Chapter VII: Part I: Studies in Vocal Interpretation (4)

Down, down, down. Would the fall _never_ come to an end? "I wonder
how many miles I've fallen by this time?" she said, aloud. "I must
be getting somewhere near the center of the earth. Let me see: that
would be four thousand miles down, I think--" (for, you see, Alice
had learned several things of this sort in her lessons in the
school-room, and though this was not a _very_ good opportunity for
showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her,
still it was good practice to say it over) "--yes, that's about the
right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I've
got to?" (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either,
but thought they were nice, grand words to say.)

Presently she began again. "I wonder if I shall fall right
_through_ the earth? How funny it'll seem to come out among the
people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I
think--" (she was rather glad there _was_ no one listening this
time, as it didn't sound at all the right word) "--but I shall have
to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. 'Please,
ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia?'" (and she tried to
courtesy as she spoke--fancy _courtesying_ as you're falling
through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) "And what an
ignorant little girl she'll think me! No, it'll never do to ask;
perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere."

Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began
talking again. "Dinah'll miss me very much to-night, I should
think!" (Dinah was the cat.) "I hope they'll remember her saucer of
milk at tea-time. Dinah, my dear, I wish you were down here with
me! There are no mice in the air, I'm afraid, but you might catch a
bat, and that's very like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats,
I wonder?" And here Alice began to get rather sleepy, and went on
saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of way, "Do cats eat bats? Do
cats eat bats?" and sometimes, "Do bats eat cats?" for, you see, as
she couldn't answer either question, it didn't much matter which
way she put it. She felt that she was dozing off, and had just
begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with Dinah, and
saying to her very earnestly, "Now, Dinah, tell me the truth: did
you ever eat a bat?" when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came
upon a heap of dry leaves, and the fall was over.

Alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on her feet in a
moment. She looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was
another long passage, and the White Rabbit was still in sight,
hurrying down it. There was not a moment to be lost; away went
Alice like the wind, and was just in time to hear it say, as it
turned a corner, "Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it's getting!"
She was close behind it when she turned the corner, but the Rabbit
was no longer to be seen; she found herself in a long, low hall,
which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging from the roof.

There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked; and
when Alice had been all the way down one side and up the other,
trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how
she was ever to get out again.

Suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of
solid glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and
Alice's first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors
of the hall; but, alas! either the locks were too large or the key
was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of them.
However, the second time round she came upon a low curtain she had
not noticed before, and behind it was a little door about fifteen
inches high. She tried the little golden key in the lock, and to
her great delight it fitted!

Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage,
not much larger than a rat-hole. She knelt down and looked along
the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed
to get out of that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of
bright flowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get
her head through the doorway! "And even if my head would go
through," thought poor Alice, "it would be of very little use
without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a
telescope! I think I could, if I only knew how to begin." For, you
see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately that Alice
had begun to think that very few things indeed were really
impossible.

There seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she
went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on
it, or, at any rate, a book of rules for shutting people up like
telescopes. This time she found a little bottle on it ("which
certainly was not here before," said Alice), and round its neck a
paper label, with the words "DRINK ME" beautifully printed on it in
large letters.

It was all very well to say "Drink me," but the wise little Alice
was not going to do _that_ in a hurry. "No, I'll look first," she
said, "and see whether it's marked '_poison_' or not"; for she had
read several nice little histories about children who had got
burned, and eaten up by wild beasts, and many other unpleasant
things, all because they _would_ not remember the simple rules
their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will
burn you if you hold it too long; and that, if you cut your finger
_very_ deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never
forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked "_poison_,"
it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later.

However, this bottle was _not_ marked "poison," so Alice ventured
to taste it, and, finding it very nice (it had, in fact, a sort of
mixed flavor of cherry-tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey,
toffee, and hot buttered toast), she very soon finished it off.

* * * * *

"What a curious feeling!" said Alice. "I must be shutting up like a
telescope."

And so it was, indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her
face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size
for going through the little door into that lovely garden. First,
however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to
shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this, "for it
might end, you know," said Alice, "in my going out altogether, like
a candle. I wonder what I should be like then?" And she tried to
fancy what the flame of a candle is like after it is blown out, for
she could not remember ever having seen such a thing.

