THE ONTARIO

High School Reader

PREFACE

After communication with many of the teachers who have been
using the Principles and Practice of Oral Reading in their classes,
the author has made a number of important additions and changes. In
its amended form the book is published under the title of the
“Ontario High School Reader.”

As the book is intended for the teaching of oral reading it
contains an introductory chapter on the Principles of Reading, and
selections for practice, with appended notes. An effort has also
been made to grade the selections in the order of their difficulty.
Accordingly, a number of selections, each illustrating in a marked
degree only one, or at most two, of the various elements of Vocal
Expression, have been placed at the beginning; these should, of
course, be taught before the more complex selections are
attempted.

It is not intended that the pupil shall master the chapter on
the principles before beginning to read the selections; he should
become familiar with each topic as it is illustrated in the lesson.
In dealing with each lesson the teacher should first ascertain the
elements of vocal expression that it best exemplifies. He should
then discuss these elements with the pupils, using the necessary
paragraphs of the Introduction, and such black-board exercises as
he may deem necessary, until he is satisfied that the pupils are
ready to undertake the study of the selection. At the oral reading
the pupils should be able to show their mastery of the principles
thus taught. Toward the close of the course, they will naturally
read connectedly the various sections of the Introduction, in order
to obtain a comprehensive and systematic view of the
principles.

To secure good reading, systematic drill on the exercises in
Vowel Sounds and in Articulation is also necessary.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

[Pg
1]

PRINCIPLES OF READING

There are several reasons why every boy or girl should strive to
become a good reader. In the first place, good oral reading is an
accomplishment in itself. It affords a great deal of pleasure to
others as well as to ourselves. In the second place, it improves
our everyday speech and is also a preparation for public speaking;
for the one who reads with distinctness and an accent of refinement
is likely to speak in the same way, whether in private conversation
or on the public platform. Moreover, it is only one step from
reading aloud before the class to recitation, and another step from
recitation to public speaking. Lastly, oral reading is the best
method of bringing out and conveying to others and to oneself all
that a piece of literature expresses. For example, the voice is
needed to bring out the musical effects of poetry. The following
lines will illustrate this point:

Here the music of the rhythm and the harmony between sound and
sense would be almost entirely lost in silent reading.

The voice, too, is often the surest and most effective means of
conveying differences of meaning and feeling in both prose and
poetry. The following words from Hervé Riel (pp. 241-247) may be made to convey different
meanings according to the intonation of the voice:

[Pg
2]

This may be read to express hesitation and deliberation, or, as
is the evident intention, shewn by the context as well as by the
punctuation, to express Hervé Riel’s surprise and
indignation that such a thought should be entertained.

Now in what does oral reading consist? It consists, first of
all, in recognizing the words, pronouncing them correctly, and
articulating them distinctly. The pupil in the First Book, who is
learning to read, is trying to master this side of reading, which
is the mechanical side. He cannot be too careful as to the habits
of speech he forms; for correct position of the organs of speech
and proper control of the breath make for correct pronunciation and
distinct articulation, which are two of the foundation stones of
good reading.

By correct pronunciation, we mean the pronunciation
approved by a standard dictionary. Elegance and refinement of
speech depend largely on the correct pronunciation of the vowel
sounds. The vowel a, which is sounded in seven different
ways in the English language, presents the greatest difficulty.
Many people recognize at most, only the sound of a in at,
ate, all, far, and mortal respectively.
They ignore the sound as in air, and the shorter quantity of
the Italian a in ask, giving the sound of a in
ate to the former and of a in at or a
in all or a in far to the latter. Another
difficulty is that of distinguishing the sound of oo in
roof, food, etc., from the sound of oo in book
and good, and from the sound of u in such words as
pure and duke.

Pronunciation, when perfectly pure, should be free from what we
call provincialisms; that is, from any peculiarity of tone, accent,
or vowel sound, which would mark the speaker as coming from any
particular locality. If our pronunciation is perfectly pure, it
does not indicate, in the slightest degree, the part of the country
in which we have lived.

[Pg
3]Distinct articulation requires that each
syllable should receive its full value, and that the end of a word
should be enunciated as distinctly as the beginning. It depends
largely on the way in which we utter the consonants, just as
correct pronunciation depends on the enunciation of the vowels.
Final consonants are easily slurred, especially in the case of
words ending in two or more consonants, which present special
difficulties of articulation. Such words are mends,
seethes, thirsteth, breathed, etc. Sometimes,
too, the careless reader fails to articulate two consonants
separately when the first word ends with the consonant or consonant
sound with which the second begins; for example, Sir Richard
Grenville lay, Spanish ships; or when the first word
ends with a consonant and the second begins with a vowel, as in
eats apples, not at all, an ox, etc. On the
other hand, too evident an effort to secure the proper enunciation
of the sound elements should be avoided, since a stilted mode of
utterance is thus produced.

Exercises for drill in the vowel sounds and in articulation are
provided in Appendix A.

Oral reading, however, even in its earliest stages, consists in
more than recognizing words, pronouncing them correctly, and
articulating them distinctly. It includes thinking thoughts, seeing
mental pictures, (which is only another form of thinking) and
feeling varied emotions—all while the mechanical act of
reading is going on. To illustrate, let us take a line from The
Island of the Scots:

If we wish to read this line well, what must we do besides
pronouncing the words correctly and articulating them distinctly?
We must think about the meaning of what we read. [Pg 4]This
includes two kinds of thinking. In the example we first think the
picture presented by the words; that is, we make a mental image of
the little band of Scots, hand in hand, trying to ford the swiftly
flowing waters of the swollen river. This is called concrete
thinking. At the same time we form some judgment based on the
picture. We think of the great determination and courage these men
showed in struggling forward in spite of the danger. This is called
abstract thinking. But, as we have said, a reader does more
than think in these two ways—he feels; and feeling, or
emotion, comes of itself, if the reader thinks in the two
ways described, for emotion is the result of thinking. Especially
is it the result of concrete thinking; for what we see, even if
only with the mind’s eye, stirs our emotions more than that of
which we think in the abstract.

While reading the line just quoted, there are three emotions
which spring from the thinking. As we see these men struggling
against the strong current we have an emotion of fear for them;
then as we think of their determination and courage in the face of
such great danger, an emotion of determination comes to us, for we
identify ourselves with their fortunes; and lastly we are filled
with admiration for their heroism. Thus we experience the three
emotions of fear, determination, and admiration, while performing
the mechanical act of reading the words. These emotions, together
with the two kinds of thinking mentioned, affect the voice and the
manner of reading, and determine what we call expression. If
the words were simply repeated mechanically there would be no
expression. Since expression involves the employment of so many
different powers at one time, a mastery of the art of expression is
much harder to acquire, than a mastery of merely the mechanical
side of reading.

Accordingly, good vocal expression springs primarily from
something within ourselves—that is, from our mental and
emotional state. It cannot be acquired by mechanical imitation,
whether of the reading of another, or of the movements, sounds, and
gestures indicated in the subject [Pg 5]matter of what we read.
Nevertheless it is very stimulating to hear a selection well read,
not because a model is thus supplied for our imitation, but because
we get a grasp of the selection as a whole, and because the voice,
which possesses great power in stirring the imagination and the
feelings, thus prepares within us the mental and emotional state
necessary for the correct expression.

In the same way, imitation of the movements, sounds, and
gestures, suggested by the subject matter may be a stimulus to
thought and feeling when preparing a selection, since what we have
actually reproduced is more real to us than what we have only
imagined. After such preparation, imitation, if it enters into the
reading at all, will be spontaneous, and not intentional and
forced. In reading The Charge of the Light Brigade or The
Ride from Ghent to Aix, we do not designedly hurry along to
imitate rapidity of movement; but, rather, the imagination having
been kindled by the picture, our pulse is quickened, and the voice
moves rapidly in sympathy with the feelings aroused.

In the following extract (p. 216) the
atmosphere is one of joy. The reader is moved through sympathy with
Horatius, and his voice indicates the joy of the Romans, but he
does not attempt to imitate vocally, or by gesture, the “shouts,”
“clapping,” and “weeping”:

Sometimes, as already stated, we imitate spontaneously:

[Pg
6]

Here we imitate spontaneously the movement expressive of sudden
fear. Our action is prompted by our own fears for their safety.

Sometimes the feeling is still more complex. In reading the
following we spontaneously reproduce Sextus’ alternate hate and
fear which, moreover, we tinge with our own contempt:

In reading the little poem from The Princess, (page 107) note how we are influenced by the tense
emotion of the attendants who speak. We do not try to imitate them;
but having made the scene stand out before us, we speak as we in
imagination hear them, in an aspirated tone of voice:

In the last line it would savour of melodrama to try to
impersonate the lady as she says:

The important point is to show intelligent sympathy with her
speech, not to imitate her manner of uttering it.

On the other hand we must not make the mistake of supposing that
if we get the thought and the emotion, the true vocal expression
will follow. One who has a fine appreciation of a piece of
literature may, notwithstanding, read it very indifferently. Even
in conversation where we are interpreting vocally our own thoughts
and feelings, we sometimes [Pg 7]misplace emphasis or employ the wrong
inflection. How much more likely we are to fall into such errors
when we attempt to interpret vocally from a book the thoughts of
another.

In order to criticise ourselves or understand intelligent
criticism, we must have a knowledge of the laws that govern
speech—that is, we must know what properties of tone or what
acts of the voice correspond to certain mental and emotional
states. For example, the amount and character of thinking done
while we read determines the rate of utterance; the purpose or
motive of the thought and its completeness or incompleteness are
indicated by an upward or downward slide of the voice; the nervous
tension expresses itself in a certain key; the physical and mental
energy, in a certain power or volume of the voice; and the
character of the emotion is reflected in the quality. These
principles of vocal expression are known technically as the
elements of time, inflection, pitch,
force, and quality. Closely connected with these
elements are pause, grouping, stress,
emphasis, shading, and perspective.

Pause. It must be quite clear that when we are reading
silently, for the purpose of getting the thought for ourselves, our
minds are at work as has been described. We shall now examine how
this work done by the mind affects the voice and produces what we
call good expression when we are reading aloud for the purpose of
conveying thought to others. As an illustration we shall take an
example from The Glove and the Lions:

In these lines there are certain words or phrases which stand
out prominently, since they call up mental pictures, namely:
“nobles,” “benches round,” “Count de Lorge,” and [Pg 8]“one.” In
order to give time to make these mental pictures, we naturally
pause after each one. At the end of the first line we combine the
details, making a larger mental image, with the result that we make
a long pause after “side.” In reading the second line, the eye and
the mind run ahead of the voice, and the reader, wishing to impress
the listener with the new and important idea “Count de Lorge,”
pauses before it as well as after it. In the same way he pauses
before the phrase, “he hoped to make his bride,” to prepare the
mind of the listener to receive the impression. Thus we see that,
if the mind is working, a pause occurs after a word while we are
making a mental image or trying to realize the idea more fully, and
also often before we express an important idea, in order to prepare
the mind of the listener for what is to come.

A very useful exercise in the study of pause is to image the
pictures in selections such as the following:

Then, too, in passing from one idea or thought to another, the
mind requires time to make the transition:

Here the mind passes in succession from the action of Lartius to
that of Herminius and that of Horatius. A long pause is required
after “beneath,” “teeth,” and “dust,” with a shorter pause after
“Seius” and after “thrust.” Further, if the thoughts concern
actions far apart, more time is required to make the transition,
and hence a longer pause:

Note the transition in thought from the day on which these
stirring events are supposed to have taken place to the present
time. This is indicated by a long pause after “warm
good-night.”

Sometimes the mind requires time to fill in ideas suggested but
not expressed:

Here, the tearing down of the flags between the morning and
noon, is suggested to the mind; hence a long pause after
“wind.”

[Pg
10]

Where an ellipsis occurs and the meaning is not obvious, there
is a pause to give time to realize the logical connection:

Note the pauses after “reign,” and “English” (second
example).

