any kind, and the attentive hush broken by ripples of applause, evoked by real talent, is changed into general and not-too-subdued conversation, if the public is bored. They deny this to be rudeness, but claim it is self-defense, and who shall say that they are not right?

At one time, what was called on the invitation cards "Musical and Literary Soirées" were all the rage in Paris. Two hundred people would crush themselves into a minimum of space, and listen solemnly to songs, music, and recitations, occasionally varied by short plays. At the conclusion of this entertainment, the audience partook of a light refection, a very light refection (for French people, as a rule, eat little in the evening and drink much less, on the ground that they dine late and that suppers are unhealthy), and then went home. This custom was started during the Exhibition of 1878, when the Minister of Foreign Affairs at that time, finding his list of guests too long to be accommodated comfortably at a ball or an ordinary reception, conceived this idea of a musical and theatrical entertainment, because, as he philosophically remarked, all the late-comers would be so disgusted at neither seeing nor hearing that they would go home, cross but peaceable. The plan succeeded admirably, the idea took root and has been spreading ever since.

Nowadays things have changed. slightly. We have afternoon entertainments which the French call "fifeocloctee," all in one word, which we discover, after painful study, to mean five o'clock teas. They are precisely like the evening entertainments alluded to, except that instead of having artificial lights, cunningly arranged to illuminate the performer and leave the audience in darkness, the garish light of day pervades the scene while the performer, turning his back to the window, is in a posi

tion to be critical as to the amount of powder that adorns the noses of his feminine auditors on the front rows, whereas his own expression is entirely lost to the public. Whether

that is a loss or a gain depends, of course, upon the actor's talent and the public's taste.

All French actors recite, but some of them make a business of recitation, whereas others seldom or ever recite in public. Delaunay and Got, for example, consider recitation not only emasculate acting but also terribly infra dignitatem for an actor, and thunder in stentorian accents against those of their comrades who earn fame and money thereby. Coquelin, on the contrary, almost makes a business of it, and not only, for the trifling consideration of $200 an evening, will recite at private soirées, but also gives lecture-readings at the salle des conferences on the Boulevards. Whenever he does so, standingroom is at a premium. His great talent, both as actor and reciter, is too well known in America to be especially touched upon here. No one who has ever thrilled over his recital of "Shipwrecked," the story of a faithful dog who goes mad in an open boat, and has to be killed by his master, a shipwrecked sailor whose life the dog has twice saved-or who has giggled over the woes of the man who expends his entire fortune in lively company at restaurants, and has admired Coquelin's skill in varying the recurring refrain: "I have eaten shrimps in cabinets particuliers," until from the height of enjoyment and delight, he shades down to abject misery, will be likely to forget the experience.

It is a matter of strictest etiquette in France never to ask any professional to give a specimen of his or her talent. As recitation, like singing, is, in Paris, a very lucrative profession, no one dreams of asking artists a favor which is supposed to

represent hard cash, any more than they would ask a painter to entertain their guests by painting a picture for them. As this etiquette is well known and strictly observed, the artists themselves will frequently volunteer, if they happen to be guests at the house of an intimate friend. I remember once meeting Mounet-Sully at a French house, and after dinner some reference was made to the poet Murger. One of the company casually remarked that he could offer no opinion respecting the person under discussion as he had never in his life heard one of his poems.

"Is that so?" said Mounet-Sully, meditatively. "Well, if it will not bore you all too much, I will recite you the poem that is considered Murger's masterpiece."

So, without awaiting the eager disclamation of any possibility of boredom, which the other guests were about to utter, the great actor walked to the fireplace, and facing his audience, fixed his fine, gloomy eyes upon vacancy and, without preamble, recited the "Ballad of Despair." I have heard many fine things, both musical and dramatic, but I never expect to hear again anything so magnificently rendered. The story of the man to whose door come Wealth, Art, Youth, Love, and Fame, and who, in his pitiless despair, turns all the good things of life away, to embrace with mad rapture his last guest-Death, became in his rendition a marvel of dramatic dialogue. The gay voices of the unbidden guests that offer him every attribute of happiness, the man's mournful and unflinching refusal, the low, bell-like notes of Death's summons, which sounded like a voice from beyond the grave, the fierce, exultant ecstasy of the man's acceptance of this last and most welcome summons, and finally the infinite pathos of the last lines:

But suffer my poor dog to live,
That one true heart may mourn for me!"