After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided to
go into the garden at once, but, alas for poor Alice! when she got
to the door she found she had forgotten the little golden key, and
when she went back to the table for it she found she could not
possibly reach it. She could see it quite plainly through the
glass, and she tried her best to climb up one of the table-legs,
but it was too slippery; and when she had tired herself out with
trying, the poor little thing sat down and cried.

"Come, there's no use in crying like that!" said Alice to herself,
rather sharply. "I advise you to leave off this minute!" She
generally gave herself very good advice (though she very seldom
followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to
bring tears in her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her
own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet she was
playing against herself, for this curious child was very fond of
pretending to be two people. "But it's no use now," thought poor
Alice, "to pretend to be two people! Why, there's hardly enough of
me left to make _one_ respectable person!"

Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the
table. She opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which
the words "EAT ME" were beautifully marked in currants. "Well, I'll
eat it," said Alice, "and if it makes me larger I can reach the
key, and if it makes me smaller I can creep under the door; so,
either way, I'll get into the garden, and I don't care which
happens!"

She ate a little bit and said anxiously to herself, "Which way?
Which way?" holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which
way it was growing, and she was quite surprised to find that she
remained the same size. To be sure, this generally happens when one
eats cake, but Alice had got so much into the way of expecting
nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen that it seemed quite
dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way.

So she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake.

* * * * *

THE POOL OF TEARS

"Curiouser and curiouser!" cried Alice (she was so much surprised
that for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English);
"now I'm opening out like the largest telescope that ever was!
Good-by, feet!" (for when she looked down at her feet they seemed
to be almost out of sight, they were getting so far off). "Oh, my
poor little feet, I wonder who will put on your shoes and stockings
for you now, dears? I'm sure _I_ sha'n't be able! I shall be a
great deal too far off to trouble myself about you: you must manage
the best way you can--but I must be kind to them," thought Alice,
"or perhaps they won't walk the way I want to go! Let me see; I'll
give them a new pair of boots every Christmas."

And she went on planning to herself how she would manage it. "They
must go by the carrier," she thought; "and how funny it'll seem,
sending presents to one's own feet! And how odd the directions will
look!--

_Alice's Right Foot, Esq.
Hearthrug,
near the Fender_
(_with Alice's love_).

Oh dear, what nonsense I'm talking!"

Just then her head struck against the roof of the hall--in fact she
was now more than nine feet high--and she at once took up the
little golden key and hurried off to the garden door.

Poor Alice! It was as much as she could do, lying down on one side,
to look through into the garden with one eye, but to get through
was more hopeless than ever. She sat down and began to cry again.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Alice--"a great girl
like you" (she might well say this), "to go on crying in this way!
Stop this moment, I tell you!" But she went on all the same,
shedding gallons of tears, until there was a large pool all round
her, about four inches deep and reaching half down the hall.

After a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance,
and she hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the
White Rabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white
kid gloves in one hand and a large fan in the other. He came
trotting along in a great hurry, muttering to himself as he came,
"Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh! won't she be savage if I've
kept her waiting!" Alice felt so desperate that she was ready to
ask help of any one; so, when the Rabbit came near her, she began,
in a low, timid voice, "If you please, sir--" The Rabbit started
violently, dropped the white kid gloves and the fan, and scurried
away into the darkness as hard as he could go.

Alice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very hot,
she kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking: "Dear,
dear! How queer everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on
just as usual. I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me
think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I
can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same,
the next question is, Who in the world am I? Ah, _that's_ the great
puzzle!" And she began thinking over all the children she knew that
were of the same age as herself, to see if she could have been
changed for any of them.

"I'm sure I'm not Ada," she said, "for her hair goes in such long
ringlets, and mine doesn't go in ringlets at all; and I'm sure I
can't be Mabel, for I know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she
knows such a very little! Besides, _she's_ she and _I'm_ I, and--oh
dear, how puzzling it all is! I'll try if I know all the things I
used to know. Let me see: four times five is twelve, and four times
six is thirteen, and four times seven is--oh dear! I shall never
get to twenty at that rate! However, the Multiplication Table
doesn't signify: let's try Geography. London is the capital of
Paris, and Paris is the capital of Rome, and Rome--no, _that's_ all
wrong, I'm certain! I must have been changed for Mabel! I'll try
and say '_How doth the little--_'" and she crossed her hands on her
lap as if she were saying lessons, and began to repeat it, but her
voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words did not come the
same as they used to do:

How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spread his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws!

