Preparatory.—Make a black-board sketch of the race-course, fixing the position of "the scratch," "the Old Fort," "the high bank with the spectators," "the bridge," etc.In what passages does the excitement reach its greatest height? How are the Pitch and Time affected? (Introduction, pp.13and22.)What is the Stress employed throughout? Where is the Stress most marked? Give reasons. (Introduction, pp.27and28.)
Preparatory.—Make a black-board sketch of the race-course, fixing the position of "the scratch," "the Old Fort," "the high bank with the spectators," "the bridge," etc.
In what passages does the excitement reach its greatest height? How are the Pitch and Time affected? (Introduction, pp.13and22.)
What is the Stress employed throughout? Where is the Stress most marked? Give reasons. (Introduction, pp.27and28.)
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!
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: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, sheshould 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 hegrumbled 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
What is the difference between Mrs. Malaprop's mental attitude toward Lydia and toward Sir Anthony? How is this difference indicated in the Stress of voice? (Introduction, pp.27and28.)
What is the difference between Mrs. Malaprop's mental attitude toward Lydia and toward Sir Anthony? How is this difference indicated in the Stress of voice? (Introduction, pp.27and28.)
King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport,And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court;The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side,And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride;And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,5Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;With wallowing might and stifled roar, they roll'd one on another,Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous smother;10The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air;Said Francis then, "Good gentlemen, we're better here than there!"De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous, lively dame,With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same:She thought, "The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can be;15He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me!King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wond'rous fine;I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine!"She dropp'd her glove to prove his love: then looked on him and smiled;He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild:20The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon regain'd his place;Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face!"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!"
King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport,And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court;The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side,And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride;And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,5Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;With wallowing might and stifled roar, they roll'd one on another,Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous smother;10The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air;Said Francis then, "Good gentlemen, we're better here than there!"De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous, lively dame,With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same:She thought, "The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can be;15He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me!King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wond'rous fine;I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine!"She dropp'd her glove to prove his love: then looked on him and smiled;He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild:20The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon regain'd his place;Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face!"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!"
—Leigh Hunt
Preparatory.—Divide the poem into four scenes, and describe each scene.What are the difficulties of Articulation in ll. 2, 9, 10, and 14.What attitude of mind is indicated by the King's first speech? By his second speech? What difference in Stress? (Introduction, pp.27-29.) What is the Force in each case? (Introduction, p.25.)15, 16, and 17. Use these lines as an illustration to show that Visualization is necessary in order to secure good vocal expression.In what Time do you read the lady's thoughts! (Introduction, p.13.)Give examples from stanzas ii, and iv, where the sympathy with the picture may be sufficiently strong to lead to imitation of movements or sounds. (Introduction, pp. 5 and 6.)
Preparatory.—Divide the poem into four scenes, and describe each scene.
What are the difficulties of Articulation in ll. 2, 9, 10, and 14.
What attitude of mind is indicated by the King's first speech? By his second speech? What difference in Stress? (Introduction, pp.27-29.) What is the Force in each case? (Introduction, p.25.)
15, 16, and 17. Use these lines as an illustration to show that Visualization is necessary in order to secure good vocal expression.
In what Time do you read the lady's thoughts! (Introduction, p.13.)
Give examples from stanzas ii, and iv, where the sympathy with the picture may be sufficiently strong to lead to imitation of movements or sounds. (Introduction, pp. 5 and 6.)
From "Julius Cæsar" Act I. Scene i.
EnterFlavius, Marullus,and certain Commoners over the Stage.
Flav.Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home.Is this a holiday? What! know you not,Being mechanical, you ought not walkUpon a labouring day without the signOf your profession?—Speak, what trade art thou?51 Cit.Why, sir, a carpenter.Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule?What dost thou with thy best apparel on?—You, sir, what trade are you?2 Cit.Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am10but, as you would say, a cobbler.Mar. But what trade are thou? Answer me directly.2 Cit.A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safeconscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.Mar.What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave,15what trade?2 Cit.Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me;yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.Mar.What mean'st thou by that? Mend me, thousaucy fellow?2 Cit.Why, sir, cobble you.20Flav.Thou art a cobbler, art thou?2 Cit.Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl.I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women'smatters, but with all. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon toold shoes; when they are in great danger, I re-cover25them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's leatherhave gone upon my handiwork.Flav.But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day?Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?2 Cit.Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get30myself into more work. But, indeed, sir, we makeholiday to see Cæsar, and to rejoice in his triumph.Mar.Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?What tributaries follow him to Rome,To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?35You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!O, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oftHave you climbed up to walls and battlements,To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,40Your infants in your arms, and there have satThe livelong day, with patient expectation,To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome;And when you saw his chariot but appear,Have you not made an universal shout,45That Tiber trembled underneath her banks,To hear the replication of your soundsMade in her concave shores?And do you now put on your best attire?And do you now cull out a holiday?50And do you now strew flowers in his wayThat comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?Be gone!Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,Pray to the gods to intermit the plague55That needs must light on this ingratitude.Flav.Go, go, good countrymen, and for this faultAssemble all the poor men of your sort;Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tearsInto the channel, till the lowest stream60Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.
