148.-ON RELIGIOUS MELANCHOLY.

About an age ago it was the fashion in England for every one that would be thought religious to throw as much
sanctity as possible into his face, and in particular to abstain from all appearances of mirth and pleasantry, which
were looked upon as the marks of a carnal mind. The saint was of a sorrowful countenance, and generally eaten
up with spleen and melancholy.
A gentleman, who was lately a great ornament to the learned world, has diverted me more than once with an
account of the reception which he met with from a very famous independent minister, who was head of a college*
(The head of a college was Dr. Thomas Goodwin, S. T. P., president of Magdalen college in Oxford, and one of
the assembly of divines who sat at Westminster.)
in those times. This gentleman was then a young adventurer in the republic of letters, and just fitted out for the
university with a good cargo of Latin and Greek. His friends were resolved that he should try his fortune at an
eleotion which was drawing near in the college, of which the independent minister whom I have before mentioned
was governor. The youth, according to custom, waited on him in order to be examined. He was received at the
door by a servant who was one of that gloomy generation that were then in fashion. He conducted him, with great
silence and seriousness, to a long gallery, which was darkened at noonday, and had only a single candle burning
in it. After a short stay in this melancholy apartment, he was led into a chamber hung with black, where he
entertained himself for some time by the glimmering of a taper, till at length the head of the college came out to
him, from an inner room, with half a dozen nightcaps upon his head, and religious horror in his countenance. The
young man trembled; but his fears increased, when, instead of being asked what progress he had made in
learning, he was examined how he abounded in grace. His Latin and Greek stood him in little stead; he was to
give an account only of the state of his soul; whether he was of the number of the elect; what was the occasion of
his conversion; upon what day of the month, and hour of the day, it happened; how it was carried on, and when
completed. The whole examination was summed up with one short question, namely, whether he was prepared
for death? The boy, who had been bred up by honest parents, was frighted out of his wits at the solemnity of the
proceeding, and especially by the last dreadful interrogatory; so that, upon making his escape out of this house of
mourning, he could never be brought a second time to the examination, as not being able to go through the
terrors of it.
Notwithstanding this general form and outside of religion is pretty well worn out among us, there are many
persons who, by a natural uncheerfulness of heart, mistaken notions of piety, or weakness of understanding, love
to indulge this uncomfortable way of life, and give up themselves a prey to grief and melancholy. Superstitious
fears and groundless scruples cut them off from the pleasures of conversation, and all those social
entertainments which are not only innocent but laudable; as if mirth was made for reprobates, and cheerfulness
of heart denied those who are the only persons that have a proper title to it.
Sombrius is one of these sons of sorrow. He thinks himself obliged in duty to be sad and disconsolate. He looks
on a sudden fit of laughter as a breach of his baptismal vow. An innocent jest startles him like blasphemy. Tell
him of one who is advanced to a title of honour, he lifts up his hands and eyes; describe a public ceremony, he
shakes his head; show him a gay equipage, he blesses himself. All the little ornaments of life are pomps and
vanities. Mirth is wanton, and wit profane.
He is scandalized at youth for being lively, and at childhood for being playful. He sits at a christening or a
marriage feast as at a funeral; sighs at the conclusion of a merry story; and grows devout when the rest of the
company grow pleasant.
After all, Sombrius is a religious man, and would have behaved himself very properly, had he lived when
Christianity was under & general persecution.
I would by no means presume to tax such characters with hypocrisy, as is done too frequently; that being a vice
which I think none but He who knows the secrets of men's hearts should pretend to discover in another, where
the proofs of it do not amount to a demonstration. On the contrary, as there are many excellent persons who are
weighed down by this habitual sorrow of heart, they rather deserve our compassion than our reproaches. I think
however, they would do well to consider whether such a behaviour does not deter men from a religious life, by
representing it as an unsociable state, that extinguishes all joy and gladness, darkens the face of nature, and
destroys the relish of being itself.
I have, in former papers, shown how great a tendency there is to cheerfulness in religion, and how such a frame
of mind is not only the most lovely, but the most commendable in a virtuous person. In short, those who
represent religion in so unamiable a light are like the spies sent by Moses to make a discovery of the land of
promise, when by their reports they discouraged the people from entering upon it. Those who show us the joy,
the cheerfulness, the good humour, that naturally spring up in this happy state, are like the spies bringing along
with them the clusters of grapes and delicious fruits, that might invite their companions into the pleasant country
which produced them.* (Numbers, ch. xlil.)
An eminent pagan writer has made a discourse to show that the atheist, who denies & God, does him less
dishonour than the man who owns his being, but at the same time believes him to be cruel, hard to please, and
terrible to human nature.
"For my own part," says he, "I would rather it should be said of me, that there was never any such man as
Plutarch, than that Plutarch was ill-natured, capricious, or inhuman."
If we may believe our logicians, man is distinguished from all other creatures by the faculty of laughter. He has a
heart capable of mirth, and naturally disposed to it. It is not the business of virtue to extirpate the affections of the
mind, but to regulate them. It may moderate and restrain, but was not designed to banish gladness from the heart
of man. Religion contracts the circle of our pleasures, but leaves it wide enough for her votaries to expatiate in.
The contemplation of the Divine Being and the exercise of virtue are, in their own nature, so far from excluding all
gladness of heart that they are per petually sources of it. In a word, the true spirit of religion cheers, as well as
composes, the soul; it banishes, indeed, all levity of behaviour, all vicious and dissolute mirth, but in exchange
fills the mind with a perpetual serenity, uninterrupted cheerfulness, and an habitual inclination to please others,
as well as to be pleased in itself.