"I'm sure those are not the right words," said poor Alice, and her
eyes filled with tears again as she went on: "I must be Mabel,
after all, and I shall have to go and live in that poky little
house, and have next to no toys to play with, and oh! ever so many
lessons to learn! No, I've made up my mind about it; if I'm Mabel,
I'll stay down here! It'll be no use their putting their heads down
and saying, 'Come up again, dear!' I shall only look up and say,
'Who am I, then? Tell me that first, and then, if I like being that
person, I'll come up; if not, I'll stay down here till I'm somebody
else.' But, oh dear!" cried Alice, with a sudden burst of tears,
"I do wish they _would_ put their heads down! I am so _very_ tired
of being all alone here!"

As she said this she looked down at her hands, and was surprised to
see that she had put on one of the Rabbit's little white kid gloves
while she was talking. "How _can_ I have done that?" she thought.
"I must be growing small again." She got up and went to the table
to measure herself by it, and found that, as nearly as she could
guess, she was now about two feet high, and was going on shrinking
rapidly. She soon found out that the cause of this was the fan she
was holding, and she dropped it hastily, just in time to avoid
shrinking away altogether.

"That _was_ a narrow escape!" said Alice, a good deal frightened at
the sudden change, but very glad to find herself still in
existence; "and now for the garden!" and she ran with all speed
back to the little door; but, alas! the little door was shut again,
and the little golden key was lying on the glass table as before,
"and things are worse than ever," thought the poor child, "for I
never was so small as this before--never! And I declare it's too
bad, that it is!"

As she said these words her foot slipped, and in another moment,
splash! she was up to her chin in salt water. Her first idea was
that she had somehow fallen into the sea, "and in that case I can
go back by railway," she said to herself. (Alice had been to the
seaside once in her life, and had come to the general conclusion
that wherever you go to on the English coast you find a number of
bathing-machines in the sea, some children digging in the sand with
wooden spades, then a row of lodging-houses, and behind them a
railway station.) However, she soon made out that she was in the
pool of tears which she had wept when she was nine feet high.

"I wish I hadn't cried so much!" said Alice, as she swam about,
trying to find her way out. "I shall be punished for it now, I
suppose, by being drowned in my own tears! That _will_ be a queer
thing, to be sure! However, everything is queer to-day."

Just then she heard something splashing about in the pool a little
way off, and she swam nearer to make out what it was. At first she
thought it must be a walrus or hippopotamus, but then she
remembered how small she was now, and she soon made out that it was
only a mouse that had slipped in like herself.

"Would it be of any use, now," thought Alice, "to speak to this
mouse? Everything is so out-of-the-way down here that I should
think very likely it can talk; at any rate, there's no harm in
trying." So she began: "O Mouse, do you know the way out of this
pool? I am very tired of swimming about here, O Mouse!" (Alice
thought this must be the right way of speaking to a mouse. She had
never done such a thing before, but she remembered having seen in
her brother's Latin Grammar, "A mouse--of a mouse--to a mouse--a
mouse--O mouse!") The Mouse looked at her rather inquisitively,
and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes, but it said
nothing.

"Perhaps it doesn't understand English," thought Alice; "I dare say
it's a French mouse, come over with William the Conqueror." (For
with all her knowledge of history, Alice had no very clear notion
how long ago anything had happened.) So she began again: "Ou est ma
chatte?" which was the first sentence in her French lesson-book.
The Mouse gave a sudden leap out of the water, and seemed to quiver
all over with fright. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Alice,
hastily, afraid that she had hurt the poor animal's feelings. "I
quite forgot you didn't like cats."

"Not like cats!" cried the Mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice.
"Would _you_ like cats if you were me?"

"Well, perhaps not," said Alice, in a soothing tone. "Don't be
angry about it. And yet I wish I could show you our cat Dinah: I
think you'd take a fancy to cats if you could only see her. She is
such a dear, quiet thing," Alice went on, half to herself, as she
swam lazily about in the pool, "and she sits purring so nicely by
the fire, licking her paws and washing her face--and she is such a
nice soft thing to nurse--and she's such a capital one for catching
mice--oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Alice again, for this time the
Mouse was bristling all over, and she felt certain it must be
really offended. "We won't talk about her any more, if you'd rather
not."

"We, indeed!" cried the Mouse, who was trembling down to the end of
his tail. "As if _I_ would talk on such a subject! Our family
always _hated_ cats--nasty, low, vulgar things! Don't let me hear
the name again!"