Flav.Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home.Is this a holiday? What! know you not,Being mechanical, you ought not walkUpon a labouring day without the signOf your profession?—Speak, what trade art thou?51 Cit.Why, sir, a carpenter.Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule?What dost thou with thy best apparel on?—You, sir, what trade are you?2 Cit.Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am10but, as you would say, a cobbler.Mar. But what trade are thou? Answer me directly.2 Cit.A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safeconscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.Mar.What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave,15what trade?2 Cit.Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me;yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.Mar.What mean'st thou by that? Mend me, thousaucy fellow?2 Cit.Why, sir, cobble you.20Flav.Thou art a cobbler, art thou?2 Cit.Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl.I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women'smatters, but with all. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon toold shoes; when they are in great danger, I re-cover25them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's leatherhave gone upon my handiwork.Flav.But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day?Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?2 Cit.Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get30myself into more work. But, indeed, sir, we makeholiday to see Cæsar, and to rejoice in his triumph.Mar.Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?What tributaries follow him to Rome,To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?35You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!O, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oftHave you climbed up to walls and battlements,To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,40Your infants in your arms, and there have satThe livelong day, with patient expectation,To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome;And when you saw his chariot but appear,Have you not made an universal shout,45That Tiber trembled underneath her banks,To hear the replication of your soundsMade in her concave shores?And do you now put on your best attire?And do you now cull out a holiday?50And do you now strew flowers in his wayThat comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?Be gone!Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,Pray to the gods to intermit the plague55That needs must light on this ingratitude.Flav.Go, go, good countrymen, and for this faultAssemble all the poor men of your sort;Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tearsInto the channel, till the lowest stream60Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.
[Exeunt all the Commoners]
See, whe'r their basest metal be not moved!They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.Go you down that way towards the Capitol;This way will I. Disrobe the images,65If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies.Mar.May we do so?You know it is the feast of Lupercal.Flav.It is no matter; let no imagesBe hung with Cæsar's trophies. I'll about,70And drive away the vulgar from the streets;So do you too, where you perceive them thick.These growing feathers pluck'd from Cæsar's wingWill make him fly an ordinary pitch,Who else would soar above the view of men,75And keep us all in servile fearfulness.
See, whe'r their basest metal be not moved!They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.Go you down that way towards the Capitol;This way will I. Disrobe the images,65If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies.Mar.May we do so?You know it is the feast of Lupercal.Flav.It is no matter; let no imagesBe hung with Cæsar's trophies. I'll about,70And drive away the vulgar from the streets;So do you too, where you perceive them thick.These growing feathers pluck'd from Cæsar's wingWill make him fly an ordinary pitch,Who else would soar above the view of men,75And keep us all in servile fearfulness.
[Exeunt]—Shakespeare
In what Stress do Flavius and Marullus speak when questioning the citizens? Why?What Stress does the first citizen use?How does the mental attitude of the second citizen influence his Stress and Inflection? (Introduction, pp.21,22, and30.) Where does he change his Stress? For what reason?Wherefore rejoice?Point out the various examples of Climax in this speech, and show how the voice indicates them. (Introduction, p.31.)Account for the Inflection on the various questions. (Introduction, pp.18and19.)See whe'r their basest metal, etc.Note the change in tension and energy. What change in Pitch and Force is the natural result? (Introduction, pp.25and26.)
In what Stress do Flavius and Marullus speak when questioning the citizens? Why?
What Stress does the first citizen use?
How does the mental attitude of the second citizen influence his Stress and Inflection? (Introduction, pp.21,22, and30.) Where does he change his Stress? For what reason?
Wherefore rejoice?Point out the various examples of Climax in this speech, and show how the voice indicates them. (Introduction, p.31.)
Account for the Inflection on the various questions. (Introduction, pp.18and19.)
