Journeys Through Bookland, Vol. 10: The Guide

The Forsaken Merman

Line 18. “Sate” is an old form for “sat.” Can you find other old or unusual words or expressions? Why does the poet use them?

Line 25. “Merman.” The literature of the ancients contained frequent allusions to mermaids, who were strange creatures with heads of beautiful, long-haired maidens, but with scaly bodies and the tails of fish. In pictures they are usually represented as sitting upon reefs holding a mirror in one hand and combing their long locks with the other. Holmes, in The Chambered Nautilus, speaks of the “cold sea-maids” who “rise to sun their streaming hair.” Mermen were not so often spoken of, but there are some allusions to them. In later times the mermaids were considered more as fairies, and there were many stories of human children being taken to live with the mermaids, and of the latter coming upon land to live like men and women. There was, too, a belief that sea-folk had no souls, and that a person who went to live with them would lose his soul. The beautiful picture on page 181 shows the forsaken family.

Line 10, from the bottom. “Leaded panes.” The small panes of stained glass in the church windows are set in narrow leaden frames.

Page 185, line 4. “Heaths” and “broom”. The English and Scotch heathers are little bushy shrubs that cover the hills and fields. They bear beautiful little bell-like pink or white flowers. The trailing arbutus, the blueberry and the wintergreen are some of our native plants belonging to the same family. The broom plant is another low shrub that bears rather large yellow blossoms, shaped like the flowers of peas and beans. The old-time country-folk used bundles of these shrubs for brooms.

Line 10. There have been several allusions to tides. If the children do not understand the subject, be sure to explain how different a shore looks at high and at low tide. The change is most noticeable where the water is shallow, for then long stretches of sea-bottom may be uncovered at low tide.

III. The Story. Bring out by questions these facts which constitute the “plot,” or incidents:

1. A merman, who has a family of children (five, the artist says, page 181), has been deserted by his human wife.

2. The father and children are on shore trying to persuade the mother to return. The father feels that all must go back.

3. He begs the children to call their mother once more, for he thinks that childish voices, wild with pain, may induce her to come.

4. He feels discouraged.

5. He tells how she became alarmed and left them at Easter time to return to her church and pray, that she might save the soul she feared she was losing.

6. The father and children had come on shore to find their mother. She was seen praying in the church, working at her spinning wheel at home, happy but apparently not wholly forgetful of her family in the sea, for she sighed and dropped a tear as she looked over the sand to the sea.

7. The father feels that his wife is cruel and faithless and that she has deserted, forever, himself and his family, the kings of the sea.

IV. The Characters. Question the children till they see clearly the persons.

1. The principal character is the deserted merman, a king of the sea. Ought he to expect his wife to stay with him?

2. The wife, a human being who has loved a merman, and who has a family of sea children, but who has suddenly become awakened to the danger to her soul. Is she selfish? Ought she to have forsaken her family? Can she really be happy away from her husband and family?

3. The children. How many were there? How old were they? Were there both boys and girls? Do you think Mr. Reese had a clear idea of the family when he drew the picture (page 181)? There must have been at least three, for it is said that the mother tended the youngest well; at least one girl, for the mother sighed for the strange eyes of a little mermaiden.

4. The priest.

V. Pictures. Two series of pictures are kept side by side all the time; one of the land, and the other of the sea. Try to create a vivid scene from each.

First, on land: We can see a little town, nestling on the side of a bleak, wind-swept hill, an old English town with a white stone wall all around it. On the hill, which is too rough to be cultivated, grow great fields of heather, studded with the golden blossoms of broom-plant. A little gray stone church stands surrounded by its yard, where the village dead are buried, for such was the old custom in England. The stones are at the head of the graves, and the walls of the church are rain- and storm-worn, but bright stained-glass windows in the building and flowers and trees among the graves make the place very beautiful. Some of the windows are clear, so that you can look through and gaze along the aisle bordered by high wooden pews and see the priest reading service, and, by one of the stone pillars, the merman’s wife, her eyes steadily gazing at the bible in her lap. You are privileged, too, to peep into one of the thatched cottages, and see the mother turning the old-fashioned spinning wheel. From her house there is a wide view down the hill, across the bay and out to sea. At high tide the breakers dash madly against the shore, but at low tide there is a broad strip of silver sand, rocks covered with sea-weed, and in the low places, creeks and pools of salt water. Does the artist’s picture represent high or low tide?

Second, at sea: Deep beneath the surface of the water where the waves toss and roar, where the surf and spray dash madly about, are great caverns strewn with white sand. It is cool down there in the depths, and the light filtering through the clear green sea is weak and pale. The water streams through caverns, swaying the exquisite sea-weeds that line the walls; and outside, round about, whales, sea-snakes and all manner of water beasts swim in play or struggle for mastery. In one of the caverns stands a great throne of red gold, ornamented with graceful sea fringe, pearls and amber. From without one may gaze up to the amber-colored ceiling, or down to the pavement of lustrous pearl. It was this wondrous palace that the mermaid abandoned for the sake of her soul.

VI. Sentiment. It is, on the whole, a sad poem, though a few cheering thoughts are suggested by it. Without an attempt at classification and analysis, here are a few choice ideas taken in order as they occur:

Page 180. “Children’s voices should be dear to a mother’s ear.”

Page 183. “Long prayers in the world they say.”

Page 183. “Oh joy, for the blessed light of the sun!”

Page 185. The last stanza shows very pleasingly the faithfulness of father and children, in contrast to the inconstancy of the mother.