"I won't, indeed!" said Alice, in a great hurry to change the
subject of conversation. "Are you--are you fond--of--of dogs?" The
Mouse did not answer, so Alice went on eagerly: "There is such a
nice little dog near our house I should like to show you! A little
bright-eyed terrier, you know, with oh, such long, curly brown
hair! And it'll fetch things when you throw them, and it'll sit up
and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things--I can't remember
half of them--and it belongs to a farmer, you know, and he says
it's so useful it's worth a hundred pounds! He says it kills all
the rats and--oh dear!" cried Alice in a sorrowful tone, "I'm
afraid I've offended it again!" For the Mouse was swimming away
from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in
the pool as it went.

So she called softly after it, "Mouse dear! Do come back again, and
we won't talk about cats, or dogs either, if you don't like them!"
When the Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to
her. Its face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it
said in a low, trembling voice, "Let us get to the shore, and then
I'll tell you my history, and you'll understand why it is I hate
cats and dogs."

It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded
with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a
Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious
creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the
shore.

THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might;
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky;
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand--
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach;
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said;
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat;
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low--
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need;
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but,
"Cut us another slice.
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick.
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but,
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said;
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

We must not deny to humor and fancy the opportunity for creative effort offered to other faculties in our previous studies. What form shall the effort take: fable, fairy tale, a whimsical play of fancy in essay, or merely a nonsense rhyme? I think we must bar the _limerick_ from our serious creative efforts in the study. You may engage as a class in an extemporaneous contest in the making of this infectious form of verse if you like.

Meanwhile, there is still another class-room test of humor which should be made,--the test of the clever anecdote. There is nothing which so effectually discloses the quality of your sense of humor as your attitude toward so-called funny stories. Judgment in such a case will rest upon three points: What you think is "funny" enough to tell; when you judge it "apropos" to tell; and the manner of the telling. Three warnings are in order at this point. If you find that you must preface your anecdote with the question too often heard, "Do you think you can stand this story?--it really _is_ clever," in the name of clean humor, don't tell it! If you find you must introduce your anecdote with the remark, "Apropos of nothing," or "This is not apropos, but"--in the name of "sulphitic" humor, don't tell it; finally, if you don't know _how_ to tell it, in the name of any and all humor, _don't tell it_.

With these cautions in mind, I shall ask you to bring to class to-morrow your best three "funny stories." Conflicting choice is not likely to have appropriated all three of your favorite anecdotes. Should you find that it has done so, never mind. Your taste, though it coincides with another's, can be quite as well questioned or commended; and the manner of your telling will be subjected to trial by comparison, which, if not always comfortable, is always helpful (_when met in the right spirit_).

Remember, the serious creative work you are to produce is to take the form of a fable, fairy story, or humorous essay.

FOURTH STUDY

TO DEVELOP IMAGINATIVE VIGOR

In one of the great manufacturing towns of the Northwest there are some twenty-five thousand girls employed in factories. The city permits conditions of work hostile to the physical life of these girls. Civic reform is trying to control these conditions. In time it doubtless will succeed in doing so; meanwhile it makes efforts in other directions. It establishes working girls' clubs. A class in literature in one of these clubs enlisted the services of a comprehending young teacher, who kept the girls interested for more than two years. A little girl from a bag factory entered this class. She came to every meeting of the first year. She did not join in the discussions nor ask questions nor evince unusual intelligence or enjoyment, but she _came_ every night. The class began its second year. The little girl from the bag factory was the first to enroll. The teacher could not cover the surprise in her question, "Are you coming into the class again?" The girl's breathless "Oh yes" sent her to investigate the case. She went to the factory. She found the child standing at a bench folding bags. Eight hours a day she folded bags. A swing back on her right foot with the stuff of which the bag was made grasped in her hands--a swing forward, and her hands brought the edges of the stuff together evenly. Over and over a thousand times the single motion repeated made up the girl's day. "It used to make me tired," she said, simply. "But it doesn't any more?" "No, because now I forget what I am doing sometimes. I have my book, you see. They let me fasten it here." There it was--a paper copy of Shelley's poems. The print was good; the teacher had seen to that. She had observed that factory girls' eyes are not always very strong. The book was fastened to the front of the desk. The child could catch a line from time to time without interrupting her bag-folding. "But I know most of the poems we have studied in class by heart." So she had to recall but a line, and then off she would go through the windows of the stifling factory into the open fields on the wings of her _imagination_. She was a swift, sure, little workman; her eye watched the stuff before her and measured it truly; her hands obeyed her eye, did her work efficiently, and "kept her job." But the eye of her imagination had been opened in the literature class and kept her soul alive in spite "of her job." This is a true story. It has significance for you and me.

