embody in conduct its slightest promptings, is the man who starts. out with conscious and scrupulous and often painful efforts to do the will of the Father who is in heaven? Then, as for performing one's duty toward his fellows, one hardly knows why it is, but it is a fact connected, of course, with its distinctive appeal to the emotions, that nothing human cultivates the sympathies as art does. Whether heard in the parlor or on the battle-field, there is something in the rhythm and harmony of music that tends to make not only every pulse throb and every nerve thrill in unison, but also every protoplasmic fibre tendriled nearest to the soul. One hardly knows why it is, but it is a fact, that when spiritual discernment and brotherly charity, that judge by faith that is deeper than creeds and by motives that lie nearer to the heart than actions, fulfil their missions of guidance and enlightenment for their age, the very same sentiments, which, if expressed in plain prose, would send their writer to ostracism or the stake, are accepted and approved, if they are represented through the forms of art. One hardly knows why it is, but it is a fact, that, under the portico of the temple, the arches of the cathedral, the dome of the mosque, always, too, in the degree in which these are great works of art, the predominating impression is that of the universal fatherhood of God, to which all alike are dedicated. One hardly knows why it is, but it is a fact, that there is not a statue nor a picture that represents natural life, especially hu man life, as we are accustomed in our own day to see it, yet notice that this argument could not apply, even remotely, to anything approaching deformity or vulgarity-but every curve or color in it that forms the line of contact where the waves bearing their burdens of joy or sorrow break against its palpitating framebut every curve or color in it seems to frame the soul of an ideal that is not another's but one's own; and, so far as Providence sends spiritual development through imparting a sense of ownership of friend, brother, sister, father, mother, wife or child, there, in the presence of art, that development, for a time, is experienced. As said in the first paper, these artistic studies can do for us what science can not, crowning its work with the halo of imagination and lighting its pathway to discovery. They can do for us what religion can not, grounding its conception upon accuracy of observation, and keeping them true to facts. them true to facts. Art unites the purely intellectual influences of the two other spheres. It not only can hold the mirror up to nature, but it can make all nature a mirror and hold it up to the heavens. In the voyage of life, when night is above, and mists about, and waves below, and winds behind, and breakers ahead, its voice can sometimes speak peace to the troubled waters and bring a great calm; and then, in the blue at our feet, we can see not only a little of the beauty of a little of the surface of the little star in which we live, but something also of the grandeur of all the stars of all the universe. [The end.] The Ten Best Short Poems in the English Language. "Before the choice is attempted, we must agree what poem is short. Compared with the great epics, 'Comus' and 'Sohrab and Rustum' are short. Compared with the latter, ‘Lycidas' and 'The Pied Piper' are short. If these four were eligible they would have to be among the ten. 'L'Allegro' and Blenheim' are shorter still. But interpreting our correspondent's wishes by his words, we will choose from the truly short only. In so doing, it will be well to say that, to prevent the list from being swamped by Shakespeare or by Milton, we will take but one poem from each. Again, that one will be chosen somewhat arbitrarily, without prejudice to its rivals. With these preliminary explanations we venture upon the selection: Sonnet: 'When in Disgrace,' by Shakespeare; 'Bannockburn,' by Burns; The Tiger,' by Blake; Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,' by Scott; The Bugle Song,' by Tennyson; Sonnet: When I Consider,' by Milton; Hohenlinden,' by Campbell; Brahma,' by Emerson; At the Church Gate,' by Thackeray; Gunga Din,' by Kipling. "The list of others, running from more unalloyed sentiment to more intense and purely distilled poesy, is by no means brief. But looking among the short poems bearing the divine stamp of poetic genius, for the vivid, the picturesque, the lyrically complete, the intellectually impressive, and the passionately inspiring, the ten given above are certainly Pibroch of Donuil Dhu. "Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Hark to the summons! "Come from deep glen, and True heart that wears one;. The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterr'd, The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges; Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes. "Come as the winds come when Forests are rended; Come as the waves come when "Fast they come, fast they come. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Knell for the onset!" -Walter Scott. Bugle Song. "The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes fly ing. Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying! "O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, further going! O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying. Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying! "O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying!" -Alfred Tennyson. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry. "Then shook the hills with thunder riven; Then rushed the steeds to battle driven; And, louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flashed the red artillery. "But redder yet those fires shall glow On Linden's hills of crimsoned snow, And bloodier yet shall be the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. "'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. Few, few shall part where many meet! -Thomas Campbell. Brahma. "If the red slayer think he slavs, "Far or forgot to me is near, Shadow and sunshine are the same; The vanished gods to me appear, And one to me are shame and fame. "They reckon ill who leave me out. When me they fly I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt, And I the hymn the Brahman sings. "The strong gods pine for my abode, At the Church Gate. "Although I enter not, "The minster bell tolls out And noise and humming. They've hushed the minster bell; The organ 'gins to swell; She's coming, she's coming! "My lady comes at last, Timid and stepping fast, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast; She comes, she's here, she's past! May heaven go with her! You may talk o' gin an' beer When you're quartered safe out 'ere An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; But if it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. Now in Injia's sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time The finest man I knew Was our regimental bhisti,* Gunga Din. The uniform 'e wore Was nothin' much before, An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, For a twisty piece o' rag An' a goatskin water-bag Was all the field-equipment 'e could find. In a sidin' through the day, Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl. We shouted Harry By!' Till our throats were bricky-dry. Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all. "'E would dot an' carry one Till the longest day was done, An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. If we charged or broke or cut, You could bet your bloomin' nut. 'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. With 'is mussick on 'is back, 'E would skip with our attack, *The bhisti or water-carrier attached to regiments in India is often one of the most devoted of the Queen's servants. He is also appreciated by the men. WHAT a charm would be given WH to existence if the aspirant for fame could absorb art through the pores of the body or inhale it with a breath; or if a great artist, dying, could will his art-habits-his developed brain and cultivated muscle-to the student in art! What a capital it would be for the novice in beginning the struggle with that queer old dame, Fortune! But, alas for poor humanity! it is not yet old. enough, in human form, to hand down as a hereditament from past generations any mental habits so perfect at birth that the heir may take up the art of his progenitor and go forward from that point. No, even the most richly endowed must begin back and take up the study of technique. There can be no art without its technique; for art means reproduction or representation, and there can be neither reproduction nor representation without a well-defined form, and form is technique. Undoubtedly it is a great blessing to be born a genius; for the suppo sition is that the genius does not heed technique. In other words, a genius needs no study, no preparation for the art he adopts to entertain himself with while he dignifies earth with his presence. The genius, however, is a very rare person. The great majority of the people on this earth ple on this earth are work-a-day people. But then it is so flattering to one's vanity to be esteemed among one's fellows as gifted by nature, that it is not at all wonderful that so many should claim the distinction and seek to establish themselves on theories that can never become practical. The history of all art shows that the great artists have achieved their place in the world's record by practice. Practice means repetition, repetition demands a form, and form is technique. The sooner the student in the art of elocution recognizes the technique of the art he is pursuing, and determinedly practices the same, the sooner will he achieve the distinction he seeks. |