>^ aWEUNIVERS/a ^lOSANCEl^^ O 55^HIBRARYQ<;^ ^^H!BR "^/jiiiAiNa-jwv ^ciAnvjian-^^ -< N."«> -^lllBRARYOc ^llIBRARYd?/r. %OJI1V3JO^ "^mmyi^ .^WEUNIVER.y/A .^OffAllFOP^^ ^^OFCAllFOff^ '^/5ii3AiNfi-3Uv ^'^Aavaaii-^ ^(?A«v}ian-^'^ ^illBRARYQ^. o\lllBRARY(9^^ '^.!/0JllV3JO'^ ^.!/0JllV3J0' .^WEUNIVERS/A ^vWSANCElfX;^ "^Aa^AiNnjwv ^.OFCAIIFO/?^ CI ^•OFCAllFOff^ AMEUNIVERS'//i vvlOSANCElfj^ o >&Aava8iT^^ "^lOSANCElfjv, o ^^UIBRARYQ^^ -^HIBRARYO^;^ ^i^lJONYSOl^ %a3AlNn3WV^ ^(JOJITVDJO'^ %Oi\mi^'^ AWEUNIVERS/A ^lOSANCElfx^ o o ^.OFCAIIFO% .^.OF-CALIFO/?^ %a]AiNnmv^ '^^Abvaaiii'^ ^6>A«vHan# l^ THE POPULAR ELOCUTIONIST AND RECITER: CLASSIFIED, ARRANGED, AND EDITED BY J. E. CAKPENTER, M.A., Pii.D, A NEW EDITION TJIOROUGULY HE VISED WITH ADDITIONS JIY LEOPOLD WAGNER. Hontion an"ti ilrh) ¥ork : FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. 1887. IXtNDON: BaACBDBT, AONEW, & CO., PKINTKES, ■WHITEUfBIARa. FN PEEFACE BY THE OEIGINAL EDITOE. A FEW words to account for the publication of " The Popular Elocutionist and Reciter." Some years since the Editor commenced his publication, " Penny Readings in Prose and Verse," which extended to twelve volumes of 256 pages each. A Library Edition in five volumes was subsequently issued, and of these two works about a quarter of a million copies have been disposed of. Though intended in the first instance for the use of platform readers only, they were adopted as an Elocution Class book in many public and private schools. For this purpose they ultimately became too bulky. The inconvenience of a school book extending over a series of volumes is so patent that it need scarcely be pointed out. It was to obviate this, and acting on the suggestion of several heads of schools, and esteemed professora of Elocution, that the present work was undertaken. The " Popular Readings," they asserted, con- tained so many more modern pieces than any of the " Speakers " now in use, that a selection of the best of them, excluding such as were adapted to the platform only, and classifying the rest, would supply a real want. The sale of numerous editions, revised and added to as oppor- tunity offered, has justified this opinion. A few concise rules on the art of Elocution, and a few only, have been prefixed, in which all that is necessary to be known is IX^ ?Ai JL* IV Pahlishers' Preface to this Revised Edition. briefly stated, it being the opinion of the Editor, and those who have favoured him with their advice, that not only has the veil of pedantry which has been thrown over so many treatises, rendered them obscure, and retarded the progress of the art, but that wherever this branch of education may be taught, but little good will be accomplished unless under the guidance of a judicious and skilful teacher. For the rules which are embodied in chapters 2 to 6 of the introductory matter the Editor is mainly indebted to his friend, the late Henry Marstou, Esq., of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. J. E. C. PUBLISHERS' PREFACE TO THIS REVISED EDITION. In consequence of the recent decease of the original compiler, it now passes to a new Editor, who has completely revised tho work to present date, expunged time-worn matter, and inserted selections from modern authors. This, we hope, will keep the work in the high reputation and prominent position it has held for so long a period. CONTENTS. PART L— ELOCUTION. PAaB I. Introductory .......... 1 II. Elocution considered a.s an Art ...... 4 III. On Pause 8 IV. On Inflection 11 V. On Pitch 14 VI. On Gesture 18 VII. On Reading Verse 24 VIII. Useful Hints 30 PART II.- SELECTIONS. MISCELLANEOUS READINGS IN PROSE. Labour The Clouds .... Autumn .... The Death of Paul Dombcy . One Niche the Highest . Love's Infatuation The Early Struggles of a Physician Fame v. Useful Toil . Modern Gallantry . Lessons of Creation My Holiday at Wretchcdville . The Death of Little Nell . The Flower of the Forest Thomas Corlylc . 33 John Rusldn . ^9 Rev. Archibald Alison 41 Charles Dickens . 42 Elihu Burriit 46 E. T. W. Hoffman 48 Samuel Warren 54 Nathaniel Haicthorne 57 Charles Lamb 58 John Rusldn CI George Augustus Sala 63 Charles Dickens 69 Professor Wilson . 73 VI Contents. Goldsmith in Green-Arbor Court , On the Fate of Robert Burns Poetry .... Tittlebat at Home . Sorrow for the Dead . Character of Dr. Johnson On the Study of Latin and Greek Sliabby-Genteel People . Cruelty to Animals Accompanied on the Flute Yachting Experiences . The Death of Nelson The Old Man at the Gate . The Planetary and Terrestrial Worlds The Clown Out of Service . At a Wrong Lecture . Washington Irving . Thomas Carlyle . . Dr. Channing . Samuel Wanxn . . Washington Irving . . Lord Macaulay . . Sydney Smith . Charles Dickens . . Dr. Chalmers . F. Anstcy . . F. C. Burnand . Robert Southey . . Douglas Jerrold . Joseph Addison . . Allan Laidlaxo . George Grossmith READINGS IN POETRY. Lycidas Lady Clara Vcre de V'erc To a Skylark . The Cataract of Lodorc The Sale of the Pet Lamb We are Seven . On his Mother's Picture Riding Together The Soul's Errand . The Cry of the Children The Deserted Village A Legend of Florence The Hush of Life . Zara's Ear-rings . To a Sea-Gull . \^^Evelyn Hope The High Tide Under Canvas. — Wound King Robert of Sicily The Rose and the Grave The Influence of Beauty John Milton . . Lord Tennyson . . Percy Bysshe S/ielley . Robert Southey . . Mary Howitt . . William Wordsivorth . William Cotcper . . William Morris Sir Walter Raleigh Mrs. E. B. Browning Oliver Goldsmith . Percy G. Mocaita Leopold Wagner J. G. Lockhart . Gerald Griffin Robert Broicning Jean Ingeloiu . Hon. H. B. Lytton 11. W. Longfellow Victor Hugo . John Keats Contents. vu January Wind . Maud Miiller . Excelsior . The Three Sons The Wonders of the Lane Home Again . The Fairy Child . Ode to the Almighty How May was First JIade The Child and the Dewdrops The Nightingale's Nest The Goldsmith's Daughter The Sicilian Vespers . The Battle of Morgarten . Ode for JIusic on Cecilia's Day Alexander's Feast . Cowper's Grave . The Slaves . . . . The Bells .... Lake Leman ly Night Elihu .... To Mary in Heaven To the Nightingale The Comet . . . . The Ministry of May . An Old Man's Idyll Gilderoy .... Three Fishers went Sailing The Mother's Lament . Napoleon's Midnight Review . The Last Man . The Sword Song Childe Harold's Farewell The Death of the First-Bo;n . The Alma. Skipper Ben The Warden of the Cinque Ports The Golden Madness . Memory .... Pope's Willow . The Phantom . Eobert Buchanan . J. G. Whittier . . H. W. LonrjjcUow . Rev. J. Moultrk . . Ebenezer Elliott . William Saivyer . , Br. Anster . . G. R. Dcrzhavin . Thomas Miller J. E. Carpenter . . John Clare Johann Ludwig Uhland J. G. Whittier Mrs. Ilemans Alexander Pope John Dryden Mrs. E. B. Browning J. E. Carpenter . Edgar Allan Poe . Lord Byron Alice Carey . Robert Burns John Keats . James Hogg T. K. Hervey Richard Realf . Thomas Campbell . Rev. Charles Kingslry Gerald Griffin Mcry and Barthelcmy Thomas Campbell . Theodore Korner Lord Byron . A. A. Walts The late Archbishop Trench . Lucy Larcom . II. W. Longfelloxo Charles Mackay Walter P. Bcarpark James Montgomery Bayard Taylcr Vlll Contents, The Fiist Grey Hair .... Phantoms ..... The Poet and the Kose The Mourning IMother of the Dead Blind The Burial of Moses .... A Dream ..... To-d.ay and To-morrow The Sands of Dee . PAOB Thomas H. Baily . 236 H. W. Lonrjfdloiv . . 237 John Gay . . .238 Mrs. E. B. Browning . 240 ^frs. C. F. Alexander . 242 , William AlUngham . . 244 , Gerald Massey . . 245 , Rev. Charles Khvjslcy . 246 ORATORY— FOEENSIC AND SENATORIAL. Benjamin Disraeli on the Character of the Prince Consort Victor Hugo on the Liberty of the Press . Heni-y Irving on the Art of Acting .... Lord Macaulay's Speech at the University of Glasgow Lord Palmerston on Competitive Examinations Mr. O'Connell in Defence of Mr. Magee . Robert Hall's Peroration on War .... George Canning on the Latent Power of England Kossuth's Farewell to his Country .... The Rev. Newman Hall on the Dignity of Labour . Benjamin Disraeli on the Death of AYellington Lord Brougham's Speech on the Reform Bill . Sir Robert Peel on the Constitution .... The March to Magdala Patrick Henry's Address to the American Congress Lord Chatham's Protest against the American War . Edmund Burke's Peroration on the Impeachment of \Yarr Lord Brougham on Negro Emancipation ... Mr. Sheridan's Panegyric on Justice .... Daniel Webster at the Centenary Celebration of Washington Mazzini to the Memory of the Martyrs of Cosenza Richard B. Sheridan on Taxation ..... The Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone on the Franchise Hastings 247 249 252 258 2C0 262 265 267 268 270 273 276 278 284 236 288 292 294 296 297 300 304 308 DRAMATIC SCENES AND DIALOGUES. Scene from the Merchant of Venice Wolsey and CromwcU . Proteus and Valentine . Shahspeare . Shakspeare . . Shakspeare 312 316 319 Contents. IX doene from Every Jlan in his Humour . Cato and Decius .... Scene from Venice Preserved Scene from the School of Eefona Scene from the Earl of Vi'arwick . Norval and Glenalvon Scene from the Iron Che.st . Scene from the School for Scandal . Scene from the Man of the World Scene from the Road to Ruin . Scene from Money .... Scene from John Bull Scene from the Lady of Lyons The First Act of London Assurance . Scene from Broken Hearts . Scene from It's Never Too Late to Mend Scene from Charles the First . . . . The Rc^jroach of Charles the Fii'st to his Betrayer PAGE Ben Jonson . . 320 Joseph Addison . . 323 Thomas OUcay . . 325 Thomas Morton . . 331 Br. Franklin . . 337 Rev. John Ilome . . 341 G. Colman the Younger 344 R. B. Sheridan . . 347 Charles MacUin . . 350 Thomas Ilolcroft . 354 Lord Buhvcr Lytton . 360 G. Colman the Younyer 363 Lwd Bulioer Lytton . 369 Dion Boucicaidt . . 371 W. S Gilbert . . 3S0 Charles Ecade . . 383 W. G. Wills . . . 38G W. G. Wills . . 393 DRAMATIC SPEECHES AND SOLILOQUIES. Hamlet's Advice to the Players Othello's Address to the Senate . Hotspur's Account of the Fop . Brutus to the Romans .... The Progress of Life .... Mark Antony's Oration over Caesar's Body Cassias Instigating Brutus to Oppose Cassar Hamlet's Soliloquy on the Soul's Immortality Clarence's Dream ..... Cato's Soliloquy Douglas's Account of Himself , Mordaunt to Lady Mabel .... Claude Melnotte on Pride Richelieu's Soliloquy ..... Glostcr's Soliloquy ..... Charles the First's Farewell Speech of Lucius Junius Brutus Wilfrid Denver's Dream . . . . Shalispeare . . . 394 Shaksj)care . . . 395 Shakspcare . . . 396 Shakspeare . . .397 Shakspearc . . . 398 Shakspieare . . . 399 Shakspearc . . . 401 Shakspearc . . . 403 Shaks2)eare . . . 404 Joseph Addison . . 406 Rev. John Home . . 406 , /. Westland Marston . 407 , Lordj Bulwer Lytton . 408 . Lord Bulwer Lytton . 410 . Shakspearc . . . 411 . W. G. Wills . . . 412 . John Hoicard Payne . 412 From " the Silver Kiny" 414 Contents. RECITATIONS. The Lifeboat . George R. Sims . 415 A Tale of the Dover Express . . Clement W. Sco't . . 