If through the use of her imagination a little factory girl can escape from the monotony of bag-folding, and find freedom and joy in the lyric world Shelley has created, what limit need be set to our emancipation through the development of this faculty?

But emancipation is but one result of such development. Listen to David as he stands with his harp before the King in Browning's story of _Saul_. Already his song has released the monarch from the depths of his great despair, but now comes the boy's cry:

What spell or what charm
(For, awhile there was trouble within me) what next should I urge
To sustain him where song had restored him?...
Then fancies grew rife
Which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheep
Fed in silence--above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep;
And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie
'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky:
And I laughed--"Since my days are ordained to be passed with my flocks,
Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks,
Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the show
Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know!
Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains,
And the prudence that keeps what men strive for."
And now those old trains
Of vague thought came again; I grew surer; so, once more the string
Of my harp made response to my spirit....

So the imagination of the young shepherd boy had not only disregarded the limits of his actual environment and escaped in fancy to the great world beyond, but so vividly had he realized that world _through his imagination_ that his sympathies had been made broad to comprehend a monarch's need and his song potent to meet it. Experience alone gives comprehension. We are prone to think that experience is limited by our actual horizon. We need to know that experience has no limit save that which is set by the limit of our imaginative insight. No door of life is closed to the imaginative mind and heart. The world is its playground to wander in at will. Experience, and thorough experience, comprehension of life is at the command of _imagination_.

Life can be intelligently apprehended on the material plane through trained senses. Life can be vividly realized on the spirit's plane only through a trained imagination. It is only vivid realization of life at every point which makes it worth living. You may see the lark long after he is lost to my duller eye in our common sky, you may hear the song when my less keen ear no longer catches a faintest thread of melody; but unless the eye and ear of your imagination match mine you shall not _vividly realize_ flight or song, and so I shall follow both long after they are lost to you. Your skylark will pass with the moment of his rapturous song-flight, while mine shall remain forever a spirit of joy to be recalled at will for my spirit's refreshing.

Looking then upon imagination as a key to that comprehension of life which clarifies and constitutes its worth, let us eagerly enter upon the cultivation of such power. We have left this question of imaginative development as a definite exercise to a fifth place in our interpretative study, not because it is less vital to effective expression than the first four subjects we have considered, but because _balanced expression_ is our aim, and imagination once given free play may easily impair that harmonious development of all our faculties which makes for balance in expression. Of course there is no phase of the study of interpretation which, when rightly conducted, does not indirectly or directly involve the training of the imagination. On the other hand, training of the imagination wisely conducted may comprehend and carry on development along all other lines of evolution in expression. A sensitive imagination trained and controlled to its highest power of apprehension must make for sympathy and intelligence in thought and feeling, keep humor sane, and give direction to purpose. But imaginative vigor set free to the uses of thought and emotion _already_ disciplined, to _conscious_ purpose and to _good_ humor, becomes a safe master of expressive living.

The material through which we are to exercise the imagination and develop imaginative vigor is the narrative form of discourse. Narration is successful when it records or has the effect of recording actual experience. A story (according to the authority we so often invoke,--Mr. Gardiner), "whether it be as simple as those of the Book of Genesis or as complex as Mr. James or Mr. Meredith, must carry the effect of the concreteness, and, as it were, the solidity of life." The plot, the characters, the setting of a story _which is to live_, must have the vividness of real experience. This does not mean that the creator of the story must have actually experienced the plot, the people, and the pictures which together make up his tale--they may be the product of actual experience or of imagination--but it does mean that while he is putting these elements together and creating his narrative he must realize _as though it were actual experience_ the incident of his plot with the characters and in the atmosphere of his creation. Such realization can only come through vivid imagination.

Exactly the same demand is made upon the imagination of the interpreter. When you retell the tale of a master creator of stories your interpretation will be convincing, exactly as was his creation,--through the lucid play of a vivid imagination. You must make me feel that I am in the presence of incidents, characters, pictures which you yourself have experienced. Nay, more, you must make me feel that I myself am actually meeting these people, seeing these pictures, taking part in these incidents, as you relive for me _in imagination_ at the moment of your interpretation the tale you are retelling to me.

