CHAPTER XII

ATMOSPHERE

This element of expression, perhaps more than any other, manifests the artistic nature of the reader; artistic, inasmuch as the atmosphere, or vocal color, shows the sensitiveness of the reader to sense stimuli; shows that he is moved by the contemplation of the beautiful, the sublime, the tender, the pathetic. This element is called by different names, but perhaps none is more significant than Atmosphere. This effect is not easy to describe, and yet it is as real as rhythm or inflection or any other of the elements discussed in this book. Atmosphere is that sympathetic quality of voice that manifests the spirit of literature. Who can fail to notice the tender motherly sympathy that pervades every word of the lyric _Sweet and Low_? Now compare this with the knights’ chorus from _The Coming of Arthur_. This is permeated throughout with the spirit of the Round Table. The spirit of motherly love in the former, and of knightly courage and the clang of arms in the latter, completely envelop these poems, and permeate every letter. Therefore, in the rendering the reader must exercise the greatest care not to dissipate this atmosphere. The least misstep, one false note, and the atmosphere is dissipated.

In longer selections there may be variety of atmosphere in the different stanzas or paragraphs, provided always that the variety enhances the poem as a whole. Mere variety in reading is not art, but chaos, says Professor Corson.

The following lines from Matthew Arnold’s _Sohrab and Rustum_[13] illustrate the principle of variety in unity. The poem purports to be an extract from the epic of Rustum, the Persian Achilles, and is especially marked by a dignity truly Homeric. This atmosphere of dignity envelops every line. Hence pathos and joy, patriotism and defiance, scorn and contempt, and all the other emotions, are always dignified. The Tartar champion, Sohrab, challenges the bravest Persian champion to meet him in single combat; and the Tartar leader, Peran-Wisa, announces the challenge. The Tartars love their hero, and the thrill that pervades their army is significant of that love. But the Persian champion, Achilles-like, sulks in his tent; and the knowledge of this fact, when the announcement of the challenge is heard by the Persians, fills them with awe and dismay. Read the following lines, bringing out the significant atmosphere of the two parts of the contrast, but being careful to bear in mind the general atmosphere of dignity:

And the old Tartar came upon the sand Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said:-- “Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars hear! Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. But choose a champion from the Persian lords To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man.” As, in the country, on a morn in June, When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy-- So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved. But as a troop of peddlers from Cabool, Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, The vast sky-neighboring mountain of milk snow; Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they pass Long flocks of traveling birds dead on the snow, Choked by the air, and scarce can they themselves Slake their parch’d throats with sugar’d mulberries-- In single file they move and stop their breath, For fear they should dislodge the o’erhanging snows-- So the pale Persians held their breath with fear.

The reader must also bear in mind that from the very beginning of each picture the atmosphere of joy and fear respectively must be in the mind, and must never be lost sight of under any circumstances.

Sometimes the atmosphere is modified by the fact that the speaker is quoting the words of another person, and then it is often a matter of the most subtle analysis to determine the extent to which the quoted words will modify the atmosphere of the reader, whether speaking in his own person or in the person of another.

There are two kinds of literature that must be considered in this connection. First, that class in which the reader tells the story in his own person. Second, when the reading is a personation throughout. An example of the first class is _The Idylls of the King_; and of the second, the “Instigation” speech of Cassius in _Julius Caesar_. The principle governing atmosphere applies equally and in the same way to both kinds of selections. The knowledge of this fact will often be valuable to the reader.