By Charles Lamb

CHILDREN love to listen to stories about their elders, when theywere

children; to stretch their imagination to the conception of a traditionary
great-uncle or grandame, whom they never saw. It was in this spirit that
my little ones crept about me the other evening to hear about their great-
grandmother Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times
bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been the scene
—so at least it was generally believed in that part of the country—of the
tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar with from the
ballad of the Children in the Wood. Certain it is that the whole story of the
children and their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood
upon the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to the
Robin Redbreasts, till a foolish rich person pulled it down to set up a
marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story upon it. Here
Alice put out one of her dear mother’s looks, too tender to be called
upbraiding. Then I went on to say, how religious and how good their great-
grandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by everybody, though
she was not indeed the mistress of this great house, but had only the
charge of it (and yet in some respects she might be said to be the
mistress of it too) committed to her by the owner, who preferred living in
a newer and more fashionable mansion which he had purchased
somewhere in the adjoining county; but still she lived in it in a manner as
if it had been her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house in a sort
while she lived, which afterward came to decay, and was nearly pulled
down, and all its old ornaments stripped and carried away to the owner’s
other house, where they were set up, and looked as awkward as if some
one were to carry away the old tombs they had seen lately at the Abbey,
and stick them up in Lady C.’s tawdry gilt drawing-room. Here John
smiled, as much as to say, “that would be foolish indeed.” And then I told
how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse of
all the poor, and some of the gentry too, of the neighborhood for many
miles round, to show their respect for her memory, because she had been
such a good and religious woman; so good indeed that she knew all the
Psaltery by heart, aye, and a great part of the Testament besides. Here
little Alice spread her hands. Then I told what a tall, upright, graceful
person their great-grandmother Field once was; and how in her youth
she was esteemed the best dancer—here Alice’s little right foot played an
involuntary movement, till upon my looking grave, it desisted—the best
dancer, I was saying, in the county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer,
came, and bowed her down with pain; but it could never bend her good
spirits, or make them stoop, but they were still upright, because she was
so good and religious. Then I told how she was used to sleep by herself in
a lone chamber of the great lone house; and how she believed that an
apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down
the great staircase near where she slept, but she said “those innocents
would do her no harm”; and how frightened I used to be, though in those
days I had my maid to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or
religious as she—and yet I never saw the infants. Here John expanded all
his eyebrows and tried to look courageous. Then I told how good she was
to all her grand-children, having us to the great house in the holidays,
where I in particular used to spend many hours by myself, in gazing upon
the old busts of the Twelve Cæsars, that had been Emperors of Rome, till
the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be turned into
marble with them; how I never could be tired with roaming about that
huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms, with their worn-out hangings,
fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken panels, with the gilding almost
rubbed out—sometimes in the spacious old-fashioned gardens, which I
had almost to myself, unless when now and then a solitary gardening man
would cross me—and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon the
walls, without my ever offering to pluck them, because they were
forbidden fruit, unless now and then,—and because I had more pleasure in
strolling about among the old melancholy-looking yew trees, or the firs,
and picking up the red berries, and the fir apples, which were good for
nothing but to look at—or in lying about upon the fresh grass, with all the
fine garden smells around me—or basking in the orangery, till I could
almost fancy myself ripening, too, along with the oranges and the limes in
that grateful warmth—or in watching the dace that darted to and fro in
the fish pond, at the bottom of the garden, with here and there a great
sulky pike hanging midway down the water in silent state, as if it mocked
at their impertinent friskings,—I had more pleasure in these busy-idle
diversions than in all the sweet flavors of peaches, nectarines, oranges,
and such like common baits of children. Here John slyly deposited back
upon the plate a bunch of grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice, he had
mediated dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them for
the present as irrelevant. Then, in somewhat a more heightened tone, I
told how, though their great-grandmother Field loved all her grand-
children, yet in an especial manner she might be said to love their uncle,
John L——, because he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and a king
to the rest of us; and, instead of moping about in solitary corners, like
some of us, he would mount the most mettlesome horse he could get,
when but an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him half
over the county in a morning, and join the hunters when there were any
out—and yet he loved the old great house and gardens too, but had too
much spirit to be always pent up within their boundaries —and how their
uncle grew up to man’s estate as brave as he was handsome, to the
admiration of everybody, but of their great-grandmother Field most
especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back when I was a
lame-footed boy—for he was a good bit older than me—many a mile when
I could not walk for pain;—and how in after life he became lame-footed
too, and I did not always (I fear) make allowances enough for him when he
was impatient, and in pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate he
had been to me when I was lame-footed; and how when he died, though
he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a great while
ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and death; and how I bore his
death as I thought pretty well at first, but afterward it haunted and
haunted me; and though I did not cry or take it to heart as some do, and
as I think he would have done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long,
and knew not till then how much I had loved him. I missed his kindness,
and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive again, to be
quarreling with him (for we quarreled sometimes), rather than not have
him again, and was as uneasy without him, as he their poor uncle must
have been when the doctor took off his limb. Here the children fell a
crying, and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for
uncle John, and they looked up and prayed me not to go on about their
uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty, dead mother. Then
I told them how for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in
despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W——n; and, as much
as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and
difficulty, and denial meant in maidens—when suddenly, turning to Alice,
the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of re-
presentment, that I became in doubt which of them stood there before
me, or whose that bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both the
children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding till
nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost
distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects
of speech: “We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The
children of Alice call Bartrum father. We are nothing; less than nothing,
and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the
tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a
name”—and immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in my
bachelor armchair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget
unchanged by my side—but John L. (or James Elia) was gone forever.

