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. “It’s the aspirate,” he said. “I can’t ’elp it. I’ve fought it for years; but it conquers me.” Mr. Merridew, however, was most encouraging. “Be of good cheer,” he answered. “You labour under a common affliction. Much may be done to cure it with patience and perseverance. I shall give you some exercises presently. And you must choose your recitations with closer regard to your voice and personality. The ethereal and the soaring don’t become you, Mr. Smith. Something in the rugged and masculine, and even grim manner we must find for you. ‘Eugene Aram,’ perhaps, or ‘Christmas Day in the Workhouse,’ or ‘The Brand of Cain.’” So that finished off Mr. Smith for the time being, and one felt, in a curious sort of way, that Aristotle’s pity and terror were there right enough, though not, of course, as Mr. Merridew exactly meant.