and the plank went up, it might be indicated that one end went up, by one hand, and by the other that old Boggs went down. This can be done easily and naturally and in character. The genius of the "gros'ry," who is speaking, would indicate these very simply with hand and eye. This action will not only express the humor, but help the audience to conceive the situation. In a serious monologue, such as "A Grammarian's Funeral" (p. 72), the speaker looks down toward the town, and talks about the condition of those there who did not appreciate his master. The reader must indicate where the speaker locates his friends who are carrying the body, and suggest also, by looking upward to the hill-top, where they are to bury him. This representative action, when only suggestive, in no way interferes with, but rather assists, the manifestation of feeling. It must not be forgotten that there is great danger in exaggerating the objective or representative action of a monologue. The exaggeration of accidents is the chief means of degrading noble literature in delivery. For example, one of the finest monologues, "The Vagabonds," by J. T. Trowbridge, has been made by public readers a mere means of imitating the oddities of a drunkard. The true centring of attention should be on the mental characteristics of such a man. A degraded method of delivering this centres everything on the mere accidents and oddities of manner. Thus a most pathetic and tragic situation may be portrayed in a way not to awaken sympathy, but laughter. THE VAGABONDS We are two travellers, Roger and I. Roger's my dog. Come here, you scamp. Jump for the gentleman--mind your eye! Over the table--look out for the lamp! The rogue is growing a little old: Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept out doors when nights were cold, And ate, and drank, and starved together. We've learned what comfort is, I tell you: A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow, The paw he holds up there has been frozen), Plenty of catgut for my fiddle (This out-door business is bad for strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings. No, thank you, sir, I never drink. Roger and I are exceedingly moral. Aren't we, Roger? See him wink. Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel. He's thirsty too--see him nod his head. What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk; He understands every word that's said, And he knows good milk from water and chalk. The truth is, sir, now I reflect, I've been so sadly given to grog, I wonder I've not lost the respect (Here's to you, sir) even of my dog. But he sticks by through thick and thin, And this old coat with its empty pockets, And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.