Every shade that I have indicated. was welded into a thrilling and effective whole; and at the end, while the few auditors, quivering with enthusiasm, sat incapable even of applause, Mounet-Sully ruffled his hair on end, simply remarked, "Voilà!" and resumed his conversation just where he had left it off, courteously but rather curtly acknowledging the eager thanks of the guests.

Mounet-Sully recites but rarely. Although his superb and sonorous voice lends itself to poetry, he never does a recitation, save for a friend or for charity, and will not accept paid engagements in drawing

rooms.

A pupil and protegée of his, however, Mlle. Renee Duminil, of the Comedie Française, not only recited in drawing-rooms, but popularized a form of recitation that had enormous vogue in Paris. I mean the poem recited to symphonic accompaniment, either with orchestra or with piano. She thought out this arrangement, as her sister, a very fine pianist and laureate of the Conservatoire, could and did play her accompaniments, and the two pretty young girls were all the craze in Paris a few years ago. Their first and most successful experiment in this line was Victor Hugo's "The Trumpeter's Betrothed," long a stock recitation in Paris. The poem itself was written in 1827, when reciters were unknown. It is simply the soliloquy of a young peasant girl whose lover has gone to the wars and who is awaiting his return with the victorious army. She watches the long procession defile, until the trumpeters appear, among whom she expects to see her betrothed. He is not there, and she falls dying in the crowd. To this poem Thomé has set an exquisite and intricate accompaniment, changing with every phase of the story. Especially effective is the distant military march, which accompanies the description of the procession, and

which, after the girl's exultant cry:

"Look-here come the trumpeters," swells up into sonority and goes on without the voice, till the march dies again in the distance, while the actress supposedly watches the passing throng, and expresses in pantomime exultant hope, doubt, and finally intense despair. The last verse is taken up in a monotone and the last word coincides with the final distant clash of the cymbals.

All the trumpeters had passed!"

This was the most effective and successful of the musical recitations, but others more or less effective have followed. Godard did a musical setting for one of de Musset's most absurd and most undeservedly popular poems called "Lucie." It sets forth the woes of a young man, who desires, for some occult reason, to be buried under a weeping willow, principally, we believe, because he fell in love with a girl of fifteen who used to play on the piano in the moonlight and who, having been chastely saluted on the brow by her young admirer, immediately gave up the ghost! Whether her demise was caused by a chill brought on by the night-air draughts, or whether she objected to being kissed, and being too modest to formulate her objection, evaded the subject by incontinently expiring, we do not know; and we presume that the poet himself is rather misty about it. This musical poem, however, was unsuccessful.

Then a Mlle. Arbell, of the Gymnase, who, besides being a fair actress, was an excellent pianist, recited to her own accompaniment. It was a tolerably successful experiment, but when the lady became emphatic, she would pound the piano as if she meant it, and thus utterly drown her own voice, which caused a certain obscurity regarding the subject of the poem to cloud the minds of her listeners.

Coquelin cadet originated and popularized the prose monologue. Some of them are utterly inane, but like dear little Marshall P. Wilder, whom he rather resembles not only in talent but also in countenance, he relies less upon what he says than upon the way he says it. How

ever, some of his selections are bright. There is one monologue called the "Political Situation," which deals with the sorrows of a man who wishes to discuss the situation and whose friends all insist upon enthusiastically talking of their own. situation of affairs and become bored when they find it is the political situation that absorbs his attention, so that his thirst for politics and for information remains unsatisfied. Another very amusing monologue of his is "A Journey to What's Its Name."

A forgetful man who has just returned from a journey advises everyone to go to this town he has just visited, but he forgets its name and its geographical situation, but that is a detail. There are two hotels, one very good and the other most disreputable, but he has forgotten which of the two is the disreputable one. He finally discovers that he left his valise at a way-station, and does not remember the name of the said station, so goes off depressed.

One peculiarity about French recitations is the fact that there are no dialect selections. Whether a Breton peasant or a Norman farmer is supposed to be the speaker, the French is always perfectly free from accent. This is partly, I imagine, owing to the fact that French patois is entirely unintelligible to the average hearer. Occasionally, the Marseillais accent is used for low comedy, but so seldom that it serves only as the exception that proves the rule.

