There are points in which the monologue is superior to the drama. It can touch upon certain aspects and problems of human life which are not possible in the play. Again, too much of the modern stage is simply concerned with make-ups and various exhibitions and spectacular representations which are totally antagonistic to all true dramatic art. This is more or less impossible in the monologue.

Students should arrange and abridge monologues and short stories from many sources, and dramatize and present scenes from novels, as well as recite and act scenes from tragedies, comedies, farces, and burlesques, so as to be able to understand clearly the distinction between every form and degree of dramatic expression.

A TALE.

What a pretty tale you told me once upon a time

Said you found it somewhere (scold me !) was it prose or was it rhyme,
Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, while your shoulder propped my head.
Anyhow there's no forgetting this much if no more,

That a poet (pray, no petting!) yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,
Went where suchlike used to go, singing for a prize, you know.
Well, he had to sing, nor merely sing but play the lyre;
Playing was important clearly quite as singing: I desire,
Sir, you keep the fact in mind for a purpose that's behind.
There stood he, while deep attention held the judges round,
- Judges able, I should mention, to detect the slightest sound
Sung or played amiss: such ears had old judges, it appears!
None the less, he sang out boldly, played in time and tune,
Till the judges, weighing coldly each note's worth, seemed, late or soon,
Sure to smile "In vain one tries picking faults out: take the prize ! "
When, a mischief! Were they seven strings the lyre possessed?

Oh, and afterwards eleven, thank you! Well, sir, — who had guessed
Such ill-luck in store ?- it happed one of those same seven strings snapped.

All was lost, then! No! a cricket (what "cicada"? Pooh!)
-Some mad thing that left its thicket for mere love of music - flew

With its little heart on fire, lighted on the crippled lyre.

So that when (Ah joy !) our singer for his truant string

Feels with disconcerted finger, what does cricket else but fling

Fiery heart forth, sound the note wanted by the throbbing throat?
Ay and, ever to the ending, cricket chirps at need,

Executes the hand's intending, promptly, perfectly,- indeed
Saves the singer from defeat with her chirrup low and sweet.
Till, at ending, all the judges cry with one assent

"Take the prize - a prize who grudges such a voice and instrument ?
Why, we took your lyre for harp, so it shrilled us forth F sharp!"

Did the conqueror spurn the creature, once its service done?
That's no such uncommon feature in the case when Music's son
Finds his Lotte's power too spent for aiding soul-development.
No! This other, on returning homeward, prize in hand,
Satisfied his bosom's yearning: (sir, I hope you understand!)

- Said, "Some record there must be of this cricket's help to me!'
So, he made himself a statue: marble stood, life-size;

On the lyre, he pointed at you, perched his partner in the prize;
Never more apart you found her, he throned, from him, she crowned.

That's the tale its application? Somebody I know

Hopes one day for reputation through his poetry that's — Oh,
All so learned and so wise, and deserving of a prize!

If he gains one, will some ticket, when his statue 's built,

Tell the gazer,
""T was a cricket helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt
Sweet and low, when strength usurped softness' place i' the scale, she chirped?
For as victory was nighest, while I sang and played,—

With my lyre at lowest, highest, right alike,

one string that made 'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain, never to be heard again,— Had not a kind cricket fluttered, perched upon the place

Vacant left, and duly uttered Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass
Asked the treble to atone for its somewhat sombre drone."

But you don't know music! Wherefore keep on casting pearls

To a poet! All I care for is to tell him that a girl's

"Love" comes aptly in when gruff grows his singing. (There, enough!)

Browning.

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: a mile or so away

On a little mound, Napoleon stood on our storming-day;

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans that soar,

to earth may fall,

Let once my army-leader Lannes waver at yonder wall-
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew a rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy, and held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy: you hardly could suspect

(So tight he kept his lips compressed, scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace we've got you Ratisbon ! The Marshal's in the market-place, and you 'll be there anon

To see your flag-bird flap his vans where I, to heart's desire,

"

Perched him! The chief's eye flashed; his plans soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother-eagle's eye when her bruised eaglet breathes;

"You're wounded!". “Nay,” the soldier's pride touched to the quick, he

said:

"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, smiling the boy fell dead.

Browning.

XLII. MEANS OF REVEALING TRANSITIONS.

How should the voice reveal changes in situation, relation, mental attitude, purpose, or feeling? In general, any such change will call for some change in voice or body, and whenever any change in voice or body is the direct result of a change in thought or feeling, we have expression. Only in proportion to the eradication of meaningless changes, or changes which are merely physical or nervous, will expression be noble.