VII. Beauty. Besides its sentiment, the poem gives us other beauties in great number. Here are some of them:

a. Unity. The poem has one idea running through it from beginning to end, an idea that is nowhere lacking, though at first it is not seen. What is the one idea? Grief, but not bitterness nor anger. Each succeeding stanza is seen to add something to this idea, till all our sympathies are enlisted for the forsaken children, more than for the father who does all the talking.

b. Meter and Rhyme. Both meter and rhyme are irregular, but that fact gives a pleasing variety to the poem and corresponds to the somewhat abrupt changes in the line of thought that at first make the poem rather hard to read. The children will be interested in comparing the lengths of lines in different stanzas and sometimes in different parts of the same stanza. It is easy to pick out the rhymes, to see how often rhymes are repeated in a stanza, and whether the lines are in couples or alternate.

c. Phrases. The following lines are quoted as those perhaps best worth study and remembrance. Let the children determine why they were selected as beautiful lines; that is, determine in what respect the lines are beautiful:

“Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.”

“The far-off sound of a silver bell.”

“Where the sea snakes toil and twine,
Dry their mail and bask in the brine.”

“A long, long sigh
For the cold, strange eyes of a little Mermaiden.”

“A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl.”

“Heaths starr’d with broom.”

The Cloud

First Stanza. It is the cloud that is speaking, and as every cloud is ever changing, the song of the cloud varies with its condition. It is now the cloud of the warm summer shower that piles up in snowy billows on the horizon and rolls over the laughing face of flowering nature.

How do the flowers show that they are thirsting? Will they look different when their thirst is satisfied? Do leaves dream? Leaves, you know, are the lungs of plants. May they do more work in the morning, the evening and the night, than at midday? May they be said to be sleeping at times? Is the shade of the cloud a help to the leaves? Did you ever see the leaves of trees turn their glazed upper surfaces toward the ground and twist up their under sides toward the sky, begging for moisture? Did you ever notice that the buds of most flowers open in the night or toward morning? Do the “dews awaken” these? Do clouds cause dews?

Strictly speaking, no “dews” fall from clouds; but light mist may do so. Who is the mother of the buds? In what way are they “rocked to rest”? How does the mother “dance about the sun”? Do you like the sound of the line, “I wield the flail of the lashing hail”? There are five “l’s” in the line and they give it that liquid sound which you like. Did you ever see a farmer standing in the midst of a floor covered with stalks of grain, beating out the kernels with a flail? What does the word “under” mean here? (An adverb, and means down or into subjection.) What does “it” refer to, in the next to the last line?

Second stanza. Who is the pilot of the cloud? Where does he sit? What lures the pilot? Who are the “genii”? (A genius—plural, genii—is a good or evil spirit which was supposed by the ancients to guard a man and control his destinies. In a sense the spirit of the waters may be said to control the lightning.) Who move “in the depths of the purple sea”? (The word “dream” would be written “dreams” in prose. The two lines mean: “Wherever the lightning thinks the spirit he loves is to be found.”) Who is dissolving in rains? Is there much lightning while the rain is falling or does it usually precede or follow the heaviest part of the shower?

Third Stanza. “Sanguine” means “blood red”; “rack” or “wrack” is broken or floating cloud. What is the “morning star”? What is meant by its “shining dead”? What are the “burning plumes” and what the “meteor eyes” of the sunrise? What becomes of broken clouds when the sun strikes them? What is likened to an eagle that is “alit” on a crag? What is the “airy nest” of the cloud? What is a “brooding” dove? Is a dove more quiet than other birds? Did you ever see a cloud high in the sky at early dawn, at sunset, in the night? Does this stanza make you think of what you have seen, make you see it again more vividly?

Fourth Stanza. “Orbed” means “round” like the moon. The woof is the thread that in weaving is carried by the shuttle through the threads of the “warp”—here it means the “filling.” The ancients considered Diana, goddess of the moon and of hunting, to be a beautiful girl, haughty and modest. In pictures she was clothed as a huntress, carried a bow and arrows and wore a crescent in her hair. Is the moon’s light white? Is that phrase a beautiful one which speaks of the moon as “with white fire laden”? What is the position of the cloud in this stanza? Is it between the moon and the earth? Is the cloud the “fleece-like floor” of the sky? If so, when the cloud speaks of its “tent’s thin roof,” what is meant? (Perhaps when the moon looks down the cloud looks like a floor and when the earth looks up it sees the cloud like a tent.) Whose are the “unseen feet”? At what do the stars “peer”? What do they see first? Why do they “turn and flee like a swarm of golden bees”? What do the stars see when the rent is widened? With what are the rivers, lakes and seas paved? How can they be paved with moon and stars? Did you ever see the moon and stars reflected in a lake, the former perhaps making a broad glittering pavement across the waters? To what does “these” in the last line refer? Why did not Shelley write “stars” instead of “these”? Can you see the exquisite night pictures described in these lines?

Fifth Stanza. This stanza is characterized by force and intensity of action; the words and phrases are as apt and beautiful as can be written.

Have you not seen the west when the clouds appeared a fiery red around the setting sun? Have you not seen the moon surrounded by bright pearly clouds? When the winds blow strong and whirl the fleecy clouds through the sky do not the latter make the mountain tops dim and do not the stars seem to dash across the heavens in a maddening race? Ever changing, the clouds constantly rearrange themselves, sometimes bridging the entire heavens, resting at the horizon upon the mountains as upon columns.