Recollections of Childhood
By Richard Steele (1672–1729)
 From The Tatler 1

THERE are those among mankind, who can enjoy no relish of their
being, except the world is made acquainted with all that relates to
them, and think everything lost that passes unobserved: but others
find a solid delight in stealing by the crowd, and modelling their life
after such a manner, as is as much above the approbation, as the
practice of the vulgar. Life being too short to give instances great
enough of true friendship or goodwill, some sages have thought it
pious to preserve a certain reverence for the names of their deceased
friends; and have withdrawn themselves from the rest of the world at
certain seasons to commemorate in their own thoughts such of their
acquaintance who have gone before them out of this life. And indeed,
when we are advanced in years, there is not a more pleasing
entertainment, than to recollect in a gloomy moment the many we
have parted with, that have been dear and agreeable to us, and to cast
a melancholy thought or two after those with whom, perhaps, we have
indulged ourselves in whole nights of mirth and jollity. With such
inclinations in my heart, I went to my closet yesterday in the evening,
and resolved to be sorrowful; upon which occasion I could not but look
with disdain upon myself, that though all the reasons which I had to
lament the loss of many of my friends, are now as forcible as at the
moment of their departure, yet did not my heart swell with the same
sorrow, which I felt at that time; but I could, without tears, reflect upon
many pleasing adventures I had had with some, who have long been
blended with common earth. Though it is by the benefit of nature, that
length of time thus blots out the violence of afflictions; yet, with
tempers too much given to pleasure, it is almost necessary to revive
the old places of grief in our memory; and ponder step by step on past
life, to lead the mind into that sobriety of thought which poises the
heart, and makes it beat with due time, without being quickened with
desire, or retarded with despair, from its proper and equal motion.
When we wind up a clock, that is out of order, to make it go well for
the future, we do not immediately set the hand to the present instant,
but we make it strike the round of all its hours, before it can recover
the regularity of its time. Such, thought I, shall be my method this
evening; and since it is that day of the year which I dedicate to the
memory of such in another life as I much delighted in when living, an
hour or two shall be sacred to sorrow and their memory, while I run
over all the melancholy circumstances of this kind which have occurred
to me in my whole life.
The first sense of sorrow I ever knew was upon the death of my 2
father, at which time I was not quite five years of age; but was rather
amazed at what all the house meant, than possessed with a real
understanding why nobody was willing to play with me. I remember I
went into the room where his body lay, and my mother sat weeping
alone by it. I had my battledore in my hand, and fell a beating the
coffin, and calling “Papa”; for, I knew not how, I had some slight idea
that he was locked up there. My mother catched me in her arms, and
transported beyond all patience of the silent grief she was before in,
she almost smothered me in her embraces; and told me in a flood of
tears, Papa could not hear me, and would play with me no more, for
they were going to put him under ground, whence he could never
come to us again. She was a very beautiful woman, of a noble spirit,
and there was a dignity in her grief amidst all the wildness of her
transport; which, methought, struck me with an instinct of sorrow, that,
before I was sensible of what it was to grieve, seized my very soul, and
has made pity the weakness of my heart ever since. The mind in
infancy is, methinks, like the body in embryo; and receives impressions
so forcible, that they are as hard to be removed by reason, as any
mark with which a child is born is to be taken away by any future
application. Hence it is, that good-nature in me is no merit; but having
been so frequently overwhelmed with her tears before I knew the
cause of any affliction, or could draw defences from my own judgment,
I imbibed commiseration, remorse, and an unmanly gentleness of
mind, which has since insnared me into ten thousand calamities; and
from whence I can reap no advantage, except it be, that, in such a
humour as I am now in, I can the better indulge myself in the
softnesses of humanity, and enjoy that sweet anxiety which arises
from the memory of past afflictions.
We, that are very old, are better able to remember things which 3
befell us in our distant youth, than the passages of later days. For this
reason it is, that the companions of my strong and vigorous years
present themselves more immediately to me in this office of sorrow.
Untimely or unhappy deaths are what we are most apt to lament; so
little are we able to make it indifferent when a thing happens, though
we know it must happen. Thus we groan under life, and bewail those
who are relieved from it. Every object that returns to our imagination
raises different passions, according to the circumstance of their
departure. Who can have lived in an army, and in a serious hour reflect
upon the many gay and agreeable men that might long have
flourished in the arts of peace, and not join with the imprecations of
the fatherless and widow on the tyrant to whose ambition they fell
sacrifices? But gallant men, who are cut off by the sword, move rather
our veneration than our pity; and we gather relief enough from their
own contempt of death, to make it no evil, which was approached with
so much cheerfulness, and attended with so much honour. But when
we turn our thoughts from the great parts of life on such occasions,
and instead of lamenting those who stood ready to give death to those
from whom they had the fortune to receive it; I say, when we let our
thoughts wander from such noble objects, and consider the havoc
which is made among the tender and the innocent, pity enters with an
unmixed softness, and possesses all our souls at once.
Here (were there words to express such sentiments with proper
tenderness) I should record the beauty, innocence, and untimely
death, of the first object my eyes ever beheld with love. The beauteous
virgin! how ignorantly did she charm, how carelessly excel. O death!
thou hast right to the bold, to the ambitious, to the high, and to the
haughty; but why this cruelty to the humble, to the meek, to the
undiscerning, to the thoughtless? Nor age, nor business, nor distress,
can erase the dear image from my imagination. In the same week, I
saw her dressed for a ball, and in a shroud. How ill did the habit of
death become the pretty trifler! I still behold the smiling earth—A large
train of disasters were coming on to my memory, when my servant
knocked at the closet door, and interrupted me with a letter, attended
with a hamper of wine, of the same sort with that which is to be put to
sale on Thursday next, at Garraway’s coffee-house. Upon the receipt of
it, I sent for three of my friends. We are so intimate, that we can be
company in whatever state of mind we meet, and can entertain each
other without expecting always to rejoice. The wine we found to be
generous and warming, but with such a heat as moved us rather to be
cheerful than frolicksome. It revived the spirits, without firing the
blood. We commended it until two of the clock this morning; and
having to-day met a little before dinner, we found, that though we
drank two bottles a man, we had much more reason to recollect than
forget what had passed the night before.

