“Now we must go through our paces, gentlemen,” he said. “Upon the occasion of our next meeting, I will ask each of you to bring with him the play of Hamlet, and I shall cast it and rehearse a scene or two. Thus the business of elocution and deportment will go hand in hand, and, at the same time, you will be able to feel the artist’s pride in uttering words and impersonating characters that have rejoiced many generations of men. But to-night I shall ask each in turn to recite before me some brief, familiar passage that is precious to him. I shall thus learn a little about your defects and can give each of you a few preliminary hints. Lastly, if time permit, I shall myself speak a speech before you with the elocution and gesture proper to it, and explain my reasons as I proceed. I will ask Mr. Smith, as our senior student, to begin. Mount the rostrum, Mr. Smith, and forget our presence. Let the aura of your poet enfold you as with a garment, Mr. Smith. Seek to be one with him, whoever he is, and in tune with his conception—of course, to the best of your powers.”
I was greatly encouraged to find that Mr. Smith could rise to this challenge, for I’m sure I didn’t feel as if I could; but Mr. Smith, without any evasion, bowed to Mr. Merridew and climbed three steps on to a low stage at the end of the classroom, and then said that he intended to recite the poet Shelley’s “To a Skylark.”
“Not all, Mr. Smith. There will hardly be time for all,” said the preceptor. And this, I believe, secretly upset Mr. Smith and made him hurried and uneasy. For he was a retiring man of most delicate feelings, and the thought that he might be taking up too much time evidently put him bang out of his stride, as we say at the L.A.C.
Mr. Merridew settled himself in his chair, with the nonchalant attitude of the King in Hamlet during the beginning of the play scene, and Mr. Smith, thrusting out his right arm in a rather unmeaning way, set off. He spoke in a hollow and mumbling voice, not suited to a skylark, and instantly the dreadful truth was forced upon us that he left out the h’s! He began like this:
“’Ail to thee, blithe spirit,
Bird thou never wert,
That from ’eaven or near it
Pourest thy full ’eart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.”
Mr. Merridew started as though a serpent had stung him, at the very first word, for, of course, to his highly strung senses it must have been simple agony; and I think Mr. Smith knew there was something wrong, too; but he went on about “’igher still and ’igher,” and gradually warmed to his work, so that when he came to “Thou dost float and run,” he actually tried to do it and stood on his toes and fluttered his arms! It might have answered fairly well for a turkey, to say it kindly, but it was utterly wrong for a skylark. One felt that Mr. Smith had thought it all out and taken immense trouble, and it was rather sad in a way when the professor stopped him and told him to come down. Mr. Smith instantly shrank up; and the fire of recitation went out of him and he sneaked down humbly.