We get a good example in the “Instigation” speech, where Cassius tells Brutus that Caesar, when he had a fever, cried, “‘Give me some drink, Titinius,’ as a sick girl.” The whole matter of atmosphere, as far as quoted words are concerned, will be made clear by a study of this simple passage. Cassius is so exercised over the success of Caesar and his own consequent humiliation, that his scorn and rage are well-nigh boundless. As the torrent of his emotion rushes forth, is it not entirely inconsistent with our knowledge of human nature to suppose that that torrent would be so impeded or arrested when Cassius came to the above words, that he would stop to reproduce the actual manner and tones of Caesar? What Cassius probably does is to suggest something of the effeminate manner of Caesar enveloped in Cassius’ own atmosphere of bitterest loathing and contempt. One will be helped in work of this kind by asking himself the question, What is the atmosphere of the speaker? Then, having determined this, he must next make up his mind, through his knowledge of human nature, to what extent this atmosphere is modified by the quoted words that are introduced into the body of the story. He may be assisted in determining this by putting a second question to himself, Is what the quoted words convey, or the manner in which they are conveyed, of the greater importance? This is well illustrated in _King Robert of Sicily_. It makes no difference in this particular poem how the sexton uttered the words, “Who is there?” and, consequently, it would be a mistake to give them any very significant atmosphere. As a matter of fact, the words are really equivalent to indirect discourse; the expression would convey exactly the same meaning to the listener if read, Asking who was within. The following from _King Lear_ is full of suggestiveness in this connection. We recall that Kent has sent a gentleman to Cordelia to tell her of the condition of her father. Later in the drama, Kent meets the gentleman, and from him gets the story of the manner in which Cordelia received the sad news of her father’s suffering. How truly ridiculous it would be for the gentleman to imitate the manner of Cordelia! The psychological explanation of what happens is probably this: As he relates the story to Kent, the tearful face and voice of Cordelia come into his mind, and, since there is always in human nature a tendency to become that which one describes, something of the manner of Cordelia will be suggested in the voice of the speaker; but let us bear in mind that the imitation is not intentional and detailed, but instinctive and suggestive only. It is not meant that the reader is not conscious of what he is doing, but that the gentleman (to use a concrete illustration) is not consciously imitating Cordelia. The artistic reader in reproducing this scene is conscious of what he is doing, but consciously sympathetic, not imitative:

KENT. Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief? GENTLEMAN. Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my presence; And now and then an ample tear trilled down Her delicate cheek: it seemed, she was a queen Over her passion, who, most rebel like, Sought to be king o’er her. KENT. O, then it moved her. GENTLEMAN. Not to a rage: patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. You have seen Sunshine and rain at once; her smiles and tears Were like a better May: those happy smilets That played on her ripe lip, seemed not to know What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence As pearls from diamonds dropped.--In brief, Sorrow would be a rarity most beloved, If all could so become it. KENT. Made she no verbal question? GENTLEMAN. ’Faith, once, or twice, she heav’d the name of “father,” Pantingly forth, as if it pressed her heart; Cried, “Sisters! sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters! Kent! father! sisters! What? i’ the storm? i’ the night? Let pity not be believèd!”--There she shook The holy water from her heavenly eyes, And clamor moistened: then away she started To deal with grief alone.

--_King Lear_, Act iv., Sc. 3.

This leads to another feature of the study of atmosphere. In the following lines from the _Elegy in a Country Churchyard_, we certainly speak slowly; but let it be remembered that this is done, not in imitation of the slow movement of the objects described, but in sympathy with them. The solemnity and dignity of the occasion so affect us that our movement becomes slow, and this movement and the right vocal quality give us the proper atmosphere.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

Let us remember, too, that an event which once filled us with joy may be recalled with pain and sorrow, and that it is our present condition that determines the atmosphere. Browning’s _Patriot_ will illustrate this.

The untrained reader is altogether too prone to imitation; but let him bear in mind that imitation, if ever art, is its lowest form. The province of the reader is to manifest, through his interpretation, the innermost spirit of the poem. Very often by imitating, by literally reproducing the voice, manner, and movements, we obscure the underlying spirit of the line, paragraph or poem. There are certain readers, for instance, who sing, _Non ti scordar di me_, in _Aux Italiens_. For the sake of argument, we might admit, that at the end of the poem there might be some slightest justification for this procedure; but in the beginning, it is absolutely indefensible. The speaker is in a deep reverie; he dwells in the past. His mind goes back to a visit to the opera-house in Paris, years before. The opera is _Il Trovatore_; and the heroine comes before us seeking her lover, who has been snatched from her arms through the jealousy of another. She arrives before the monastery as the monks chant the _Miserere_. Her prayer ascends heavenward; and when she ceases, there rises clear and passionately the voice of her lover from within his cell, singing, _Non ti scordar di me_ (Forget me not). As the audience in the opera-house hear these words, their minds go back to the past. The king goes back to his early triumphs; the queen’s mind reverts to her life in Spain; the wife of the Marquis of Carabas lets her thoughts glide back to her first husband; and to the speaker’s mind there comes the vision of his early love. _Non ti scordar di me_, then, is the source of the poem. The tie that binds us to the past is the poet’s theme, “Old things are best.” Now let us look at the stanza at the end of which occurs the line we are discussing:

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow, And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing while the gas burned low, “_Non ti scordar di me_.”