Shaw, George Bernard: 1856-1950

Transcript of "How to Speak Correct
English"


Let me introduce myself, Bernard Shaw.

I am asked to give you a specimen of spoken English. But first let me give you
a warning. You think you are hearing my voice. But unless you know how to
use your gramophone properly, what you are hearing maybe grotesquely unlike
any sound, that has ever come from my lips.

A few days ago I heard a gramophone record of a speech by Mr. Ramsay

MacDonald, the parliamentary chief of the British Labour Party, who has a fine
deep Scottish voice and a remarkably musical and dignified delivery. What I
heard was a high pitched, sharp, cackling voice, most unmusical, suggesting a
small, egotistical, very ill mannered man, complaining of something. I said,
"That is not Mr. MacDonald, I know his voice as well as I know my own." The
gramophone operator assured me that it was and showed me the label on the
record to prove it. I said, "No, that is not Ramsay MacDonald. But let me see
whether I cannot find him for you." Then, as the record started again, I took the
screw, which regulates the speed, and slowed the record down gradually until
the high pitched yapping changed to the deep tones of Mr. MacDonald's voice.
And the unmusical, quarrelsome self-assertion became the melodious rhetoric
of the Scottish orator. "There," I said, "that is Mr. MacDonald."

So you see what you are hearing now is not my voice unless your gramophone
is turning at exactly the right speed. I have records of famous singers and
speakers who are dead; but whose voices I can remember quite well: Adelina
Patti, Sarah Bernard, Charles Santley, Caruso, Tamagno. But they sound quite
horrible and silly until I have found the right speed for them as I found it for
Mr. MacDonalds.

Now the worst of it is that I cannot tell you how to find the right speed for me.
Those of you, who have heard me speak, either face to face with me or over the
wireless, will have no difficulty. You have just to change the speed until you
recognize the voice you remember. But what are you to do, if you have never
heard me? Well, I can give you a hint that will help you. If what you hear is
very disappointing and you feel instinctively, that must be a horrid man, you
may be quite sure the speed is wrong. Slow it down, until you feel that you are
listening to an amiable old gentleman of 71 with a rather pleasant Irish voice.
Then that is me. All the other people, whom you hear at the other speeds, are
impostors, sham Shaws, phantoms who never existed.

I am now going to suppose that you are a foreign student of the English
language, and that you desire to speak it well enough to be understood when
you travel in the British Commonwealth or in America or when you meet a
native of those countries. Or it maybe that you are yourself a native, but that
you speak in a provincial or Cockney dialect of which you are a little ashamed
or which perhaps prevents you from obtaining some employment, which is
open to those only who speak what is called correct English.

Now whether you are a foreigner or a native the first thing I must impress on
you is that there is no such thing as ideally correct English. No two British
subjects speak exactly alike.