In such examples as the following where the meaning is obvious,
the pauses after “them,” “one,” “weary,” and “wounded,” make
prominent the important idea following:

When preparing to read a selection, it is of great importance to
make the leading thoughts stand out clearly in the mind so that we
may be able to present them one by one. The poem Barbara
Frietchie (p. 113.) could be divided
into paragraphs with some such titles as the following: (1) the
town of Frederick and its surroundings, (2) the approach of the
army, (3) the tearing down of the flags, (4) the raising of Barbara
Frietchie’s flag, (5) Stonewall Jackson and his men, and so on.
Each of the paragraphs is a complete section of the poem, and
requires a well-marked pause before passing on to the next one.

Grouping. In the extract from The Glove and the
Lions, used above to illustrate pause, the mental pictures and
important ideas are suggested in nearly every ease by a single
word. Ideas are, however, suggested as often by groups of words as
by single words. These groups are treated as single words, and may
take pauses before or after them as the case may be. The reader,
who is thinking as he [Pg 11]reads, will group together words that
express one idea, or symbolize one picture, presenting these ideas
and pictures to himself and to the listener one by one, and
separating by a pause, of greater or less length, those not closely
connected.

Here the double vertical lines mark off groups of words which
express one idea or symbolize one picture, and which are therefore
each separated from the other by a well-marked pause. The single
vertical lines indicate a shorter pause between the subdivisions of
each group. The phrase “an old ragged gray blouse patched on one
side with a piece of green cloth sewed with twine” presents one
picture by itself, and is separated from the context by a long
pause, but each detail in this picture is presented in turn to the
mind’s eye, hence the shorter pauses after “blouse,” “cloth,” and
“twine.”

The reader should be careful not to allow pause and grouping to
produce a jerky effect, thus interfering with the rhythm. This
applies especially to poetry, which demands, in order to preserve
the rhythm, that the caesural pause should not be slighted, and
that there should be a more or less marked pause at the end of each
line:

And they had trod the Pass once more, and stoop’d on
either side

To pluck the heather from the spot where he had
dropped and died.

[Pg
12] In the second line, the caesural pause occurs after
“spot,” but the phrase “from the spot where he had dropped and
died” expresses one idea and must be given as a whole. The rhythm
and the grouping appear to be at variance; but the difficulty is
easily overcome by making the caesural pause shorter than the pause
after “heather” which introduces the group, and at the same time,
by not allowing the voice to fall on the word “spot.”

The following affords another instance where the grouping
appears to interfere with the rhythm:

“Of this gifted well” is evidently not connected in thought with
“husband.” It must be separated from “husband” by a pause and
attached to “shall drink” at the beginning of the next line. To do
this, it is not, however, necessary to omit the pause at the end of
the line; for this would mar the effect of the rhythm. The
difficulty is again overcome by making the pause at the end of the
line shorter than the pauses which mark the grouping, and by not
allowing the voice to fall on “well.”

Time is the rate at which we read. It is fast or slow
according to the number and the length of the pauses between words
and phrases, and also according to the length of time the reader
dwells on the words themselves. There is perhaps no more frequent
criticism made on reading than that it is too fast. What does this
mean? It means that the reader is not doing enough thinking as he
repeats the words. Consequently, he does not dwell on words that
are full of meaning, nor pause before and after words and phrases
to make the mental picture and to grasp the thought more fully.
Moreover, for the benefit of the listener, the reading should be
slower than is required by the reader for himself. The [Pg 13]reader,
with his eye on the page, can allow his eye and mind to run ahead
of his voice, and can thus realize the thought in less time than
the listener. The following line calls for a comparatively small
amount of thinking:

High flew the spray above their heads, yet onward
still they bore.

Here, there is little except what is on the surface, and the
thoughts suggested by the words are of the kind to make the mind
think rapidly. Hence the line is read in faster time than the
average rate. Reading may, accordingly, be fast from one or both of
two causes. First, when there is no background of thought for the
mind to dwell upon, and second when the nature of the thoughts
themselves, such as the narration of the rapid succession of
events, impels to quick mental action. The following lines from
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu (p. 61) will
serve as an illustration:

So, too, reading may be slow from the exact opposite of these
two reasons. First, when there is a great back-ground of thought
suggested by the words, and second, when the reflective and
meditative nature of the thought leads to slow action on the part
of the mind. In some selections both of these conditions are
present; in others only one of them. In The Day is Done (p.
63) there is little thought below the
surface; but the reading is slow because the quiet, meditative
nature of the thought tends to slow mental action:

[Pg
14]

Both conditions, however, exist in the lines from Barbara
Frietchie which describe the effect produced on Stonewall
Jackson by Barbara Frietchie’s heroic action and daring speech:

A great many thoughts are suggested by these two lines. The
heart of the gallant Southerner is touched at the sight of this
weak, decrepit old woman with the courage and boldness of youth,
ready to die for her principles. His stern features relax and a
look of sadness passes over his face. The taunting words “spare
your country’s flag” have struck home. The tragic side of civil war
is forced upon him—father fighting against son, and brother
against brother, the sons of freedom firing at their own
star-spangled banner. The sorrow and the shame of it all rise
before him, and the crimson flush mounts to his brow. With this
undercurrent of thought in the mind, it is impossible to read
rapidly. Besides, the reflective nature of the thoughts themselves
tends to make one repeat the words slowly.

Sometimes, again, reading is faster than the moderate rate
because of the unimportance of the events or facts:

Note the lightness with which the unimportant details of
conversation are skimmed over.

Inflection. If we listen to the speech of the people
around us, we can easily detect an upward slide of the voice on
some words, a downward slide on others, and on others again a
combination of the two. This slide of the voice on
words—generally on the accented syllable of an emphatic [Pg
15]word—is called inflection, and the
various inflections are known as rising (/), falling
(\), rising circumflex (\/), and falling circumflex
(/\).

Each inflection has a definite and fixed meaning recognized by
every one, and it is because of the laws of inflection that we can
tell what meaning a speaker intends to convey when he uses certain
words; for often the same words may carry two or three different
meanings according to the inflection. The simple word “Yes,” with
an abrupt downward slide, expresses decided affirmation. When
spoken with an upward slide, it expresses interrogation and is
equivalent to “Is that really so?” When it has a combination of the
downward and upward slide or a rising circumflex inflection, the
meaning is no longer simple but complex. There is an assertion
combined with doubt. It is equivalent to saying: “I think so but I
am not really sure.” In such a sentence as: “Do not say ‘yes,'”
where the idea “but say ‘no,'” is merely implied, but not formally
expressed, the word “yes” has a combination of the upward and
downward slide or a falling circumflex inflection.

If we take an idea for its own sake, if it is independent and
complete in itself, the voice has the downward slide or falling
inflection on the words which stand for the central idea:

Each statement is complete in itself and has the falling
inflection.

Sometimes there is a slight downward slide before the statement
is completed, because the mind feels that the ideas [Pg 16]already
expressed are of sufficient force to give them the value of
completeness:

Note the momentary completeness on “ten,” “cold,” “bent,” and
“spent,” requiring the falling inflection.

If on the other hand an idea is incomplete, either pointing
forward to some other idea or being subordinate, the voice has the
upward slide or rising inflection. The rising inflection, like the
falling, may be long or short, more or less abrupt, according to
the importance of the thought:

“She” points forward to the predicate “felt” and because of the
importance of the idea it takes a long rising inflection; “with all
a monarch’s pride” being subordinate and incomplete also requires
the voice to be kept up, but takes a shorter rising inflection.

It is of the greatest importance to know the exact purpose of
the thought, so that the voice may, of itself, give the
corresponding inflection:

The sense is evidently not complete in the first line, the
intention being to emphasize the beauty of the garlands to be
gathered, and not merely to state that they may be gathered [Pg
17]there. When the reader understands the exact meaning
he will convey it by keeping the rising inflection on
“garlands.”

Similar to the foregoing is the following:

The sense is not complete until we read the second line. The
rising inflection on “country” indicates this and connects the
first line with the second, bringing out the meaning, that every
wife in the west country has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

Sometimes we have a series of rising inflections, all pointing
forward to the leading statement which is to follow and which is
necessary to complete the sense, for example:

Incompleteness may be suggested by a negative statement or its
equivalent:

Note the rising inflection on these negative clauses.

[Pg
18]

On the same principle the rising inflection is used on the
negative statements of persuasive argument as in the Apology of
Socrates (p. 145).

Doubt and hesitation also imply incompleteness:

Note the rising inflection on the first two lines where the lady
is still in doubt as to what shall be the test of De Lorge’s love,
and the falling inflection on the last one when she has reached a
decision.

Pleading and entreaty also convey a sense of incompleteness and
take the rising inflection:

A direct interrogation, that is, one that can be answered by
“Yes” or “No”, implies incompleteness in the mind of the questioner
and requires a decided rising inflection:

[Pg
19]

Questions that require an explanatory answer and cannot be
answered by “Yes” or “No,” do not convey an idea of incompleteness,
being merely equivalent to the statement of a desire for certain
information. Consequently they take the falling inflection:

The purpose or motive of a question must be considered. We must
know whether the question is asked for information, or whether its
purpose is to give information; that is, whether it is only another
way of making an assertion—what is sometimes called a
question of appeal. When Shylock asks Portia: “Shall I not have
barely my principal?” he does so with the direct purpose of
learning his sentence. His question can be answered by “Yes” or
“No” and the rising inflection is used. But when he asks: “On what
compulsion must I?” he means simply to give the information that
there is no power on earth to compel him. This is a complete
thought, hence the falling inflection. Other examples are:

Have you e’er heard of gallant like young
Lochinvar?

The opposite inflections on antithetical words or phrases are
also due to this law of completeness and incompleteness. The first
part of the antithesis usually has the rising [Pg
20]inflection marking incompleteness, and the second,
the falling, marking completeness.

Similarly, in a series of words or phrases parallel in
construction, all have the rising inflection but the last:

If one part of the antithesis is a negation, it takes the rising
inflection, whether it comes first or second. This is owing to the
fact that, as illustrated above, a negation implies incompleteness.
The other part then takes the falling inflection:

Often only one part of the antithesis is expressed, the contrast
being implied. In such a case, the voice brings out the contrast by
placing a combination of the two inflections of the regularly
expressed antithesis on the one word [Pg 21]which does duty for both
parts: Cassius says: “I said an elder soldier, not a better” in
reply to Brutus’ speech—”You say you are a better soldier.”
The antithesis is fully expressed, and the voice places the falling
inflection on “elder” and the rising inflection on “better.” If
Cassius had omitted the words “not a better,” the very same meaning
could have been conveyed by placing a combination of the rising and
the falling inflection or a falling circumflex on the word “elder,”
thus—”I said an êlder soldier.” In the next line he
goes on to say “Did I say bĕtter?” Here, there is an implied
contrast with “elder,” which is expressed by a combination of the
falling and the rising inflection or a rising circumflex. From
these two examples, we can see that the law of completeness and
incompleteness holds good with the compound or circumflex
inflection, just as it does with the simple inflection, and
determines whether the circumflex shall be rising or falling.

A very common mistake in reading is to use the circumflex
inflection in emphasizing a word, thus making a contrast where none
is intended. “Ramped and roared the lions” with a falling
circumflex inflection on “lions,” instead of a simple falling
inflection, suggests that the tigers or some other animals did not
ramp and roar. For similar reasons, avoid the circumflex when
emphasizing “hand” and “feet” in “put a ring on his hand and shoes
on his feet.”

As has already been stated, it is necessary to know the motive
behind the words. When Shylock says: “O wise and upright judge,”
his intention is evidently to bestow sincere praise. The reader,
knowing this, instinctively gives a straight slide. Later, when
Gratiano says: “O upright judge, O learned judge!” his intention is
to taunt and hold up to ridicule; there is a double meaning
conveyed, which finds its natural expression in a curved
inflection.

Compare the curved inflections in the cobbler’s speeches in Act
I. Scene I, of Julius Cæsar (p. 133) when he is fencing with Marullus, with the
straight inflections of his final speech [Pg 22]when he has thrown
aside his raillery and speaks with sincerity:

Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself

in more work. But, indeèd, sir, we make hòliday to

see Caèsar, and to rejoìce in his triùmph.

One writer has said: “Where there is simple and genuine thought,
deep and sincere feeling, wherever the eye is single, the
inflections of the voice are straight; a crook in the mind however
is indicated by a crook in the voice.”