SUGGESTIVE ANALYSIS

We shall use for suggestive analysis in this study not a complete specimen of narration, but several examples illustrating two of the three elements necessary to the personnel of a good story. These three recognized elements are the setting or situation which the pictures compose, the atmosphere which the characters create, and the plot or the action in which the characters engage. We shall leave the question of the plot to class work upon the selections from epic poetry to be considered later in this study.

Suppose we test our imaginations in the analysis of a situation or setting before we attempt a character study. Remember the situation is to be realized through imagination as though it were actual experience. It is to be _recreated_. Give your imagination full play in this opening chapter of George Eliot's _Mill on the Floss_. Let us read the first sentence:

A wide plain, where the broadening Floss hurries on between its
green banks to the sea, and the loving tide, rushing to meet it,
checks its passage with an impetuous embrace.

Can you see and feel the elements of this picture! You have never experienced a tide river? Never mind! There is enough in the picture which _is_ familiar to your actual senses through experience to brace your imagination for a grasp of the unfamiliar elements. The wide plain, the river hurrying between green banks--no apperceptive background fails thus far in the picture. What do we mean by apperceptive background? Let us investigate for a moment the psychology involved in the art of "making pictures." Let us get back of this word-picture. Rather let us stay this side of it. Look at the page before you not with the inner eye of your imagination, but with the outer eye--the eye which is merely the organ of the sense of sight. Use your eye as a physical sense only. What does your eye carry to your mind when you look at this page? "Black letters grouped into words on a white surface." Did you get all these qualities at once? Yes, because you have seen other printed pages. Can you wipe out of your mind your knowledge of paper, print, and words? Can you imagine looking on such a page as this for the first time--_perceiving_ it for the first time? If you can do this you will arrive at an understanding of apperceptive background through its elimination. You will realize, that all that is in the back of your mind, stored there by its previous acquaintance with other printed pages, makes up the apperceptive background by which you get a conception of this page. That conception comes first through your physical sense of sight. You may perceive also through touch, through feeling, for instance, the quality of paper. But all that you perceive in this initial process,--the stimulus which comes through the physical senses, yields little to the complete conception as compared with the yield of your so-called _mental senses_. It is when you have fully apperceived the object that your conception is complete. It is when you have brought to bear upon this page (still looked upon, remember, merely as a printed page regardless of the matter behind the print) all your previous knowledge,--it is when you have observed that the paper is of good quality, that the page is closely set, that the print is excellent, that the margin is wide,--it is when you have compared it in memory with other pages in other books,--it is when you have not only perceived but _ap_perceived it that you have really gained a conception of it. Of course, if you are a type-setter, or a proof-reader, or a printer, or an editor, or one connected with book-making in any least or last capacity, you will see a printed page quite lost to me, because your apperceptive background will outmatch mine as to paper, print, margin, and type. Good! I yield to you from type-setter to editor! But I challenge you to another contest over the same page. Match with me now conceptions gained from another view of this same printed matter. Forget now type, paper, margins, and words--yes, forget the words as printed words--look back of them with me. What do you see now on the page? Still words? Look behind them at the pictures! Now, what do you see? "A wide plain, a river, green banks, the sea!" Yes, but I see more than that! And you do, too? "The river flows between green banks?" You have missed a point. How does she flow? Ah, yes, "She hurries on." Where? "To the sea!" Yes! And what meets her? "The tide!" Yes, the loving tide meets her! But how? "Rushing, he checks her passage in an impetuous embrace!" "You _see_ all this!" you say. Yes, but do you hear it, smell it, taste it, feel it? Are you, too, caught up in that impetuous embrace? No? Ah, then your imagination is only half awake. No, it is not a question of background or actual experience now. There are enough familiar elements, as I have said before, to rouse your senses to _vividly realize_ the picture as a whole if you will not shut the door to such realization--that door is your imagination. Open it! Open it! Now I shall close the book and ask the class to do likewise, while you read once more _to us_ these first sentences, paint for us this picture. Yes, now you are using your imagination to stimulate my senses and awake my imagination, but you must take heed. You must let me enjoy this picture as a whole. You must let me see, feel, taste, smell, all "in the same breath." Remember it is a picture. Don't disregard its perspective. Let all the elements rest in proper relation one to another and to the whole--as George Eliot placed them when she made the setting. The atmosphere is on the whole full of peace. The river "hurries," _but_ the "plain is wide"; the tide "rushes," but it is a "_loving_ tide," even though its embrace be "impetuous." Try it once more! Is there not the joy of creation in such interpretation? Let us read on! You read to us still.