41S 421 The Death of Absalom . . N. P. Willis . The Inchcape Kock . . . Robert Southey . • 423 Beth Gelert ...... . Hon. W. R. Spencer . 425 The Glove and the Lions . . Leigh Hunt 427 The Eaven • Edgar Allan Poe . 423 The Bridge of Sighs . . . Thomas flood 431 Hohenlinden . . . . • ' Thomas Campbell . 433 The Women of Mumbles Head . . Clement W. ScoU 434 The Fireman's Wedding . . IF. J. Eaton . 436 Over the HiU to the Toor-house . . . Will Carleton . . 439 Mary, the Maid of the Inn ' Robert Southcy . 441 The Pauper's Drive . • Thomas Noel . 444 The Sack of Baltimore . • Thomas Davis . 445 (lone with a Handsomer Man . . Will Carleton . . 447 A Bunch of Primroses • George R. Sims . 44S Lord UUiu's Daughter • Thomas Campbell . . 451 Elegy in a Country Churchyard ■ Thomas Gray . 453 The Dying Gladiator . ■ • Lord Byron . . 456 Lady Clare • Lord Tennyson . . 457 The Wreck of the Ilcsperus . . . y/, H'. LongfcUoip . . 459 Iloratius Keeps the Bridge • Lord Macauhiy . 461 Hymn before Sunris: . ■ ■ Samuel Taylor Coleridg e 467 Barbara Frietchie .... ■ J. G. Whittier . 469 Mabmoud • Leigh Hunt . 471 The Deluge • Anonymous . 472 The Ocean • Lord Byron 474 The Song of the Shirt ■ Thomas Hood 476 The Boat-Race .... • . W. C. Bennett . 478 The War of the League . • Lord Macaulay 481 The Old Grenadier's Story . ■ ■ G. Walter Thornbury 483 The Dream of Eugene Aram . • Thomas Hood 485 Where? ■ • P. Hope Meriscord 490 Our Folks . Ethel Lynn 491 The Bridge-Keeper's Story . . . W. A. Eaton . 493 The Strollers . • . . . . Robert Recce 496 WIT ANI ) HUMOUR. Look at the Clock . . Rev. R. H. Barham . 498 The Red Fisherman . . W. M. Praed . 505 Contents, XI Serjeant Buzfuz's Address . Monsieur Tonson .... The Showman's Song .... Vat you Please .... Modem Logic ..... Lodgings for Single Gentlemen My Swallow-tail .... Chateaux d'Espagne The Jabberw'ocky .... The Humorous Quack Nelly Gray The September Gale King John and the Abbot of Canterbury Wit at a Pinch .... Parson Turell's Legacy I Remember, I Remember The Bachelor's Lament Nothing to Wear .... The Vision of the Aldcnuan Father William .... The Well of St. Keyne Only Seven ..... Wanted — a Landlady .... The Owl Critic .... The Cockney Laugh and Get Fat .... The Legends of the Rhine . Wanted — a Governess The Tinker and the Miller's Daughter . The Song of the Season . A Practical Lesson in Ancient History . Charles Diclccns PAOB 510 John Taylor Henry J. Byron J. li. Planche . 514 518 520 Anonymous , G. Coltnan the Younger Leopold Wagner . Henry S. Leigh . . Leiiis Carroll 522 524 525 526 528 Leopold Wagner . . Thomas Hood 529 530 Oliver Wendell Holmes 532 Bishop Perey . . . Anonymous Oliver Wendell Holmes liev. R. H. Barham . 533 536 537 541 H. G. Bell . . . 542 W. A. Butler . 543 Henry S. Leigh . . Lewis Carroll 547 549 Rohert Southey . . 550 Henry S. Leigh . Leopold Wagner . . James T. Fields . 551 552 553 J. Godfrey Saxe . . W. M. Praed . 555 556 Bret Harte . . 558 George Duhourg . Dr. John Wolcot . . 559 560 H. Sidherland Edwards 562 Max Adder 563 THE POPULAK ELOCUTIONIST AND KECITEE. PART L— ELOCUTION. CHAPTEE L INTRODUCTORY. If English Grammar be truly defined as " the art of spealcing and writing the English Language with propriety,'.' then, assuredly, the practice of elocution should form a component part of the curri- culum of every school and college. That such has not been the case until a very recent period, and is even now only pai-tially so, is evidenced by the fact that among all classes of society there is no complaint more general than that of the rarity of good readers. "And how," asks a wi-iter in a recent number of the English Churchman, " can it be otherwise ? The laity complain, and most justly, of the bad reading inflicted on them Sunday after Sunday. Candidates for the ministry have no proper instruction, either in public schools or universities. They enter on their professional duties mth provincialisms and cockneyisms uncorrected, and posi- tively read worse than many members of their congregation. These evils are the necessary consequence of the inadequate estimate of the cud in view, and the means to be employed for its attainment." " Some take half a dozen lessons, perhaps, from a strolling player, or trust to one lecture on church reading, given by the examinino chaplain at the close of the examination for holy orders ! The only time mode is a regular course of instruction." As far as regards the requirements of the clergy, the evil may be cured in after life, but B 2 Elocution. it is to be feared that in many cases it is too deeply rooted to be easily eradicated. The fault lies in the general neglect in childhood )r early manhood of the habit of reading aloud, and the almost /otal absence of any attention to teaching it in a scientific yet natural manner. Professor Charles John Plumptre, in " A Plea for the Art of Reading Aloud," thus grapples with the subject : — " What is the cause of thi^ admitted neglect of the art of reading in so many schools and families ? "Why is it that elocution has been of late years so much disregarded as a part of education, and yet music, singing, drawing, and other accomplishments, have all received their due share of attention ? One reason is, I believe, to be found in the fact that this very word, elocution, has been made ahughear of, and has frightened away many from its study, through a completely erroneovis interpreta,tion of its meaning and character. Do not many persons imagine that the study of elociition must lead to a pompous, bombastic, stilted, or pedantic style — a style in which the artificial reigns predominant over everything that is simple and natural ? I can only say, if elocution meant anything of the kind I should be the last man to advocate its adoption in schools or anywhere else. If I am asked to define what I then mean by elocution, I think I should answer — ' That which is tlio most effective pronunciation that can be given to words when they are arranged into sentences and form discourse.' In this of course I include the appropriate inflections and modulations of the voice, the purity of its intonation, the clearness of articulation, and, vjJien svifahh to the occasion, the accompaniments of ey|n*ession of coun- tenance and action. This art of elocution, then, I may further define as that system of instruction which enables us to pronounce written or extemporaneous composition with proper energy, cor- rectness, variety, and personal ease ; or, in other words, it is that style of delivery which not only expresses fully the sense and the words so as to be thoroughly understood by the hearer, but at the same time gives the sentence all the power, grace, melody, and beauty of which it is susceptible. " Is it not strange, let me ask, when we reflect on the marvellous lX)wer which spoken language has to excite the deepest feelings of Introductory. 3 our common natiire, that the cultivation of the art of speaking which once received so much attention, should afterwards and for so long a time have been almost completely neglected ? "We know i/hat imjiortance the ancient orators of Greece and Rome attached to the study of rhetoric. The prince of them all, Demosthenes, asserted that ' Delivery' (under which term is included ever3rthing that relates to the effective management of voice, look, and gesture) is the first, the second, and the last element of success in a speaker. And surely this ia as true in our own day as it was in his. For even assuming that a youth has no apparent prospect of debating in Parliament, of addressing jiidges or juries at the Bar, or appealing on the most solemn and important topics of all from the pulpit, does it therefore follow that he need bestow no trouble in learning to speak his native language elegantly and effectively ? Will he never have occasion to read aloud in his family circle, or to a company of friends, some leader from the Times or other newspaper, some cha])tcr from a book,- or some verses from a i:)oem ? And what a difference will there be in the effect produced ui^on the reader and upon his audience accordingly as this is done well or ill ! We are most of us in the present day accustomed to have our sons and daughters taught dancing, drilling, or calisthenic exercises, that give sti*ength, flexibility, and elegance to the limbs — aaid very excellent are all such accomi^lishments in their way. But after all, the limbs are portions of our frames far less noble than the tongue ; and yet, while no gentleman who can afford it hesitates about expending time and money in sending hiss son to the fencing, drilling, or dancing master, how few, compara- tively, send as systematically their children to the elocution master, to be taught the full development of that which is the crowning gloiy of man — the divine gift of speech." That during the last few years the custom of reading before a public audience has become very general, the platform of the so- called " Penny Readings" bears ample testimony, and many and deep must have been the lamentations of a majority of the readers that they had not in their youth been taught this essential branch of a thorough English education. It is to be feared that this slip- shod reading to audiences for the most part incapable of appreciat- B 9 4 Elocution. ing the style, however much they may have rehshed the matter, has done but little as ytt towards the cultivation of a correct taste At the same time it is h be hoped that some results may spring from the fashion we have indicated, and that it will not pass away as a mere whim of the moment, or be superseded by a style of entertainment more objectionable. If it has awakened in the parents and guardians of youth a sense of the importance of their being taught at school to read well, it has done something, and wt must wait for the boys who are now being educated for it to bear /ruit. CHAPTER II. ELOCUTION CONSIDERED AS AN ART. Oratory, like poetry, is a gift, and cannot be acquired; the con- ception of original ideas and the ability to put them ra]5idly into form is common to both — but as versification is to poetry what elocution is to oratory, both may be improved by study; tlv.' versifier become in some sense a poet, and the elocutionist an orator. There must, however, always remain a wide gulf between the two. which no mere theoretical knowledge can bridge over. To be able to speak and read well — that is, with a graceful and elegant enunciation of our native tongue — must certainly rank amongst the foremost accomplishments ; and the truth of this pro- position appears to be very generally admitted, and attested by the pleasure that is so universally derived from a just, appropriate, and harmonious delivery ; for as language is the medium through which we communicate our thoughts, feelings, and impressions, so the force and power it exerts over us must naturally be considerably modified by the manner in which it is conveyed to us. To the cultivation of this power the Art of Elocution addresses itself, and is defined to be, the just and graceful management of the Voice, Countenance, and Gesture. The importance of this art has been felt and acknowledged in all countries Avherein civilization and learning have attained their highest state of perfection. Even from the earliest times it has ever been esteemed an indispensable branch of educa;tion ; nor caii Elocution Considered as an Art. 5 its too common neglect with us be justified when we reflect upon its nature, and its ahnost paramount necessity, not alone as regards Ihose who aspire to distinguish themselves in Parliavient, at the Bar, or in the Fulp'd, but even as to its influence in the transactions of commercial life and the management of large public societies. Nor is it possible to deny the grace and charm with which it invests the conversation of the scholar and the gentleman ; for, as Cicero has justly observed, "yl cultivated address and a Jcnoivledye of its frincii^les are highly ornamental and useful even in private life."* And surely the truth of this observation must, at some time or other, have been apparent to most of us when we have witnessed the eff'orts of some unfortunate youth who has unexpectedly been called u])on to entertain a family circle, by reading a selection from the works of a favourite author ; or, on the contrary, have been charmed by the correct and pure enunciation — the just and natural harmony — with which, it may be, some other friend has, on a similar occasion, entranced the attention and elicited the applause and delight of all around him. Nor are the disadvantages from the neglect of this very essential branch of a perfect and polite education in oratory — that is, the extemporaneous expression of our own thoughts and sentiments — less apparent. How many instances may be cited where awkward- ness of address, and a stammering and confused style of delivery, have imperilled a good cause, whose advocate, defective only in this respect, has been compelled to succumb before mere fluency of speech and confident volubility. And yet, strange as it may ap- pear, there are those who either deny the possibility of teaching this art or ignore the benefits derived from its cultivation, aflu-ming it to be altogether inutile, and that nature, unassisted, is alone sufficient as a guide, whether in speaking or reading — many men, as they assert, being able to do both the one and the other, not only correctly but gracefully, who are totally unacquainted with the rules and principles of elocution. But if we accept thoroughly ' the deductions they would have us derive from arguments like these, we must asstime that there are no bad readers or speakers Clc. de Orat. lib. i. 6. Elocution. at all, though our observation and constant experience unfortu- nately prove to the contrary ; and does it therefore follow that because isolated instances exist, where from a happy combination of circumstances the gifts of nature may be disjjlayed in their perfection by unassisted genius, that there is no utility in art or culture as regards those who are less fortunate ? In fact, it is from such native powers and instinctive eflforts that the whole principles of elocution are deduced. As au art, it is, like others, entirely imitative : Nature in hej- most graceful and harmonious expressions of the intentions, senti- ments, and emotions of the mind, being the model ; and the rule* of that art teach us to reproduce in our utterance of the thoughts of others, the same tones, inflections, and pauses with which Nature has invested our own. It is not indeed pretended that by the study and application of those rules excellence can be insured, or an equal proficiency attained by all ; that of course must depend on natural powers and capacity ; but few who have deeply considered the subject will be disposed to deny the great advantages that might accrue from a systematic instruction in this art in early hfe, when the vocal organs are phable and ductile, the observation keen, and the ear quick and sensible of modulation, for it is precisely at this period much of the evil from its neglect arises. It is by the neglect of all study that either a drawling kir.d of monotony, a uniform rehearsing tone, by which a dull, unvaryaig sound, unbroken by inflection or pause, is acquired, producing a wearying effect on the ear, or that a no less disagreeable sensation is inflicted from a diametrically opposite cause, viz., a constant rising and fallmg of the voice totally regardless of the nature or feeling of the subject delivered, and this careless unanimated whining manner, uncorrected, becomes a habit not easily eradicated. Now, we have to consider what are the principles and rules for a just ajid appropriate delivery in reading as laid down by the art of elocution as opposed to this, and they consist, first, in a distinct articulation modified by tone to the emotions of the mind, next in the judicious observance of imuse, inflection. and ern^lmsis, as governed by the sense, and lastly, the liey or fitch, Elocution Considered as an Art. T being the proper management of the voice ; and to these are added gesture or action when referring to oratory or recitation. Of the material consequence that attaches to the first of these, viz., articulation, there can hardly be any dispute. The most essential quality in a speaker being distinctness, not only as regards the pleasure with which he is heard, but also the comfort and con- venience of himself, a moderate power of voice being audible at a much greater distance, provided the articulation is pure and cor« rect, than would be the case with a much stronger organ if con* fused or indistinct in its utterance. Defects in this jjarticular are chiefly attributable to a too great precipitancy of speech, and are not unfrequently the resiUt of school repetitions, in which readi- ness and quickness of utterance are considered, often, rather a clever achievement on the part of the pupil, and a satisfactory evidence of being perfect by the master. Be this as it may, the result is a bad habit, and the most effectual method of counteracting and rsmoving it that perhaps can be suggested, is the daily practice of reading aloud either a vocabulary of words or some literary com- position, neglecting altogether its construction or sense, and paying attention only to the pronunciation of every syllable, particularly regarding the vowel sounds in all their tonic variety, and in this manner going through the entire task slowly and distinctly, much slower indeed than would be necessary if read in the proper man- ner. The indistinctness acquired by sacrificing sense to rapidity may, by the opposite process, be removed. This will be found also a very efficient way of strengthening the voice in all its pitches : of wliich hereafter. For a correct accentuation, which should be invariably associated with articidation, that is easily attainable by reference to the pro- nouncing dictionary, and for that purpose the most modeni will always be the best, as fashion in many instances is the authority. Above all things, mind your aitclu's — an aitch dropped or wrongly aspirated, is to an educated ear what a note played out of tune ii to a musician's. Remember, too, that we have many words spelt alike and pronounced differently, accordingly as they are used as nouns or verbs — look these out in the piece you ;ire about to read, if you have any doubt, and consult yowr dictionary. 8 Elocution. CHAPTER III. ON PAUSE. Though it woixld be wrong to affirm, of any particular branch of the " art of elocution," that it is the first in importance, since they all act, as it were, in combination, and each contributes its share essentially in imparting force, elegance, feeling, or harmony to the delivery of the perfect reader or speaker, according to the variety of character with which Infinite Goodness has endowed that supreme and distinctive gift, the articulate voice of man ; yet, as the ease and propriety with which we are enabled to pronounce written language, or our own extemporaneous effusions, is mainly dependent on the theory of pausing, its skilful adaptation may at least be considered the foundation on which the art of reading and speaking is in some measure based. To appreciate it pro- perly, it is necessary we should understand the difference that exists between language as it addresses itself to us through two different mediums — those of the eye and the ear — to the first by written oharacters, and to the latter by oral expression. Kow, the system of punctuation or stops, by which the former of these is distinguished, can only be considered sei-viccable as it in- structs the silent reader in the grammatical construction of the subject before him, and he is thus guided in the sense of his author; that is, if they are correctly placed, which, however, may not alwaya be the case. These, then, for distinction sake, we will call " Grammatical Pauses." But these are by no means sufficient for the purpose of reading aloud, and it is the ignorance, or disregard of this fact, that is the foundation of many false rules of instruction in this partiailar branch of education. Hence the common direction, "mind your stops," by which is meant, those alone that appear on the printed page, with no reference at all to any others that may be deemed necessary, and indeed are absolutely essential to correct oral delivery. Hence, too, the second injimction, which is "that the breath is never to be drawn but at a full stop." Now, concerning these stops, On Pause, 9 we are told, that a " comma" is a rest while you can count one, a "semicolon" two, a " colon " three, and a " period" four, and by this precise division of time, it is evident that they are generally accepted as sufficient for all the purposes, not only of sense, but ex- pression also. But herein lies the error ; for, as Mr. Walker truly observes, " Not half the pauses are found in printing which are heard in the pronunciation of a good reader or speaker;" and these, which we distinguish as " Rhetorical Pauses," are necessary to him, to enable him to take breath, reheve the organs of speech, and to friable the attention of his auditors, im wearied by the continuity of sound, to follow with a perfect appreciation of the meaning of thai which he utters. The difficulty of laying down absolute rules for the exact appli- cation of these pauses, is manifest in the many elocutionary works extant in which it has been essayed ; and however excellent in them- selves and useful to the teacher those works may have been, it is to be feared that much confusion and perplexity must have been occa- sioned to the uninitiated, from their very extent and technicality ; and this, perhaps, has caused one writer on the subject to say that no such rules can be laid down ; but the fact appears to be, that when the Bheforical Pauses are added to the " grammatical," assist- ing them by divisions of thought and