See whe'r their basest metal, etc.Note the change in tension and energy. What change in Pitch and Force is the natural result? (Introduction, pp.25and26.)
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 mypart, 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 werecontent 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!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 intendedexpostulation! 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
Select the passages where Lady Teazle tries to enforce her opinion by (a) strong assertion, (b) peevishness and whining.In what passages does her desire to taunt and ridicule Sir Peter predominate?In what passages does she address Sir Peter in the tone of ordinary conversation?What Stress is used in each case? (Introduction, pp.28-30.)Had you any of these little elegant expenses? What Stress is placed on the last four words?
Select the passages where Lady Teazle tries to enforce her opinion by (a) strong assertion, (b) peevishness and whining.
In what passages does her desire to taunt and ridicule Sir Peter predominate?
In what passages does she address Sir Peter in the tone of ordinary conversation?
What Stress is used in each case? (Introduction, pp.28-30.)
Had you any of these little elegant expenses? What Stress is placed on the last four words?
From "Marmion"
Not far advanced was morning day,When Marmion did his troop arrayTo Surrey's camp to ride;He had safe-conduct for his band,Beneath the royal seal and hand,5And Douglas gave a guide.The ancient Earl, with stately grace,Would Clara on her palfrey place,And whispered in an undertone,"Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown."10The train from out the castle drew,But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:"Though something I might plain," he said,"Of cold respect to stranger guest,Sent hither by your King's behest,15While in Tantallon's towers I stayed;Part we in friendship from your land,And, noble earl, receive my hand."But Douglas round him drew his cloak,Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:20"My manors, halls, and bowers, shall stillBe open, at my Sovereign's will,To each one whom he lists, howe'erUnmeet to be the owner's peer.My castles are my King's alone,25From turret to foundation-stone:The hand of Douglas is his own;And never shall, in friendly grasp,The hand of such as Marmion clasp."Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,30And shook his very frame for ire;And—"This to me," he said,"An't were not for thy hoary beard,Such hand as Marmion's had not sparedTo cleave the Douglas' head!35And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer,He who does England's message here,Although the meanest in her state,May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,40Even in thy pitch of prideHere in thy hold, thy vassals near(Nay, never look upon your lord,And lay your hands upon your sword,)I tell thee, thou'rt defied!45And if thou saidst, I am not peerTo any lord in Scotland here,Lowland or Highland, far or near,Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage50O'ercame the ashen hue of age:Fierce he broke forth: "And darest thou, then,To beard the lion in his den,The Douglas in his hall?And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?—55No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!—Up drawbridge, grooms!—what, Warder, ho!Let the portcullis fall."Lord Marmion turned,—well was his need,—And dashed the rowels in his steed,60Like arrow through the archway sprung,The ponderous grate behind him rung:To pass there was such scanty room,The bars, descending, grazed his plume.The steed along the drawbridge flies,65Just as it trembles on the rise;Nor lighter does the swallow skimAlong the smooth lake's level brim:And when Lord Marmion reached his band,He halts, and turns with clenched hand,70And shout of loud defiance pours,And shook his gauntlet at the towers."Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!"But soon he reined his fury's pace:"A royal messenger he came,75Though most unworthy of the name.A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed!Did ever knight so foul a deed!At first, in heart, it liked me ill,When the King praised his clerkly skill.80Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine,Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line.Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood;I thought to slay him where he stood.85'Tis pity of him, too," he cried:"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride:I warrant him a warrior tried."—With this his mandate he recalls,And slowly seeks his castle halls.90
Not far advanced was morning day,When Marmion did his troop arrayTo Surrey's camp to ride;He had safe-conduct for his band,Beneath the royal seal and hand,5And Douglas gave a guide.The ancient Earl, with stately grace,Would Clara on her palfrey place,And whispered in an undertone,"Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown."10The train from out the castle drew,But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:"Though something I might plain," he said,"Of cold respect to stranger guest,Sent hither by your King's behest,15While in Tantallon's towers I stayed;Part we in friendship from your land,And, noble earl, receive my hand."But Douglas round him drew his cloak,Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:20"My manors, halls, and bowers, shall stillBe open, at my Sovereign's will,To each one whom he lists, howe'erUnmeet to be the owner's peer.My castles are my King's alone,25From turret to foundation-stone:The hand of Douglas is his own;And never shall, in friendly grasp,The hand of such as Marmion clasp."Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,30And shook his very frame for ire;And—"This to me," he said,"An't were not for thy hoary beard,Such hand as Marmion's had not sparedTo cleave the Douglas' head!35And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer,He who does England's message here,Although the meanest in her state,May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,40Even in thy pitch of prideHere in thy hold, thy vassals near(Nay, never look upon your lord,And lay your hands upon your sword,)I tell thee, thou'rt defied!45And if thou saidst, I am not peerTo any lord in Scotland here,Lowland or Highland, far or near,Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage50O'ercame the ashen hue of age:Fierce he broke forth: "And darest thou, then,To beard the lion in his den,The Douglas in his hall?And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?—55No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!—Up drawbridge, grooms!—what, Warder, ho!Let the portcullis fall."Lord Marmion turned,—well was his need,—And dashed the rowels in his steed,60Like arrow through the archway sprung,The ponderous grate behind him rung:To pass there was such scanty room,The bars, descending, grazed his plume.The steed along the drawbridge flies,65Just as it trembles on the rise;Nor lighter does the swallow skimAlong the smooth lake's level brim:And when Lord Marmion reached his band,He halts, and turns with clenched hand,70And shout of loud defiance pours,And shook his gauntlet at the towers."Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!"But soon he reined his fury's pace:"A royal messenger he came,75Though most unworthy of the name.A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed!Did ever knight so foul a deed!At first, in heart, it liked me ill,When the King praised his clerkly skill.80Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine,Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line.Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood;I thought to slay him where he stood.85'Tis pity of him, too," he cried:"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride:I warrant him a warrior tried."—With this his mandate he recalls,And slowly seeks his castle halls.90
—Sir Walter Scott
In what Quality of voice should the following passages of this poem be read: (a) the descriptive parts; (b) l. 10; (c) the first speeches of Marmion and Douglas, ll. 14-18, and ll. 21-29; (d) the second speeches of Marmion and Douglas, ll. 32-49, and ll. 52-56; (e) ll. 57-58, and ll. 75-88?
In what Quality of voice should the following passages of this poem be read: (a) the descriptive parts; (b) l. 10; (c) the first speeches of Marmion and Douglas, ll. 14-18, and ll. 21-29; (d) the second speeches of Marmion and Douglas, ll. 32-49, and ll. 52-56; (e) ll. 57-58, and ll. 75-88?
Behind him lay the gray Azores.Behind him the gates of Hercules;Before him not the ghost of shores,Before him only shoreless seas.The good mate said: "Now we must pray,5For, lo! the very stars are gone.Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?""Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'""My men grow mutinous day by day;My men grow ghastly wan and weak."10The stout mate thought of home; a sprayOf salt wave washed his swarthy cheek."What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say,If we sight naught but seas at dawn?""Why, you shall say, at break of day:15'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"They sailed and sailed as winds might blow,Until at last the blanched mate said:"Why, now not even God would knowShould I and all my men fall dead.20These very winds forget the way,For God from these dread seas is gone.Now speak, brave Adm'r'l, speak and say—"He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:25"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night;He curls his lip, he lies in wait,With lifted teeth as if to bite:Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word;What shall we do when hope is gone?"30The words leapt as a leaping sword:"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"Then, pale and worn, he kept his deckAnd peered through darkness. Ah, that nightOf all dark nights! And then, a speck—35A light! a light! a light! a light!It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.He gained a world; he gave that worldIts greatest lesson; "On! sail on!"40
Behind him lay the gray Azores.Behind him the gates of Hercules;Before him not the ghost of shores,Before him only shoreless seas.The good mate said: "Now we must pray,5For, lo! the very stars are gone.Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?""Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'""My men grow mutinous day by day;My men grow ghastly wan and weak."10The stout mate thought of home; a sprayOf salt wave washed his swarthy cheek."What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say,If we sight naught but seas at dawn?""Why, you shall say, at break of day:15'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"They sailed and sailed as winds might blow,Until at last the blanched mate said:"Why, now not even God would knowShould I and all my men fall dead.20These very winds forget the way,For God from these dread seas is gone.Now speak, brave Adm'r'l, speak and say—"He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:25"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night;He curls his lip, he lies in wait,With lifted teeth as if to bite:Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word;What shall we do when hope is gone?"30The words leapt as a leaping sword:"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"Then, pale and worn, he kept his deckAnd peered through darkness. Ah, that nightOf all dark nights! And then, a speck—35A light! a light! a light! a light!It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.He gained a world; he gave that worldIts greatest lesson; "On! sail on!"40
—Joaquin Miller
—By permission of the publishers, Whitaker & Ray-Wiggin Co.