What is the “triumphal arch”? What are the powers of the air? What is meant by saying they are “chained to the chair” of the cloud? Is the “triumphal arch” the “million-colored bow”? What is the “bow” that is said to be “million-colored”? What wove the soft colors of the million-colored bow? What is the “sphere fire”? What did it do? Whose soft colors did it weave? What was the earth doing while the colors were being woven? Why should the earth be laughing? Why is it spoken of as the moist earth?

Sixth Stanza. A cenotaph in an empty ornamental tomb. The body of the person to whom the monument has been erected is buried elsewhere.

In what way is a cloud the daughter of the earth and water? In what way is it the nurseling of the sky? How can a cloud pass through the pores of the ocean and shores? What are the pores of the ocean and shores? Is it true that a cloud cannot die? Is the poet true to nature and science when he says:

“For after the rain, when, with never a stain,
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,
Build up the dome of the air”?

What is the “cenotaph” of the cloud? Out of what does the cloud rise again? What is there appropriate in saying that the cloud rises like a ghost? What is it the cloud builds up again?

Note the following particularly beautiful phrases:

“Leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.”

“Great pines groan aghast.”

“The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes.”

“The crimson pall of eve.”

“The woof of my tent’s thin roof.”

“My wind-built tent.”

“The million-colored bow.”

“Nurseling of the sky.”

“With never a stain
The pavilion of heaven is bare.”

Read aloud the entire lyric till its sweet music is yours. Note the smooth rhythm, the peculiar adaptation of sound to sense, the flowing cadences in the lines.

Ode to a Skylark

“Hail to thee, blithe spirit!—
Bird thou never wert.”—

Those two lines are to be taken as the key note of the whole lyric. It is the spirit of free and perfect melody that Shelley is addressing, melody that comes from heaven or near it, that bubbles from the full heart, that is free from rules and conventions, unpremeditated, yet all art. It is “Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.” “What thou art we know not,” yet thou art like a poet hidden singing hymns unbidden; like a high-born maiden soothing her love-laden soul in secret; like a hidden glowworm scattering its hues unbeholden; like a rose embowered in its leaves making faint the thieving winds with its heavy scent. Its music surpasses the delicate sounds of vernal showers on the twinkling grass, the beauty of the rain-awakened flowers, and all that ever was clear and fresh and joyous. Such is the song.

“What are the thoughts that inspire such heavenly melody?” the poet cries. “Teach us, teach us thy sweet thoughts. I have never heard such a flood of rapture so divine. Matched with thy music the noblest marriage hymn, the grandest Te Deum would be but an empty boast. From what fountains springs thy happy strain? Is it from fields, or waves or mountains, from strange shapes of the sky and plain? Is it from ignorance of pain, from love of thine own kind that the joyous music comes? Certainly thou lovest, but there can be no weariness in thy keen joy, no shadow of annoyance. How different we!

“We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

“Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.”

“To me, the poet, thy skill would be better than all the measures of delightful sound, than all the treasures found in books and if I could sing one half as well as thou, the world would listen to me entranced as I am listening to thee.”

If the song of the lark is beautiful, the song of the poet is not surpassed. The riotous spirit of music sings in every line, beauty is seen in every stanza, is lavished upon every phrase, upon every melodious verse. The prodigality of beautiful phrases is marvelous. The phrases descriptive of the bird alone are strikingly apt and numerous:

“Blithe spirit”; “bird thou never wert”; “like a cloud of fire”; “like an unbodied joy”; “like a star of heaven”; “like a poet hidden in the light of thought”; “like a highborn maiden in a palace tower”; “like a glowworm golden”; “like a rose embowered”; “sprite and bird”; “thou scorner of the ground.”

To characterize the song properly, the poet finds it necessary to use these phrases: “Profuse strains of unpremeditated art”; “shrill delight”; “keen as are the arrows of that silver sphere”; “all the earth and air with thy voice is loud”; “a rain of melody”; surpassing the “sound of vernal showers” and of “rain-awakened flowers” and “all that ever was joyous, clear and fresh”; “a flood of rapture so divine”; beside it a “hymenæal chorus” or a “triumphal chaunt” is “but an empty vaunt”; “clear, keen joyance,” “notes flow in such a crystal stream.”

Besides the ardent appreciation for the beautiful song, the lyric contains one sad truth exquisitely expressed:

“We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.”

And finally, there is the consummate personal appeal of the poet, which, if we may judge by the matchless lyric, was answered by the same spirit that inspired the graceful scorner of the ground:

“Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now!”

Compare the following lyric on the same subject by James Hogg:

Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
O, to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O’er fell and mountain sheen,
O’er moor and mountain green,
O’er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim
Over the rainbow’s rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing away!
Then when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place
O, to abide in the desert with thee.

Various interpretations and helpful comments of other kinds may be found on the following pages:

CHAPTER XII

Reading Aloud

1. Articulation and Enunciation. Articulation is one thing; enunciation is another. A person articulates the sounds of a language; he enunciates the syllables and words. A clear and distinct enunciation is as necessary as the perfect articulation on which it is based. Indistinct enunciation comes from a natural slovenliness of mind, from nervousness, haste or over-excitement.

2. Emphasis and Inflection. The primary facts upon which rests intelligibility in reading are emphasis and inflection. Let it be said at the start that no one can read well who has not thoroughly mastered the thought in the selection he is rendering. If he is compelled to search his mind for the meanings of words or to grasp the complete idea of a sentence, he unwittingly pauses and hesitates and confuses the ideas of his hearers. But if the thought of a selection is thoroughly mastered, he places the emphasis almost unerringly and by so doing raises no conflicting ideas in the mind of the listener. Moreover, if the meaning of a sentence is clear to a reader his inflections are ordinarily correct.