Pitch is the key of the voice. A change of pitch is a
leap from one key to another during silence. Inflection, as we have
seen, is a gradual change in the key while the voice is speaking.
The pitch or key depends upon the muscular tension of the vocal
chords, which act like the strings of a musical instrument: the
greater the tension, the higher the key. Muscular tension implies
nervous tension and this is dependent upon the mental state. If the
mind is calm, the nervous and muscular tension is normal, and the
speaker uses the key habitual to him in his ordinary speech. If the
mental state is one of excitement, the key is higher because of
greater nervous and muscular tension. If, on the other hand, the
mental state is one of depression, the key is lower because of
relaxed muscular tension.

In The Defence of the Bridge (p. 206) the Romans, seeing the danger of the heroes,
are wrought up to a high state of nervous tension which finds its
natural expression in the high-pitched voice:

Contrast with this the lower key of Horatius, who is calm and
self-controlled:

[Pg
23]

Observe the gradual rise in pitch with the increase of tension
or excitement in the following:

In the following lines, where the Douglas holds communion with
himself, the tension is low chiefly because of his great mental
depression, and, consequently, he speaks in a low key:

The low pitch is also partly due to the fact that the Douglas is
speaking to himself, and has no desire to communicate his thoughts
to another; for the effort to communicate thought causes increased
tension.

Again, it requires greater effort to address a person who is at
a distance than one close at hand, or to address a large [Pg
24]audience than a small one. Observe the comparatively
high pitch in which Antony (p. 225) begins
his oration:

If the reader wishes to give prominence to a thought, the effort
put forth causes muscular tension, resulting in a higher pitch. On
the other hand, a thought, which the reader regards as not of
special importance to the listener, finds expression in lower
pitch, more as if he were addressing himself:

Observe the lower pitch of the subordinate clauses in the first
four lines, and the higher pitch in the last two lines which
project the leading thought.

Similarly, the narrative clause “said the schoolmaster” which
interrupts the direct speech is read in lower pitch and is
separated by a marked pause before and after.

Parenthetical expressions, also for the same reason, are read in
lower pitch.

Passages which are collateral or co-ordinate in construction,
and equally balanced, will find their natural vocal expression in
the same pitch and, of course, the pitch varies as the attitude of
the mind changes:

The first two lines have the same pitch, because there is no
difference in intensity of feeling or in the mental conception.
There is, however, an entire change of thought beginning with “the
sun.” This is accompanied by a change of pitch.

Force. Force is vocal energy; in other words, it is the
power or volume of the voice, and is determined by the amount of
physical and mental energy exerted by the speaker.

The language of everyday conversation, when not marked by
intensity of feeling or purpose, requires only a moderate amount of
physical and mental energy and is expressed by moderate
force. Intensity of feeling or purpose, on the other hand, is
accompanied by a great expenditure of energy, and finds its natural
outlet in strong force. In the following lines, (p. 132) the king’s emphatic approval of De Lorge’s
action and his vehement condemnation of the lady’s vanity find
expression in strong force:

“In truth!” cried Francis, “rightly done!” and he
rose from where he sat:

“No love,” quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a task
like that!”

[Pg
26]

Compare the moderate amount of energy expended in uttering the
narrative clauses “cried Francis,” “and he rose from where he sat,”
and “quoth he,” which should be read with moderate force.

More physical energy is expended in making one’s self understood
at a distance than near at hand, and in addressing a large audience
than a small one; hence strong force is used in the following where
it is accompanied by a loud tone of voice:

But strong force does not necessarily imply a loud tone of
voice:

Here Sextus gives vent to his concentrated hate for Horatius and
speaks with strong force, but not in a loud tone of voice.

The effort to influence the mind and action of others draws on a
great fund of mental energy; hence commands, persuasion, and
argument, all find their vocal expression in strong force.
Hervé Riel, urging the captains to allow him to pilot the
ships, speaks with strong force:

Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me
there’s a way!

Only let me lead the line,

When the mental or physical energy is at a low ebb we speak with
weak force:

For the same reason such poems as The Day is Done, (p. 63) and Part IV, of The Lady of Shalott,
(p. 200) are read with gentle force.

A change in force often accompanies a change in pitch. The lower
pitch of parenthetical expressions, and narrative clauses which
interrupt direct discourse, is accompanied by weaker force, and the
higher pitch resulting from the efforts to make one’s self heard at
a distance is accompanied by stronger force.

Stress is force applied to the vowel sound. When we are
taken by surprise and give expression to it by means of the one
word “Oh,” we apply the force or volume of the voice to the
beginning of the vowel sound. This is called initial or radical
stress (>) to a statement, or to insist on a refusal to some
persistent request we say “No,” gradually increasing the force of
the voice to the last part of the vowel sound. This is called
final or vanishing stress (<). Again, if our minds
are uplifted with wonder and delight at something we have heard or
seen, we exclaim “Oh” applying the force to the middle of the vowel
sound. This swell of the vowel sound is called median stress
(<>).

It has already been pointed out that force depends upon the
amount of energy. The above examples show that stress or the
location of force depends upon the kind of mental energy, or
the attitude of mind, whether it be that of abruptness, of
insistence, or of uplift.

All speech has a slight tendency toward initial stress, because
the effort made by the vocal chords to articulate sound is
characterized by abruptness. If, in addition, the mental energy of
the speaker possesses abruptness through sudden impulse or emotion,
or through unconscious imitation [Pg 28]of sound or movement, the
initial stress is very prominent:

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came
a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber
door.

If the speaker desires to impress on others his own feelings or
convictions, the final stress is the result. Such insistence is
found in the expression of anger, scorn, indignation, and
determination:

In the first two lines Hervé Riel wishes to make others
feel his own indignation at the thought of burning the fleet. In
the last two, he tries to impress them with his conviction that
there is a way out of the difficulty. Hence the final stress in
each case.

Sometimes the speaker tries to enforce his own opinion by
peevishness, whining, or complaining, with the result that he uses
the final stress:

If the mental energy or mental attitude is one of uplift or
exaltation, expressing itself in adoration of the Deity, or in
admiration and love of the beautiful, or in sympathy and tenderness
toward mankind, the median stress is used:

Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within
me, bless his holy name.

Roll on, thou deep and dark
blue ocean—roll!

Determination and settled conviction in the speaker’s mind,
especially when accompanied by a marked degree of dignity,
calmness, and self-control, cause equal stress on every part of the
vowel sound. This is called thorough stress:

It is the stress of quiet strength and great reserve force:

In a more marked degree, it is also the stress used in
calling:

Then rose a warning cry behind, a joyous shout
before:

“The current’s strong,—the way is
long,—they’ll never reach the shore!

See, see! they stagger in the midst, they waver in
their line!

Fire on the madmen! break their ranks, and whelm
them in the Rhine!”

[Pg
30]

If the speaker’s attitude of mind is not straightforward and
sincere, if he speaks with a double meaning, in irony or sarcasm,
the stress is a combination of the radical and final, known as
compound stress (><). This is analogous to the
compound inflection. See page 21.

Accordingly, the compound stress is used when the intention is
to taunt or to ridicule:

Emphasis—The importance of an idea, whether this
idea is expressed by a single word, or by a phrase or clause, is
indicated by a variation of pitch, force, or time. This change in
pitch, force, or time, by attracting attention to that idea, is a
means of emphasis. It is the new idea, or the idea which is
important through contrast either expressed or implied, which will
attract the reader’s attention and which he will make prominent in
this way:

“better soldier,” “appear,” and “true” are central ideas; they
express important ideas not mentioned before. When Cassius replies
he at once throws the idea of “soldier” in the back-ground and
emphasizes “better” by contrasting it with [Pg 31]“elder.” He also
introduces the new idea “wrong” which he makes still more emphatic
by repetition. Brutus also introduces the new idea “please me well”
which he makes emphatic by repeating it in the word “glad.” Other
examples of words and phrases becoming more emphatic through
repetition are:

In the case of a climax, the emphasis grows stronger on each
member of the series:

“Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!”
cried its chief.

It is enthronéd in the hearts of Kings,

It is an attribute to God himself.

When a wind from the lands they had ruin’d awoke
from sleep,

And the water began to heave and the weather to
moan,

And or ever that evening ended a great gale
blew,

And a wave like the wave that is raised by an
earthquake grew,

Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and
their masts and their flags.

However, if a word is repeated, it is not necessarily emphatic
each time:

The German heart is stout and true, the German arm
is strong;

The German foot goes seldom back where armèd
foemen throng.

[Pg
32]

In the phrase “The German heart” the chief emphasis is on
“heart,” with a slighter emphasis on German. The emphasis is then
transferred to “arm” and “foot” through contrast with “heart.” To
emphasize “German” again would weaken the effect.

Compare the repetition, in the following, of the syllable “un,”
also of the phrase “this year”:

Words and phrases are emphatic quite as often through contrast
implied as through contrast expressed. It is evident that such a
sentence as: “Will you ride to town to-day?” may have a number of
different meanings according to the words emphasized. This
difference of meaning is due to an implied contrast. If “you” is
emphatic, it is because there is a mental contrast between “you”
and some other person. If “ride” is emphatic, it is because riding
is being contrasted with walking or driving and so on. The
following contain examples of emphasis through implied
contrast:

Great things were ne’er begotten in an
hour.

But now no sound of laughter was heard among
the foes.

As already shown on page 21, the
emphasis, in the case of implied contrast, is brought out by the
circumflex inflection.

[Pg
33]

Shading and Perspective. These deal with the
relative importance of words, phrases, or clauses. According as an
idea suggested by a word or group of words is regarded as principal
or subordinate, the voice either projects it or holds it in the
back-ground as an artist shades his picture:

And, though the legend does not live,—for
legends lightly die—

The peasant, as he sees the stream in winter rolling
by,

And foaming o’er its channel-bed between him and the
spot

Won by the warriors of the sword, still calls that
deep and dangerous ford

The Passage of the Scot.

The principal statement, “The peasant still calls that deep and
dangerous ford the Passage of the Scot,” is projected or emphasized
by higher pitch and stronger force, the thought being sustained,
and the connection made between “The peasant” and “still calls” by
means of the rising inflection. The subordinate statements, “though
the legend does not live” and “as he sees the stream in winter
rolling by … sword,” are kept in the back-ground by slightly
lower pitch and moderate force. The parenthetical clause, “for
legends lightly die,” is subordinate to the subordinate statement
and is thrown still more into the back-ground in the same way as
the preceding.

Strictly speaking, the term “shading” is used to indicate the
value of individual phrases or clauses; “perspective,” to indicate
the values of several phrases or clauses viewed relatively.

The quality, or timbre, of the voice reveals the
speaker’s emotions, their character, number, and intensity. The
voice is affected by the muscular texture of the throat, just as
the tone of an instrument is affected by the texture of the
material of which it is made. This muscular texture is affected by
nerve and muscular vibrations which are caused by emotion, the
result of mental impressions. Whatever be the [Pg 34]quality
of voice peculiar to the individual, it is greatly modified by his
emotions. The man of few emotions has few vocal vibrations; hence
his monotonous voice. The man whose emotions are habitually cruel,
has a harsh, hard muscular texture through contraction of the
muscles; hence the hard voice. It is plain that the natural voice
is an index to the character. If the imagination and soul are
cultivated, the voice will gain in richness and fulness. If, in
reading that which expresses the sublime, noble, and grand, the
imagination is kindled, the voice will express by its vibrations
the largeness of our conception. This full, rich voice is called
the orotund:

For as the heaven is high above the earth, so great
is his mercy toward them that fear him.

As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he
removed our transgressions from us.

In thinking of what is stern, severe, harsh, cruel, or base, the
muscles of the throat contract and produce the rigid, throaty tone
known as the guttural:

Certain states of mind, such as awe, caution, secrecy, fear,
etc., produce in greater or less degree an aspirated or “breathy”
quality, called the whisper or aspirate:

The atmosphere of hush and repose expresses itself by a partial
whisper:

It must not be supposed that the whisper is always associated
with moderate or with weak force as in the preceding examples.
Strong force is used with the whisper to express intensity of
feeling or vehemence:

Whispering with white lips: the foe! they come! they
come!

Hush, I say, hush!

Other emotional states have their corresponding qualities of
voice, such, for example, as the quality of oppressed feeling and
the quality expressing agitation.