On this mighty tide the black ships--laden with the fresh-scented
fir-planks, with rounded sacks of oil-bearing seed, or with dark
glitter of coal--are borne along to the town of St. Ogg's, which
shows its aged, fluted red roofs and the broad gables of its
wharves between the low wooded hill and the river-brink, tingeing
the water with a soft purple hue under the transient glance of this
February sun. Far away on each hand stretch the rich pastures and
the patches of dark earth, made ready for the seed of broad-leaved,
green crops, or touched already with the tint of the tender-bladed
autumn-sown corn. There is a remnant still of the last year's
golden clusters of beehive ricks rising at intervals beyond the
hedgerows; and everywhere the hedgerows are studded with trees: the
distant ships seem to be lifting their masts and stretching their
red-brown sails close among the branches of the spreading ash. Just
by the red-roofed town the tributary Ripple flows with a lively
current into the Floss. How lovely the little river is, with its
dark, changing wavelets! It seems to me like a living companion
while I wander along the bank and listen to its low, placid voice,
as to the voice of one who is dear and loving. I remember these
large, dipping willows. I remember the stone bridge.

And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or two here on the
bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it is
far on in the afternoon. Even in this leafless time of departing
February it is pleasant to look at--perhaps the chill, damp season
adds a charm to the trimly kept, comfortable dwelling-house, as
old as the elms and chestnuts that shelter it from the northern
blast. The stream is brimful now, and lies high in this little
withy plantation, and half drowns the grassy fringe of the croft in
front of the house. As I look at the full stream, the vivid grass,
the delicate bright-green powder softening the outline of the great
trunks and branches that gleam from under the bare purple boughs, I
am in love with moistness, and envy the white ducks that are
dipping their heads far into the water here among the withes,
unmindful of the awkward appearance they make in the drier world
above.

The rush of the water and the booming of the mill bring a dreamy
deafness, which seems to heighten the peacefulness of the scene.
They are like a grand curtain of sound, shutting one out from the
world beyond. And now there is the thunder of the huge covered
wagon coming home with sacks of grain. That honest wagoner is
thinking of his dinner, getting sadly dry in the oven at this late
hour; but he will not touch it till he has fed his horses--the
strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts, who, I fancy, are looking
mild reproach at him from between their blinkers, that he should
crack his whip at them in that awful manner, as if they needed that
hint! See how they stretch their shoulders up the slope toward the
bridge, with all the more energy because they are so near home!
Look at their grand shaggy feet, that seem to grasp the firm earth,
at the patient strength of their neck, bowed under the heavy
collar, at the mighty muscles of their struggling haunches! I
should like well to hear them neigh over their hardly earned feed
of corn, and see them, with their moist necks freed from the
harness, dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy pond. Now they
are on the bridge, and down they go again at a swifter pace, and
the arch of the covered wagon disappears at the turning behind the
trees.

Now I can turn my eyes toward the mill again, and watch the
unresting wheel sending out its diamond jets of water. That little
girl is watching it too: she has been standing on just the same
spot at the edge of the water ever since I paused on the bridge.
And that queer white cur with the brown ear seems to be leaping and
barking in ineffectual remonstrance with the wheel; perhaps he is
jealous, because his playfellow in the beaver bonnet is so rapt in
its movement. It is time the little playfellow went in, I think;
and there is a very bright fire to tempt her: the red light shines
out under the deepening gray of the sky. It is time, too, for me to
leave off resting my arms on the cold stone of this bridge.

Ah, my arms are really benumbed. I have been pressing my elbows on
the arms of my chair and dreaming that I was standing on the bridge
in front of Dorlcote Mill, as it looked one February afternoon many
years ago. Before I dozed off, I was going to tell you what Mr. and
Mrs. Tulliver were talking about as they sat by the bright fire in
the left-hand parlor on that very afternoon I have been dreaming
of.

If, in your interpretation of this passage, a sensitive imagination free, but controlled by vital thought and intelligent feeling, has found in trained instruments a lucid channel for expression, then, at the close of your reading, _we_, your auditors, shall find our arms really benumbed from pressing our elbows on the arms of our chairs as we dream with you that we are standing on the bridge in front of Dorlcote Mill--the Mill on the Floss, which we find on awakening is but the title and setting of a great author's great story.