3. Emotional States. A person may read with perfect inflection and the most correct emphasis, yet fail altogether to convey the real feeling of the author. Not only must a reader master the thought, but it is essential that he be able to feel the emotions that possessed the author or manifested themselves in the characters he describes. If anyone is thoroughly possessed by the sentiment of any given poem, the quality of his voice will modify itself and respond to the behests laid upon it. He will unconsciously pitch his voice at the proper key, will use the right amount of force, and speak at the rate which most suitably expresses his feelings. When this is done, we have perfectly natural reading, the highest art.

a. Pitch. Much depends upon the proper pitch of the voice. The key upon which one reads may be medium, or low, or high, and what it is depends upon certain physiological conditions. If the vocal chords are tense, the pitch is high. Accordingly, any state of mind that produces tense vocal chords produces high pitch in the voice. A person can forcibly tighten his vocal chords and utter sounds at high pitch, but they are strained, artificial and unnatural. If a certain amount of feeling goes with the effort, the tones become more agreeable.

If a person’s voice is pitched too high, is harsh and unmelodious, the remedy is by way of a process of forgetting. He must forget that he is reading and feel that he is talking. If his conversation is marked by the same faults as his reading, he may gain something by imitation in the way of raising his standards of expression. In general, he reads harshly because he thinks he must read. The nervous tension which this feeling produces has affected his vocal chords without any intention on his part. He cannot read more expressively while he feels as he does. Harshness and unnatural pitch will disappear from his voice when he can forget that he is reading from compulsion.

For practice the following selections are excellent:

• Gettysburg Address, IX, 321.
• Boat Song, VII, 17.
• Battle of Waterloo, VIII, 176.

b. Rate or Time. The rate at which a person reads, or the time consumed in any one selection, is regulated by the extent or breadth of thought and by the rapidity of action. There is a certain medium or ordinary time in which those selections that are in no way emotional are read. Commonplace selections, not calculated to stir the feelings, are of this character, as are simple narratives where the incidents are unexciting. This medium or standard time may be varied in two ways: first, by the quantity of time taken in the utterance of certain words or syllables, and second, by pauses between sentences or groups of words. Rate, however, usually depends more upon the grouping of words and the length of the pauses between groups than upon the utterance of syllables. The rate of syllabic utterance is usually a personal characteristic. Some of us articulate rapidly, while others of more phlegmatic temperament speak slowly.

In conversation or in perfectly natural reading, we usually utter with one impulse of the voice those words which are closely related in meaning. These words so uttered form groups that are usually quite independent of punctuation. Punctuation marks are for the eye and are intended to make clear the meaning. They do not separate the sentence into units of expression. Only the terminal marks are of any great importance either in suggesting the inflection or indicating the length of the pause. A good reader notices the marks insomuch as they make clear the thought, but largely disregards them in his reading.

The person who reads too rapidly has a mind that is very quick in its action or one that is not fully occupied with the thought of his selection; he may have a vague understanding, but does not realize the full extent and import of the idea. If he reads too slowly, he is naturally slow in thought, or the words come to him slowly through his eyes, his organs of speech are not sufficiently under control, or he does not appreciate the difference between the principal ideas and those of minor importance. Find the central idea, group others about it in proper degrees of subordination, feel the sentiment in what is being read, and the time usually will be correct. There are worse faults in reading than undue rapidity or slowness, for we can make our minds keep pace with the reader, if in other respects his expression is good.

The following selections afford considerable variety in rate:

• Exciting Canoe Race, VII, 79.
• Those Evening Bells, VII, 340.
• Charge of the Light Brigade, VII, 147.
• Marco Bozzaris, VIII, 90.

c. Quality. The quality of the voice is almost entirely dependent upon the emotions. Tenderness, love, joy, awe, fear, all produce their effect upon the voice. In an unemotional state the person speaks in normal quality and in the tone that is natural to himself. If the same person is frightened or if his animosity is aroused, he speaks in an aspirated tone; if he feels harshly toward anyone or is angry, his voice possesses that guttural quality which indicates the severer and harsher emotion; when he is moved by grandeur and sublimity, his voice naturally takes a full, round quality.

d. Force. The quantity of mental energy the person possesses usually regulates the force of his utterance, and that mental energy is stimulated by his emotions. If he feels thoroughly in earnest in what he is trying to accomplish, his voice becomes loud and full of force. It is then a natural force and is usually agreeable, unless the emotion which causes it is of an unpleasant type.

But it is often true, particularly of teachers who have been long in service and those persons who have talked under unfavorable conditions to large numbers of people, that their voices have become too loud and too much strained to be pleasant to the ear. A soft, pleasing voice, loud enough to be distinctly audible, is always better than a strident, forcible utterance that compels attention whether one will or not.

Extremes of force may be found in the following selections:

• Sweet and Low, VI, 122.
• To a Waterfowl, VII, 395.
• The Destruction of Sennacherib, VI, 141.
• Little Red Riding Hood, I, 79.

CHAPTER XIII

Literature and Its Forms

In its widest sense the word literature covers nearly every kind of printed matter, but it is in its more restricted meaning that the term is used here. Only that which is beautiful in form and expression, inspiring and helpful in spirit, noble and righteous in sentiment can be called literature as we are considering it. There may be weak and frivolous books, well-meaning but inept books, and really bad books, but none of them can be classed as literature.

