returns, finds his mother asleep, and determines to make up for his ill-temper by finishing the pudding she has already begun.

(An amusing scene can be shown here by the funny mistakes he makes, putting into the pudding all kinds of odd ingredients, amongst them a bean.)

His mother awakes, to find dinner set, and ready.

There is great fun over the pudding when the widow finds the bean.

End of First Act.

Second Syllable.
STALK.

Scene.—Corner of market-place, where a flower-seller has her stall. For this purpose a table, draped with art muslin, with a few pots of ferns on it, and some flowers made from tissue paper, will be all that is required.

Girl sits on a stool doing up bunches of flowers.

Jack comes along running, and in his hurry knocks the table over.

Flower-seller pretends to be very angry, and insists upon Jack’s paying for the damage.

He does so, and the girl laughingly gives him the stalk of a flower for fun. He puts it in his button-hole and walks off, leaving the girl laughing.

End of Second Act.

BEANSTALK

Scene.—Widow Frankey’s kitchen.

Jack returns to his home, and tells his mother of his escapade, showing her the stalk which the flower-girl had given him.

Just then the door opens, and the flower-girl enters, throws Jack’s money on the table, telling him she took it only for a joke. He returns the stalk to the girl, who laughingly tells him that it is a beanstalk.

Widow Frankey retires, and Jack tells the pretty flower-girl that he loves her.

End of Last Act.

CHAPTER X
THE POSSIBILITIES OF THE MUSICAL SKETCH

The musical sketch occupies a high and prominent position in the scale of entertainments given by the individual. With many it is more popular than ventriloquism, impersonations, reciting, or conjuring, and needs as much skill and study as any of these other accomplishments. For its successful rendition the artist must be equipped with

He must also be well versed in the popular topics of the day, and be able to dish them up in an attractive manner to suit the humor of his various hearers; and, of course, a certain amount of natural talent is indispensable.

In this mode of entertainment there should be no pause. The whole time the artist should either be engaged in patter or playing, and he must go from anecdote to anecdote smoothly and without jerkiness, always relating his stories as if they were his own experiences.

He should begin an after-dinner story in some such way as—

“The other night, when dining with my friend, Mr. A., I had the misfortune to be stuck down beside his elderly maiden aunt, Miss Dimbledock, who my host had previously informed me was a stanch adherent to the Blue Ribbon Army. Now, as Mr. A. is her only living relative, he naturally expected to inherit her wealth, and consequently had given instructions to Coggledab, the butler (who on ordinary occasions served as coachman), that especial attention and care were to be lavished upon her severe and abstemious person; but, alas, he had forgotten to instill him with her principles, and the result was that the poor old lady was mortally offended, for, ere we had reached the second course, Coggledab leaned over her chair in a fatherly and solicitous manner that well became his white hairs and portly person, and whispered in a voice that penetrated every corner of the room:

“‘Gin, whisky, or brandy, Mum? You can’t be enjyin’ of yourself! You’re not drinkin’!’

“And it is to this apparently trivial incident that a year ago a flourishing dogs’ home was opened in New York, and that my poor friend Mr. A. can be seen any day selling matches at his post in Times Square! And talking of the importance of trivialities, reminds me of an adventure that befell me the other day. I had hired a taxi-cab, and was just stepping into it——,” &c., &c., thus introducing quite a different anecdote.

Now, the outlines of the incident of Mr. A.’s dinner-party are taken from a comic paper, but twisted and colored to suit the requirements of the artist; and there are many stories that may be dished up in similar manner, while frequently personal experiences are extremely humorous when rightly treated.

The “All in All”

The artist should study and cultivate the correct and various methods of telling a story, remembering Pope’s adage—

If the style of writing is important, how much more is the manner of verbal narration. The wittiest story may fall to pieces in the hand of the inartistic, while the most trivial incident humorously handled may be greeted with shrieks of merriment.

The raconteur must give his audience the impression of frank geniality and friendliness without familiarity, his attitude cunningly eloquent of the man who is about to open his heart to a confidante.

Orchestra chairs and gallery are his bosom friends. He twinkles and patters at them right merrily. If he paints their peculiarities or laughs at their social ways he must flavor his babbling with the tender fun of that greatest of humorists, Charles Lamb, who never aped or scoffed at physical deformity, and was never cynical at another’s expense.

