ance, and the rhyme by a slight—very slight-emphasis placed upon it. The rule is plain enough: the difficulty lies in preserving the right degree of expression. I cannot convey this to you by words; it can be taught only by examples. Your ear should guide you, and would do so, if it were not perverted by bad habits. But, as those habits are probably formed, I can but advise you to do for this as for so many other ingredients of the art,-if you have not a judicious friend, who will hear patiently and tell you of your faults frankly, apply to a professional teacher.

But there are some frequent errors, of which I may usefully warn you.

Avoid set pauses. Some readers, otherwise skilful, will make a pause at precisely the same point in the metre of each line, whether the sense does or does not require it. This is not merely monotonous-it is wrong. In reading poetry, as in prose, the sound must be subordinate to the sense. Although there is a measuring of words in poetry, there is no measure for the pauses : you must pause wheresoever the sense demands a pause, without regard to the apparent exigencies of metre or rhyme. If that pause so falls that it disturbs the melody of the verse or the harmony of the rhyme, you should preserve them by so managing your voice that, after the pause, it shall resume in the selfsame tone with which it rested, just reminding the hearer of the music of the verse, as an added charm to the beauty of the thought. Then, again, shun carefully the still more frequent practice of pausing at the end of each line, regardless of the requirement of the thought. It is not merely a school-boy's jest that ridicules this sort of reading by the excellent illustration of

My name is Norval on the Grampian Hills-
My father kept his flock a frugal swain-
Whose constant care was to increase his store-
And keep his only son myself at home-
For I had heard of battles and I longed-

To follow to the field some warlike lord

And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied.

Not a few who think they read well, and who do read prose well, completely fail when they attempt to read poetry, because of this propensity to measure every line. And there is another fault frequently associated with it, which has the same origin, and is equally difficult to conquer that is, reading in a "wavy" manner. can find no better phrase for it. I mean that regular swell and fall of the voice in accordance with the metre, into which the unpractised appear to lapse unconsciously. Until you have succeeded in banishing this dreary fault, you will not read pleasantly, and the probable effect of your measured tones will be to set your audience to sleep. But on this also take warning that it is very difficult of cure. The best course of treatment, in addition to that already recommended, is to fill your mind with the meaning of the poet, and to resolve to give full expression to that meaning, forgetting, as far as you can, the metrical arrangement of the words in which those thoughts are conveyed. If your mind dwells too much upon the words, you will sing them; if upon the ideas, you will read them.

There is one rule worth noting. The danger is of monotony in the reading of poetry. You must strive by all means to avoid this, and resort to every aid to give spirit and variety to your voice. Change its tone with every change in the thought to be expressed. Throw gaiety into it when the theme is cheerful, and

pathos when it is sad. Abandon yourself to the spirit of the poet, and let your utterance be the faithful echo of his, even when he rises to rapture. Do not fear to overact; there is no fear of this fault in the reading of poetry. Mould your style to his. This you cannot do, of course, without thoroughly understanding him, and for that purpose it will not suffice to trust to the apprehension of the moment, or even to a hasty previous reading; you must study him, line by line and word by word, until you have mastered his full meaning, and then you will be able to give effect to it when you convey it to an audience.

Observe, too, that as a rule you should raise your voice at a pause, instead of dropping it, as is the frequent habit, and especially if that pause falls at the end of a line. I have already remarked upon the importance of this practice, as giving life and spirit to reading of all kinds; but it is particularly requisite with poetry, because of the natural tendency of metre to monotony.

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In unlearning your probable bad habits in the reading of poetry, as in learning how to read it rightly, you should adopt a scheme of lessons, so as to accustom yourself to the change by steps. Begin with poetry which has no rhyme, and in which the metre is not very decidedly marked. Paradise Lost" will be an excellent lesson to start with. I do not mean that you should read the whole, but select portions of it. On careful reading you will observe that the pauses are not measured; they do not fall at the end of the lines, but are scattered all over them; and if you strictly keep to these, you must avoid both sing-song and chant. For instance, take the "Invocation to Light," noted as before described.

Hail,-holy LIGHT!- -offspring of heav'n first bornOr of th' Eternal, co-eternal beam

May I express thee unblam'd- -since GOD is LIGHTAnd never but in unapproached LIGHT

Dwelt from eternity

-dwelt then in THEE

Bright effluence of bright essence increate!

Or hear'st THOU rather- pure-ethereal stream-
Whose fountain who shall tell-

Before the heav'ns-THOU wert

-Before the sun

-and at the voice

Of GOD- -as with a mantle- -didst invest
The rising world of waters-dark and deep—
Won from the void and formless INFINITE,
Thee I revisit now with bolder wing-

Escaped the Stygian pool--though long detained
In that obscure sojourn--while in my flight
Through utter and through middle darkness borne-
With other notes than to the Orphean lyre

I sung of Chaos and eternal NIGHT

Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture down

Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt

Clear spring- or shady grove- -or sunny hill-
Smit with the love of sacred song- -but chief
Thee- -SION- -and the flowing brooks beneath
That wash thy hallow'd feet and warbling flow-
Nightly I visit- -nor sometimes forget

Those other two

-equall'd with me in FATE

So were I equall'd with them in renown,

Blind Thamyris and blind Mæonides

And Tiresias- -and Phineus-prophets old

Then feed on thoughts that voluntary move

Harmonious numbers

-as the wakeful bird

Sings darkling and in shadiest covert hid
Tunes her nocturnal throat.

Here, you will observe, the pauses fall at every part of the verse. This practice will make the first breach in your bad habit of measuring every line. Then betake yourself to some poetry having rhymes, but irregular verse; then to such whose metres are still more unusual, until, at length, you may venture upon the metres that most tempt to sing-song, such as that of "The Exile of Erin." And I would especially commend to you, as one of the best exercises for the purpose of unlearning singsong, the frequent rendering of "Julia's Letter" in Byron's "Don Juan." Whenever you feel yourself relapsing into the old habit, read this passage halfa-dozen times, with careful observance of the singularly varied pauses, and it will revive your lessons in the art.

I append it. Observe, that it is made up of a series of short sentences, and must be so read. With great delicacy in the management of your voice, you may contrive to strike the very slightest chord of the rhyme upon the listener's ear; but you must be careful, in attempting this, not to destroy the fine effect of the severed sentences—which may be described. as sobs of words-and should be almost uttered as such.

They tell me 'tis DECIDED -you depart

'Tis wise

-'tis well- -but not the less a pain
I have no further claim on your young heart-
MINE is the victim-and would be AGAIN-
To love too much has been the ONLY art

I used

-I write in haste-and if a stain

Be on this sheet'tis not what it appears.

My eyeballs burn and throb -but have no TEARS

I loved--- ---I LOVE you

State- -station

esteem

for this LOVE have lost HEAVEN-mankind's-MY OWN

And yet cannot regret what it hath cost

So dear is still the memory of that dream