Literary masterpieces are either prose or poetry, and in print the two are easily recognizable by their difference in form. Coleridge once said that prose consisted of words in their best order, while poetry was the best words in their best order, a poetic definition that does not convey a very accurate knowledge of the distinction. Poetry differs from prose not only in the choice and arrangement of words, but also to a lesser degree in sentiment and feeling. However, much verse, though faultless in form, can never be considered real poetry, while much prose has real poetic beauty.

Prose

It seems to be generally accepted that four methods of expression are to be found in prose: narration, description, exposition and argumentation. Narration deals with things in action, description with the appearance of things, exposition explains the relations ideas bear to one another, and argumentation not only does this, but tries at the same time to convince. Theoretically, this distinction is very easy to make, for action is the life of narration, appearance the theme of description, explanation and exposition are synonymous, and no one argues but with the hope of convincing. What can man do more than to tell what has been done, tell how a thing looks, show how one thing follows from another or is related to it, and endeavor to bring another person to the same state of mind?

The accuracy and completeness of the classification is most evident until one attempts to apply it practically to existing literature, and then he finds that no literary masterpiece belongs entirely to any one of the classes, but that these mingle and unite, one or the other usually predominating. This ruling element, the one which is proportionately greater, will govern the classification of a selection. In any story, narration and description meet at every turn, and not infrequently exposition is found freely intermingled; while novels have been written with the avowed sole purpose of changing the beliefs of a people. Uncle Tom’s Cabin is a story of intense dramatic activity, and abounds in vivid descriptions of places and persons. It is generally dealing with incidents relating to the characters of the story, yet it really makes an exposition of the evils of slavery, and certainly was no small factor in stirring the American people into vigorous action against the slave dealers. Yet no one would classify the book otherwise than among the narratives. Although into Burke’s Conciliation other elements enter, yet everyone will admit it to be argumentative in the highest degree. So while it is well to classify the selections read, yet fine theoretical distinctions should be abandoned. It is not so necessary to classify and name as it is to compare and distinguish.

Narratives have been classified variously, but not more satisfactorily than have other forms of literature. A narrative is true or fictitious, and there appears the first principle of classification. Truthful narratives are personal when they are the simple account of the deeds of some person or thing, biographical when they show a clear and evident purpose to detail the events in the life of the person, historical when they deal with larger and more complicated questions and when the actors are as numerous as the actions are various. Fictitious narratives comprise short stories and novels. One prominent writer notes the following types: (1) The realistic novel that is true to actual life and often enters into the discussion of important questions of record. (2) The novel of life and manners which is largely descriptive and in which the exigencies of the plot give way to the study of customs. (3) The novel of incident in which the plot is everything and description and character study are avoided or subordinated to action. (4) The romance which usually deals with things as they were in days long past and with actions that little concern the present. Marvelous and even supernatural incidents crowd its pages. (5) The idealistic novel which paints the world as it should be and makes its actors more nearly perfect than the world accepts as typical. (6) The novel with a purpose which seeks to convert its readers by the vividness of its portraits rather than by argument, though by means of many detailed conversations its theories are often freely discussed and fully substantiated. Many great reforms have been brought about by novels of this character.

Description deals with the individual and not with the class. A fine description is a work of art in its highest sense and is closely allied to painting, than which it is even more delicate and refined; for while the painter lays his color on the canvas and our eyes see the entire picture in all its minutest detail, the writer can only suggest the idea and stimulate the imagination to create for itself the picture in the mind of the artist. Yet such is the marvelous power of words when handled by a master that one can see by them almost as vividly as by the sense of sight. The reader is transported to far-away lands, strange men and animals surround him, the skies glare above him, silver lakes sparkle in the sun, brooks murmur against their fern-covered sides, and birds move the soul with their sweet music. Evening draws on, and the landscape glimmering fades away; the stars come out one by one and by and by the moon steals slowly up the sky. Peace and quiet reign over the darkened world. Neither sculpture nor painting can depict these changes; it rests with the magic of words. But the reader must do his share. He must give time to his reading, must yield himself gently to its influence, must not force himself into the writer’s mood but must receive and accept. Then descriptive literature will yield its keenest pleasures.

Exposition deals with the class, and is abstract. So the demands made upon the reader are infinitely greater. It assumes that the concrete examples and specific instances necessary to interpret the abstract are already in mind and that the barest allusion to them will be sufficient. So exposition naturally follows narrative and description.

Successful argumentation depends upon proof and persuasion. It is addressed to the reason or to the emotions. Burke and Webster endeavor to establish their respective positions by irrefutable arguments. When Beecher addressed the people on the slavery question he appealed strongly to their emotions and sought to make them act because of their intense feeling. One characteristic of all literary masterpieces is unity, but in none is this of more importance than in the expository and argumentative types.

As we study it, literary material may be grouped as fiction, essays, speeches (orations), and dialogue (drama). No classification can be rigid or exact, for one may blend into the other. At the same time in any one may be found the four forms, description, narration, exposition and argument. For our purposes, however, the following definitions will answer: Fiction is a term covering those narratives which are either wholly or in part events that never happened and acts of individuals that never lived. Fiction is the work of the imagination, based upon the facts of life and observation. It appears as stories, in narrative poems or epics, and in novels.