We turn now to the second element of Narration--the _characters_. The setting we have just analyzed has introduced us to the main characters of a great story. Our interest is already awake to the little girl who has been watching with us the unresting wheel of the mill. Why not take Maggie Tulliver for our character study? To follow Maggie but a little way is to find Tom. This is well for us, because we need to study both types. Let us read from the chapter called "Tom Comes Home" in the life of the boy and girl.

TOM COMES HOME

Tom was to arrive early in the afternoon, and there was another
fluttering heart besides Maggie's when it was late enough for the
sound of the gig-wheels to be expected; for if Mrs. Tulliver had a
strong feeling, it was fondness for her boy. At last the sound
came--that quick light bowling of the gig-wheels--and in spite of
the wind, which was blowing the clouds about, and was not likely to
respect Mrs. Tulliver's curls and cap-strings, she came outside the
door, and even held her hand on Maggie's offending head, forgetting
all the griefs of the morning.

"There he is, my sweet lad! But Lord ha' mercy! he's got never a
collar on; it's been lost on the road, I'll be bound, and spoiled
the set."

Mrs. Tulliver stood with her arms open; Maggie jumped first on one
leg and then on the other; while Tom descended from the gig, and
said, with masculine reticence as to the tender emotions, "Hallo!
Yap--what! are you there?"

Nevertheless, he submitted to be kissed willingly enough, though
Maggie hung on his neck in rather a strangling fashion, while his
blue-gray eyes wandered toward the croft and the lambs and the
river, where he promised himself that he would begin to fish the
first thing to-morrow morning. He was one of those lads that grow
everywhere in England and at twelve or thirteen years of age look
as much alike as goslings--a lad with light-brown hair, cheeks of
cream and roses, full lips, indeterminate nose and eyebrows--a
physiognomy in which it seems impossible to discern anything but
the generic character of boyhood; as different as possible from
poor Maggie's phiz, which Nature seemed to have molded and colored
with the most decided intention. But that same Nature has the deep
cunning which hides itself under the appearance of openness, so
that simple people think they can see through her quite well, and
all the while she is secretly preparing a refutation of their
confident prophecies. Under these average boyish physiognomies that
she seems to turn off by the gross, she conceals some of her most
rigid, inflexible purposes, some of her most unmodifiable
characters; and the dark-eyed, demonstrative, rebellious girl may
after all turn out to be a passive being compared with this
pink-and-white bit of masculinity with the indeterminate features.

"Maggie," said Tom, confidentially, taking her into a corner as
soon as his mother was gone out to examine his box, and the warm
parlor had taken off the chill he had felt from the long drive,
"you don't know what I've got in _my_ pockets," nodding his head up
and down as a means of rousing her sense of mystery.

"No," said Maggie. "How stodgy they look, Tom! Is it marls
(marbles) or cobnuts?" Maggie's heart sank a little, because Tom
always said it was "no good" playing with _her_ at those games--she
played so badly.

"Marls! no; I've swopped all my marls with the little fellows, and
cobnuts are no fun, you silly, only when the nuts are green. But
see here!" He drew something half out of his right-hand pocket.

"What is it?" said Maggie, in a whisper. "I can see nothing but a
bit of yellow."

"Why, it's ... a ... new ... guess, Maggie."

"Oh, I _can't_ guess, Tom," said Maggie, impatiently.

"Don't be a spitfire, else I won't tell you," said Tom, thrusting
his hand back into his pocket and looking determined.

"No, Tom," said Maggie, imploringly, laying hold of the arm that
was held stiffly in the pocket. "I'm not cross, Tom; it was only
because I can't bear guessing. _Please_ be good to me."

Tom's arm slowly relaxed, and he said, "Well, then, it's a new
fish-line--two new uns--one for you, Maggie, all to yourself. I
wouldn't go halves in the toffee and ginger-bread on purpose to
save the money; Gibson and Spouncer fought with me because I
wouldn't. And here's hooks--see here! I say, _won't_ we go and fish
to-morrow down by Round Pool? And you shall catch your own fish,
Maggie, and put the worms on, and everything--won't it be fun?"

Maggie's answer was to throw her arms around Tom's neck and hug
him, and hold her cheek against his without speaking, while he
slowly unwound some line, saying, after a pause:

"Wasn't I a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to yourself?
You know, I needn't have bought it if I hadn't liked."