Methods in Reading by J. C. Brower

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Mar 12, 1908

Methods in Reading

By J. C. Brower

A Study in Literature

The Chambered Nautilus

“This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,— The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

“Its webs of living gauze no more un- furl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,— Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed.

“Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year’s dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

“Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—

“Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last,

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!”

Preparation on the part of the teacher—a thorough understanding of the poem and the lesson it teaches—is essential. I have found a large spiral shell very useful in studying the life of the nautilus. If this can not be had, a good drawing may be made on the board.

Have your pupils learn all the new words after reading it first to the class aloud. It would be fitting to correlate your work by having several nature studies about mollusks as an opening exercise for a few mornings, then in the afternoon have the class use it for a language exercise in a written story, with further correlation at the close of school, by having a spelling lesson with the words newly learned from the morning’s reading lesson.

The theme of this poem is humanity’s heart cry for freedom from sin. The subject is the “Chambered Nautilus.” Subjects and themes are not the same. This is true of all literary themes and subjects, the latter being the key-word of the embodiment.

The embodiment of this poem is a little dead nautilus; its life history as interpreted in its “sunless crypt” and “irised ceiling” now revealed; a long stretch of illimitable shore; the ocean depths; a boundless sea; an infinite sky—these and more are entirely adequate to express this theme. This theme, like all literary themes, deals with human life. It is universal, which is true of all themes in true literature.

The golden chord in literature, like that in mathematics, is the equation. Literary equations are just as fascinating and interesting as the equation in mathematics. Those in this poem are as follows:—

The “ship of pearl” is each human being; “the unshadowed main,” human life itself and all that it means. Again, we are termed a “venturous bark,” and we voyage oftentimes in “gulfs enchanted,” which are life’s pitfalls; the gentle “siren” is the tempter; the “coral reefs,” the things that do the work of destroying all who venture there.

In the second stanza, Dr. Holmes tells of the complete wreck of the little nautilus. Notice that its life record revealed the fact that its life was a “dim dreaming” one, ours one of achieving and doing; its life is dead to many things, for it can not converse nor see as we can, nor read, nor think, nor have noble ideals and follow them as we can. It has not the strength of noble manhood and womanhood, for it is a “frail tenant,” but nevertheless frail though it be, it does not allow its shell to master it, but shapes its “growing shell,” and is master of its destinies. We, too, often unlike the nautilus, permit our difficulties to overcome us, and succumb to environment. Notice that the little animal, while having a beautiful house, ever clean and garnished like the rainbow, works away continually in the depths of ocean darkness. Although nature has not endowed it with high and noble faculties, it does not murmur, nor complain, nor give up, nor is it dissatisfied with its lot, but plods on faithfully “year after year,” using the endowments given it to do its life-work. Its growth is not by jumps and bounds, for it spreads its “lustrous coil.” The little nautilus continually outgrew its shell—a thing we seldom do. We allow petty things to annoy us, forgetting that ’tis better to be wronged a thousand times than be the one who wrongs.

Quietly it makes its transition from a smaller shell to a larger every time—quite the contrary with humanity. Then it builds up “its idle door.” And why an idle door?—Simply because it will never in the nature of things use that door again. It could not if it wished, for it is physically larger than the year before, and has outgrown its shell. Its future dwelling is too large for it at first, so that it has to stretch “in his last-found home,” and knows “the old no more.” Just here is where the truth is idealized, and this makes it literature.

Low in the animal scale, with everything against it, the nautilus does something that we, with our much more complex life and manifold faculties, fail to do. It is an inverse ratio, and hence this line, the last one of the third stanza, makes this a noble selection of literature.

Humanity desires, yes, longs, to be like the nautilus in this respect, for this is an ideal. But, alas! we are not always careful to live the present so well that we have a larger dwelling, spiritually, than the preceding one, nor do we grow so large that we can not go back into our old ways again if we choose, nor do we build up “an idle door” between our past and present. We, like the nautilus, could shape our “growing shell” if we would; but we do not. We love the ideal some, but the real much better.

In the death of the nautilus the author reads its life’s history—an important lesson for him, and for us, also, for he is merely speaking for humanity. The notes of this message not only disturb the superficial senses, but enter the “deep caves of thought,” where the real conflict between right and wrong takes place.

Truly our past is a low-vaulted one; but is your new temple a nobler one than the last? Is your dome widening, giving you the desired freedom? Are you leaving your outgrown shell—never to use it again? J. C. BROWER.