I am a member of a committee established by the British Broadcasting

Corporation, for the purpose of deciding how the utterances of speakers
employed by the corporation should be pronounced, in order that they should
be a model of correct English speech for the British islands.

All the members of that committee are educated persons, whose speech would
pass as correct and refined in any society or any employment in London. Our
chairman is the poet laureate who is not only an artist, whose materials are the
sounds of spoken English, but a specialist in their pronunciation. One of our
members is Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson, famous not only as an actor, but for
the beauty of his speech. I was selected for service on the committee because as
a writer of plays I am accustomed to superintend their rehearsals. And to listen
critically to the way in which they are spoken by actors who are by profession
trained speakers, being myself a public speaker of long experience.

That committee knows as much as anyone knows about English speech. And
yet its members do not agree as to the pronunciation of some of the simplest
and commonest words in the English language.

The two simplest and commonest words in any language are yes and no. But no
two members of the committee pronounce them exactly alike. All that can be
said is that every member pronounces them in such a way that they would not
only be intelligible in every English speaking country, but would stamp the
speaker as a cultivated person, as distinguished from an ignorant and illiterate
one.

You will say, "Well, that is good enough for me. That is how I desire to speak."
But which member of the committee will you take for your model? There are
Irish members, Scottish members, Welsh members, Oxford University
members, American members. All recognizable as such by their differences of
speech. They differ also according to the country in which they were born.
Now as they all speak differently it is nonsense to say that they all speak
correctly. All we can claim is that they all speak presentably. And if you speak
as they do you will be understood in any English speaking country and
accepted as a person of good social standing.

I wish I could offer you your choice among them all as a model. But for the
moment I am afraid you must put up with me, an Irish man.

I have said enough to you about the fact that no two native speakers of English
speak it alike. But perhaps you are clever enough to ask me whether I myself
always speak it in the same way. I must confess at once that I do not. Nobody
does.

I am at present speaking to an audience of many thousands of gramophone

listeners. Many of whom are trying hard to follow my words syllable by
syllable. If I were to speak to you as carelessly as I speak to my wife at home
this record would be useless. And if I were to speak to my wife at home as
carefully as I am speaking to you she would think that I was going mad. As a
public speaker I have to take care that every word I say is heard distinctfully at
the far end of large halls containing thousands of people.

But at home, when I have to consider only my wife sitting within six feet of me
at breakfast, I take so little pains with my speech, that very often, instead of
giving me the expected answer, she says, "Don't mumble and don't turn your
head away when you speak . I can't hear a word you are saying". And she also
is a little careless. Sometimes I have to say, "What?" two or three times during
our meal. And she suspects me of growing deafer and deafer. So she does not
say so, because as I am now over 70 it might be true. No doubt I ought to speak
to my wife as carefully as I should speak to a queen and she to me as carefully
as she would speak to a king. We ought to, but we don't. Don't by the way is
short for do not.

We all have company manners and home manners. If you were to call on a
strange family and to listen through the key hole, not that I would suggest for a
moment that you are capable doing of such a very unladylike or
ungentlemanlike thing. But still, if in your enthusiasm for studying languages
you could bring yourself to do it, just for a few seconds to hear how a family
speak to one another, when there is nobody else listening to them, and then
walk into the room and hear how very differently they speak in your presence,
the change would surprise you.

Even when our home manners are as good as our company manners, and of
course they ought to be much better, they are always different. And the
difference is greater in speech than in anything else.

Suppose I forget to wind my watch and it stops I have to ask somebody to tell
me the time. If I ask a stranger I say, "What o'clock is it?" The stranger hears
every syllable distinctly. But if I ask my wife all she hears is "Clock's it". That
is good enough for her, but it would not be good enough for you.

So I am speaking to you now much more carefully than I speak to her. But
please don't tell her.

I am now going to address myself especially to my foreign hearers. I have to

give them another warning of quite a different type. If you are learning English,
because you intend to travel in England and wish to be understood there do not
try to speak English perfectly. Because if you do no one will understand you.

I have already explained that 'though there is no such thing as perfectly correct
English, there is presentable English, which we call good English. But in
London 999 out of every thousand people not only speak bad English, but
speak even that very badly. You may say, that even if they do not speak
English well themselves, they can at least understand it when it is well spoken.
They can when the speaker is English. But when the speaker is a foreigner, the
better he speaks, the harder it is to understand him.

No foreigner can ever stress the syllables and make the voice rise and fall in
question and answer, assertion and denial, in refusal and consent, in inquiry or
information, exactly as a native does. Therefore the first thing you have to do is
to speak with a strong foreign accent and speak broken English. That is English
without any grammar. Then every English person, to whom you speak, will at
once know that you are a foreigner and try to understand you and be ready to
help you. He will not expect you to be polite and to use elaborate grammatical
phrases. He will be interested in you, because you are a foreigner and pleased
by his own cleverness in making out your meaning and being able to tell you
what you want to know.

If you say, "Will you have the goodness, sir, to direct me to the railway
terminus at Charing Cross," pronouncing all the vowels and consonants
beautifully, he will not understand you. And will suspect you of being a beggar
or a confidence trickster. But if you shout, "Please, Charing Cross, which
way?" you will have no difficulty. Half a dozen people will immediately
overwhelm you with directions. Even in private intercourse with cultivated
people you must not speak too well.