To conclude: it must be carefully borne in mind that the reader
should never strive to produce a certain quality apart from the
emotion which should precede. By force alone, for example, he will
succeed in producing mere sound without the quality. Nor are any of
the examples given above, in dealing with the various elements of
vocal expression, intended for practice in voice gymnastics apart
from the preliminary state of which they are the vocal expression.
They are intended merely as illustrations of the laws which govern
correct speech.

[Pg
36]

THE HIGH SCHOOL READER

THE BANNER OF ST. GEORGE

—By permission of the publishers,
Novello & Co.

[Pg
38]

JEAN VALJEAN AND THE BISHOP

At the bishop’s house, his housekeeper, Mme. Magloire was
saying:

“We say that this house is not safe at all; and, if Monseigneur
will permit me, I will go on and tell the locksmith to come and put
the old bolts in the door again. I say, than a door which opens by
a latch on the outside to the first comer, nothing could be more
horrible; and then Monseigneur has the habit of always saying:
‘Come in,’ even at midnight. But, my goodness, there is no need to
even ask leave——”

At this moment there was a violent knock on the door.

“Come in!” said the bishop.

The door opened.

It opened quickly, quite wide, as if pushed by some one boldly
and with energy.

A man entered.

That man we know already; it was the traveller we have seen
wandering about in search of a lodging.

He came in, took one step, and paused, leaving the door open
behind him. He had his knapsack on his back, his stick in his hand,
and a rough, hard, and fierce look in his eyes. He was hideous.

The bishop looked upon the man with a tranquil eye. As he was
opening his mouth to speak, doubtless to ask the stranger what he
wanted, the man, leaning with both hands on his club, glanced from
one to another in turn, [Pg 39]and, without waiting for the bishop to
speak, said, in a loud voice:

“See here! my name is Jean Valjean. I am a convict; I have been
nineteen years in the galleys. Four days ago I was set free, and
started for Pontarlier; during these four days I have walked from
Toulon. To-day I have walked twelve leagues. When I reached this
place this evening I went to an inn, and they sent me away on
account of my yellow passport, which I had shown at the Mayor’s
office, as was necessary. I went to another inn; they said, ‘Get
out!’ It was the same with one as with another; nobody would have
me. I went to the prison and the turnkey would not let me in. I
crept into a dog kennel, the dog bit me, and drove me away as if he
had been a man; you would have said that he knew who I was. I went
into the fields to sleep beneath the stars, there were no stars. I
thought it would rain, and there was no good God to stop the drops,
so I came back to the town to get the shelter of some doorway.
There in the square I laid down upon a stone; a good woman showed
me your house, and said: ‘Knock there!’ I have knocked. What is
this place? Are you an inn? I have money; my savings, one hundred
and nine francs and fifteen sous, which I have earned in the
galleys by my work for nineteen years. I will pay. What do I care?
I have money, I am very tired—twelve leagues on
foot—and I am so hungry. Can I stay?”

“Mme. Magloire,” said the bishop, “put on another plate.”

The man took three steps and came near the lamp which stood on
the table. “Stop,” he exclaimed; as if he had not been understood;
“not that, did you understand me? I am a galley slave—a
convict—I am just [Pg 40]from the galleys.” He drew from his
pocket a large sheet of yellow paper, which he unfolded. “There is
my passport, yellow, as you see. That is enough to have me kicked
out wherever I go. Will you read it? See, here is what they have
put on my passport: Jean Valjean, a liberated convict; has been
nineteen years in the galleys; five years for burglary; fourteen
years for having attempted four times to escape. This man is very
dangerous. There you have it! Everybody has thrust me out; will you
receive me? Is this an inn? Can you give me something to eat and a
place to sleep? Have you a stable?”

“Mme. Magloire,” said the bishop, “put some sheets on the bed in
the alcove.”

The bishop turned to the man:

“Monsieur, sit down and warm yourself; we are going to take
supper presently, and your bed will be made ready while you
sup.”

At last the man quite understood; his face, the expression of
which till then had been gloomy, and hard, now expressed
stupefaction, doubt and joy, and became absolutely wonderful. He
began to stutter like a madman.

“True? What? You will keep me? you won’t drive me away—a
convict? You call me monsieur and don’t say, ‘Get out, dog!’ as
everybody else does. I shall have a supper! a bed like other
people, with mattress and sheets—a bed! It is nineteen years
that I have not slept on a bed. You are good people! Besides, I
have money; I will pay well. I beg your pardon, M. Innkeeper, what
is your name? I will pay all you say. You are a fine man. You are
an innkeeper, is it not so?”

“I am a priest who lives here,” said the bishop.

[Pg
41]

“A priest,” said the man. “Oh, noble priest! Then you do not ask
any money?”

“No,” said the bishop, “keep your money. How much have you?”

“One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous,” said the
man.

“One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous. And how long did
it take you to earn that?”

“Nineteen years.”

“Nineteen years!”

The bishop sighed deeply, and shut the door, which had been left
wide open.

Mme. Magloire brought in a plate and set it on the table.

“Mme Magloire,” said the bishop, “put this plate as near the
fire as you can.” Then turning toward his guest he added: “The
night wind is raw in the Alps; you must be cold, monsieur.”

Every time he said the word monsieur with his gentle,
solemn and heartily hospitable voice, the man’s countenance lighted
up. Monsieur to a convict is a glass of water to a man dying
of thirst at sea.

“The lamp,” said the bishop, “gives a very poor light.”

Mme. Magloire understood him, and, going to his bedchamber, took
from the mantel the two silver candlesticks, lighted the candles
and placed them on the table.

“M. le Curé,” said the man, you are good; “you don’t
despise me. You take me into your house; you light your candles for
me, and I haven’t hid from you where I come from, and how miserable
I am.”

The bishop touched his hand gently and said: “You need not tell
me who you are. This is not my house; it [Pg 42]is the house of
Christ. It does not ask any comer whether he has a name, but
whether he has an affliction. You are suffering; you are hungry and
thirsty; be welcome. And do not thank me; do not tell me that I
take you into my house. This is the home of no man except him who
needs an asylum. I tell you, who are a traveller, that you are more
at home here than I; whatever is here is yours. What need have I to
know your name? Besides, before you told me, I knew it.”

The man opened his eyes in astonishment.

“Really? You knew my name?”

“Yes,” answered the bishop, “your name is my brother.”

“Stop, stop, M. le Curé,” exclaimed the man, “I was
famished when I came in, but you are so kind that now I don’t know
what I am; that is all gone.”

The bishop looked at him again and said:

“You have seen much suffering?”

“Oh, the red blouse, the ball and chain, the plank you sleep on,
the heat, the cold, the galley’s screw, the lash, the double chain
for nothing, the dungeon for a word—even when sick in bed,
the chain. The dogs, the dogs are happier! nineteen years! and I am
forty-six, and now a yellow passport. That is all.”

“Yes,” answered the bishop, “you have left a place of suffering.
But listen, there will be more joy in heaven over the tears of a
repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred good men.
If you are leaving that sorrowful place with hate and anger against
men, you are worthy of compassion; if you leave it with good-will,
gentleness, and peace, you are better than any of us.”

—Victor Hugo

[Pg
43]

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE

—Robert Southey

[Pg
46]

FAITH, HOPE AND CHARITY

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have
not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.
And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all
mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that
I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And
though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my
body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me
nothing.

Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not;
charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave
itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked,
thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the
truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things,
endureth all things.

Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they
shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether
there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. For we know in part, and
we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then
that which is in part shall be done away. When I was a child, I
spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child:
but when I became a man I put away childish things. For now we see
through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part;
but then shall I know even as also I am known.

[Pg
47]

And now abideth faith, hope and charity, these three; but the
greatest of these is charity.

THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

[Pg
52]

THE VICAR’S FAMILY USE ART

1. Whatever might have been Sophia’s sensations, the rest of the
family was easily consoled for Mr. Burchell’s absence by the
company of our landlord, whose visits now became more frequent, and
longer. Though he had been disappointed in procuring my daughters
the amusements of the town, as he designed, he took every
opportunity of supplying them with those little recreations which
our retirement would admit of. He usually came in the morning; and
while my son and I followed our occupations abroad, he sat with the
family at home, and amused them by describing the town, with every
part of which he was particularly acquainted. He could repeat all
the observations that were retailed in the atmosphere of the
play-houses, and had all the good things of the high wits by rote,
long before they made their way into the jest-books. The intervals
between conversation were employed in teaching my daughters piquet,
or sometimes in setting my two little ones to box, to make them
sharp, as he called it; but the hopes of having him for a
son-in-law, in some measure blinded us to all his imperfections. It
must be owned, that my wife laid a thousand schemes to entrap him;
or, to speak it more tenderly, used every art to magnify the merit
of her daughter. If the cakes at tea ate short and crisp, they were
made by Olivia; if the gooseberry wine was well knit, the
gooseberries were of her gathering; [Pg 53]it was her fingers that
gave the pickles their peculiar green; and in the composition of a
pudding, it was her judgment that mixed the ingredients. Then the
poor woman would sometimes tell the Squire that she thought him and
Olivia extremely of a size, and would bid both stand up to see
which was tallest. These instances of cunning, which she thought
impenetrable, yet which everybody saw through, were very pleasing
to our benefactor, who gave every day some new proofs of his
passion, which, though they had not risen to proposals of marriage,
yet we thought fell but little short of it; and his slowness was
attributed sometimes to native bashfulness, and sometimes to his
fear of offending his uncle. An occurrence, however, which happened
soon after, put it beyond a doubt that he designed to become one of
our family; my wife even regarded it as an absolute promise.

2. My wife and daughters happening to return a visit at
neighbour Flamborough’s, found that family had lately got their
pictures drawn by a limner, who travelled the country, and took
likenesses for fifteen shillings a head. As this family and ours
had long a sort of rivalry in point of taste, our spirit took the
alarm at this stolen march upon us; and notwithstanding all I could
say, and I said much, it was resolved that we should have our
pictures done too. Having, therefore, engaged the limner—for
what could I do?—our next deliberation was to shew the
superiority of our taste in the attitudes. As for our neighbour’s
family, there were seven of them, and they were drawn with seven
oranges—a thing quite out of taste, no [Pg 54]variety
in life, no composition in the world. We desired to have something
in a brighter style; and after many debates, at length came to an
unanimous resolution of being drawn together, in one large
historical family piece. This would be cheaper, since one frame
would serve for all, and it would be infinitely more genteel; for
all families of any taste were now drawn in the same manner. As we
did not immediately recollect an historical subject to hit us, we
were contented each with being drawn as independent historical
figures. My wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the
painter was desired not to be too frugal of his diamonds in her
stomacher and hair. Her two little ones were to be as Cupids by her
side; while I, in my gown and band, was to present her with my
books on the Whistonian controversy. Olivia would be drawn as an
Amazon, sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed in a green joseph
richly laced with gold, and a whip in her hand. Sophia was to be a
shepherdess, with as many sheep as the painter could put in for
nothing; and Moses was to be dressed out with an hat and white
feather. Our taste so much pleased the Squire that he insisted on
being put in as one of the family, in the character of Alexander
the Great, at Olivia’s feet. This was considered by us all as an
indication of his desire to be introduced into the family, nor
could we refuse his request. The painter was therefore set to work,
and as he wrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than four
days the whole was completed. The piece was large, and it must be
owned he did not spare his colours; for which my wife gave him
great encomiums. We were all perfectly satisfied with his
performance; but an unfortunate circumstance [Pg 55]which
had not occurred till the picture was finished, now struck us with
dismay. It was so very large that we had no place in the house to
fix it. How we all came to disregard so material a point is
inconceivable; but certain it is, we had been all greatly remiss.
The picture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we
hoped, leaned, in a most mortifying manner, against the kitchen
wall, where the canvas was stretched and painted, much too large to
be got through any of the doors, and the jest of all our
neighbours. One compared it to Robinson Crusoe’s long-boat, too
large to be removed; another thought it more resembled a reel in a
bottle; some wondered how it could be got out. but still more were
amazed how it ever got in.