feeUug, they are dependent to a certain degree on the judgment of the speaker, and thus, perhaps, appear to be arbitrary ; yet it is possible to give something like a general direction, which may serve, by the observation of the student, as a partial guide at all events. The Rhetorical Pauses, then, consist of three rests of different Jurations of time — viz., the smaller, or sliort imuse, answering in this respect to the comma; the greater, or middle lyause, to the semicolon; and the greatest, or rest, to the pei-iod, or full stop. To the first of these, on account of the frequency of its recurrence, and consequent assistance rendered to the speaker, the most im- portance is attached. This pause is generally used after several words occurring in one phrase, serving as the nominative to some verb : The objective phrase in an inverted sentence — that is, sentences the number of which, when inverted as to order, preserve the same sense : 30 Elocution. The emphatic word of force, and the subject of a sentence : Each number of a "series," whether single; that is, composed of single words, or compound, being composed of sentences. It should be used also lefovc the infinitive mood : Prepositions (except when part of one phrase), relative pronouns, and conjunctions, adverbs of time, similitude, and some others : In some cases, for the sake of emphasis, it is used after disjunc- tions. Whatever number intei-\'enes between the nominative case and the verb, must be considered to be of the nature of a parenthesis, and is therefore separated from both of them by the short pause. The greater, or middle limise, is properly to be used when a sen- tence is composed of two principal parts, in the first of which, the sense being incoviplete or suspended, is perfected by the latter; the pause taking place at that point v/here the sense begins to be com- plete, thus dividing it into distinctive portions, each of which, it is to be observed, has also a distiactive tone, or inflection. The "great rest," or "full pause,'' completes the entire sense, and being identical with the " period," can therefore be well understood. To these various rests a fourth is sometimes added by writers on this subject, which they term the " long paiiseT It is mentioned here as being chiefly of use to the orator, as, by marking certain divisions in his subject — a change of ideas, or a return from a di- gression — it afi'ords him, in the heat of argument, or the eff"ects of exhaustion, time to collect himself, and it may be, an opportunity for correcting the tone or pitch of voice, which from excitement may have become raised too high to be sustained with comfort or eflect. To return, however, to the erroneous direction noticed, viz., " That the breath is never to be drawn but at a full stop or period." It has been before observed that the use of these pauses is for the greater ease and facility of the speaker. The absurdity of this injunction miTst be therefore most apparent, since the fact is really that at every Due of these rhetorical pauses or rests, the breath receives, or should receive, a gentle, insensible, but at the same time inaudible, in- si^iration ; and thus the lungs, like the bellows of an organ, being constantly supplied and inflated with fresh breath, the power of the speaker is considerably increased by the very control he is enabled On 111 flection. 11 to exercise in the increase or climinishment of its power at will, after the manner of the "crescendo " and "diminuendo" in mvisic. If the student would practically test this, let him take up the Exordium to Milton's First Book of " Paradise Lost." Now there are four periods in that fine opening ; the first consisting of nine and a half hues, the next six and a half, the third five and a half, and the last four and a half. Let him try to accomplish the delivery of the fii'st period without taking breath. If he succeeds he ma^; rest satisfied that he possesses lungs of the consistency of leather with the capacity of the cave of ^olus ; but as this experiment will infallibly prove the contrary, let him again essay, using not only the punctuated or grammatical, but the rhetorical pauses in aid, ac- cording to the general rules already recited, and he will find himself able to master not the first period alone, but also to reach the end of the subject through the three succeeding ones with the greatest ease and facility, and in addition he will learn also this, that in at- tempting to pronoimce more in a breath than he could conveniently eff"ect, and neglecting those pauses Avhere the breath ought to be taken, he has been obliged to pause where the sense, not being separable, forbade it, and thus has rendered the whole of his subject an unintelligible jumble. CHAPTER IV. ON INFvLECTIOX. Let us now proceed to consider that portion of the art on which the form, variety, and harmony of speaking mainly depends, and that vfiW be found to consist in the proper use of the two inflections of the voice. Most if not all the defects which are discernible in the generality of readers, with regard to " inflection," arise from an artificial habit acc^uired in early yoiith of reading with different tones and cadences from those which they are accustomed to vise in sjieaking. Kow, whatever may be the cause from whence it originates, a more fatal error, one more subversive of propriety of delivery, does not exist ; for iu reading, the utterance should be so regulated as to fall on the ears of the auditors as though we were conveying to them 12 Elocution. the sentiments of the author- as if they were the emanations of our own mind. Mr. Sheridan, in his " Lectures," observes, " There are few per- sons who in private company do not deliver their sentiments with propriety and force in their manner whenever they speak in earnest; consequently, here is a sure standard for propriety and force in public speaking." And this observation must apply therefore equally to reading ; but to reduce this to jDractice it is essentially necessary that we should first be perfect masters of the nature and subject-matter to be delivered, and the intention of the author ; and to this end, therefore, it is always advisable that the student should accustom himself in his private practice, first, to peruse carefully the composition he intends to read aloud, so as entirely to comprehend the full meaning and import of the words, and the general construction of the language, the character of which some- times bears the distinctive impress of its particular ^Yl•iter, and then let him endeavour to deliver it as if the ideas and sentiments were his own, and in that natural and forcible manner as in that case he (vould ; and this can only be effected by obser\'ing those various in- flections of voice which Nature herself has prescribed, and adapt- ing them according to the form and sense of tlie various sentences. These consist of the " Rising," the " Falling," and the " Cir- cumflex," or " Compound Inflections." The first of these is so called from the voice rising or ascending upwards, the second when it falls or slides downwards, and the last when both the risin<:j and falling inflection is combined in the same word, or even in more than one, as is sometimes the case ; but when the voice continue!* on the same note, it is then said to be " monotone." The " Circumflex Inflection " is capable of being again sub- divided for distinction's sake into the rising and falling circumflex, according as it commences with either the rising or falling slide of the voice. Now, in speaking, the voice is regulated either by the imphed or expressed sense or feeling of the subject, or nature of the sentence ; that is, it indicates either that the sense is complete or suspended — is "Affirmative," "Negative," "Interrogative," or "Imperative" Thus, suspended sense is accompanied and marked by the " rising On Inflection. 1 3 inflection," coupled witli the " middle ;pause " we have before spoken of iu a previous part of our subject. " Complete or finished sense " is distinguished by the falling, and to it also belongs the " fuU pause," answering to the period or full stop, as before mentioned. But here it is necessary to notice a veiy common en-or — one cal- culated to generate a bad habit, and one therefore that ought to be exploded for ever ; it is the very common direction to drop the voice at the end of a sentence. Now, the last part of a sentence — and more especially the last word, as it completes the sense — must of necessity be the most essential to the perfect understanding of that sentence. To let it, therefore, fall listlessly or feebly on the ■ear, so as to strain the attention of the auditor, or reduce him to the bewildennent of guessing at its import, is a manifest absurdity. The fact is, it should ever be considered of equal importance to the first ; and, though receiving the downward inflection of the voice, as such maintain its full tone, pitch, and enunciation. To jjroceed, however. The Affirmative sense is indicated liy the lalling, and the Negative, as a general rule, receives the wsing in- flection. The same applies to the Interrogative sentences, while the Imperative is distinguished by the falling : of course, it must be understood that all these are subject to certain exceptions, which exceptions are caused l>y the influence of what is termed the em- phasis* of force or feeling, and depend, therefore, on the judgment and intelligence of the speaker. The compound or circumflex inflection, as we have before stated, both descends and ascends in what may be described as a curve of the voice, and is generally used in strong or vehement interrogation, its extent being determined by the force or extent of the passion by which it is governed; it is expressive of "Wonder" " Contempf," " Scorn;' " Eidlcnlc;' "Irony;' &c., &c. The speech of " Brutus," in the quarrel scene between himself and " Cassius," will afi"ord an apt illustration of the nature of this particular inflection of the voice, beginning " AH this, and more," Ac, &c. * This cniiihusit; btiug distiuguisLcd from the emphasis of souse iii its iuflt'ction by the domiuatiou of the feeling ^v-ith which it is used. 14 Elocution. The same inflection must be given to all words or jilirases whose meaning and construction are in apposition, but when antithetical or opposed to each other, they demand opposite inflections, and by this agreement of tone in the first and opposition in the latter case, the sound, as it were, is to the ear in accordance with the sense. "When many antithetical members, however, follow in succession, for the sake of variety and harmony, the inflections should be alternated. Let the student refer for an example of this to 1 Cor. XV. 39, 40 :— 39. All flesh is not the same flesh; but there is one kind of flesh of men, another flesh of beasts, another of fishes, and another of birds. 