Apply this to your attempts to learn foreign languages and never try to speak
 them too well. And do not be afraid to travel, you will be surprised to find out
how little you need to know or how badly you may pronounce. Even among
English people to speak too well is a pedantic affectation. In a foreigner it is
something worse than an affectation; it is an insult to the native who cannot
understand his own language when it is too well spoken.

That is all I can tell you. The record will hold no more. Good bye.

......
This speech was recorded in 1927.

Religious Melancholy
- Joseph Addison
Religious Melancholy is a characteristic periodical essay written by an eighteenth century English essayist
Joseph Addison. It is taken from "The Spectator' which was a periodical jointly published by Addison and Richard
Steele from March, 1711 to December 1712. Both the essayists analyzed the English society of the day in 'The
Spectator'. The aim of the periodical was to be the moral monitor of the age. 'Religious Melancholy is an essay in
the art of living. This essay justifies Addison's purpose to "bring philosophy out of libraries, schools and colleges
to dwell in clubs and assemblies, at tea-tables and coffee-houses"
Religious Melancholy begins with the essayist's criticism of the contemporary ideas about being a religious
person. The essay throws light on the hollowness of pseudo-seriousness which was considered a mark of
religiousness in Addison's time. In the vein of a gentle satire. Addison writes,_ it was the fashion in England for
everyone that would be thought religious to throw as much sanctity as possible into his face and to abstain from
all appearances of mirth and pleasantry" It was essential to be serious to be a saint. For centuries the sad people
dominated religion. They expelled cheerfulness from the holy places. Seriousness has been praised and
respected ad an identification mark in a holy man.
Addison cites an example of a zestful youth who wanted to contest the college election.
According to the custom he went to see the Independent Minister the head of the college for the examination of
his merit Addison 's use of irony is quite remarkable here. The minister' house had long gallery which was
darkened at noon-day. The black curtains in the room added to the gloomy feeling about the place. The young
man trembled when he saw the minister who had " religious horror in his countenance." In stead of being asked
about his progress in his study. the ambitious youth was asked to describe the state of his soul. The following
words clearly suggest joy-killing impact of such a sad approach to life," The whole examination was summed up
with one short question, namely, whether he was prepared for death ? - The young man was terrified by such a
serious communication He had expected a word of encouragement from the minister but oll he got was a set of
questions which upset him.

Addision once remarked that through his essays he wished "to banish vice and gnorance out of the territories of
Great Britain." He criticises the worn out concept of religion which is based on cheerlessness heart and mistaken
notion of piety and holiness. He ads that there ore some people who love to follow on uncomfortable way of life.
They become victims of grief and melancholy. The celebration of life disappears from their lives. They become
desert-like. The essayist rightly soys. ‘’Superstitious fears and scruples cut them off from the pleasures of
conversations and all those social entertainments which are not only innocent but laudable"

Addison personifies melancholy as Sombrius saying that he is one of the sons of sorrow.
Sombrius has a duty to be sad. Whoever becomes his victim, loses all pleasure He dislikes jest or public
ceremony. All the little ornaments of life are pomps and vanities in his view. The whole existence is so beautiful
that cheerfulness con be the only response to it. But Sombrius is scandalised at youth for being lively and at
childhood for being playful. He sits at a marriage feast as at a funeral; sighs at the conclusion of a merry story."
Sombrius is like this because he is a religious man. He is burdened with only negative feelings. Such a man is
put into an unsocial state because seriousness creates barriers.
Addison makes it clear that laughter is the message of religion. Cheerfulness is the loveliest and most
commendable virtue in a virtuous person. The cheerful persons are like the spies sent by Moses. According to
Addison, an atheist does a less dishonour to God than the man who believes God is hard to please. He quotes
Plutarch's words "I would rather it should be said of me that there was never any such man as Plutarch than that
Plutarch was ill natured. capricious, or inhuman."

The essay ends with Addison's remarks on the role of laughter in man's joyful existence. Man is different from
other animals because of his faculty of laughter. But religion limits the circle of pleasures. Truly speaking religion
can not be other than a celebration of life. Region is a love affair with life. In the name of virtue religion should not
gladness from man’s heart. In fact that thought of Divine Being (Gods) and the concept of virtues should be an
endless sources of happiness. The true spirit of religion cheers as well as composes the soul, It also removes the
levity of behaviour and improper mirth. It fills the mind with never-ending serenity and a feeling to make others
happy.
Indeed 'Religious Melancholy shows Addison as an enlightened writer. His appealing manners and conversation
made him one of the most popular men of his day. His essays are noted for their clarity and elegant style, as well
as their cheerful and respectful humour. He was very successful in spreading the culture of learning and
sensibility among the middle class English folk