M. REGNIER'S ADVICE TO RECITERS. The first law for French reciters

66

as well as French actors, is absence of gesticulation. All beginners, as a rule, gesticulate to excess, and M. Regnier used to tie his pupils' hands behind their backs and give them impassioned speeches to declaim while thus fettered. "Rachel's greatest effects," he would say, were obtained while she clutched the folds of the tunic over her breast with one hand, and let the other hand hang by her side. Declamation is not pantomime, and if you wriggle all over like a devil in a holywater font, you distract people's attention from the poet's lines to your personal gyrations. If you can not give vent to impassioned outbursts of eloquence without standing on tiptoe and flinging up your arms like a tenor who is climbing after a high C, do not be impassioned, and never move people to unholy mirth when you are tragic, nor reduce them to melancholy when you

are comic. If either of those things befall you, give up declamation and take to sawing wood. Above all, never do death-scenes in

a drawing-room unless there is a curtain, for the aspiring soul who expires on the hearth-rug is not impressive, and the subsequent process of being picked up and dusted off is detrimental to true dignity. When you recite, be sure of your lines and your self-possession, and always choose short selections. Begin very quietly, even tamely, and work up your poem gradually till you reach. the absolute summit of expression in the climax and end of the selection. Avoid all appearance of effort, and be distinct in articulation. There is a scene called 'Les Bavardes,' that should be studied for articulation. It is supposed to be recited as rapidly as possible, but if properly done, every word should be as clearly cut as in deliberate delivery. Remember always that in elocution, as in other arts, it is only when you fully realize that you know nothing that you really begin to learn a little."

Here the great professor ceased to hold forth, and I think that I can not do better than to follow so illustrious an example.

I

SEND a syllabus or outline designed as an aid to the interpretation of æsthetical literature. Matter in this line is very meagre. This plan is the result of several years of experience in Hope College, where I teach along these lines. If I had had the proper helps and guides when I passed through college, I should. know more about literature than I do to-day. I have read your magazine for nearly a dozen years, but never have seen anything like this. The outline is very much condensed, but I believe that it is quite suggestive. I hope that it may help my fellowteachers in their literary and elocu

tionary classes as much as it has served me.

1. Distinguish the following types: (a) Lyric (idyllic or bucolic poems of love and of wine, religious, nature, character, etc.); (b) didactic; (c) narrative; (d) epic (religious, profane, and nature); (e) dramatic.

2. Study the stanza and its rhyme scheme.

3. Recognize the all-pervading atmosphere of each poem.

4. Observe its setting by its local coloring.

5. Mark the tone-color and onomatopoetic words.

6. Note the literary phrases, the

figures of speech, historical and mythological allusions, and apt alliterations.

7. Note the epithets-essential, decorative, and phrase.

8. Poetry suppresses predication and indulges in elliptical and compressed structure; hence, study to emphasize and to subordinate melody.

9. Study the rhythm with its characteristic changes, and remember that poetry should be sung or intoned.

10. Note that above and beyond the form, there is a spirit and an essence that is ethereal and eludes analysis.

11. Poetry suppresses predication, and, therefore, as a language, it may often appear mysterious, vague, indefinite; or even incoherent, unintelligible, bewitching.

12. The reader is the recreator, and, therefore, should continually be en rapport with the poet.

13. In narrative and in lyrical poetry the reader should cultivate sympathetic identification.

14. He should suppress all selfconsciousness, free all the channels of expression, and become a mere spiritual "medium."

15. To interpret well, one must cultivate introspectiveness, on the one hand, and acquaintance with both man and nature in all its varied forms and aspects.

16. The motive and object in poetry is pleasure.

17. The interpreter must ceaselessly guard against the unpardonable sins of insincerity, indolence, and vanity.

Tduction" recently published

by Prof. William Hallock and Dr. Floyd S. Muckey must have aroused the deep interest of everyone who is fond of music, especially of the human voice in song. "Resonance is the keystone of our work," say the authors. It is further stated that to gain resonance for the tones produced by the larynx, the nasal cavity lends reenforcement to the tone; that the mouth and the nose are available for resonant modification and reenforcement of the tone, and that the softpalate and the tongue form a very important part in producing a reso

nant tone.

All these statements are undoubt

edly true. Many singers can not always keep the tongue in a restful position while singing. No one intends to draw the palate up and close

Prof. Hallock and Dr. Muckey advise us to sing with closed mouth in order to make a singer become aware of the revibrating capacity of the nasal cavities. As no particular vowel-sound is mentioned, one may suppose that the vowel ä is meant. But it seems to have escaped the attention of Messrs. Hallock and Muckey that there are other mediums than vowels to secure for the tone a free passage toward the resonant cavities of nose