Essays deal with all subjects and in such a variety of ways that any attempt to classify them meets with difficulty. Originally an essay was an attempt, a mere outline or plan intended to be filled out at greater length or to be used in different form. It is in this sense that Bacon uses the word and his essays are condensed to the highest degree. In later years essays have come to be of the most highly finished type of literature and some of the most beautiful passages, the noblest thoughts, the most inspiring utterances, are to be found in them. Almost every conceivable topic is treated: there are biographical essays which do little more than narrate the facts of a man’s life; there are descriptive essays whose only function is to make their readers see something as the author saw it; there are argumentative and didactic essays and essays on science, art, religion, and literary criticism. Some writers have given their whole time and attention to this form of composition, and the modern magazine has become their distributing agency. Much of the deepest, of the brightest, of the best of recent work has come to its readers through this medium.

The essay shows more of the author’s self than any other form of literature. It is apt to be sincere, to be the deliberate expression of the writer’s own views formulated with the desire to convince another. In the purely literary type this last characteristic is not so strikingly prominent, though it appears rather under the surface. In no form of literature is the artistic element more manifest. The prose writer makes of his essay what the poet does of his lyric—the most finished and beautiful expression of his thought. The thought is the writer’s chief concern, but upon his manner of expressing it depend the force and value of his work. Accordingly he gives to his style his most careful attention and fits and polishes it with all his skill. The result is that in the essay are to be found the best examples of prose style. While the essay frequently appeals to our humorous sense and sometimes arouses our sympathy by its pathetic touches, yet no such opportunity is offered for emotional effect as that given by the novel or the drama.

The essay is written to be read, the oration to be heard; the essay is to please, to entertain, perhaps to instruct, sometimes to convince; the oration is to arouse the feelings, to carry conviction, to stir the public to action. It is a formal production, addressed directly to its hearers; it is in form or meaning in the second person. Even when descriptive or eulogistic, it is a direct address. The orator says, “These are my opinions and my reasons for so thinking. Will you not accept my view and act accordingly?”

The oration naturally divides itself into three sections. There is an introduction, in which the speaker clears the way, opens the question and lays down the principles he proposes to advocate, or indicates the course of his argument. The body follows. Here the principles are elucidated, the arguments advanced and properly established or the descriptions elaborated and finished. The last section is the conclusion, which may consist of a brief review or summary of the inferences drawn, or of a plea for belief and for action in accordance with the principles of the speaker.

Before the art of printing was invented, public opinion was molded almost entirely by public speaking, and for a great many years afterward the orator was the greatest of leaders. By the magic of his eloquence he changed the views of men and inspired them to deeds of valor. The fiery orations of a Demosthenes, of a Cicero; the thrilling words of a Peter the Hermit or a Savonarola; the unanswerable arguments of a Burke or a Webster, have more than once turned the course of history.

But when the newspaper first found its way into the hands of thinking men the power of the orator felt the influence of its silent opponent and began to wane. Today, it is not often that multitudes are swayed by a single voice. The debates and stump-speeches of a political campaign change but few votes. The preacher no longer depends wholly upon the convincing power of his rhetoric to make his converts. The representatives of a people in a parliament or a congress speak that their words may be heard through the newspapers by their constituents more than with the expectation that their speech will carry a measure through the House they are addressing.

Yet we will listen with pleasure to a fervid speaker whose earnestness of manner carries the conviction of his sincerity, and even against our will we are moved by elegant sentences and pleasing tones. The orator will continue to be a power, though in a different way. Conditions have changed, and the ponderous periods and elaborate figures that characterized the orators of classic epochs are giving place to the plain, lucid diction and the simple, true-hearted tones of the modern speaker.

The drama is objective, the author keeping himself out of sight as much as possible. His characters appear, speak their parts and vanish with no explanatory words from him except the occasional stage direction limited to the fewest possible words. There is no description, except when the actors give an account of something that does not occur upon the stage. There is little of narration, except to explain what does not appear upon the scene or to give clearness to the action. Argument is not infrequent, though it is usually in the form of a moving appeal to the emotions rather than to the reason. The play often leads to exposition, and many dramas are written with the evident intent of teaching a deep and forceful lesson.

The drama shows man in action and develops his character before the reader, but it is by acts and speech and not by direct description from the author. It deals with all human interests and frequently supernatural manifestations are introduced and become important factors in the plot, particularly when they are believed in by the people who appear in the drama. But in general it is a study of life and character.

Primarily the drama is to be heard, not read, and consequently its style is usually clear and its meaning easily apprehended, but the complexity of its incidents and the intricacies of its plot make it difficult to follow. The rapidity of its action, the necessity of gathering the meaning from a single hearing, and the intensity of feeling aroused would all unite to confuse the hearer were it not for the skill of the actor and the appropriateness of the stage settings. By the aid of these, understanding is in most cases not difficult. The changing scenery, the dress of the actors, their movements, the tones of their voices, and the expression of their faces all aid the hearer. But the interpretation then becomes that of the actor, so that the listener is once removed from the author. Moreover, to the actor everything is subservient to dramatic effect, and the study of an Othello descends into an effort to excite an audience rather than to portray correctly the shifting passions of the jealous Moor. The poet’s creation is adapted to the actor’s use by the omission of scenes, changes of scenes, and additions of scenes, by such verbal alterations and phrasal transpositions that one does not see Shakespeare’s Shylock demanding his pound of flesh but watches Irving’s Shylock whetting his savage knife; Hamlet is lost in Booth, and Juliet weeps in the tears of Mary Anderson.

But the pleasure a person derives from listening to their thrilling utterances is as distinct from that which comes to the appreciative reader as the pleasures of the palate differ from those of the eye. To the reader everything is his own. He carries his own theater with him. The scenery he must himself construct and he may alter it at will; the costumes and personal appearance of the characters are the creations of his own mind; his thunder has no metallic sound and his lightning always flashes. He may bring his favorites back with many an encore and may show his disapproval with hisses that would drown the gallery. He may linger over the passages he loves and find new encouragement in his defeats and ever fresh joys for his hours of gloom. He is never hurried: the lights never go out, the curtain is never rung down.

Poetry

The reality of poetry is its beauty, its power of inspiration, its truth. Its beauty lies in its choice of words, in its figures of speech, in its music and in its sentiment. Any definition that is not purely formal is hard to give. Professor Shairp defined the soul of poetry when he wrote: “Whenever the soul comes vividly in contact with any fact, truth, or existence, which it realizes and takes home to itself with more than common intensity, out of that meeting of the soul and its object there arises a thrill of joy, a glow of emotion; and the expression of that glow, that thrill, is poetry.”

The Structure of Poetry

If one reads poetry aloud he soon becomes sensible of a certain rhythm or regular recurrence of accented syllables that gives a measured movement to the lines. It is a recognition of this rhythm that makes a child read in a “sing-song” tone, as natural a thing as it is to sing. If we hear constantly repeated at frequent and regular intervals any noise, there is a tendency to group these separate sounds and measure them off regularly. The clock ticks with always the same force and with the same space of time between the ticks, yet we hear tick-tack, tick-tack; we can prove the difference to be in our ear, for it requires but little effort to hear tick-tack or tack-tick, tack-tick. The ticking has not varied in the least.

The poet takes advantage of this rhythmical tendency of nature and by using accented syllables at regular intervals compels us to recognize the swing of his lines. When he reduces this to a system he has established the meter of his production. The poetical accents sometimes fall on unaccented syllables and sometimes on monosyllabic words that are not emphatic, but usually the metrical accent of any given word corresponds to its logical accent. The accentuation of a syllable tends to lengthen the time used in the pronunciation of that syllable, and so we call it long, although the sound of its vowel may be short. Short syllables are those which are unaccented, even though the vowel has the long sound.

Verse appeals to the ear by its melodious combinations of sounds and also by the regular recurrence of similar sounds in rhymes. These usually occur at the ends of verses. In order that a rhyme may be perfect the two rhyming syllables must both be accented, the vowel sound and the consonants following must be identical, and the sounds preceding the vowel must be different. For example, fate and late rhyme; fat and late do not; fate and lame do not; debate rhymes with relate, but not with prelate. Double rhymes occur frequently, as in the words bowlders, shoulders.

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags
Plying her needle and thread—
Stitch! Stitch! Stitch!
In poverty, hunger and dirt;
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the “song of the shirt.”

Here the first and third lines are unrhymed, the second and fourth, the fifth and seventh, and the sixth and eighth lines rhyme alternately in couplets. If the beginnings of the verses are noticed it will be seen that the indentations of the lines correspond with the rhymes.

Rhymes are not always used in poetry. Most of Shakespeare’s plays are written in blank verse, which is unrhymed iambic pentameter, called heroic verse. Hiawatha and Evangeline are not rhymed, the former being trochaic tetrameter and the latter largely dactylic hexameter.

Frequently appeal is made to the ear by a similarity of sound at the beginning of words. This is known as alliteration. In early English poems this was of prime importance and subject to rigid rules, but more recently it has been used without rule, subject merely to the author’s will. This is seen to a marked degree in many writers. Here are several lines taken from Poe’s The Bells:

“The music of whose liquid lip
Had been to us companionship”

during the long summer days.

The number of verses in a stanza varies from two to an indefinite number. When there are two verses the stanza is called a couplet; a three line stanza is called a tercet; a four line stanza, a quatrain. The five line stanza is not common, but six is a frequent number.

Kinds of Poetry

The word epic is by some writers restricted in its application, but it is preferred here to use it in a broad sense to include various forms of narrative poetry, and to use the term greater, or heroic, epic to designate the smaller class of narratives which the older writers knew as epics. Thomas Arnold’s definition of the greater epic is: “The subject of the Epic Poem must be some one, great, complex action. The principal personages must belong to the high places of the world, and must be grand and elevated in their ideas and in their bearing. The measure must be of sonorous dignity, befitting the subject. The action is carried on by a mixture of narrative, dialogue, and soliloquy. Briefly to express its main characteristics, the epic treats of one great complex action, in grand style, and with fullness of detail.”

Under such a definition there can be but few really great epics in any language. Comparatively few poets have cared to undertake so great a task and many of those who have been willing to make the attempt have failed conspicuously in the execution. But most of the great languages of the world have each one surpassing epic which has held the interest of its readers and established an immortality for itself. Homer gave the Greeks the grandeur of his Iliad; Virgil charms the Latin race and every cultivated people since with the elegance of his Aeneid; Dante with Virgil for his model and Beatrice as an inspiration wrote in Italian the Divina Commedia, in which he described with all-powerful pen the condition of the dead in the Inferno, Purgatory, and Paradise; and our Milton after years of preparation, from the dark realm of his own blindness, produced the sublime measures of Paradise Lost. These are the Greater Epics, greater by far than anything else written by man. With them this course does not concern itself to any great extent.