40. There are also celestial bodies, and bodies terrestrial ; but the glory of the celestial is one, and the glory of the terrestrial is another. We have instanced these two verses only ; but the whole chapter, indeed, from the 20tli verse, not only m respect to this, but every other rule, is an admirable exercise in "inflection;" and its perfect delivery must at all tunes declare the accomplished elocutionist. CHAPTER V. ON PITCH. The management and modulation of the voice is another branch of the art of elocution to wliich the student who is ambitious of becoming a good and effective reader or speaker should devote the most sedulous attention, and for this purpose it is necessary for him to be thoroughly acquainted wdth the theory and nature of the various pitches of that organ, for by them not only does he derive the variety that is so pleasing to the ear, and secure for himself re- lief from that inconvenience which his ignorance or neglect in this respect must inevitably entail on him, but he is enabled to exhibit by their just and appropriate use the various emotions and senti- ments of his subject, whether they belong to himself or others, with the greater force and power of expression. On Pitch. 15 The human voice has been obsei-vecl to possess three distinct iones, and these are distinguished as "high, low, and middle pitch." Of these, the one most used is the middle, for the reason that it ig the tone which we naturally are accustomed to in common discourse, and is therefore, from its frequent exercise, generally stronger. It must also be apparent that being easier to rise or fall from it to a liigher or lower key, it ought, with few exceptions, to be the one we should adopt when not excited by any pai'ticular passion — as, for instance, in calm narration, descriptive statement, or moral re- flection. Now, it cannot have escaped the notice of even the most casual observer that the instant the mind, even in ordinaiy conversation, receives the impression of any particular emotion, the voice becomes inilected, either upward or downward, to the higher or lower portion of its register, its range being determined by the force or intensity of that emotion. There is a higher, sharper, and shriller tone at- tained by rage, and a deeper one by sorrow. It is therefore ex- pedient that a just appreciation and a skilful adaptation of these tones should be attended to. Having already noticed the first of these, its quality and character, on proceeding to the high pitch, we shall find that it is the proper key of all the more impulsive passions or elevated feel- ings. To it belong rage, threatening, denunciation, invective, joy, and exultation, and, indeed, all eager and animated speech in general ; while, on the contrary, grief, melancholy, veneration, deep \hought, serious reflection, hate, and suppressed passion, belong to ihe low pitch. It is necessary, however, to observe, that there is a great dis- tinction between the terms high and loio, and loud and soft, for these fire often confounded. This latter, it should be clearly understood, merely signifies the degree of force or volume of sound it may be deemed necessary to use in the same key, nnd answers precisely to the forte smi piano in music, whilst the former intimates a change of key altogether. Pitch, therefore, is independent o{ force, though force may add frequently to the efiect oi pitch. From the want of a proper knowledge of this it is by no means an uncommon occuiTcnce for both orators and readers to commence 16 Elocution. at once on the highest key of their voice, under the mistakes, idea that they Avill be heard with greater ease ; but this, indeed, is a fatal mistake. In the first place the voice loses its natural power and pliability, producing a monotony of tone that rapidly wearies the auditory, and, in the next, from the unnatural strain to which it is subjected, the organ becomes distressed and weakened, and languor and hoarseness are the inevitable results. Besides, it must be self- evident that if a speaker begins in the middle pitch — that is, as a general rule— that being, as we have before observed, most i)robably the strongest, he is also able to rise or fall from it according to the range of his voice, and must therefore with greater facility produce those effects which belong to the varying expression of the different emotions his subject may afford him. With regard to the proper rule for proportioning tlie quantity or loudness of the voice to the size of the arena in which the speaker may be called upon to exercise his powers, two very great authori- ties appear to differ. Mr. Sheridan, for instance, says — " Let the speaker, after having looked around the assembly, fix his eyes on that part of the auditory which is farthest from him, and he wiU mechanically endeavour to pitch liis voice so as that it may reach them ; for his business is to consider himself as addressing his discourse to some one amongst them, in such a manner as that he may be heard by him, and if the person be not beyond the reach of his voice he will not fail to effect it. But," he observes — and this is the point most carefully to be preserved in the student's memory — " still he is to take care not to change his usual pitch in order to do this, but only to add force or degree of loudness in proportion to the distance." Now, Mr. Walker on this jioint recommends the reader or speaker to pursue a diametrically opposite plan. Commenting on the passage here quoted from Mr. Sheridan, he goes on to say — " This, I fear, would be attended by very ill consequences if the assembly were very large ; as a speaker would be strongly tempted to raise his voice, as well as to increase its force ; and by this means begin in a key much too high for the generality of his audience, or for his own power to continue it. Tlie safest rule, therefore, is certainly to begin as it were with those of tho assembly that arc On Pitch. ' J/ nearest to lu." The reason assigned for this by Mr. Walker is, that it is so much easier to raise the pitch than to bring it down, that the speaker will insensibly do this as he proceeds, and that however low the key may be in which he begins, he will be audible, provided he is articulate. " Who shall decide when doctors disagree P" But as we see here that Mr. Sheridan expressly states that the hexj is not to he clianged^ and onhj iv creased in force or loudness, according to the theory at first laid down, it is to be feared that if the assembly be large, as Mr. "Walker premises, that gentleman's speaker would not be heard by the remote part of the audience at all ; while it must follow as a matter of course, that if the extreme portion of it be reached by the force, not pitch of the si^eaker, all within that range, as a natural consequence, must participate in the delivery of his discourse. Few voices, however, are so perfect as not to require some sort of education in order to enable them to compass with facility an extensive range into either the higher or lower keys, and on extra- ordinary occasions it may even be necessary to touch on the ex- tremes of either. This can only be effected by practice. Therefore, as in the directions concerning articulation we stated that by reading slowly and pronouncing every Kyllable clearly and distinctly in the middle tone, that particular pitch would be greatly strengthened, we venture to recommend that the self-same process be diligently and perseveringly applied in the same manner to the other two — viz., ifithout reference to the sense of the passages to be read, but to the .soivnd, and the compass and power of the voice in the higher and lower portions of its register will be much extended. The student should, in addition to this exercise, carefully select and read aloud such scenes or passages as require these particular pitches, and Btlapt them accordingly ; and more especially those in which the particular passion they indicate appears to intensify or culminate, so as to go through all the gradations of either, without abruptly ^ping, as it were, from one pitch to another. IS Elocution. CHAPTER VL OJf GESTUB.E. Undek fhis head is included the whole deportment of the body, in order that it may be justly adapted to the nature and emotions of the subject pronounced, 'ihe disposition of the limbs, the move- ments of the hands, the carriage of the head, and even the move- ments of the eyes and direction and expression of the countenanc« altogether. For every passion, emotion, or sentiment, has 8om« attitude, look, or movement peculiar to itself; any incongruity, therefore, either by vague, awkward, or unsuitable and inconsistoul gesture, not only frustrates the intention of the speaker, but in many instances becomes ridiculous and absurd ; for the object of public speaking is either to instruct, to please, or to persuade : and how can either of these objects be attained if the orator bo devoid of propriety, force, or grace ? Cicero calls action " the language of the body," and further ob- serves, "It is action alone that governs in speaking, wthout which the best orator is of no value, and is often defeated by one in other respects much his inferior." And, indeed, the orators of Greece and Home appear to have attached the utmost importance to this par- ticular department of elocution ; for not only were they accustomed to employ persons whom they called " phonasci," whose office was to teach the modulations of the voice, but also others for special in- struction as to voice and gesture combined ; the latter being generally eminent and experienced actors selected from their theatres ; and in fact, by this practical method it was that they attained that high degree of excellence of which we have so many records. Nor indeed can the higher graces of ornamental delivery be communicated by the unassisted medium of written precept and mere theoretic rules. This has been the attempt of many works on this subject, but it is to be feared with little or no success, amongst the best of wliich perhaps, may be reckoned Austin's " Chironomiu," the author in that work, endeavouring, by means of plates and diagrams of various kinds, to illustrate the theory of action ; but undoubtedly clever On Gesture. 