In the first place, when one sings these lines, he is just a little likely to be deemed presumptuous when it is recalled that the previous stanza has said:

And Mario can soothe with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory.

It is hardly likely that the reader is a Mario; but this is a small criticism, comparatively speaking. The atmosphere of the poem is one of reverie; and what possesses the speaker is not the literal way the words were sung, but the memory of the thrill that passed through him and through the audience as these words rang out in a pause of the solemn _Miserere_ of the monks. Let it be borne in mind that the argument is not against the singing as singing, but against the method that would completely destroy the atmosphere of the poem for the sake of a vocal affectation. What should be expressed is the rapture of the speaker as he recalls those passionate words and tones, in his present moment of contemplation. There are certain reprints of this poem that leave out the stanzas describing the effect of the song on the king, the queen, and the marchioness. Does this not prove that those who print such versions have missed the very essence of the story?

There is one more element that we are to discuss in this connection, and that is the atmosphere of sympathy that envelops the reading of description. This atmosphere shows the effect upon us of that which the author describes.

The tendency of most readers is toward imitation,--to groan and moan, and laugh and cry, whenever these words appear in the selection interpreted. In such passages as the following from Aldrich’s _Face Against the Pane_, we have heard more than one reader imitate the screeching and the moaning, and the groaning and the breaking:

She hears the sea bird screech, And the breakers on the beach Making moan, making moan.

And again, in the same poem, we have heard imitations of the tolling bells in:

How it tolls for the souls Of the sailors on the sea;

In these passages and all similar ones, as, for instance, those already quoted from the _Elegy in a Country Churchyard_, our aim should be to manifest through the atmosphere the effect of the description upon ourselves.

Perhaps it will assist us to get a clearer conception of this important feature if we discuss a few typical examples, even repeating some of the selections already used in the discussion.

_Example 1_ (from _Sohrab and Rustum_). The atmosphere of the first simile is that of joy; not in imitation of the joy of the Tartars, but because we are moved to joy by our sympathy with Sohrab.

_Example 2_ (_ibid._). We do not express the fear of the Persians or of the peddlers, but our contempt for the former--perhaps slightly tinged, through sympathy, with their fear.

_Example 3_ (from _King Robert of Sicily_). The atmosphere is that of simple narrative, which is in no wise changed by the words of the sexton.

_Example 4._ Eugene Field’s _Little Boy Blue_ presents a father standing before the dust-covered toys of his dead child. The father speaks throughout, and yet there are those who actually imitate the voice and manner of the child in the opening lines of the second stanza:

“Now don’t you go till I come,” he said, “And don’t you make any noise;” So toddling off to his trundle-bed He dreamt of the pretty toys.

It is the father we want, not the child.

_Example 5_ (from the _Elegy in a Country Churchyard_). We read the passage slowly, not because we desire to imitate the slow movement of the objects described, but because we are impressed by their solemnity.

It may be thought that the principle here discussed has no value except for advanced pupils or for those who desire to make a specialty of reading. This is a grave error and one that has had much to do with the spiritless reading of our schools. At least one-half of the selections in our readers, above the second, present opportunities for the expression of what we have termed sympathy. In the chapter on Values we observed that there were ever-varying phases of thought and feeling, each one of which would be read with a different atmosphere. Let us look at another complete poem solely with a view to applying the principles of phases and of atmosphere:

Gusty and raw was the morning; A fog hung over the seas, And its gray skirts, rolling inland, Were torn by the mountain-trees. No sound was heard but the dashing Of waves on the sandy bar, When Pablo of San Diego Rode down to the Paso del Mar. 8

The pescador, out in his shallop, Gathering his harvest so wide, Sees the dim bulk of the headland Loom over the waste of the tide; He sees, like a white thread, the pathway Wind round on the terrible wall, Where the faint, moving speck of the rider Seems hovering close to its fall! 16

Stout Pablo of San Diego Rode down from the hills behind; With the bells on his gray mule tinkling, He sang through the fog and wind. Under his thick, misted eyebrows Twinkled his eye like a star, And fiercer he sang as the sea-winds Drove cold on the Paso del Mar. 24