.
INTRODUCTION
What is a one-act play?
Plainly stated, it is a play in one-act. This simple definition conveys all that is to be said about one-act plays. Let
us analyse this bald statement.
a) It is a play-that is,itismeanttobeperformedorenacted.
b) It is a short play (of one act) as distinct from a long play (of three or five acts).
c) What is an Act?
An act is a distinct main section of a play. This implies that a one-act play deals with one single, dominant
dramatic situation. Therefore, a one-act play is not a condensation of a long play (which consists of a series of
situations, where each situation arises out of what had preceded it). On a similar logic, we can also say that a
one-act play cannot be elongated into a 3-Act or a 5-Act play.
A one-act play is short. A short play requires a short span of time to act it out. So to produce the maximum effect,
a one-act play calls for the greatest artistic unity and economy. The playwright has to say what he wants to say in
less time than.what the full length play requires. Precision, economy of words and action, tight structure and
pruning of extraneous or superfluous details are the chief merits of a one-act
play
This implies that the attention of the audience has to be at once seized and held out. It is analogous to a 100 mts
sprint. A swift take-off and a sustained maintenance of that speed are essential for a win in this short distance
race. Similarly from curtain rise to curtain fall, the tempo has to be maintained in a one-act play.
1.2 THE PARTS OF A PLAY
1.2.1 Plot
As pointed out in 1.1, one-act play cannot accommodate multiple plots or.situations. The
Introduction toOne-AdPbys

One-Ad mys-1
selection of the material for the plot has ti, limit itself to a single interesting episode. It can be from everyday life
or from history or from an incident out of a story or a novel. If you read the plays prescribed for this course, you
will observe that the plots are not necessarily complete stories, but they areeither incideats from everyday
happening or events taken out of a novel. For instance:
THE BISHOP'S CANDLESTICKS is an adaptation of the story of the encounter between a convict and a bishop
from Victor Hugo's novel Les Miserables.
THE MONKEY'S PAW is a horror play which is also an adaptation from a short story by W.W. Jacobs.
REFUND is a satire on the anomalies of the modem educational system.
HOW HE LIED TO HER HUSBAND makes an original play out of the hackneyed
situation involving a husband, wife and lover.
THEDEAR DEPARTEDisaveryamusinglittleplaywhichmakesgoodfunofthepetty- rnindedness and complacency of
a middle class family.
FUMED OAK is remarkable as an effective and satirical comedy on human relationships with strings attached.
HELLO OUT THERE is a moving short play'on the hypocrisies of a society that fails to understand the call of one
human being to another out there.
The plots of one-act plays are simple and easily comprehensible. The basic plot formula is that of a beginning, a
middle and an end, where the end is distinctly different from the @ginning. This is what lends to a play its
dramatic quality.
1.2.2 Dramatic Rhythm
What do we mean by 'dramatic'? The term is not used in the colloquial sense of being 'sensational' or 'shocking'.
In drama, it is used in the sense of effecting a marked change at the end from what was in the beginning.
The basic rhythmical pattern associated with drama involves building up of tension and its release. The dramatic
element thus is an important constituent part of a play. In the absence of the dramatic rhythm, the play loses its
vitality. There will be no tempo and the play becomes tedious and monotonous.
1.2.3 Action
The change in the end-what is technically known as 'happening'-constitutes the core of the play. Something
ishappening in the play continuously to effect this change. In other words, the play is seen to move from the
beginning to the end. This forward advance is brought about by Action. The term'action' should not be confused
with 'acting' where the players, enact the play on the stage. Action is Dramatic Action which helps the plot to
move forwards. While plot gives an account of the event taking place, action is the propelling (moving) force of
the event. From beginning to end, there is action in a play. Remember that you are witnessing action on the
stage. There is no action before the play begins nor is there any action'after the play ends. That is, action is
coterminous with the play. So long as the play is on, there is action. In other words, action takes place always in
the present. For the audience it is 'here' and 'now'. Even if action narrates (or deals with) the past, that narration
takes place only in the present before our eyes. This action in the present presses the play into the future and the
situation undergoes a change.
Thus action helps the play to progress or to evolve frqm beginning to end. Action need not necessarily involve
physical movement, but it includes shifts in the attitude of.the characters, change in their emotions, a sudden
discovery of truth and development of an idea or thought or argument (whereby the dramatist.directs our
perceptions).
Self-check Exercise 1
Write a brief note on plot, dramatic rhythm, and action with respect to one-act plays.