19 and ingenious as the idea is of establishing a certain fixed system of gesticulation, it can hardly do more than impart to the practically aninstructed a mechanical stifi"ness and a studied, constrained, and artificial manner, instead of an easy, graceful, yet powerful action and expression. Mr. Sheridan, no mean authority, appears to be of this oijinion also, for he says, regarding those who ad- vocate instruction of this nature, "They who judge in this manner have not sufficiently considered the nature of the subject, and there- fore attribute more i)0wer to precept alone than it is possessed of." The fact is, that practical rules differ much from those that are merely speculative ; nor will informing the understanding in some cases produce by any means a perfect execution, without other assis- tance. Can any one be taught to sing or to dance without the aid of masters, and patterns for imitation ? The most, therefore, that can be done without this aid is to afibrd Buch plain directions, and general information with regard to the art, as, being easily comprehended, may be useful to the student, and come within the range of his own application to private prac- tice. The first thing to be considered, and one of infinite importance, both to the orator or reciter, since much value must ever be attached to first impressions, is the manner in which he presents himself before the assembly it is his purpose to address. This, of course, depends in some manner on the nature of his subject, and in this the asi^ect or countenance of the speaker bears no incon- siderable i^art. Thus, for instance, a sedate expression at once im- plies a mature consideration of the argument about to be advanced, and communicates insensibly an idea of its importance. And on the contrary, a cheerful air raises the expectation of being enter- tained with a pleasant and agreeable discourse. But above all, a ^vandering look, an air of levity, or a haughty, supercilious manner, which either fails to excite respect or else begets distaste, must be carefully avoided. Nor at the same time is a dejected appearance pleasing, unless the subject to be delivered is of a melancholy nature. In the case of addressing a large assembly, if the speaker desires to be heard perfectly from the opening of his oration, he shoiild by c 2 20 Elocution. no means begin at once, but having settled himself quietly and composedly in his position, with a steady and respectful look, suffer himself to take a survey of his auditory. This begets silence, and prepares them to become attentive. With regard to the extemporaneous speaker, it has the advantage of allowing him to collect his thoughts, to frame his first sentence, and sometimes to subdue that flurry of spirits which few who speak in public are entirely free from in the opening of an address. It should not be preserved too long, nor, on the contrary, be continually shifting, so as to beget a feeling of uneasiness, such as often arises from the fidgety shifting from one foot to the other (a fault very common with some speakers). But, fronting the audience, avoiding alto- gether a sidelong attitude, let the feet be firmly planted, yet not close together, but with one advanced, the body resting on the other, erect, not too stiff", but easily and flexibly adapting itself to the motion of the head and hands ; avoiding, however, anything approaching to a wavering motion, such as we are told by Cicero a Eoman orator called Curio was addicted to, and for which ho became the subject of a friend's joke, who once asked, " ]F7to is that falking out of a lout ?" A judicious management of the eyes, in awakening and insuring a continued attention, also deserves notice. Thoy should be neither wandering nor altogether fixed or staring, but generally gentle and moderate in their motions, and directed in turn to diff"erent portions of the audience, as if engaging each in common dis- course. In considering the movements of the arms and hands it should fee well understood that, to insure a graceful action, all an^jularittj must be strictly avoided ; and, therefore, this rule cannot be too carefully impressed upon the mind, viz. : That all motion must proceed from the shoulder, and not from the extremity of the fin- gers, and that the clhow should never be suffered to incline to the body ; nor should the hands assume a riijid and constrained appear- ance in the disposition of ihofiiujers, by being held open and jliil, as if about to administer a sound " lox on the ear," or sprea*! abroad like a lunch of radishes, or crookedly contracted like the daws of a crab : but moderately opened, let the inde^; or first On Gesture. 21 finger, lightly press the ruiddle one, the other two inclining gently inward towards the palm. This must, of course, be understood aj referring to the hands in a state of repose ; and when used in a tem- perate and unimpassioned address they contribute to that sim- plicity and grace — and, at the same time, dignity — that should at all times characterize the movements and bearing of the orator. Under the intluence of the passions, indeed, they assume other forma ; and most infinite is their use and variety : " Greater, m- deed," as Quintilian justly observes, " than can toell be expressed, for iliey are almost equal io our words. Do not xve desire tvitk ihcni, promise, call, dismiss, threaten, beseech, detest, fear, inquire, deny .'' Do iwt they express joy, sorrow, dunbt, coiifusion, penitence, measure, plenty, number, and time!' Do not they excite, restrain, prove, admire, and shame? That in so great a variety of speech among all nations and countries, this seems to me the common Ian- guagc of manhind.'' The ancients, however, differed greatly from us with respect to the use of both hands, confining their action — or, at least, their principal action — to the right; and it is not difficult to understand how this might be, when we consider the peculiar nature of their dress. A glance at a Greek or Eomau statue, attired in the chlamys or toga, at once illustrates this. The left arm being occupied in sustaining the folds of the drapery, could not well be used conveniently, or without derangement of its dis- position, though it is certainly difficult to conceive how, thus limited to the use of one hand for their chief expression, the for- cible passages and animated sentiments in those orations of theirs »vhich have been jircserved to us, could have been delivered. Ba this as it may, the modern orator is under no such restriction ; and it is not only pro]>er but needful that either hand occasionally should be used indiscriminately, as the principal gesture, or the position of the person addressed, may require; and sometmies distinctively the hft hand alternates its office with the right. With us the corresponding hand and foot are advanced; and here agaitf we differ from the ancients, Quintilian affirming as a ride that it should be the reverse, while we only make such a position exceif tional. As a general direction to be borne in mind— and the ex- ceptions to it are few indeed—all straight lines in the movements 22 Elocutimu of both hands and arms are to be avoided. Hogarth has laid it down as an axiom that the " Line of Beauty" is a flomng curve; and though this cannot be adapted to the ^ohole system of action, the princii^le may be safely made the general basis for its theoi-y to rest ujjon. Rarely — very rarely indeed — should the hands be raised above the eyes or extended beyond t'^e range of vision, the action of the right generally commencing on the left side and terminating on the right side ; and, vice versa, the same rule applies to the movement of the left hand. The stroke Avhich marks the emphatic word must descend on that word alone at the instant of its utterance. The movement of the arm and hand also should be sustained and suspended through the duration of a passage, and terminate pre- cisely with it : and wo may veiy well conceive this ti»iing of the gesture to be the probable if not the actual meaning of Shak- speare when, in his direction to the players, he says, " Sitit the rtc- tion to the tvord — the ivord to the action ;" for it can hardly be be- lieved that he alluded to descriptive or aiipropriatc action simply, such as raising the hand when appealing to heaven, or sinking it when speaking of the earth. And, in mentioning Shakspeare, it will scarcely be necessary to remind the student of his remarks concerning sawing the air, which is nothing more than the inces- sant repetition of the obnoxious straight-lined description of action before noticed. Having spoken of the indiscriminate use of both hands, it ia proper to add that neither should be used invariably alone. Nothing can ajijiear more ungraceful, not to say ridiculous, than to see one hand (either the right or left) constantly in motion, while the other hangs uselessly by the side, as if it had no sym- pathy in the discourse, or that the one-hand«d orator was afflicted with a i)artial paralysis. The fact is, that either hand should accommodate itself to and su])port the action of the other. The principal, which is called the Dominant, from the position of the orator as respects the side to which he directs his attention, havinj? the greatest extension and elevation, being always supported or se- conded by the Subject ivc hand, which is held somewhat below it, and ai->proximately nearer to the body. For the separate or com- On Gesture. 23 bined action of the hands, thus positioned as the nature of the sub- ject may demand, it is utterly impossible to lay down any specific rules ; and here it is that plates and diagrams must fail in describ- ing the transitions that are constantly occun-ing, creating to the uninitiated " confusion worse confounded," — resulting in a pedantic, affected, and unnatural gesture, without meaning, force, or grace. In demonstrating, appealing, and on some other special occasions, the hands may be moved forward almost on a level ; but when no active movement is required, they should be raised, in general as high as the breast, or sometimes a little below it, easily curved, but on no account are they to be suffered to fall down lifelessly by the side. It should be perfectly understood, that no art depends so much on constant and almost unremitting practice as elocution, and the appropriate gesture that should attend it. Neither grace nor facility can possibly Ije otherwise attained ; theory alone is worse than useless, and even the best instructions must, without it, entirely and invariably fail. The best mentor that a young orator or reciter can appeal to, in this mdispensable private practice, is the looliinj- (jlass. Much, however, has been said in way of dissent from this opinion, but certainly without mature consideration of the subject. It has been objected, for instance, that an earnest speaker must, from the impulse of nature, use appropriate action ; but if we grant this, it by no means follows that it ^vill be graceful, and it is the combination of the natural with the graceful that alone makes the Iterfccf orator. Besides, are there no Bad Hahifs to be corrected .