Now Bernal, the herdsman of Corral, Had traveled the shore since dawn. Leaving the ranches behind him: Good reason had he to be gone! The blood was still red on his dagger, The fury was hot in his brain, And the chill, driving scud of the breakers Beat thick on his forehead in vain. 32

With his blanket wrapped gloomily round him He mounted the dizzying road, And the chasms and steeps of the headland Were slippery and wet as he trode. Wild swept the wind of the ocean, Rolling the fog from afar, When near him a mule-bell came tinkling, Midway on the Paso del Mar. 40

“Back!” shouted Bernal full fiercely, And “Back!” shouted Pablo in wrath, As his mule halted, startled and shrinking, On the perilous line of the path. The roar of devouring surges Came up from the breakers’ hoarse war; And “Back, or you perish!” cried Bernal; “I turn not on Paso del Mar!” 48

The gray mule stood firm as the headland; He clutched at the jingling rein, When Pablo rose up in his saddle And smote till he dropped it again. A wild oath of passion swore Bernal, And brandished his dagger still red; While fiercely stout Pablo leaned forward, And fought o’er his trusty mule’s head. 56

They fought till the black wall below them Shone red through the misty blast. Stout Pablo then struck, leaning farther, The broad breast of Bernal at last; And, frenzied with pain, the swart herdsman Closed round him with terrible clasp, And jerked him, despite of his struggles, Down from the mule in his grasp. 64

They grappled with desperate madness On the slippery edge of the wall; They swayed on the brink, and together Reeled out to the rush of the fall! A cry of the wildest death-anguish Rang faint through the mist afar, And the riderless mule went homeward From the fight of the Paso del Mar! 72

--_The Fight of Paso del Mar._ BAYARD TAYLOR.

l. 1-4.--Simple description, the last line slightly colored with emotion.

l. 5, 6.--Note how the voice becomes suppressed in sympathy with the picture.

l. 7, 8.--Simple description.

l. 9-12.--Simple description.

l. 13-16.--The important part this pathway is to play in the poem and the danger of the rider will bring the suggestion of fear into the voice of the reader. It is the effect of the picture upon us that we must manifest; this is half the art of reading.

l. 17-24.--The joy of Pablo will find an echo in our reading, as will his joyous defiance in l. 23, 24.

l. 25-27.--Simple description to “behind him,” when the coming event casts its shadow before; the color of the next line is clearly anticipated on these two words.

l. 28.--The atmosphere is difficult to characterize in a word, but not to manifest.

l. 29-32.--Note the marked change. The atmosphere is largely that of sympathy--fury and dogged, gloomy determination. Perhaps there might be something of our horror and loathing in l. 29.

l. 33-36.--Simple description.

l. 37, 38.--Sympathy.

l. 39, 40.--Brighter.

l. 41, 42.--The atmosphere is that of the speakers.

l. 43, 44.--Our fear of a fatal misstep.

l. 45, 46.--The effect upon us, not imitation of the roar.

l. 47, 48.--Anger and determination.

l. 49.--See l. 45, 46.

l. 50-56.--Virtually the same atmosphere, throughout, of terror, strife, determination, hate.

l. 57, 58.--Oh! the pity of it.

l. 59-64.--See l. 50-56.

l. 65-68.--Terror and fear increase until the climax on “fall.”

l. 69, 70.--Terror and pity.

l. 71.--Observe the transition. Restrained pathos to the end.

The most important fact to be borne in mind in endeavoring to develop the pupil’s sympathy with what he describes is this: imitation of sounds, and of gestures, and of movement, is a very low order of art. We can not imitate thunder, but we can show in our voices the awe that it inspires. When we unconsciously hurry our reading under the impulse the imagination receives from contemplating, let us say, the rapid movement of a cavalry charge, we do so not in imitation of, but in sympathy with, the picture. This is not primarily a question of art, but of nature. It is only ignorant teaching that says to a pupil, “Is that the way the thunder roars?” or “Read more rapidly; don’t you see that you are describing the flight of the horses?” Furthermore, if we read slowly a passage describing a funeral procession, there is no conscious imitation of slowness, but a sympathy with the solemnity, stateliness and dignity of the occasion.

A very little observation will show us whether the imitation is conscious or sympathetic. In the former case, the voice will be expressing _merely_ speed or slowness. In the latter, there will be speed or slowness, too, but accompanied by an indefinable and yet recognizable _quality_ of voice, which is the expression of our sympathy. This is an infallible criterion.