The term lesser epic includes the numerous forms of narrative poems from the old-time ballad to the modern story-telling poem. The epic is essentially different from the lyric. While in the latter the personality of the author is always apparent, and properly so, in the epic the intrusion of the poet’s self is usually a defect. The lyric is subjective, the epic objective. To tell a story effectively and well is the prime motive, to tell it beautifully and in a way to excite the imagination and move the feelings of the reader is the contributory poetic impulse. Of the lesser epics groups might be set apart. The ballad is the oldest form. It was originally the production of wandering minstrels or glee-men and was not reduced to writing and kept in permanent form. Being passed from mouth to mouth there naturally came to be great variations in its form, and even the incidents were modified to suit the taste of the singer. After poetry came to be a study of the cultured and refined, the minstrel’s power declined, though he was a welcome guest at the feasts of the wealthy, where his song added to the gayety of the occasion or gave dignity to the host as his deeds were sung by the hireling bard. In the sixteenth century these singers disappeared from view in the blaze of the Elizabethan Age.

The highest type of literary expression is poetry, and the most perfect creation of poetic imagination is the lyric. Technically a lyric is a song, a short poem that can be set to music. But this must be interpreted in a wide sense, for though all the songs that are sung are lyrics, the greater number of lyrics were never intended to be fitted to the closer requirements of vocal harmony. They deal with all subjects and have few requirements of form, though form is an essential element and a matter of great importance, for to the perfection of form much of the intense effect of the lyric is due. Like the essay the lyric is a subjective composition; it is confessedly the expression of the poet’s personal emotion and his own experiences. His mind, his soul, speak to us; he does not interpret the thoughts and feelings of another. The lyric is usually contemplative and full of the choicest results of the poet’s meditations. It influences action indirectly through direct appeals to the emotions.

Songs form a class of lyrics as varied in content as the possible subjects in life. One might consider them as sacred and secular and under the former recognize the psalms, which our poets have many times rendered into metrical form, not infrequently detracting from the sublimity of the originals. “The Lord is my Shepherd” needs no change, no remodeling from the biblical version to make it a true lyric, but that it may be sung to the tunes of our churches it has more than once been paraphrased.

Hymns are religious songs expressing devout reverence for the deity, displaying confidence and faith in the goodness of God, breathing a prayer for help in hours of difficulty and distress, or for consolation in the hour of affliction. Our literature is full of these noble poems, and their lofty sentiments, clothed in beautiful words sung to the thrilling music of other inspired composers, have been potent factors in culture and refinement.

Secular songs are written upon nearly every conceivable topic of human interest and are more numerous than any other form of literature, but so many of them are inferior in composition and so dependent upon the jingle of the tunes to which they are sung that their life is little longer than the time consumed in their production. But a large number are conceived in the true spirit of art and are as worthy of immortality as anything we read.

There are comic songs that sparkle with wit and whose music laughs with the hearer; sentimental and love songs whose sensuous cadences intensify the passion of their words; convivial songs where toasts are drunk to the accompaniment of the clinking glasses; and patriotic songs that roll with the ringing cheers of thousands and the tramp of armed men.

There are still three large classes of lyrics each distinct in itself, though, as we see if we try to draw the lines closely, shading off into one another. Usually these are in the nature of a direct address to some person, place, or thing, and are distinguished one from another by the nature of the subject or the rules of form. All are in a greater or less degree complimentary to the thing addressed and show interest, respect, admiration or love. The ode and elegy have most in common, although the latter is a tribute to the dead. The sonnet partakes deeply of the nature of the others, but is set off by very arbitrary limitations of form.

There are no rules governing the form of the ode; the poet is at liberty to select whatever form seems best adapted to his purpose. The length of the stanza, the meter, the rhyme, may be as varied as his fancy dictates, but the ode is an address direct and personal, an address with praise for its object. The subject may be a flower, a piece of pottery, a person, a bird or a nation, but some definite inciting object is necessary. The ode is subjective in that the poet expresses his own feeling of admiration or reverence. Often there is an acknowledgment of a benefit conferred, a lesson learned, or affection returned. From these conditions, namely, the liberty of form, the direct and powerful inspiration, the sincere desire to return a favor, a poet might naturally be expected to produce his choicest work, and so he has done.

A mournful song, in stately measure, praising the dead for his virtues, full of the grief that remains with the living, believing in the happiness of the departed and hoping for a blessed reunion in the hereafter: this is the typical elegy. On the one side it shades off into the ode, some poems being susceptible of classification in both groups; on the other it may take the form of sonnets, many of which answer every requirement of the dirge. Many poems are therefore elegiacal that are not strictly elegies. A rigid classification is never necessary, but an association of these beautiful pieces, all thoroughly impregnated with the personal grief of the author, gives to each a greater power, a more thrilling significance. They arise from the deepest emotion and so are the offspring of divinest inspiration; love is in the heart of the writer and so the flight of song is best sustained; they are intended to show to the world respect and admiration for the one whose virtues they celebrate and so they are refined and polished to the last degree. Where grief, love and a hope to give earthly immortality to the object of his affection move the poet, we expect the finest efforts of his genius. These elegies include some of the grandest, the most perfect productions of poetic skill.

When man sees his loved one laid away forever, he naturally longs to preserve the memory of the departed to succeeding generations, to erect some permanent memorial. Funereal monuments are characteristic of every race and have proved the most enduring records of the past. The inscriptions upon these tombs are early records of the elegiac spirit.

The epitaph is elegy in miniature. “To define an epitaph is useless; everyone knows it is an inscription on a tomb. An epitaph is indeed commonly panegyrical, because we are seldom distinguished by a stone but by our friends,” says Dr. Johnson.

This epitaph was written by Robert Wilde in the seventeenth century:

Here lies a piece of Christ; a star in dust;
A vein of gold; a china dish that must
Be used in heaven, when God shall feast the just.