^ We daily see that such have been contracted by men who enjoy a reputation as speakers, yet doubtless they are influenced by the impulses of na- ture ; among which habits we may mention a few, and then judge whether they are ap])ropriate : such, for instance, as nodding ivith thchead,pockct!ngthe hands, tnflingwith the dress, placing the arms a-himho, tiicl-ingthcm lehind, ducl-ing the body or jerking it, leaning on tahle, crossing the legs, standing sid^^ivays or with the feet together, fixing the eyes on the ceiling or opposite wall, exaggeration of action or con sta nt repet it ion of it. Many more might be instanced, but these will serve for the present purpose, as they cannot have escaped the 24 Elocutioii. notice of any acute observer interested in the subject of public oratory. ISTow as good habits are full as easy to be acquired as those of an opposite description, though the latter, in the process of being got rid of, present a somewhat greater diflBculty, yet the means of their acquisition is very similar, viz., constant repetition. If, there- fore, the rules laid down for appropriate and graceful action are studied assiduously and frequently in the faithful reflections of the mirror, those principles will become so impressed on the mind of the student, as ever after to influence his bearing and general style of gesture, and that too -without stifliiess or ai-tificiality ; for it is woi for a moment pretended that the action which he may then consider appropriate must of necessity be precisely the same he is called upon to use when speaking or reciting in public. This exercise aims alone at the acquisition of grace and ease by the appeal to his own judg- ment, which this practice will habitually confirm, and ever after influence the involuntary gestures that arise from the emotions of his mind. It is jjrobable that the action may differ — may take a wider sweep, a more extended character — may be more elevated or depressed, slower or more abrupt : it matters not ; it will bear the impress of his general study, and manifest itself in force, expression, and cjrace. CHAPTER Vn. ox RE.VDIKG VERSE. Although the rules laid down in the preceding chapters app\y alike to poetry and prose, a few observations on the reading of rhymed verse may not be out of jjlace. There are many excellent readers of proso who entirely fail to distinguish the equable and harmonious flow of sound which dis- tinguishes poetry from ordinary unmeasured composition. These are devoid of what a musician would call " ear," and hence their deliver)' of rhymed couplets becomes tame and insipid, familiar and common- place, and too frequently degenerates into mere " sing-song,'' utterly beneath the dignity of inspired verse. To such persons Mr. Walker recommends (and other writers on elocution have repeated hi? On Reading Verse. 25 advice — some having gone so far as to run on the exami^les they have given in the prose form) that they shonld " read verse exactly as if it were prose." Surely this would be an injustice to any living poet and a desecration of the writings of the dead, who if they had intended to convey their thoughts in plain prose, to ignore the measure and the How, the music and the metaphor, and all the elegances and fancies which distinguish one from the other, would have adopted that form. Many of the transpositions of words or phrases allowable in poetry for the sake of the rhythm (sometimes for the sake of a rhyme) would not be admissible in prose composi- tion ; it is obvious, therefore, that to read poetry as pi-ose is to read it as the authors would not have written had they been unfettered by the exigencies of verse. If, as Walker admits, " ]-)octiy without song {i.e., musical flow) is a body without soul," it would be far better that those who are devoid of the power of appreciating should abstain altogether from reaxling it, rather than they should deliver it in a style that must always be obnoxious to correct taste and sound judgment. Perha]i3 one of the greatest difficidties felt by every professor of elocution in teaching j-outh to recite poetry, is the almost universal inability of the pupil to understand and gi-asp the meaning of the poem. Unless the author be thoroughly appreciated and his intention, not only expressed but implied, mastered, the natural emotions (and consequently the proper inflexions and varieties of voice) cannot possibly arise, and, if not, how can they be expressed save by a studied, stilted, and artificial style ? It is, perhaps, not saying too much to aver that only a poet can read poetry properly : at any rate only those who are perfectly imbued -with the poetic feeling can do so. Given all these qualifications, and action, voice, »nd gesture will follow naturally and spontaneously; the electric fire will flash from the speaker to his audience, enthusiasm will bo kindled, and a result that only true genius can achieve will be accomplished. The great secret in reading poetry is to exercise the art that con- ceals art, or ratlier the art that seems to heighten and improve nature and to subdue it, so that it is never apparent that the speaker is delivering the word» of others. To the hearers it should 26 Elocution. be as tliougli the si:>eaker were giving the utterances of liis ovn\ heai-t, and his own brain, an impulsive and involuntary outpouring excited by existing and surrounding circumstances. It was thug Shakspeare -svi-ote, assisted by no rule, his guiding power being only his exquisite sense of the fitness of all things. It was thus that Edmund Kean produced his finest effects, — not from calculation, but from knowledge, impulse, and appreciation, ht by the light that was within him. But in our schools and colleges teaching must l^egin before experience has ripened. All that can be done is to apply certain rules, and these, if diligently attended to, will have so far forwarded the work of perfection at which all may arrive when the mind comes to maturity. We would premise that it is essential in all cases that the master should fully explain to the pupil the subject, the meaning, and all the sun'oundings of the poem or extract he is about to teach. The rules for the delivery of poetry may be thus briefly stated. 1. In all cases it is better to commence a poem in a simple, natu- ral, and easy style, warming with the subject as the poet becomes passionate or emotional. 2. If the poetry be written correctly, eveiy word should have the same accent as in prose, but as many of our best poets have accented words that change their accent when used as verbs or nouns alike, it is better to sacrifice the sense to the sound rather than the rhythm of the poem should be destroyed. o. The article ihe must never be strongly accented in reading or reciting verse. 4. Elisions, so frequently found in our earlier poets, must seldom or never be attended to in reading verse — thus in " gen'rous" the dropped •' c" must be sounded as in "generous." 5. The end of every line in poetry must be delicately marked. care being taken not to interfere with the intimate or remote con- nexion subsisting between the subsequent lines. 6. The rhetorical pauses should be taken at the commencement, and never in the middle of a poetic foot, or the power of what Sheridan calls " making the ear sensible of the versification" will be lost. On Reading Verse. 27 7. A simile ought to be read in a lower tone of voice than the portion of the poem which precedes it. Thus far the rules we have laid down apply to poetry generally, but as the simulations of the i:)assions enter largely into the recital pf heroic verse, it will be necessary to enter briefly into this branch of the subject. Mr. Walker, in his elaborate work " The Elements of Elocution," asks, " How are we to acquire that peculiar quality of sound that indicates the passion we wish to express ?" and he proceeds, " The answer is easy : by feeling the passion which expresses itself by that peculiar quality of sound. But then the question will return, liow are we to acquire a feeling of that passion ?" "Without follow- ing this author through an essay which extends over many pages, it will be sufficient to observe, that he contends that the simulation of the passions may be obtained by imitation — that is, by observing and noting in the memory the various tones and gestures which accompany them when they arise or are indulged in by others, so that we may dispose ourselves to feel them mechanically, and improve our expression of them when we are called on to read or recite the particular pieces in which they occur ; for by the imitation of the passions, we meet them, as it were, halfway. A condensed resumi' of Walker's classification of the passions and his rules (re-modelled) for simulating them, will indicate generally the method that may be employed. 1 . Tranquillity. — This may be expressed by the composure of the countenance and a general repose of the whole body, without the exertion of any one muscle. The countenance open, the forehead smooth, the eyebrows arched, the mouth nearly closed, and the eyes passing with an easy motion from object to object, but not dwelling too long on one. Care must be taken to distinguish it from insensibility. '1. Cheerfulness adds a smile to tranquillity, and opens cne mouth a little more. 3. Mirth requires a laughing, joyous style of dehvery ; but buifooneiy and g:-imace must be avoided, or the audience will laiigh at and not wath the speaker, who should let his subject-matter set his audience laughing before copying their example. 28 Elocution. 4. Eaillery puts on the aspect of cheorfuliiess ; the tone of voice should he sprightly. 5. Irony is expressed by the sneer, which is ironical approliatioa ^ satirical tone of voice, look, and gesture, should accompany it. 6. Joy radiates the countenance with smiles, and lights up, as it were, the whole frame. WaU'er recommends " clapping the hands." "raising the eyes to heaven," and "giving such a spring to tho Lody as to make it attempt to mount up as if it could fly" — but all such extravagances must be avoided. 7. Delight. — The tones, gestures, and looks are the same aa joy, bu.t less forcible and more permanent. 8. Love must be apjiroached with the utmost delicacy ; it is best expressed by a dee}:), impassioned, fervent tone ; the right hand may be pressed over the heart, but the " languishing eyes" recommended by some authors borders too closely on burlesque. A steady, respectful gaze on the assumed object of affection may be permitted. 9. Pity may be denoted by an expression of pain on the counte- nance, and a compassionate tenderness of voice. The mouth open, and a gentle raising and falling of the hands and eyes, as if mourn- ing over the unhappy object. 10. Hope erects and brightens the countenance, spreads the arms with the hands open, as to receive the object of its wishes. Tho voice is jjlaintive and inclining to eagerness. 11. Hatred draws back the body as to avoid the hated object; the hands at the same time spread out, as if to keep it off. The pitch of the voice is low, but harsh, chiding, and vehement, 12. Anger expresses itself with rapidity and harshness — and sometimes with interruption and hesitation, as if unable to utter VAth sufficient force. Kage and Fury are exaggerations of thij passion. 13. Reproacu requires the contracted brow and the curled l;p ; the voice is low and the whole body ex^iressive of aversion. 14. Fear is one of the most difficult and elaborate passions to simulate. The breath must appear quick and short; the voice trembling and weak ; the body as if shrinking from danger. Whei. attended with terror and consternation, one foot is drawn back as if putting itself into a posture for flight. On Reading Verse. 