Lastly, it must be urged that we give more time to this work. The imagination cannot be developed in a week or a month; and unless there is imagination, there can be no sympathy. It is difficult to restrain one’s self and not dwell longer on the value of the training of the imagination. We have no hesitation in saying that that feature of education is the most neglected. Such training as is here suggested will, in many cases, do much to bring about a more favorable condition of affairs. But it takes time, and plenty of it. The teacher should read to the class quite often such passages as are likely to stimulate the imagination. Make the class follow attentively and get them to give back the picture, as far as possible, in minutest detail. Do this again and again and improvement must follow. Just in proportion as the imagination is stimulated may we hope for a better class of reading. _We have no time to teach any subject poorly!_

This phase of the subject may be presented to pupils in some such manner as this:

Let me tell you a story:

The other day, a little child came to its mother, saying, “Oh, mother! I just saw a beautiful toy in the window: I wish you would buy it for me.” _The sweet voice was full of pleading._ The mother was very poor, and had hardly earned enough to pay for fuel. _How could she spare even the few pennies for the toy?_ But she said to herself, “This is Christmas time;” and the tears came into her eyes. The little one saw the tears, and said: “What are you crying for, mother?” _And then the mother hugged her child to her breast and kissed her again and again, saying over and over_, “Because I love you! Because I love you!”

When Christmas morning dawned the little toy was on the mantel and the child was happy. But when the time for breakfast came, the child asked her mother why she did not eat; and the mother answered, “I am not hungry, darling; don’t mind me,” and she smiled tenderly upon the sweet face, upturned to kiss her.

After you have read this simple tale two or three times, I think you will begin to feel some sympathy with the loving mother who would do without her food to give joy to her little child. When you read the sentences I have put in italics, if you have really tried to see the pictures, I am sure you will feel some sympathy that will make your reading so different from the reading of, let us say, the first sentence in this lesson. Take the line, “The sweet voice was full of pleading.” Can’t you imagine some sweet child-voice pleading for the toy? Well, then, listen to that voice, and after you have, then read, “The sweet voice was full of pleading.” You will find that your voice will be so full of sympathy that it will say not only the words, but also will express love, and tenderness, and sympathy. You will think, perhaps, some such thought as, “She was such a lovely child and she wanted the toy so much. It made me feel sorry to hear her ask for it.” There is another sentence in italics that I want you to think about. When you read, “And the tears came into her eyes,” can you not feel something of the sadness of that mother, as she thinks how much she would like to buy the toy, and yet there is nothing to buy it with? When you express your feeling, your voice will say, “And the mother’s heart was sad when she thought that her darling could have no little gift at Christmas, when it seemed everyone should be made happy. How disappointed the sweet one would be when she found out how many toys her playmates had while she had not one!” All these thoughts will run through your mind if you will only think about this scene long enough, and then your voice will express that sympathy with the picture you are describing without which you can never be a good reader. Let us then close this lesson by reminding you that the best way to develop our feelings as we read is through sympathy.

There are several other phrases and sentences in this story that I want you to study sympathetically for to-morrow’s lesson. Then, after you have grasped the idea of this lesson, be sure, in every selection you read hereafter, that you do not fail to pay particular attention to sympathy.

Let us, in closing this long but most vital discussion, direct attention in a few words to the psychology of the atmosphere of description. When we are giving the description for its own sake, desiring simply to impress the picture upon the audience, we should probably use the normal quality. To illustrate:

A fellow in a market-town, Most musical, cried “Razors!” up and down, And offered twelve for eighteen pence; Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap, And for the money quite a heap, As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

When, however, we are somewhat moved through the contemplation of what we see, when it takes possession of us, we should be likely to manifest our feeling in a suggestive imitation of the object described. See the third stanza of _The Fight of Paso del Mar_. The third stage is reached when the picture moves us to such an extent that imitation and suggestion disappear, and we show merely our own feelings. See lines 69 and 70 of the same poem. In reading these we do not utter the cry, nor do we show the death anguish, but our own feelings of pity and perhaps terror. There is a fourth stage, in which the conditions of the second and third are blended. Again we may use the same poem as an illustration. In lines 53 and 54, one could conceive a reader partaking through sympathy of the passion of Bernal, and yet manifesting his own feeling of fear and horror at the same time.

