out to him the “bold, upholsterrific blunders” to be found in the architecture of the day, and commenting on them in a caustic, colloquial style—­large, loose, discursive—­a blend of Ruskin, Carlyle and Whitman, yet all Mr. Sullivan’s own.  He descends, at times, almost to ribaldry, at others he rises to poetic and prophetic heights.  This is all a part of his method alternately to shame and inspire his pupil to some sort of creative activity.  The syllabus of Mr. Sullivan’s scheme, as it existed in his mind during the writing of Kindergarten Chats, and outlined by him in a letter to the author is such a torch of illumination that it is quoted here entire.

    A young man who has “finished his education” at the
    architectural schools comes to me for a post-graduate
    course—­hence a free form of dialogue.

I proceed with his education rather by indirection and suggestion than by direct precept.  I subject him to certain experiences and allow the impressions they make on him to infiltrate, and, as I note the effect, I gradually use a guiding hand.  I supply the yeast, so to speak, and allow the ferment to work in him.

This is the gist of the whole scheme.  It remains then to determine, carefully, the kind of experiences to which I shall subject the lad, and in what order, or logical (and especially psychological) sequence.  I begin, then, with aspects that are literal, objective, more or less cynical, and brutal, and philistine.  A little at a time I introduce the subjective, the refined, the altruistic; and, by a to-and-fro increasingly intense rhythm of these two opposing themes, worked so to speak in counterpoint, I reach a preliminary climax:  of brutality tempered by a longing for nobler, purer things.

Hence arise a purblind revulsion and yearning in the lad’s soul; the psychological moment has arrived, and I take him at once into the country—­(Summer:  The Storm).  This is the first of the four out-of-door scenes, and the lad’s first real experience with nature.  It impresses him crudely but violently; and in the tense excitement of the tempest he is inspired to temporary eloquence; and at the close is much softened.  He feels in a way but does not know that he has been a participant in one of Nature’s superb dramas. (Thus do I insidiously prepare the way for the notion that creative architecture is in essence a dramatic art, and an art of eloquence; of subtle rhythmic beauty, power, and tenderness).

Left alone in the country the lad becomes maudlin—­a callow lover of nature—­and makes feeble attempts at verse.  Returning to the city he melts and unbosoms—­the tender shaft of the unknowable Eros has penetrated to his heart—­Nature’s subtle spell is on him, to disappear and reappear.  Then follow discussions, more or less didactic, leading to the second out-of-door scene (Autumn Glory).  Here the lad does most of the talking and shows