The caricatures depicted by mimicry must be cleansed of that sour Voltaire bitterness and cruelty, the artist always remembering that he is performing in order to beguile, and he must cultivate that delicate tact which prevents him from imitating the withered idiosyncrasies supposed to be typical of the old maid in the drawing-room, when he knows that some spinster relative or friend is present.

The public possesses a vast fund of humor, and there is nothing it loves so much as a hearty laugh, but its risibilities should be handled as delicately as a trout is tickled, and if they are only provoked at the dear expense of some unfortunate individual, they are coarse and vulgar, and the artist himself is culpable. The broad double meanings of apparently innocent witticisms one might have heard at some vaudeville halls should be rigorously avoided. There are gentlemen, fine-souled and clean of mind, in your gallery as in your orchestra chairs. Treat them as such. Appeal to the best, to the refined sense of the ludicrous that lurks in every mind, and you will be as welcome in the most select drawing-room as in the theater.

Humor and fun are as bracing and purifying a tonic as a breath of sea air. They should be steeped in the salt ozone of wit, but never in the withering blight of vulgarity.

An Artist—and a Gentleman

The artist should be large-souled and natural in attitude and gesture—a gentleman from head to heel in the best sense of the word—and the result will brace up and encourage him, for he will observe the faded city merchant laughing with the heart-whole abandon of the child.

It is not necessary, and it may become even monotonous, to pose forever as the comedian who sees fun in every incident around him. A great and versatile artist, now deceased, in the middle of his recital would sit down at the zither when the room was still ringing with laughter, provoked by his keen shafts of humor, and win tears by the exquisite pathos of the refrain: “The mill will never grind with the water that is past.”

Maudlin melodrama is not pathos any more than vulgar mockery is humor. A thin veil lies between tears and laughter, and both are nearer the surface than some artists realize. Both are noble and wholesome, and so should never be made puny by too little giving or rendered grotesque by too much.

A most effective means of self-accompaniment is the harp, and one moreover which adapts itself exquisitely to the subtle charm and changing qualities of the human voice, but only in the performer’s more serious moments. To twang at this instrument and pose above it in the attitude of the comedian, to pluck it banjo fashion, is to displease and jar the sensibilities of the most uninitiated of the audience.

The dual art is a stumbling-block to many a versatile artist, and its perfection needs a tremendous amount of persevering and diligent practice. There are some gifted performers to whom the art of pattering or reciting to music is inborn, and so extremely facile, but to the less fortunate it presents discouraging obstacles, and the power of improvising an accompaniment suitable to the anecdote or poem related is not given to the majority.

However, the student should remember and be encouraged by the fact that “steady effort attracts unknown powers to our aid,” and work on determinedly until the difficulty is mastered.

In studying the dual art, the beginner is apt to hammer the words to the accompaniment, or the accompaniment to the words, and it seems at first impossible to arrive at that perfect blending of voice and music which is essential to this kind of performance. Another extremely common fault is to emphasize the wrong word or the wrong note, with the result that the achievement becomes meaningless.

The ear should be trained to the rôle of an exacting critic, and when this power is developed it will demonstrate faithfully wherein the failure of co-operation lies.

Music should never be suffered to overburden the words of the poem or anecdote related. It is usually but a ground-work upon which the artist builds, “at most, an undercurrent of answering emotion.” The instant it flows through the floodgates of restraint it obliterates the meaning and the sense of the words as the waters of a burst dam obliterate the natural features of dry land.

Another serious fault to be found in the rendition of the inexperienced student is permitting the time of his accompaniment to swing into his voice. Against this he must be severely on his guard, or he will develop a wearisome habit of chanting in monotone.

While taking pains to blend his voice with his accompaniment, he must take equal care to keep both distinct and apart. This sounds paradoxical, but practice and self-criticism will prove that both are true and possible.

Music and Words

The speaker should learn to harmonize his music so exquisitely with his words that to the uninitiated the accompaniment seems rather extempore improvising than the result of toil and diligence. As a matter of fact, it is extremely rare that even the greatest artists dare trust to the inspiration of the moment to provide them with adequate accompaniment.

An artist may have a theme or motif borrowed from some composer, and he may be sufficiently gifted to plan it out and develop it for himself, but always with careful thought and deliberation before he gives it public expression.

The dual art is as full of vagaries and traps as the French language, and at first the student who finds himself handicapped by inability to conquer it, cannot do better than study some poems written to music, and at these he must work steadily before he attempts to patter to accompaniment.

A few musical poems mastered will go far to secure him an air of ease and self-possession.