J.2.4 Conflict
lntroduehion to One-Act Plays
The essence of drama is conflict. The central figure (hero) in a play is called the protagonist. The middle term
agon in Greek means struggle or conflict in which an individual is engaged. (It can be a single individual or a
group.) The conflict can be of two kinds-the
outer and the inner.
outer conflict takes place between two men or two groups of men; or between man and society; or between man
and a superior force like fate or gods or deemonic powers.
Inner conflict takes place within the mind or self of an individual. You can easily understand as to why it is easier
to present outer conflict on stage than inner conflict.
Conflict gives rise to action in drama. This action culminates in a marked change at the end of the play.
1.2.5- Characterisation
Conflict and action can take place only through characters: Drama originally in Greek meant 'to do', 'to act' or 'to
play'. This definition is still valid. Both conflict and action centre round characters. Characters or dramatis
personae have to initiate action that will give rise to conflict in a play. Recall what we discussed in 1.2.4 about the
protagonist. From that discussion you must have learnt that in any kind of a play-whether it is a full length play or
a one-act play, characterisation is of great importance. A play is good depending on the depth of its
characterisation. It is not easy to penetrate into a character in a one-act play to the extent that can be done in a
longer play.
We shall now discuss the essential requisites for good characterisation in a one-act play. They are :
1) Characterisation should be based on careful and sympathetic observation of people and life in general. More
important is that the characters in a one-act play should be human. There is not sufficient time or space to
present a larger than life portrayal in this form of drama. The characters cannot be faultless like angels nor
fiendish like the demons.
2) Since a one-act play deals with one single situation,characterisationhas to be within that limit, for it has to
evolve within the framework of that single dramatic event. Whatever the characters do or say in relation to that
particulaf event cannot be very different from what could have transpired before or what is likely to follow. In
short, there should be no inconsistency in characterisation. consistency of characterisationis the cardinal
principle in a play to lend credibility to the event presented. This assertion upon consistency in characterisation,
taken in conjunction with our definition of the dramatic gives rise to the question as to how to reconcile the tw-i.e.,
how to effect a change without compromising on consistency?Even if there is a change at the end in the
characters' attitude or behaviaur, care should be taken to show evidence of such possibilities from the beginning.
The motives and circumstances that work the change in the characters must be carefully and convincingly
shown.
1.2.6 Dialogue
Dialogue in drama is the principal medium by which the play moves and characters reveal themselves. The story
is deduced from the conversations among the characters. Dialogues are of two kinds-prose dialogues and verse
dialogues. The most important thing is that the dialogues should be clear and crisp in a one-act play where the
shortness of time and limited plot scope do not allow lengthy speeches. In a short play a succession of speeches
of unequal length may retard action and produce monotony for the viewers. Lines should not be complex for the
actor to render them with ease and effectiveness and enable the audience to get to the rdot of the play in quick
Succession. The dramatist puts the dialogue to good use. If there are just two characters, a verbal duel between
the two is as good as a duet. It can also prove an alternative to a straight fight by working out rituals of
domination and submission. The effectiveness of one-act play primarily depends on the verbal exchange
between the characters.
li2.7 Structure
The structure df a one-act play is basically linear with a beginning, a middle and an end.

One-Ad Plays-I
There is no question of division as it is a play in one-act. If there is scenic division, that is indicated by the arrival
of a new character on the stage. The change that takes place is often' marked by a change in the lighting. There
can be no breaks in a short play and the tempo has to be sustained.
Within this basic structure of a beginning, a middle and an end, the play should contain (i),exposition (ii)
complication (iii) climax and (iv) denouement.
Exposition explains the situation, introduces the characters and tells us of action prior to the situation on hand.
Complication makes it difficult for a resolution of the situation. It introduces fresh factors that heighten the tension
and suspense. At the climax the play reaches the height of intensity. The emotions are pitched to the highest
levels and it marks the beginning of culmination.
Denouement is the final unwinding of the plot soon after the climax. In many one-act plays the two come
together.
The speeches and action of the play relate to these four aspects of structure.
kBRIEF HISTORYOFONE-ACTPLAYS
The one-act play is by no means a 20th century invention. What needs to be stressed is that
90% of English one-act plays have been written during the last 50 years.
The origin of one-act plays can be traced to the satyr plays of the Greeks of the 4th century B.C. which were
intended to provide relief at the end of the performance of serious tragedies. The modem one-act plays and the
Greek satyr plays share a common trait-both can be enjoyed without too much of expense of effort or of time.
In the Middle ages (in the 14th and the 15th centuries), there were short plays which dealt with Christian subjects
and scriptural themes. These were called the medieval miracle and mystery plays. There was also another of a
similar category called the Morality play, of which the outstanding examples was Everyman. Written in the 15th
century, Everyman, fits in well with the one-act plays of modem times.
The 16th century saw the rise and glory of great English drama. The Elizabethan drama was written for
professional actors and professional theatre. But in the second half of the 16th century short interludes were
written to be performed between two long miracle or mystery plays or between the courses of a banquet. These
were truly one-act plays requiring just a few actors and capable of being performed in less than half an hour's
time.
In the 18th century Fielding's Tom Thumb and Sheridan's The Critic deserve to be mentioned in any account of
one-act plays.
From the above account it is evident that one-act play is not unique to the 20th century, but since the end of the
First World War, there has been a proliferation of this kind in the English theatre world. Two reasons can be
attributed for this large output of one-act plays- the rise of the amateur drama and the demands of radio and
television.The selections in your course are from the 20th century writings.
GLOSSARY
Superfluous : more than is needed
Extraneous : not related
Anomalous : different in some way from what is normal; imgular Coterminous : having a common boundary
Duet : a musical composition for two performers

Denouement : the unravelling of a plot

Banquet : elaborate meal, usu. for a special event, at which speeches are made
Amateur : One who is not a professional; who engages in art or sport purely for pleasure.