It is believed that this classification is psychologically sound, and that it will repay close study. It need hardly be added that the attention of the pupil is not to be drawn to the details. Selections for practice follow:

As thro’ the land at eve we went, And pluck’d the ripen’d ears, We fell out, my wife and I, O we fell out I know not why, And kiss’d again with tears. And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears. For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years, There above the little grave, O there above the little grave, We kiss’d again with tears.

--_The Princess._ TENNYSON.

The essence of these exquisite lines is in their tender simplicity.

Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother’s breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

--_Ibid._

Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May; Blow trumpet, the long night hath roll’d away! Blow thro’ the living world--“Let the King reign.”

Shall Rome or Heathen rule in Arthur’s realm? Flash brand and lance, fall battleaxe upon helm, Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.

Strike for the King, and live! his knights have heard That God hath told the King a secret word. Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.

Blow trumpet! he will lift us from the dust. Blow trumpet! live the strength and die the lust! Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.

Strike for the king and die! and if thou diest, The King is King, and ever wills the highest. Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.

Blow, for our Son is mighty in his May! Blow, for our Son is mightier day by day! Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.

The King will follow Christ, and we the King In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing. Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.

--“Knights’ Chorus” from _The Coming of Arthur_. TENNYSON.

It would hardly be appropriate to imitate the blow of the trumpet; and, striking as the effect would be, it would not be the highest art to have an accompaniment of clanging arms.

But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth, And turn’d away, and spake to his own soul:-- “Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean! False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. For if I now confess this thing he asks, And hide it not, but say: ‘Rustum is here!’ He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes, But he will find some pretext not to fight, And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts, A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. And on a feast tide, in Afrasiab’s hall, In Samarcand, he will arise and cry: ‘I challenged once, when the two armies camp’d Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords To cope with me in single fight; but they Shrank, only Rustum dared; then he and I Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away.’ So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud; Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me.”

--_Sohrab and Rustum._ M. ARNOLD.

Note that when Rustum utters the supposed words of Sohrab he would still speak in the musing mood. It is still the voice and manner of Rustum, with the faint suggestion of the other’s supposed boastfulness.

He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, And he too drew his sword; at once they rush’d Together, as two eagles on one prey Come rushing down together from the clouds, One from the east, one from the west; their shields Dash’d with a clang together, and a din Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters Make often in the forest’s heart at morn, Of hewing axes, crashing trees--such blows Rustum and Sohrab on each other hail’d. And you would say that sun and stars took part In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud Grew suddenly in heaven, and dark’d the sun Over the fighters’ heads; and a wind rose Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp’d the pair. In gloom they twain were wrapp’d, and they alone; For both the on-looking hosts on either hand Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes And laboring breath: first Rustum struck the shield Which Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spear Rent the tough plates, but fail’d to reach the skin, And Rustum pluck’d it back with angry groan. Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum’s helm, Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume, Never till now defiled, sank to the dust; And Rustum bow’d his head; but then the gloom Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse, Who stood at hand, utter’d a dreadful cry;-- No horse’s cry was that, most like the roar Of some pain’d desert lion, who all day Hath trail’d the hunter’s javelin in his side, And comes at night to die upon the sand. The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear, And Oxus curdled as it cross’d his stream.

--_Sohrab and Rustum._ M. ARNOLD.

The above is an interesting illustration. We are not to be eagles and the wind and the sand, but to manifest the awe which overwhelms us as we describe the terrible struggle of this father and son, each ignorant of the identity of the other.

As when some hunter in the spring hath found A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, Upon the craggy isle of a hill lake, And pierced her with an arrow as she rose, And follow’d her to find her where she fell Far off;--anon her mate comes winging back From hunting, and a great way off descries His huddling young left sole; at that, he checks His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps Circles above his eyry, with loud screams Chiding his mate back to her nest; but she Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, In some far stony gorge out of his ken, A heap of fluttering feathers--never more Shall the lake glass her, flying over it; Never the black and dripping precipices Echo her stormy scream as she sails by-- As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss, So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood Over his dying son, and knew him not.

--_Sohrab and Rustum._ M. ARNOLD.

Rustum has mortally wounded his son in the combat, and now the poet introduces the exquisite simile given above. It is a fine study in the reading of description.