such as have been unfolded in the preceding lessons. He should practise poems full of sudden contrasts, or gradations, or changes in point of view and feeling.

Any great poem, which may at first seem to be monotonous, will be found to be full of such changes. The student should not practise that alone which he can do best, but also what he feels less able to express. He should meditate over the greatest poetry, and struggle to reveal the deepest and most delicate variations of the imagination. His first aim is the development of his nature, and not the mere rendering of a special selection.

A few methods for the development of assimilation will now be discussed separately on account of their importance, to secure a broader and deeper understanding of the nature of assimilation, and also to correct the common misconceptions regarding them.

XLV. THE EDUCATIONAL VALUE OF DIALOGUES.

SINCE dramatic instinct is so important, the question naturally arises respecting the use of dialogues for its education. There are those who think that all histrionic art is useless; that it is even deleterious to character to assume a part.

The best answer to this is the study of the little child. The very first means a child adopts to get out of itself, or to realize the great world about it, is by dramatic action and instinct. No child was ever born with any mind at all, that had not some of this instinct; and the more promising the child, the more is it dramatic and imaginative. Dramatic instinct is universal. It is the secret of all success; it is the instinct by which man sees things from different points of view, by which he realizes the ideal in character in contrast to that which is not ideal.

Philosophers have shown that education begins in a kind of imitation. Many do not like the word "imitation," and perhaps "dramatic assimilation" would be better. But by whatever name it may be called, it is the instinctive identification of ourselves with the situation or point of view, the life or the feeling of another. The imaginative creation, the sympathetic identification of the

child or the human being with the great world, and the exuberance of life expressed in dramatic play, is a most essential part of the development of a human being.

"

Professor Monroe was once asked by a clergyman for private lessons. He told him that was impossible. "Well," said the minister, what can I do then? "Go home and read Shakespeare dramatically." Why was such advice given? Because the struggle to read Shakespeare would get the minister out of himself. The struggle to realize how men of different types of character would speak certain things, would make him conscious whether he, himself, spoke naturally. He would, in short, become aware of his mannerisms, of his narrow gamut of emotions, his sameness of point of view; he would be brought into direct contact with the process of his own mind in thinking.

It is important and helpful to induce one with a mannerism to use some form of speaking unusual to him, a new kind of theme, a different situation or purpose. Such an exercise is afforded to the speaker by the right study of a dialogue. The struggle to realize the dramatic creations of Shakespeare is a great help in widening a man's conception or realization of his race. same reason readers or actors may be made to speak.

For the

The educational value of play has been proved by Froebel, and is too well recognized to need discussion. The most important things of life are learned unconsciously. When we are too conscious of our growth there is apt to be something wrong. Growth is spontaneous, unconscious, involuntary. Let the teacher of delivery train the speaker to speak only or the actor to act only, and his student is apt to become stilted, labored, and unconscious of his needs; but let the same student face another in a simple dialogue, and the teacher can put his finger upon the labor and can make the pupil realize it.

The dialogue develops self-control; it teaches command of thought, of imagination, and passion. It makes us realize the nature of expression, its subjective processes, and its direct relationship to other minds. That there is danger in histrionic expression all will admit. But there is danger in everything. The most effective things in the world are the most capable of

perversion; but possibility of perversion only proves the power of such an exercise for good when rightly used.

Take the vast accumulation of dry, vague criticisms which have been heaped upon Shakespeare. Hundreds of books, for example, have been written upon the one play of "Hamlet." To understand "Hamlet," shall we read these books? That is the best way to lose our imaginative insight into such a masterpiece. Study the play itself; try to render certain of its dialogues and soliloquies. While we may not be able to discover all there is in it by such a method, we shall at least have a higher appreciation of its greatness. Someone has said that we can always explain what we do not understand, but never explain what we thoroughly appreciate. This paradox is true in the study of art and literature. Art appeals to the heart, and not to the head; to imagination and feeling, and not to reason. The process of reasoning about a picture is necessarily analytic and not synthetic, and from the heart of the picture; and this is true also of "Hamlet." The merely theoretic study of the drama is as bad as the merely theoretic study of painting, which is condemned by all artists. Books about art and about literature are rarely good, and of value only so far as they cause a better appreciation of the right point of view and lead to artistic endeavor of some kind. Explanation is often an interpolation and alteration.

The present condition of dramatic art is deplorable. Men go to the theatre merely for amusement, and not for education. It is chiefly in Germany that there is any educational use of the drama. We have no spontaneous expressions of disapproval at the theatre. In some quarters, there is approval of everything, in others, approval of nothing. There is a failure to appreciate the real character of dramatic art. Dramatic art has in all ages been the most popular. It is dear to the popular heart because it is most closely connected with the idea of play. As all art is play reduced to the principle of order, we can see the effect of dramatic art upon other arts.

In all ages of the world dramatic art has been the most potent for good or evil. There is great need for the educational use of the noblest drama, to develop public taste, and to drive from the

boards those things which tend to degrade. The true principle is, please people above the plane of the actual along the line of their ideals and you elevate them; while if they are pleased on a plane below their everyday thought and feeling, they are degraded. There are great dangers in amateur performances. They are often artificial and extravagant, because amateurs study without any principle, but only by imitation. Dramatic expression needs careful direction, with a broad study and appreciation of art.

The special safeguard in the study of dramatic art or dialogue is to note whether the process in the taking of a character is by assimilation or by imitation. This is very important, because it is only in low farce where imitation predominates; and if the imitative process is adopted, the highest tragedy is turned into farce, as is often the case with amateur performers.

Noble dramatic expression results from assimilation. It is only by imaginative insight and dramatic sympathy, causing the identification of ourselves with others, with conception of points of view and character, that dramatic instinct really has any play or expression.

MEMORABILIA.

Aн, did you once see Shelley plain, and did he stop and speak to you,
And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems, and new!
But you were living before that, and also you are living after;

And the memory I started at My starting moves your laughter!

I crossed a moor, with a name of its own and a certain use in the world, no

doubt,

Yet a hand's-breath of it shines alone 'mid the blank miles round about:
For there I picked up on the heather and there I put inside my breast
A moulted feather, an eagle-feather! well I forget the rest.

Browning.

The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues
Have I liked several women; never any
With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,
And put it to the foil: but you, O you!
So perfect, and so peerless, are created
Of every creature's best.

I do not know

Mira.
One of my sex; no woman's face remember,
Save, from my glass, my own; nor have I seen
More that I may call men, than you, good friend,
And my dear father: how features are abroad

I am skill-less of; but, by my modesty

(The jewel in my dower), I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you;
Nor can imagination form a shape,
Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle
Something too wildly, and my father's precepts
I therein do forget.

Fer. O heaven! O earth! bear witness to this sound,

And crown what I profess with kind event,

If I speak true if hollowly, invert

What best is boded me to mischief! I,

Beyond all limit of what else i' the world,

Do love, prize, honour you.

Mira. At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer

What I desire to give; and much less take