3. But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually
raised more malicious suggestions in many. The Squire’s portrait
being found united with ours, was an honour too great to escape
envy. Scandalous whispers began to circulate at our expense, and
our tranquillity was continually disturbed by persons, who came as
friends, to tell us what was said of us by enemies. These reports
we always resented with becoming spirit; but scandal ever improves
by opposition.

4. We once again, therefore, entered into a consultation upon
obviating the malice of our enemies, and at last came to a
resolution which had too much cunning to give me entire
satisfaction. It was this: as our principal object was to discover
the honour of Mr. Thornhill’s addresses, my wife undertook to sound
him, by pretending to ask his advice in the choice of an husband
for her eldest daughter. If this was not [Pg 56]found sufficient to
induce him to a declaration, it was then resolved to terrify him
with a rival. To this last step, however, I would by no means give
my consent, till Olivia gave me the most solemn assurances that she
would marry the person provided to rival him upon this occasion, if
he did not prevent it by taking her himself. Such was the scheme
laid, which, though I did not strenuously oppose, I did not
entirely approve.

5. The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came to see us,
my girls took care to be out of the way, in order to give their
mamma an opportunity of putting her scheme in execution; but they
only retired to the next room, whence they could overhear the whole
conversation. My wife artfully introduced it, by observing, that
one of the Miss Flamboroughs was like to have a very good match of
it in Mr. Spanker. To this the Squire assenting, she proceeded to
remark, that they who had warm fortunes were always sure of getting
good husbands: “But heaven help,” continued she, “the girls that
have none! What signifies beauty, Mr. Thornhill? or what signifies
all the virtue, and all the qualifications in the world, in this
age of self-interest? It is not, What is she? but, What has she? is
all the cry.”

6. “Madam,” returned he, “I highly approve the justice, as well
as the novelty, of your remarks, and if I were a king, it should be
otherwise. It should then, indeed, be fine times for the girls
without fortunes: our two young ladies should be the first for whom
I would provide.”

7. “Ah, sir,” returned my wife, “you are pleased to be
facetious: but I wish I were a queen, and then I [Pg 57]know
where my eldest daughter should look for an husband. But now that
you have put it into my head, seriously, Mr. Thornhill, can’t you
recommend me a proper husband for her? She is now nineteen years
old, well grown and well educated, and, in my humble opinion, does
not want for parts.”

8. “Madam,” replied he, “if I were to choose, I would find out a
person possessed of every accomplishment that can make an angel
happy. One with prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity; such,
madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper husband.”—”Ay,
sir,” said she, “but do you know of any such person?”—”No,
Madam,” returned he, “it is impossible to know any person that
deserves to be her husband: she’s too great a treasure for one
man’s possession: she’s a goddess! Upon my soul, I speak what I
think, she’s an angel!”—”Ah, Mr. Thornhill, you only flatter
my poor girl: but we have been thinking of marrying her to one of
your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and who wants a manager;
you know whom I mean, Farmer Williams; a warm man, Mr. Thornhill,
able to give her good bread; and who has several times made her
proposals” (which was actually the case); “but, sir,” concluded
she, “I should be glad to have your approbation of our
choice.”—”How, Madam,” replied he, “my approbation!—my
approbation of such a choice! Never. What! Sacrifice so much
beauty, and sense, and goodness, to a creature insensible of the
blessing! Excuse me, I can never approve of such a piece of
injustice. And I have my reasons.”—”Indeed, sir,” cried
Deborah, “If you have your reasons, that’s another affair; but I
should be glad to know those [Pg 58]reasons.”—”Excuse
me, Madam,” returned he, “they lie too deep for discovery” (laying
his hand upon his bosom); “they remain buried, rivetted here.”

9. After he was gone, upon a general consultation, we could not
tell what to make of these fine sentiments. Olivia considered them
as instances of the most exalted passion; but I was not quite so
sanguine; yet, whatever they might portend, it was resolved to
prosecute the scheme of Farmer Williams, who, from my daughter’s
first appearance in the country, had paid her his addresses.

—Oliver Goldsmith

THE SOLDIER’S DREAM

—Thomas Campbell

VAN ELSEN

-Frederick George Scott (By
permission)

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU

—Sir Walter Scott

[Pg
63]

THE DAY IS DONE

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

[Pg
65]

THE SCHOOLMASTER AND THE BOYS

1. The schoolmaster had scarcely arranged the room in due order,
and taken his seat behind his desk, when a white-headed boy with a
sunburnt face appeared at the door, and stopping there to make a
rustic bow, came in and took his seat upon one of the forms. The
white-headed boy then put an open book, astonishingly dog-eared,
upon his knees, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, began
counting the marbles with which they were filled. Soon afterwards
another white-headed little boy came straggling in, and after him a
red-headed lad, and after him two more with white heads, and then
one with a flaxen poll, and so on until there were about a dozen
boys in all, with heads of every colour but gray, and ranging in
their ages from four years old to fourteen years or more; for the
legs of the youngest were a long way from the floor when he sat
upon the form, and the eldest was a heavy, good-tempered, foolish
fellow, about half a head taller than the schoolmaster.

2. At the top of the first form—the post of honour in the
school—was the vacant place of the little sick scholar, and
at the head of the row of pegs on which the hats and caps were
hung, one peg was left empty. No boy attempted to violate the
sanctity of seat or peg, but many a one looked from the empty
spaces to the schoolmaster, and whispered to his idle neighbour
behind his hand.

3. Then began the hum of conning over lessons and getting them
by heart, the whispered jest and stealthy [Pg 66]game, and all the
noise and drawl of school; and in the midst of the din sat the poor
schoolmaster, the very image of meekness and simplicity, vainly
attempting to fix his mind upon the duties of the day, and to
forget his little sick friend. But the tedium of his office
reminded him more strongly of the willing scholar, and his thoughts
were rambling from his pupils—it was plain. None knew this
better than the idlest boys, who, growing bolder with impunity,
waxed louder and more daring—eating apples under the master’s
eye, pinching each other in sport or malice, and cutting their
autographs in the very legs of his desk. The puzzled dunce, who
stood beside it to say his lesson out of book, looked no longer at
the ceiling for forgotten words, but drew closer to the master’s
elbow and boldly cast his eyes upon the page. If the master did
chance to rouse himself and seem alive to what was going on, the
noise subsided for a moment, and no eyes met his but wore a
studious and deeply humble look; but, the instant he relapsed
again, it broke out afresh, and ten times louder than before.

4. Oh, how some of those idle fellows longed to be outside, and
how they looked at the open door and window, as if they half
meditated rushing violently out, plunging into the woods, and being
wild boys and savages from that time forth. What rebellious
thoughts of the cool river, and some shady bathing-place beneath
willow-trees with branches dipping in the water, kept tempting and
urging that sturdy boy, who sat fanning his flushed face with a
spelling-book wishing himself a whale, or a fly, or anything but a
boy at school on that hot, broiling day!

5. Heat! Ask that other boy, whose seat being [Pg 67]nearest
the door gave him opportunities of gliding out into the garden and
driving his companions to madness by dipping his face into the
bucket of the well and then rolling on the grass—ask him if
there were ever such a day as that, when even the bees were diving
deep down into the cups of flowers and stopping there, as if they
had made up their minds to retire from business and be
manufacturers of honey no more. The day was made for laziness, and
lying on one’s back in green places, and staring at the sky till
its brightness forced one to shut one’s eyes and go to sleep; and
was this a time to be poring over musty books in a dark room,
slighted by the very sun itself? Monstrous!

6. The lessons over, writing-time began; and there being but one
desk and that the master’s, each boy sat at it in turn and laboured
at his crooked copy, while the master walked about. This was a
quieter time; for he would come and look over the writer’s
shoulder, and tell him mildly to observe how such a letter was
turned in such a copy on the wall, and bid him take it for his
model. Then he would stop and tell them what the sick child had
said last night, and how he had longed to be among them once again;
and such was the schoolmaster’s gentle and affectionate manner that
the boys seemed quite remorseful that they had worried him so much,
and were absolutely quiet; eating no apples, cutting no names,
inflicting no pinches, for full two minutes afterwards.

7. “I think, boys,” said the schoolmaster, when the clock struck
twelve, “that I shall give an extra half-holiday this
afternoon.”

8. At this intelligence the boys, led on and headed by the tall
boy, raised a great shout, in the midst of which [Pg 68]the
master was seen to speak, but could not be heard. As he held up his
hand, however, in token of his wish that they should be silent,
they were considerate enough to leave off, as soon as the
longest-winded among them were quite out of breath.

9. “You must promise me first,” said the schoolmaster, “that you
‘ll not be noisy, or, at least, if you are, that you’ll go away and
be so—away out of the village, I mean. I’m sure you wouldn’t
disturb your old playmate and companion.”

10. There was a general murmur in the negative.

11. “Then, pray, don’t forget—there’s my dear scholars,”
said the schoolmaster—”what I have asked you, and do it as a
favour to me. Be as happy as you can, and likewise be mindful that
you are blessed with health. Good-bye, all!”

12. “Thank you, sir,” and “Good-bye, sir,” were said a great
many times in a variety of voices, and the boys went out very
slowly and softly.

13. But there was the sun shining and there were the birds
singing, as the sun only shines and the birds only sing on holidays
and half-holidays; there were the trees waving to all free boys to
climb and nestle among their leafy branches; the hay, entreating
them to come and scatter it in the pure air; the green corn, gently
beckoning toward wood and stream; the smooth ground rendered
smoother still by blending lights and shadows, inviting to runs and
leaps, and long walks no one knows whither. It was more than boy
could bear, and with a joyous whoop the whole company took to their
heels and spread themselves about, shouting and laughing as they
went.

14. “It’s natural, thank heaven!” said the poor [Pg
69]schoolmaster, looking after them. “I’m very glad they
didn’t mind me!”

—Charles Dickens

[Pg
70]

THE KNIGHTS’ CHORUS

—Alfred Tennyson

[Pg
71]

THE NORTHERN STAR

—Unknown

THE INDIGO BIRD

—Ethelwyn Wetherald (By
permission)

THE PASTURE FIELD

—Ethelwyn Wetherald (By
permission)

[Pg
75]

SHIPWRECKED

1. The time I spent upon the island is still so horrible a
thought to me that I must pass it lightly over. In all the books I
have read of people cast away, either they had their pockets full
of tools, or a chest of things would be thrown upon the beach along
with them, as if on purpose. My case was very much different. I had
nothing in my pockets but money and Alan’s silver button; and being
inland bred, I was as much short of knowledge as of means.

2. I knew indeed that shellfish were counted good to eat; and
among the rocks of the isle I found a great plenty of limpets,
which at first I could scarcely strike from their places, not
knowing quickness to be needful. There were, besides, some of the
little shells that we call buckies; I think periwinkle is the
English name. Of these two I made my whole diet, devouring them
cold and raw as I found them; and so hungry was I that at first
they seemed to me delicious.

3. Perhaps they were out of season, or perhaps there was
something wrong in the sea about my island. But at least I had no
sooner eaten my first meal than I was seized with giddiness and
retching, and lay for a long time no better than dead. A second
trial of the same food (indeed, I had no other) did better with me
and revived my strength.

4. But as long as I was on the island, I never knew what to
expect when I had eaten; sometimes all was [Pg 76]well, and sometimes I
was thrown into a miserable sickness; nor could I ever distinguish
what particular fish it was that hurt me. All day it streamed rain;
there was no dry spot to be found; and when I lay down that night,
between two boulders that made a kind of roof, my feet were in a
bog.

5. From a little up the hillside over the bay I could catch a
sight of the great ancient church and the roofs of the people’s
houses in Iona. And on the other hand, over the low country of the
Ross, I saw smoke go up, morning and evening, as if from a
homestead in a hollow of the land.

6. I used to watch this smoke, when I was wet and cold and had
my head half-turned with loneliness, and think of the fireside and
of the company till my heart burned. Altogether, this sight I had
of men’s homes and comfortable lives, although it put a point on my
own sufferings, yet it kept hope alive, and helped me to eat my raw
shellfish (which had soon grown to be a disgust), and saved me from
the sense of horror I had whenever I was quite alone with dead
rocks, and fowls, and the rain, and the cold sea.

7. Charles the Second declared a man could stay outdoors more
days in the year in the climate of England than in any other. That
was very like a king with a palace at his back and changes of dry
clothes. But he must have had better luck on his flight from
Worcester than I had on that miserable isle. It was the height of
summer; yet it rained for more than twenty-four hours, and did not
clear until the afternoon of the third day.

8. There is a pretty high rock on the north-west of Earraid,
which (because it had a flat top and overlooked the Sound) I was
much in the habit of frequenting; not [Pg 77]that I ever stayed in
one place, save when asleep, my misery giving me no rest. Indeed, I
wore myself down with continual and aimless goings and comings in
the rain.

9. As soon, however, as the sun came out, I lay down on the top
of that rock to dry myself. The comfort of the sunshine is a thing
I cannot tell. It set me thinking hopefully of my deliverance, of
which I had begun to despair; and I scanned the sea and the Ross
with a fresh interest. On the south of my rock a part of the island
jutted out and hid the open ocean so that a boat could thus come
quite near me upon that side and I be none the wiser.

10. Well, all of a sudden, a coble, with a brown sail and a pair
of fishers aboard of it, came flying round that corner of the isle,
bound for Iona. I shouted out, and then fell on my knees on the
rock and prayed to them. They were near enough to hear—I
could even see the colour of their hair—and there was no
doubt but they observed me, for they cried out in the Gaelic
tongue, and laughed. But the boat never turned aside, and flew
right on, before my eyes, for Iona.

11. I could not believe such wickedness, and ran along the shore
from rock to rock, crying on them piteously; even after they were
out of reach of my voice I still cried and waved to them; and when
they were quite gone I thought my heart would burst.

12. The next day (which was the fourth of this horrible life of
mine) I found my bodily strength run very low. But the sun shone,
the air was sweet, and what I managed to eat of the shellfish
agreed well with me and revived my courage.

13. I was scarce back on my rock (where I went [Pg 78]always
the first thing after I had eaten) before I observed a boat coming
down the Sound, and with her head, as I thought, in my
direction.

14. I began at once to hope and fear exceedingly; for I thought
these men might have thought better of their cruelty and be coming
back to my assistance. But another disappointment, such as
yesterday’s, was more than I could bear. I turned my back
accordingly upon the sea, and did not look again till I had counted
many hundreds.

15. The boat was still heading for the island. The next time I
counted the full thousand, as slowly as I could, my heart beating
so as to hurt me. And then it was out of all question. She was
coming straight to Earraid. I could no longer hold myself back, but
ran to the seaside and out, from one rock to another, as far as I
could go. It is a marvel I was not drowned; for when I was brought
to a stand at last my legs shook under me, and my mouth was so dry
I must wet it with the sea water before I was able to shout.

16. All this time the boat was coming on; and now I was able to
perceive it was the same boat and the same two men as yesterday.
This I knew by their hair, which the one had of bright yellow and
the other black. But now there was a third man along with them, who
looked to be of a better class.

17. As soon as they were come within easy speech, they let down
their sail and lay quiet. In spite of my supplications, they drew
no nearer in, and what frightened me most of all, the new man
tee-heed with laughter as he talked and looked at me.

18. Then he stood up in the boat and addressed me a long while,
speaking fast and with many wavings of [Pg 79]his hand. I told him
I had no Gaelic; and at this he became very angry, and I began to
suspect he thought he was talking English. Listening very close, I
caught the word “whateffer” several times; but all the rest was
Gaelic, and might have been Greek and Hebrew for me.

19. “Whatever,” said I, to show him I had caught a word. “Yes,
yes—yes, yes,” said he; and then he looked at the other men
as much as to say, “I told you I spoke English,” and began again as
hard as ever in the Gaelic.

20. This time I picked out another word, “tide.” Then I had a
flash of hope. I remembered he was always waving his hand toward
the mainland of the Ross.

21. “Do you mean when the tide is out?”—I cried, and could
not finish.

22. “Yes, yes,” said he. “Tide.”

23. At that I turned tail upon their boat (where my adviser had
once more begun to tee-hee with laughter), leaped back the way I
had come, from one stone to another, and set off running across the
isle as I had never run before. In about half an hour I came upon
the shores of the creek, and, sure enough, it was shrunk into a
little trickle of water, through which I dashed, not above my
knees, and landed with a shout on the main island.

24. A sea-bred boy would not have stayed a day on Earraid, which
is only what they call a tidal islet, and, except, in the bottom of
the neaps, can be entered and left twice in every twenty-four
hours, either dry-shod, or, at the most, by wading. Even I, who had
seen the tide going out and in before me in the bay, and even
watched for the ebbs, the better to get my shellfish[Pg
80]—even I (I say), if I had sat down to think,
instead of raging at my fate, must have soon guessed the secret and
got free.

25. It was no wonder the fishers had not understood me. The
wonder was rather that they had ever guessed my pitiful illusion,
and taken the trouble to come back. I had starved with cold and
hunger on that island for close upon one hundred hours. But for the
fishers, I might have left my bones there, in pure folly. And even
as it was, I had paid for it pretty dear, not only in past
sufferings but in my present case, being clothed like a beggar man,
scarce able to walk, and in great pain of my sore throat.

26. I have seen wicked men and fools—a great many of
both—and I believe they both get paid in the end; but the
fools first.

—Robert Louis Stevenson (By
arrangement)

ON HIS BLINDNESS

—Milton

BRIGGS IN LUCK

From “Doctor Birch and his Young Friends”

   Enter the Knife-boy. Hamper for
Briggses!
   Master Brown. Hurray, Tom Briggs! I’ll
lend you my knife.

If this story does not carry its own moral, what fable does, I
wonder? Before the arrival of that hamper, Master Briggs was in no
better repute than any other young gentleman of the lower school;
and in fact I had occasion myself, only lately, to correct Master
Brown for kicking his friend’s shins during the writing-lesson. But
how this basket, directed by his mother’s house-keeper, and marked
“GLASS WITH CARE,” whence I concluded that it contained some jam
and some bottles [Pg 82]of wine probably, as well as the usual
cake and game-pie, and half a sovereign for the elder Master B.,
and five new shillings for Master Decimus Briggs—how, I say,
the arrival of this basket alters all Master Briggs’s circumstances
in life, and the estimation in which many persons regard him!

If he is a good-hearted boy, as I have reason to think, the very
first thing he will do, before inspecting the contents of the
hamper, or cutting into them with the knife which Master Brown has
so considerately lent him, will be to read over the letter from
home which lies on top of the parcel. He does so, as I remarked to
Miss Raby (for whom I happened to be mending pens when the little
circumstance arose), with a flushed face and winking eyes. Look how
the other boys are peering into the basket as he reads—I say
to her, “Isn’t it a pretty picture?” Part of the letter is in a
very large hand. That is from his little sister. And I would wager
that she netted the little purse which he has just taken out of it,
and which Master Lynx is eyeing.

“You are a droll man, and remark all sorts of queer things,”
Miss Raby says, smiling, and plying her swift needle and fingers as
quick as possible.

“I am glad we were both on the spot, and that the little fellow
lies under our guns as it were, and so is protected from some such
brutal school-pirate as young Duval for instance, who would rob
him, probably, of some of those good things; good in themselves,
and better because fresh from home. See, there is a pie as I said,
and which I daresay is better than those which are served at our
table (but you never take any notice of these kind of things, Miss
Raby), a cake, of course, a bottle of currant wine, jam-pots, and
no end of pears [Pg 83]in the straw. With this money little
Briggs will be able to pay the tick which that impudent child has
run up with Mrs. Ruggles; and I shall let Briggs Major pay for the
pencil-case which Bullock sold to him.—It will be a lesson to
the young prodigal for the future.

“But, I say, what a change there will be in his life for some
time to come, and at least until his present wealth is spent! The
boys who bully him will mollify toward him and accept his pie and
sweetmeats. They will have feasts in the bedroom; and that wine
will taste more deliciously to them than the best out of the
Doctor’s cellar. The cronies will be invited. Young Master Wagg
will tell his most dreadful story and sing his best song for a
slice of that pie. What a jolly night they will have! When we go
the rounds at night, Mr. Prince and I will take care to make a
noise before we come to Briggs’s room, so that the boys may have
time to put the light out, to push the things away, and to scud
into bed. Doctor Spry may be put in requisition the next
morning.”

“Nonsense! you absurd creature,” cries out Miss Raby, laughing;
and I lay down the twelfth pen very nicely mended.

“Yes; after luxury comes the doctor, I say; after extravagance,
a hole in the breeches pocket. To judge from his disposition,
Briggs Major will not be much better off a couple of days hence
than he is now, and, if I am not mistaken, will end life a poor
man. Brown will be kicking his shins before a week is over, depend
upon it. There are boys and men of all sorts, Miss R.—there
are selfish sneaks who hoard until the store they daren’t use grows
mouldy—there are spendthrifts who fling away, parasites who
flatter and lick its shoes, and [Pg 84]snarling curs who hate and
envy good fortune.”

I put down the last of the pens, brushing away with it the quill
chips from her desk first, and she looked at me with a kind,
wondering face. I brushed them away, clicked the pen-knife into my
pocket, made her a bow, and walked off—for the bell was
ringing for school.

—William Makepeace Thackeray

THE LAUGHING SALLY

—Charles G. D. Roberts (By arrangement)

THE PRODIGAL SON

A certain man had two sons: And the younger of them said to his
father, Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me.
And he divided unto them his living.

And not many days after the younger son gathered all together,
and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his
substance with riotous living. And when he had spent all, there
arose a mighty famine in that land; and he began to be in want. And
he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country; and he
sent him into his fields to feed swine. And he would fain have
filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat: and no man
gave unto him. And when he came to himself, he said, How many hired
servants of my father’s have bread enough and to spare, and I
perish with hunger! I will arise and go to my father, and will say
unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee,
and am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy
hired servants.

[Pg
89]

And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a
great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and
fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him,
Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no
more worthy to be called thy son. But the father said to his
servants, Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a
ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet: And bring hither the
fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry; For this my
son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found. And
they began to be merry.

Now his elder son was in the field: and as he came and drew nigh
to the house, he heard musick and dancing. And he called one of the
servants, and asked what these things meant. And he said unto him,
Thy brother is come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf,
because he hath received him safe and sound. And he was angry, and
would not go in: therefore came his father out, and intreated him.
And he answering said to his father, Lo, these many years do I
serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment; and
yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my
friends: But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured
thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf.
And he said unto him, Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I
have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad,
for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost,
and is found.

CHRISTMAS AT SEA

—Robert Louis Stevenson (By arrangement)

THE EVENING WIND

—William Cullen Bryant

PARADISE AND THE PERI

From “Lalla Rookh”

—Thomas Moore

THE LADY OF SHALOTT

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

—Alfred Tennyson

HOME THEY BROUGHT HER
WARRIOR DEAD

From “The Princess”

—Alfred Tennyson

THE SKY

From “Modern Painters”

1. It is a strange thing how little in general people know about
the sky. It is the part of creation in which nature has done more
for the sake of pleasing man, more for the sole and evident purpose
of talking to him and teaching him, than in any other of her works,
and it is just the part in which we least attend to her.

2. There are not many of her other works in which some more
material or essential purpose than the mere pleasing of man is not
answered by every part of their organization; but every essential
purpose of the sky might, so far as we know, be answered, if once
in three days, or thereabouts, a great ugly black rain-cloud were
brought up over the blue, and everything well watered, and so all
left blue again till next time, with perhaps a film of morning and
evening mist for dew.

3. And instead of this, there is not a moment of any day of our
lives, when nature is not producing scene after scene, picture
after picture, glory after glory, and working still upon such
exquisite and constant principles [Pg 109]of the most perfect
beauty, that it is quite certain it is all done for us, and
intended for our perpetual pleasure. And every man, wherever
placed, however far from other sources of interest or of beauty,
has this doing for him constantly.

4. The noblest scenes of the earth can be seen and known but by
few; it is not intended that man should live always in the midst of
them, he injures them by his presence, he ceases to feel them if he
be always with them; but the sky is for all; bright as it is, it is
not “too bright, nor good, for human nature’s daily food”; it is
fitted in all its functions for the perpetual comfort and exalting
of the heart, for the soothing it and purifying it from its dross
and dust. Sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful,
never the same for two moments together; almost human in its
passions, almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost divine in its
infinity, its appeal to what is immortal in us, is as distinct, as
its ministry of chastisement or of blessing to what is mortal, is
essential.

5. And yet we never attend to it, we never make it a subject of
thought, but as it has to do with our animal sensations; we look
upon all by which it speaks to us more clearly than to brutes, upon
all which bears witness to the intention of the Supreme, that we
are to receive more from the covering vault than the light and the
dew which we share with the weed and the worm, only as a succession
of meaningless and monotonous accidents too common and too vain to
be worthy of a moment of watchfulness, or a glance of admiration.
If in our moments of utter idleness and insipidity, we turn to the
sky as a last resource, which of its phenomena do we speak of?

[Pg
110]6. One says it has been wet, and another it has been
windy, and another it has been warm. Who, among the whole
chattering crowd, can tell me of the forms and the precipices of
the chain of tall white mountains that girded the horizon at noon
yesterday? Who saw the narrow sunbeam that came out of the south,
and smote upon their summits until they melted and mouldered away
in a dust of blue rain? Who saw the dance of the dead clouds when
the sunlight left them last night, and the west wind blew them
before it like withered leaves?

7. All has passed, unregretted as unseen; or if the apathy be
ever shaken off, even for an instant, it is only by what is gross,
or what is extraordinary; and yet it is not in the broad and fierce
manifestations of the elemental energies, not in the clash of the
hail, nor the drift of the whirlwind, that the highest characters
of the sublime are developed. God is not in the earthquake, nor in
the fire, but in the still, small voice.

8. They are but the blunt and the low faculties of our nature,
which can only be addressed through lamp-black and lightning. It is
in quiet and subdued passages of unobtrusive majesty, the deep, and
the calm, and the perpetual,—that which must be sought ere it
is seen, and loved ere it is understood,—things which the
angels work out for us daily, and yet vary eternally, which are
never wanting, and never repeated, which are to be found always yet
each found but once; it is through these that the lesson of
devotion is chiefly taught, and the blessing of beauty given.

—John Ruskin

(By arrangement with George Allen,
Publisher)

THE RETURN OF THE
SWALLOWS

—Edmund William Gosse

BARBARA FRIETCHIE

—John Greenleaf Whittier

BLESS THE LORD, O MY
SOUL

Psalm ciii

—As arranged by Richard G.
Moulton

THE ETERNAL
GOODNESS

—John Greenleaf Whittier

THE KING OF GLORY

Psalm xxiv

(Anthems for the Inauguration of Jerusalem)

I.—At the Foot of the Hill

first choir

second choir

II.—Before the Gates

first choir

second choir

first choir

first choir

second choir

first choir

—As arranged by Richard G.
Moulton

THE FOUR-HORSE RACE

From “Black Rock”

1. The great event of the day, however, was to be the four-horse
race, for which three teams were entered—one from the mines
driven by Nixon, Craig’s friend, a citizens’ team, and Sandy’s. The
race was really between the miners’ team and that from the woods,
for the citizens’ team, though made up of speedy horses, had not
been driven much together, and knew neither their driver nor each
other. In the miners’ team were four bays, very powerful, a trifle
heavy perhaps, but well matched, perfectly trained, and perfectly
handled by their driver. Sandy had his long rangy roans, and for
leaders, a pair of half-broken pinto bronchos. The pintos, caught
the summer before upon the Alberta prairies, were fleet as deer,
but wicked and uncertain. They were Baptiste’s special care and
pride. If they would only run straight, there was little doubt that
they would carry the roans and themselves to glory; but one [Pg
122]could not tell the moment they might bolt or kick
things to pieces.

2. Being the only non-partisan in the crowd, I was asked to
referee. The race was about half a mile and return, the first and
last quarters being upon the ice. The course, after leaving the
ice, led up from the river by a long, easy slope to the level
above; and at the further end, curved somewhat sharply around the
Old Fort. The only condition attaching to the race was, that the
teams should start from the scratch, make the turn of the Fort, and
finish at the scratch. There were no vexing regulations as to
fouls. The man making the foul would find it necessary to reckon
with the crowd, which was considered sufficient guarantee for a
fair and square race. Owing to the hazards of the course, the
result would depend upon the skill of the drivers quite as much as
the speed of the teams. The points of hazard were at the turn round
the Old Fort, and at a little ravine which led down to the river,
over which the road passed by means of a long, log bridge or
causeway.

3. From a point upon the high bank of the river, the whole
course lay in open view. It was a scene full of life and vividly
picturesque. There were miners in dark clothes and peak caps;
citizens in ordinary garb; ranch-men in wide cowboy hats and
buckskin shirts and leggings, some with cartridge-belts and
pistols; a few half-breeds and Indians in half-native,
half-civilized dress; and scattering through the crowd, the
lumbermen with gay scarlet and blue blanket coats, and some with
knitted tuques of the same colour. A very good-natured but
extremely uncertain crowd it was. At the head of each horse stood a
man, but at the pintos’ heads Baptiste stood alone, trying to hold
down the off-leader, thrown [Pg 123]into a frenzy of fear
by the yelling of the crowd.

4. Gradually all became quiet, till, in the midst of absolute
stillness, came the words: “Are you ready?” then the pistol-shot,
and the great race had begun. Above the roar of the crowd came the
shrill cry of Baptiste, as he struck his broncho with the palm of
his hand, and swung himself into the sleigh beside Sandy, as it
shot past.

5. Like a flash the bronchos sprang to the front, two lengths
before the other teams; but, terrified by the yelling of the crowd,
instead of bending to the left bank up which the road wound, they
wheeled to the right and were almost across the river before Sandy
could swing them back into the course.

6. Baptiste’s cries, a curious mixture of French and English,
continued to strike through all other sounds, till they gained the
top of the slope to find the others almost a hundred yards in
front, the citizens’ team leading, with the miners’ following
close. The moment the pintos caught sight of the teams before them,
they set off at a terrific pace and steadily devoured the
intervening space. Nearer and nearer the turn came, the eight
horses in front, running straight and well within their speed.
After them flew the pintos, running savagely with ears set back,
leading well the big roans, thundering along and gaining at every
bound. And now the citizens’ team had almost reached the Fort,
running hard and drawing away from the bays. But Nixon knew what he
was about, and was simply steadying his team for the turn. The
event proved his wisdom, for in the turn the leading team left the
track, lost a moment or two in the deep snow, and before they could
regain the road, the bays had swept superbly past, [Pg
124]leaving their rivals to follow in the rear. On came
the pintos, swiftly nearing the Fort. Surely at that pace they
cannot make the turn. But Sandy knows his leaders. They have their
eyes upon the teams in front, and need no touch of rein. Without
the slightest change in speed the nimble-footed bronchos round the
turn, hauling the big roans after them, and fall in behind the
citizens’ team, which is regaining steadily the ground lost in the
turn.

7. And now the struggle is for the bridge over the ravine. The
bays in front, running with mouths wide open, are evidently doing
their best; behind them, and every moment nearing them, but at the
limit of their speed too, come the lighter and fleeter citizens’
team; while opposite their driver are the pintos, pulling hard,
eager and fresh. Their temper is too uncertain to send them to the
front; they run well following, but when leading cannot be trusted,
and besides, a broncho hates a bridge; so Sandy holds them where
they are, waiting and hoping for his chance after the bridge is
crossed. Foot by foot the citizens’ team creep up upon the flank of
the bays, with the pintos in turn hugging them closely, till it
seems as if the three, if none slackens, must strike the bridge
together; and this will mean destruction to one at least. This
danger Sandy perceives, but he dare not check his leaders.
Suddenly, within a few yards of the bridge, Baptiste throws himself
upon the lines, wrenches them out of Sandy’s hands, and, with a
quick swing, forces the pintos down the steep side of the ravine,
which is almost sheer ice with a thin coat of snow. It is a daring
course to take, for the ravine, though not deep, is full of
undergrowth, and is partially closed up by a brush heap at the
further end. [Pg 125]But with a yell, Baptiste hurls his
four horses down the slope, and into the undergrowth. “Allons, mes
enfants! Courage! vite, vite!” cries their driver, and nobly do the
pintos respond. Regardless of bushes and brush heaps, they tear
their way through; but as they emerge, the hind bob-sleigh catches
a root, and, with a crash, the sleigh is hurled high into the air.
Baptiste’s cries ring out high and shrill as ever, encouraging his
team, and never cease till, with a plunge and a scramble, they
clear the brush heap lying at the mouth of the ravine, and are out
on the ice on the river, with Baptiste standing on the front bob,
the box trailing behind, and Sandy nowhere to be seen.

8. Three hundred yards of the course remain. The bays, perfectly
handled, have gained at the bridge, and in the descent to the ice,
and are leading the citizens’ team by half a dozen sleigh lengths.
Behind both comes Baptiste. It is now or never for the pintos. The
rattle of the trailing box, together with the wild yelling of the
crowd rushing down the bank, excites the bronchos to madness, and,
taking the bits in their teeth, they do their first free running
that day. Past the citizens’ team like a whirlwind they dash, clear
the intervening space, and gain the flanks of the bays. Can the
bays hold them? Over them leans their driver, plying for the first
time the hissing lash. Only fifty yards more. The miners begin to
yell. But Baptiste, waving his lines high in one hand, seizes his
tuque with the other, whirls it above his head and flings it with a
fiercer yell than ever at the bronchos. Like the bursting of a
hurricane the pintos leap forward, and with a splendid rush cross
the scratch, winners by their own length.

—By arrangement with the Westminster
Co., Limited,

and Rev. C. W. Gordon (Ralph Connor)

[Pg
126]

MRS. MALAPROP’S
VIEWS

From “The Rivals”

The scene is Mrs. Malaprop’s lodgings at Bath.
Present, Lydia Languish.
Enter Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Anthony Absolute.

Mrs. Malaprop.—There, Sir Anthony, there sits the
deliberate simpleton who wants to disgrace her family, and lavish
herself on a fellow not worth a shilling.

Lydia.—Madam, I thought you once—

Mrs. Malaprop.—You thought, miss! I don’t know any
business you have to think at all: thought does not become a young
woman. But the point we would request of you is, that you will
promise to forget this fellow; to illiterate him, I say, quite from
your memory.

Lydia.—Ah, madam! our memories are independent of
our wills. It is not so easy to forget.

Mrs. Malaprop.—But I say it is, miss! there is
nothing on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set
about it. I’m sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle as if
he had never existed—and I thought it my duty so to do; and
let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don’t become a young
woman.

Sir Anthony.—Why, sure she won’t pretend to
remember what she’s ordered not! Ay, this comes of her reading!

[Pg
127]

Lydia.—What crime, madam, have I committed to be
treated thus?

Mrs. Malaprop.—Now don’t attempt to extirpate
yourself from the matter; you know I have proof controvertible of
it. But tell me, will you promise to do as you’re bid? Will you
take a husband of your friends’ choosing?

Lydia.—Madam, I must tell you plainly that had I no
preference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my
aversion.

Mrs. Malaprop.—What business have you, miss, with
preference and aversion. They don’t become a young woman; and you
ought to know that as both always wear off, ’tis safest in
matrimony to begin with a little aversion. I am sure I hated your
poor dear uncle before marriage as if he’d been a blackamoor; and
yet, miss, you are sensible what a wife I made? and when it pleased
Heaven to release me from him, ’tis unknown what tears I shed! But
suppose we were going to give you another choice, will you promise
us to give up this Beverley?

Lydia.—Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give
that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words.

Mrs. Malaprop.—Take yourself to your room. You are
fit company for nothing but your own ill-humours.

Lydia.—Willingly, ma’am—I cannot change for
the worse.(Exit)

Mrs. Malaprop.—There’s a little intricate hussy for
you!

Sir Anthony.—It is not to be wondered at, ma’am:
[Pg
128]all this is the natural consequence of teaching
girls to read. Had I a thousand daughters, by heaven I’d as soon
have them taught the black art as their alphabet!

Mrs. Malaprop.—Nay, nay, Sir Anthony: you are an
absolute misanthropy.

