I was but little better. True, I'd longer been at school; My tongue and pen were run, perhaps, a little more by rule; But that was all. The neighbors round, who both of us well knew, Said which I believed-she was the better of the two. All's changed; the light of seventeen 's no longer in her eyes; Her wavy hair is gone-that loss the coiffeur's art supplies; Her form is thin and angular; she slightly forward bends; Her fingers once so shapely, now are stumpy at the ends. She knows but very little, and in little are we one; My parvenu relations now deride my homely wife, I know there is a difference; at reception and levee, on me; And everywhere I hold my place among the greatest men; And sometimes sigh, with Whittier's judge, "Alas! it might have been.' When they all crowd around me, stately dames and brilliant belles, And yield to me the homage that all great success compels, Discussing art and statecraft, and literature as well, From Homer down to Thackeray, and Swedenborg on "Hell." I can't forget that from these streams my wife has never quaffed, Has never with Ophelia wept, nor with Jack Falstaff laughed; Of authors, actors, artists—why, she hardly knows the names; She slept while I was speaking on the Alabama claims. I can't forget-just at this point another form appears— She had four hundred dollars left her from the old estate; On that we married, and, thus poorly armored, faced our fate. I wrestled with my books; her task was harder far than mine 'Twas how to make two hundred dollars do the work of nine. At last I was admitted; then I had my legal lore, An office with a stove and desk, of books perhaps a score; She had her beauty and her youth, and some housewifely skill, And love for me, and faith in me, and back of that a will. Ah! how she cried for joy when my first legal fight was won, When our eclipse passed partly by, and we stood in the sun! The fee was fifty dollars-'twas the work of half a year— First captive, lean and scraggy, of my legal bow and spear. I well remember when my coat (the only one I had) Was seedy grown and threadbare, and, in fact, most "shocking bad." The tailor's stern remark when I a modest order made: "Cash is the basis, sir, on which we tailors do our trade.” Her winter cloak was in his shop by noon that very day; She wrought on hickory shirts at night that tailor's skill to pay; I got a coat and wore it; but, alas, poor Hannah Jane Ne'er went to church or lecture, till warm weather came again. Our second season she refused a cloak of any sort, court; She made her last year's bonnet do, that I might have a hat; Talk of the old-time flame-enveloped martyrs after that! No negro ever worked so hard; a servant's pay to save, She made herself most willingly a household drudge and slave. What wonder that she never read a magazine or book, Combining as she did in one, nurse, housemaid, seamstress, cook! What wonder that the beauty fled that I once so adored! Her beautiful complexion my fierce kitchen fire devoured; Her plump, soft, rounded arm, was once too fair to be concealed; Hard work for me that softness into sinewy strength congealed. I was her altar, and her love the sacrificial flame; At last I won success. Ah! then our lives were wider parted; I was far up the rising road; she, poor girl, where we started. I had tried my speed and mettle, and gained strength in every race; I was far up the heights of life-she drudging at the base. She made me take each fall the stump; she said 't was my career, The wild applause of list'ning crowds was music to my ear. What stimulus had she to cheer her dreary solitude? She could n't read my speech; but when the papers all agreed 'Twas the best one of the session, those comments she could read; And with a gush of pride thereat, which I had never felt, She sent them to me in a note with half the words mis spelt. At twenty-eight the State-house; on the Bench at thirtythree; At forty every gate in life was opened wide to me. I nursed my powers and grew, and made my point in life; but she Bearing such pack-horse weary loads, what could a woman be? What could she be! Oh, shame! I blush to think what she has been The most unselfish of all wives to the selfishest of men. Yes, plain and homely now she is; she's ignorant, 'tis true; For me she rubbed herself quite out-I represent the two. Well, I suppose that I might do as other men have doneFirst break her heart with cold neglect, then shove her out alone. The world would say 'twas well, and more, would give great praise to me, For having borne with "such a wife" so uncomplainingly. And shall I? No! The contract 'twixt Hannah, God, and me, Was not for one or twenty years, but for eternity. No matter what the world may think; I know, down in my heart, That, if either, I'm delinquent; she has bravely done her part. There's another world beyond this; and, on the final day, In these selections an occasional passage of sentiment occurs that requires a change from a conversational or staccato to an effusive or flowing form of utterance. Το preserve this smooth utterance and, at the same time, secure perfect naturalness in the intonations of the voice, demands a greater degree of skill than the reading of the purely colloquial styles. The proximity of the colloquial passage to the sentimental will serve as a guide and help to a natural melody. The Third Step: Common Reading.-We are now prepared to enter upon the practice of narrative, descriptive, and didactic styles, or what is generally called common reading. Here the difficulties in securing pleasing variety are greatly increased. The dignified diction and elaborate structure of the sentence furnish opportunities for the display of great taste and skill in the melodious management of the voice. Nothing is more to be prized as an achievement in elocutionary work than a skillful and melodious reading of a piece of common English. Such an acquirement so thoroughly commends itself, because of its usefulness, that many people wonder why we do not hear more of it. But like all other good and desirable things it is not easily secured. It requires patient and laborious practice to acquire perfect melody in the reading of an essay or a newspaper article. So difficult is it, that all this preliminary practice of colloquial selections is needful as a preparatory training. I cannot suggest a better text-book for common reading than the New Testament. A few chapters are suggested for practice. The Sermon on the Mount, Matt. v, vi, vii; The Parable of the Pharisee and the Publican, Luke xviii:9; The Parable of the Prodigal Son, Luke xv:11; Regeneration, John iii; The Blind Man Restored to Sight, John ix; Duties Enjoined, Rom. xii; Charity, 1st Cor. xiii; The Resurrection, 1st Cor. xv; Faith, Heb. xi; Love, 1st John iv. Some teachers (whose judgment I greatly respect) insist that an elaborate system of rules for inflection and emphasis is the surest way to lead to a natural and pleasing variety of intonation. I admit that success has been secured by this system of training, but I seriously question the propriety of beginning with rules before the pupil has been trained to a certain appreciation of musical variety. The teacher may find an occasional pupil who will yield to no other treatment than the application of fixed rules; but such are very rare exceptions. matter of fact, the current melody of a sentence should not be subjected to rules; for, if it were, you would absolutely fix the intonations of every person, and thereby destroy all individuality. As a I much prefer that the pupil at first should secure a natural use of his voice, without thought of rules. After the ear has been trained to a just appreciation of musical intonations, it will then be time to assist and strengthen the reader by fixed rules for inflection, cadence, and emphasis. You will by this method avoid a peculiar mechanical stiffness, that frequently appears in those who train themselves by rules without any previously acquired |