What, shall, Why. (AppendixA, 7and8.)Give examples of words or phrases which when repeated become (1) unemphatic, (2) more emphatic, (3) equivalent to a climax. (Introduction, pp. 31 and 32.)Compare the mate's attitude of mind with that of the Admiral. How is the difference indicated by the Stress?
What, shall, Why. (AppendixA, 7and8.)
Give examples of words or phrases which when repeated become (1) unemphatic, (2) more emphatic, (3) equivalent to a climax. (Introduction, pp. 31 and 32.)
Compare the mate's attitude of mind with that of the Admiral. How is the difference indicated by the Stress?
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 deficiencywhich 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,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.
3. Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like also to talk with you about this thing which has happened, while the magistrates are busy, and before I go to the place at which I must die. Stay then a while, for we may as well talk with one another while there is time. You are my friends, and I should like to show you the meaning of this event which has happened to me. O my judges—for you I may truly call judges—I should like to tell you of a wonderful circumstance. Hitherto the familiar oracle within me has constantly been in the habit of opposing me even about trifles, if I was going to make a slip or error about anything; and now, as you see, there has come upon me that which may be thought, and is generally believed to be, the last and worst evil. But the oracle made no sign of opposition, either as I was leaving my house and going out in the morning, or when I was going up into this court, or while I wasspeaking, at anything which I was going to say; and yet I have often been stopped in the middle of a speech, but now in nothing I either said or did touching this matter has the oracle opposed me. What do I take to be the explanation of this? I will tell you. I regard this as a proof that what has happened to me is a good, and that those of us who think that death is an evil are in error. This is a great proof to me of what I am saying, for the customary sign would surely have opposed me had I been going to evil and not to good.
4. Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is a great reason to hope that death is a good, for one of two things: either death is a state of nothingness and utter unconsciousness, or, as men say, there is a change and migration of the soul from this world to another. Now if you suppose that there is no consciousness, but a sleep like the sleep of him who is undisturbed even by the sight of dreams, death will be an unspeakable gain. For if a person were to select the night in which his sleep was undisturbed even by dreams, and were to compare with this the other days and nights of his life, and then were to tell us how many days and nights he had passed in the course of his life better and more pleasantly than this one, I think that any man, I will not say a private man, but even the great king will not find many such days or nights, when compared with the others. Now if death is like this, I say that to die is gain; for eternity is then only a single night. But if death is the journey to another place, and there, as men say, all the dead are, what good, O my friends and judges, can be greater than this? If indeed when the pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is delivered from the professors of justice in this world, and finds the truejudges who are said to give judgment there, Minos and Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus, and Triptolemus, and other sons of God who were righteous in their own life, that pilgrimage will be worth making. What would not a man give if he might converse with Orpheus and Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer? Nay, if this be true, let me die again and again. I, too, shall have a wonderful interest in a place where I can converse with Palamedes, and Ajax the son of Telamon, and other heroes of old, who have suffered death through an unjust judgment; and there will be no small pleasure, as I think, in comparing my own sufferings with theirs. Above all, I shall be able to continue my search into true and false knowledge; as in this world, so also in that; I shall find out who is wise, and who pretends to be wise and is not. What would not a man give, O judges, to be able to examine the leader of the great Trojan expedition; or Odysseus, or Sisyphus, or numberless others, men and women too! What infinite delight would there be in conversing with them and asking them questions! For in that world they do not put a man to death for this; certainly not. For besides being happier in that world than in this, they will be immortal, if what is said is true.
5. Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer about death, and know this of a truth—that no evil can happen to a good man, either in life or after death. He and his are not neglected by the gods; nor has my own approaching end happened by mere chance. But I see clearly that to die and be released was better for me; and therefore the oracle gave no sign. For which reason, also, I am not angry with my accusers or my condemners; they have done me no harm, although neither ofthem meant to do me any good; and for this I may gently blame them.
6. Still I have a favour to ask of them. When my sons are grown up, I would ask you, O my friends, to punish them and I would have you trouble them, as I have troubled you, if they seem to care about riches, or anything, more than about virtue; or if they pretend to be something when they are really nothing,—then reprove them, as I have reproved you, for not caring about that for which they ought to care, and thinking that they are something when they are really nothing. And if you do this, I and my sons will have received justice at your hands.
7. The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways—I to die, and you to live. Which is better God only knows.
—Benjamin Jowett