Sir Anthony.—In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I
observed your niece’s maid coming forth from a circulating library!
She had a book in each hand; they were half-bound volumes with
marble covers! From that moment I guessed how full of duty I should
see her mistress!

Mrs. Malaprop.—Those are vile places indeed!

Sir Anthony.—Madam, a circulating library in a town
is an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge,—it blossoms
through the year! And depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who
are so fond of handling the leaves will long for the fruit at
last.

Mrs. Malaprop.—Fy, fy, Sir Anthony! you surely
speak laconically.

Sir Anthony.—Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation now,
what would you have a woman know?

Mrs. Malaprop.—Observe me, Sir Anthony. I would by
no means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning; I
don’t think so much learning becomes a young woman: for instance, I
would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or algebra, or
simony, or fluxions, or paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of
learning; neither would it be necessary for her to handle any of
your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments. But, Sir
Anthony, I would send her at nine years old to a boarding-school,
in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she
[Pg
129]should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts;
and as she grew up I would have her instructed in geometry, that
she might know something of the contagious countries: but above
all, Sir Anthony, she should be mistress of orthodoxy, that she
might not misspell and mispronounce words so shamefully as girls
usually do; and likewise that she might reprehend the true meaning
of what she is saying. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a
woman know; and I don’t think there is a superstitious article in
it.

Sir Anthony.—Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will
dispute the point no further with you; though I must confess that
you are a truly moderate and polite arguer, for almost every third
word you say is on my side of the question. But, Mrs. Malaprop, to
the more important point in debate: you say you have no objection
to my proposal?

Mrs. Malaprop.—None, I assure you. I am under no
positive engagement with Mr. Acres; and as Lydia is so obstinate
against him, perhaps your son may have better success.

Sir Anthony.—Well, madam, I will write for the boy
directly. He knows not a syllable of this yet, though I have for
some time had the proposal in my head. He is at present with his
regiment.

Mrs. Malaprop.—We have never seen your son, Sir
Anthony; but I hope no objection on his side.

Sir Anthony.—Objection! let him object if he dare!
No, no, Mrs. Malaprop, Jack knows that the least demur puts me in a
frenzy directly. My process was always very simple: in their
younger days, ’twas “Jack, do this”; if he demurred I knocked him
down, and if he [Pg 130]grumbled at that I always sent him
out of the room.

Mrs. Malaprop.—Ay, and the properest way, o’my
conscience! Nothing is so conciliating to young people as severity.
Well, Sir Anthony, I shall give Mr. Acres his discharge, and
prepare Lydia to receive your son’s invocations; and I hope you
will represent her to the captain as an object not altogether
illegible.

Sir Anthony.—Madam, I will handle the subject
prudently. Well I must leave you; and let me beg you, Mrs.
Malaprop, to enforce this matter roundly to the girl. Take my
advice—keep a tight hand: if she rejects this proposal, clap
her under lock and key; and if you were just to let the servants
forget to bring her dinner for three or four days, you can’t
conceive how she’d come about.(Exit)

Mrs. Malaprop.—Well, at any rate I shall be glad to
get her from under my intuition. She has somehow discovered my
partiality for Sir Lucius O’Trigger: sure Lucy can’t have betrayed
me! No, the girl is such a simpleton, I should have made her
confess it. (Calls) Lucy! Lucy!—Had she been one of your
artificial ones, I should never have trusted her.

—Richard Brinsley Sheridan

[Pg
131]

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS

—Leigh Hunt

[Pg
133]

THE FICKLENESS OF A ROMAN MOB

From “Julius Cæsar” Act I. Scene i.

Enter Flavius,
Marullus, and certain Commoners over the Stage.

[Exeunt all the Commoners]

[Exeunt]
—Shakespeare

[Pg
136]

SIR PETER AND LADY TEAZLE

From “The School for Scandal”

Sir Peter.—Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I’ll not bear
it!

Lady Teazle.—Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it
or not, as you please; but I ought to have my own way in
everything, and, what’s more, I will, too. What though I was
educated in the country, I know very well that women of fashion in
London are accountable to nobody after they are married.

Sir Peter.—Very well, ma’am, very well; so a
husband is to have no influence, no authority?

Lady Teazle.—Authority! No, to be sure: if you
wanted authority over me, you should have adopted me and not
married me: I am sure you were old enough.

Sir Peter.—Old enough!—ay, there it is. Well,
well, Lady Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by your
temper, I’ll not be ruined by your extravagance!

Lady Teazle.—My extravagance! I’m sure I’m not more
extravagant than a woman of fashion ought to be.

Sir Peter.—No, no, madam, you shall throw away no
more sums on such unmeaning luxury. To spend as much to furnish
your dressing room with flowers in winter as would suffice to turn
the Pantheon into a greenhouse, and give a fête
champêtre at Christmas!

Lady Teazle.—And am I to blame, Sir Peter, because
flowers are dear in cold weather? You should find fault with the
climate, and not with me. For my [Pg 137]part, I’m sure I wish
it was spring all the year round, and that roses grew under our
feet!

Sir Peter.—Oons! madam—if you had been born
to this, I shouldn’t wonder at your talking thus; but you forget
what your situation was when I married you.

Lady Teazle.—No, no, I don’t; ’twas a very
disagreeable one, or I should never have married you.

Sir Peter.—Yes, yes, madam, you were then in
somewhat a humbler style—the daughter of a plain country
squire. Recollect, Lady Teazle, when I saw you first sitting at
your tambour, in a pretty figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys
at your side, your hair combed smooth over a roll, and your
apartment hung round with fruits in worsted, of your own
working.

Lady Teazle.—Oh, yes! I remember it very well, and
a curious life I led. My daily occupation to inspect the dairy,
superintend the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt
book, and comb my aunt Deborah’s lap-dog.

Sir Peter.—Yes, yes, ma’am, ’twas so indeed.

Lady Teazle.—And then, you know, my evening
amusements! To draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not materials
to make up; to play Pope Joan with the curate; to read a sermon to
my aunt; or to be stuck down to an old spinet to strum my father to
sleep after a fox chase.

Sir Peter.—I am glad you have so good a memory.
Yes, madam, these were the recreations I took you from; but now you
must have your coach—vis-à-vis—and three
powdered footmen before your chair; and, in the summer, a pair of
white cats to draw you to Kensington Gardens. No recollection, I
suppose, when you were [Pg 138]content to ride double, behind the
butler, on a docked coach horse.

Lady Teazle.—No—I swear I never did that: I
deny the butler and the coach horse.

Sir Peter.—This, madam, was your situation; and
what have I done for you? I have made you a woman of fashion, of
fortune, of rank,—in short, I have made you my wife.

Lady Teazle.—Well, then, and there is but one thing
more you can make me to add to the obligation, that is—

Sir Peter.—My widow, I suppose?

Lady Teazle.—Hem! hem!

Sir Peter.—I thank you, madam—but don’t
flatter yourself, for, though your ill conduct may disturb my peace
of mind, it shall never break my heart, I promise you: however, I
am equally obliged to you for the hint.

Lady Teazle.—Then why will you endeavour to make
yourself so disagreeable to me, and thwart me in every little
elegant expense.

Sir Peter.—Oons! madam, I say, had you any of these
little elegant expenses when you married me?

Lady Teazle.—Lud, Sir Peter! would you have me be
out of the fashion?

Sir Peter.—The fashion, indeed! what had you to do
with the fashion before you married me?

Lady Teazle.—For my part, I should think you would
like to have your wife thought a woman of taste.

Sir Peter.—Ay—there again—taste!
Zounds! madam, you had no taste when you married me!

Lady Teazle.—That’s very true, indeed, Sir Peter!
[Pg
139]and, after having married you, I should never
pretend to taste again, I allow. But now, Sir Peter, since we have
finished our daily jangle, I presume I may go to my engagement at
Lady Sneerwell’s.

Sir Peter.—Ay, there’s another precious
circumstance—a charming set of acquaintance you have made
there.

Lady Teazle.—Nay, Sir Peter, they are all people of
rank and fortune, and remarkably tenacious of reputation.

Sir Peter.—Yes, they are tenacious of reputation
with a vengeance; for they don’t choose anybody should have a
character but themselves! Such a crew! Ah! many a wretch has rid on
a hurdle who has done less mischief than these utterers of forged
tales, coiners of scandal, and clippers of reputation.

Lady Teazle.—What! would you restrain the freedom
of speech?

Sir Peter.—Ah! they have made you just as bad as
any one of the society.

Lady Teazle.—Why, I believe I do bear a part with a
tolerable grace.

Sir Peter.—Grace indeed!

Lady Teazle.—But I vow I bear no malice against the
people I abuse: when I say an ill-natured thing, ’tis out of pure
good humour: and I take it for granted they deal exactly the same
with me. But, Sir Peter, you know you promised to come to Lady
Sneerwell’s too.

Sir Peter.—Well, well, I’ll call in, just to look
after my own character.

Lady Teazle.—Then, indeed, you must make haste
after me, or you’ll be too late. So good-bye to ye.
(Exit)

Sir Peter.—So—I have gained much by my
intended [Pg
140]expostulation! Yet with what a charming air she
contradicts everything I say, and how pleasantly she shows her
contempt for my authority! Well, though I can’t make her love me,
there is great satisfaction in quarrelling with her; and I think
she never appears to such advantage as when she is doing everything
in her power to plague me. (Exit)

—Richard Brinsley Sheridan

THE PARTING OF MARMION
AND DOUGLAS

From “Marmion”

—Sir Walter Scott

COLUMBUS

—Joaquin Miller

—By permission of the publishers,
Whitaker & Ray-Wiggin Co.

FROM THE “APOLOGY” OF
SOCRATES

From “The Dialogues of Plato”

1. Not much time will be gained, O Athenians, in return for the
evil name which you will get from the detractors of the city, who
will say that you killed Socrates, a wise man; for they will call
me wise, even although I am not wise, when they want to reproach
you. If you had waited a little while, your desire would have been
fulfilled in the course of nature. For I am far advanced in years,
as you may perceive, and not far from death. I am speaking now only
to those of you who have condemned me to death. And I have another
thing to say to them: You think that I was convicted through
deficiency of words—I mean, that if I had thought fit to
leave nothing undone, nothing unsaid, I might have gained an
acquittal. Not so; the deficiency [Pg 146]which led to my
conviction was not of words—certainly not. But I had not the
boldness or impudence or inclination to address you as you would
have liked me to address you, weeping and wailing and lamenting,
and saying and doing many things which you have been accustomed to
hear from others, and which, as I say, are unworthy of me. But I
thought that I ought not to do anything common or mean in the hour
of danger; nor do I now repent of the manner of my defence, and I
would rather die having spoken after my manner, than speak in your
manner and live. For neither in war nor yet at law ought any man to
use every way of escaping death. For often in battle there is no
doubt that if a man will throw away his arms, and fall on his knees
before his pursuers, he may escape death; and in other dangers
there are other ways of escaping death, if a man is willing to say
and do anything. The difficulty, my friends, is not in avoiding
death, but in avoiding unrighteousness; for that runs faster than
death. I am old and move slowly, and the slower runner has
overtaken me, and my accusers are keen and quick, and the faster
runner, who is unrighteousness, has overtaken them. And now I
depart hence, condemned by you to suffer the penalty of death, and
they too go their ways, condemned by the truth to suffer the
penalty of villainy and wrong; and I must abide by my
reward—let them abide by theirs. I suppose that these things
may be regarded as fated,—and I think that they are well.

2. And now, O men who have condemned me, I would fain prophesy
to you; for I am about to die, and that is the hour in which men
are gifted with prophetic power. And I prophesy to you who are my
murderers, [Pg 147]that immediately after my death
punishment far heavier than you have inflicted on me will surely
await you. Me you have killed because you wanted to escape the
accuser, and not to give an account of your lives. But that will
not be as you suppose: far otherwise. For I say that there will be
more accusers of you than there are now; accusers whom hitherto I
have restrained: and as they are younger they will be more severe
with you, and you will be more offended at them. For if you think
that by killing men you can avoid the accuser censuring your lives,
you are mistaken; that is not a way of escape which is either
possible or honourable; the easiest and the noblest way is not to
be crushing others, but to be improving yourselves. This is the
prophecy which I utter before my departure to the judges who have
condemned me.