When we seek for the nature and number of the modulations of voice which express the dramatic changes in thought and feeling, conceptions of character, and sympathetic relationship, they seem as inadequate as was the case with imagination. We have only pause, change of pitch, change of inflection, change in the color or texture of the voice, change of rhythmic movement, and the like. But though these changes are few in number and slight in character, we find them sufficient. Not only this, but we find also that the more subtle the changes of voice, the more beautiful and exalted will be the expression. In fact, the means adopted in any art seem totally inadequate to accomplish the effect. Take, for example, painting. How few are the colors in the noblest painting, and yet what depth of color is suggested! A painter who uses a great number of colors loses all power to suggest color, as a leading English painter once said: "One color is gold; two, silver; three, lead." We stand close to one of the portraits of Stuart, and there seems to be nothing but a very thin meaningless layer of pigment; move farther away, and the very subtlest expression of the eye lives with absolute fidelity.

In vocal expression, especially, there is great danger of exaggeration. The words convey the story; the changes of voice and body simply give the subtle feeling and relationship of the

speaker. Feeling cannot be conveyed. Only a hint of the imagination of another that will awaken the same faculties is needed, and the more delicately given the better. Exaggerated changes in voice and body call the attention of the auditor to the vocal actions themselves, and fail to reveal the mental changes in the continuity of thought and emotion. Where all attention is directed to the manner, expression is destroyed and not aided. All transitions should be such as will simply stimulate the mind to think and feel in a natural sequence. Hence, imitation or mechanical exaggeration may interrupt and break this continuity, while the simplest change or transition may stimulate it. In the practice of transitions, therefore, changes should be as subtle and definite as possible, and the variety of these changes simple and genuine as in nature.

One temptation is to adopt changes which can be executed by mechanical manipulation of the voice. This arises from a lack of faith in the power of the imagination and feeling to cause expression, or in the flexibility of the voice to respond to them. As the worst of all faults is felt to be monotony, and as every speaker, reader, or actor fears tameness, there is a natural disposition to exaggerate variations at first and adopt mechanical and imitative expedients. The chief cause of monotony, however, is a neutral habit of mind, which reveals itself in an inability to group situations, or in merely abstract thinking. Hence, the remedy is to think genuinely each idea, to conceive individually each situation, and to realize each point of view, and to manifest each mental and emotional change as simply and naturally as possible.

Inflection shows the relationship of ideas, and the processes of thinking them. Inflections are present in proportion to the rethinking of the ideas by the reader or speaker at the time he speaks. The other modes of revealing transitions are more imaginative or emotional. Among these, pause is very essential, because a pause indicates that the mind is undergoing a change and must have sufficient time to create the new situation or idea and to give up to it. So there can hardly be a transition of any kind without pause.

Changes of pitch always go with pauses. A pause without change of pitch is a hesitation. The change of pitch is the most natural hint of the fact that the mind has a new idea or situation, or has adopted a new point of view. When extreme, it shows that a great deal has happened. If we keep on the same pitch and make no pause in reading these lines, we fail to realize the significance of the words, at least, till after they are spoken; but an extreme change of pitch with a pause, change of texture and tone-color shows a realization of what has happened.

Charge! Chester, charge! On! Stanley, on!
Were the last words of Marmion.

Changes in the color of the voice are extremely subtle, and reveal the nature of the feeling itself. Every emotion has a distinct effect upon the resonance of the voice, and a distinct texture or color; tone-color, or the emotional modulation of resonance, is one of the most important of all means for the manifestation of transitions of delicate feeling. The modulation of texture has a distinct importance in dramatic expression. It has the same relation to tone-color that a bearing has to an attitude. It expresses deeper, more permanent conditions; it gives the character or attitudes of the character, while tone-color manifests more the changes in feeling in response to successive ideas. For example, a reader with a proper conception of each character will have different textures for Antonio and for Shylock; but this is not mechanical manipulation, but a natural expression; hence, each emotion felt by either character has a specific color. Texture is simply a deeper modulation, which, when natural, does not interfere with the modulation of tone-color. It is just here that assimilative methods show their infinite superiority to imitative methods.

Shylock. Jailer, look to him; - tell not me of mercy:
This is the fool that lent out money gratis: -

Jailer, look to him.

Antonio. Hear me yet, good Shylock.

Shylock. I'll have my bond; I will not hear thee speak :

I'll have my bond; and therefore speak no more.

I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool,

To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield