The Whispering Gallery, Part III [pp. 269-274]

BY ROSSITER JOHNSON
Some truths may be proclaimed upon the house-top;
Others may be spoken by the fireside;
Still others must be whispered in the ear of a friend.
O NE holiday afternoon Elacott and I strolled over to the Arbor of Abstraction;
but when we snapped the twig there was no response. We walked in, however,
and seated ourselves in the shade. There was just breeze enough to turn up
fitfully the silver sides of the leaves on the great poplar-tree by the lake, and movement
enough in the shadows of the clouds to show that somewhere over our heads there
was a steadier current setting eastward. As, one after another, these shadows sailed
across the lake, ascended the green slopes of the farther shore, and disappeared in
the highlands beyond, upon us who sat watching them they produced an impression
stronger than any dream but more dreamlike than any other reality-a feeling as
if the solid earth might at any moment drop gently from beneath us and leave us
to voyage on the cloud-ships to the mysterious land whither all the shadows had
gone and all the sunshine would follow.
Our revery was broken by Elacott, who whispered, " Hark!"
I listened, and soon was able to detect the sound of a voice. As it became more
distinct when the breeze freshened, I recognized a certain regularity or monotony
of intonation, but not distinct articulation.
"What is it?" I asked.
"It can be only one thing," said Elacott. "It is the voice of Mrs. Trenfield
reading poetry while she sits at an open window-probably with her sister listening."
"I thinik you guess correctly," said I. "And that reminds me how few persons
read poetry as it should be read."
"I think Mrs. Trenfield reads it to perfection," said he. "But what do you
consider the commonest fault in the reading?"
"The one almost universal fault," said I, "is the inability to render at once both
the sense and the rhythm, so that neither shall obstruct the other, and so that both
shall be evident. Good prose has a rhythm of its own, but poetry read like prose
makes very poor prose."
"But," said Elacott, "if the poet constructs his verse properly, will not the
rhythm itself compel a correct reading?"
"To some extent it will," said I, "but not altogether; because our language
any language was made in the first place solely for the purpose of conveying ideas,
and it is the ingenuity of the poet or the musician which so manages it as to make it
also express harmonies of sound. Sometimes it will happen, naturally, that they
have to deal with words and collocations that do not readily lend themselves to
music. In such cases, the reader who understands what they-are trying to do can,
with proper intonations and pauses, help them over the difficulty. And this under 269
THE'VVHISPERING GALLERY