29 15. Sorrow. — Countenance dejected, eyes castdown, arms hanging /cose, the voice plaintive and interrupted by sighs. 16. Remorse. — Head hangs down, the voice low and harsh. 17. Despair can only be touched by an accompKshed actor. The amateur should attempt nothing beyond reading or reciting the pas- sage, depicting it in a deep and solemn tone. 18. SuRRRisE may be expressed by the mouth and eyes beiug wide open ; the voice in the ui)per pitch. Wonder, Amazement, and Ad- miration, come under this head. 19. Prid?; assumes a lofty look ; the eyes well open, the worda Uttered in slow, stifF, affected style. 20. Confidence — Courage. — In both the head is erect, the breast projected, the coimtenance clear and open, the voice loud, round, and not too rapid. Boasting exaggerates these by noise and blus- tering. 21. Perflexity, Avith which may be classed Irresolution and Anxiety, requires an expression of thoughtful consideration ; the motions of the body are restless, the pauses long, the tone of the voice uneven. 22. Vexation expi-esscs itself with looks of perplexity ; the tones are sharp and broken ; the hands restless. 23. Envy.- Envy ari;je3 from a mixture of joy, sorrow, and hatred ; it sometimes assumes a mocking tone. 24. Malice sends flashes from the eyes and closes the teeth. The voice is expressed as in anger. 25. Jealousy displays itself in such a variety of forms that it may embrace any of the foregoing ; the text of the author wlU discover which 26. Modesty bends the body forward, and has a placid, downcast countenance ; the tone of voice is low. 27. SuAME turns away the face from the beholders, casts down the eyes ; the voice is confused and faltering. 28. Gravity. — The posture of the body and limbs is composed and without much motion ; the speech slow and solemn, the tone jvithout much variety. 29. Admonition assumes a grave air, bordering on severity ; the Voice assumes the low tone, bordering on tlie monotone. 30 Elocution. 30. Reproof puts on a stern as])ect and roughens the voice; it is sometimes accompanied by threatening gestures. A number of other examples might be given, but the pupil win has mastered the above will scarcely need further instruction. CHAPTEE VIII. USEFUL HINTS. 1. Where the opportunity is afforded you, try the acoustic pro- perties of the room in which you are to recite beforehand. You will thus ascertain the proper pitch on which to commence. 2. If the room be large and resonant, be careful to speak -slowly, allowing time for the voice to travel ; otherwise the words will bo- come jumbled, run one within another, and indistinctness will result. The attention with which you are listened to will soon con- vince you if you are heard or not. 3. Never read in public a piece with which you are previously un- acquainted : you must, in order to give the proper emphasis to the lines before you, be acquainted with what is to follow. At least one perusal of the piece you may be called on to read should be in- sisted on. 4. To preserve the voice, bathe and gargle the throat morning and evening, using cold water. As a rule, muffling uji the throat is relaxing and injurious, but it is advisable to do so when going from a warm room into the cold air. Keep the mouth closed until yon have walked some time or reached home, and you may then speak at pleasure. 5. If you have to read or recite for some time you may jnst moisten the lips with cold water, but avoid drinking it in any quan- tity. Good bottled stout, which has been drawn sufficiently long for the froth to subside, is the best thing to sing or speak on. Especially avoid sherry and spirits neat or diluted. A glass or two of old, dry port wine may be taken with advantage before com- mencing, or in the interval, where one is afforded. 6. Never speak through a confirmed hoarseness, if it can be avoided If your voice is out of order a new-laid egg beaten up with a tea- Useful Hints. 31 spoonful of the compound tincture of cinnamon may be taken with advantage, but avoid all nostrums for the voice ; many of them contain opium, and will ultimately and permanently injure it. For nervousness a couple of teaspoonfuls of sal volatile in a wineglass of water will be found useful. Spirits or spirits- and-water cause a dryness of the tongue, and will oul}- increase your misfortune. 7. It is a too common fault with many speakers and readers to imitate the voice and manner of some particular actor ; your own natural and ordinary voice should alone be used, except in a read- ing cnxbracing a personation, such as of an Irish, Scotch, or York- fehireman, &c., and these should be studied from actual observation, and not from hearing others imitate them. This, however, may be atyled mimicry, — it cannot be called elocution. 8. The H is silent in heir, honest, honour, hospital, hour, humble, humour, and the words derived from them. ~ 9. The careless or ignorant speaker will often trip in the following words, which are vulgarisms to be specially avoided ; viz., feller for fellow — winder for window — lor for law — sor for saw — voilet for violet — voiulcni for violent — moi for my — as well as using an aspirate in an improjicr place, as liair for air— /(Oi7 for oil, &c. 10. For hoarseness chew a small piece of horse-radish frequently, or take a cayenne lozenge. Braham is said to have bitten a piece out of the back of a red-herring to effect a speedy cure, but the re- lief could only have been temporary. For hoarseness arising from wer-exertion of the voice a small piece of gum catechu dissolved in ^he mouth has been recommended. 11. Loud speaking, long continued, with the lungs but partially distended, is very injurious to those organs; it is apt to occasion a spitting of blood, which is not unfrequently a precursor of pul- monary consumption. But loud speaking, with proper manage- ment of breath, is a healthful exercise ; besides strengthening the muscles which it calls into action, it promotes the decarbonization of the blood, and consequently exerts a salutary influence on the system generally. — Comstock. 12. " A public speaker, possessed of only a moderate voice, if he g2 Elocution. articulates correctly, will be better iinderstood, and heard witli greater pleasure, than one who vociferates without judgment. The voice of the latter may, indeed, extend to a considerable distance, but the sound is dissipated m confusion. Of the former voice not the smallest vibration is wasted ; every stroke is perceived at the utmost distance to which it reaches ; and hence it has often the ap- pearance of penetrating even farther than one which is loud, but badly articulated. " In just articulation the words are not to l)e hurried over, not precipitated syllable over syllable ; nor, as it were, melted together into a mass of confusion : they should not be trailed, or drawled, nor permitted to slip out carelessly, so as to drop unfinished. They should be dehvered from the lips as beautiful coins just issued from the Mint, deeply and accurately impressed, neatly struck by the proper organs, dii^tinct, in due succession, and of due weight." — Austin's Ghironomia. 13. All sound is audible in a greater or leas degree, according to the density or resistance of the aerial fluid. If that fluid is ren- dered considerably thinner, the voice is diminished ; but if it is alto- gether removed, as in an empty receiver, no sound can be excited. Hence the philosophical cause why the voice is more easily heard in a room when it is cold than when it is warm, when it is empty than when it is full. — Heiuues. 14. Writers on elocution have frequently attempted to describe the formation of the various articulate sounds, for the benefit of those whose articulation is imperfect ; but it is almost impossible \o clearly describe the formation by words, and engravings show but a part of the process. The best method of correcting defective speech, when not arising from organic defect, is to exercise the pupil before a mirror, that he may observe the contrast between the movements of his own mouth, and those of the master. This prac- tice will also be found highly beneficial to i>ersons learning to sing, irthe pronunciation of foreign languages. Defective articulation frequently arises from endeavouring to speak too fa.st. Time is not given for the organs to fonn the correct sounds, and habit confirms the false. Children ought not to be allowed to repeat their lessons In a hurried manner, either while committing them to memory, or Useful Hints. 3'3 repeating them to the teacher. Mrs. Siddons' fii-st direction to her pupils was " Take time." " Consonants should not be preceded by any confused sound of their own. The not attending to this in pronouncing the letter s, has been the chief cause of our language being called by foreigners the hissing language, though, in reaUty, it does not abound so much in that letter as either the Greek or the Roman ; the final a with us having, for the most part, the sound of ,?. But if care be not taken early in forming the pronunciation, people are apt to contract a habit of hissing before they utter the sound of s, at tho beginning of syllables, as well as of continuing it at the end. Ex pression docs not reside in the mere letters which comprise the words ; it depends on the due force given to them in utterance. No letter so Iiarsh which may not be softened; so strong, Avliich may not be weakened ; and vice versa. The long may be shortened, and the short lengthened. And all this depends upon the manage- ment of the voice. "Whenever the power of the consonants is par- ticularly suited to the expression, their sound should be enforced; when otherwise, softened." — Sheuidax's AH of Beading. 15. A proof of the importance of delivery may be drawn from the additional force whicli the actors give to what is written by the best poets, so that what we hear pronounced by them gives infi- nitely more pleasure than when we only read it. I think I may affirm, that a very indiflerent speech, well deUvered, will have a greater efiect than the best, if destitute of that advantage. — Ql'INTILIAN. 1<5. If the student has any provincialism or peculiarity, he should exercise liimself upon the pure sounds of letters, but when this is necessary it would be better to apply to a master, as his own ear will be but little guide. Every one studying elocution shoiild desire his hearers to toll him if they observe any imperfection in his articulation or error in his pronunciation, as it should be kept in mind that purity and coiTCctness are the basis of all excellence in the art. — Tvrrell. 17. The student would do well to wile away an hour sometimes in a sculpture gallery, and afterwards endeavour to realize the atti- tudes he has there observed. But all action must be suggested by 34 Elocution. the sense of the production wliicli he is delivering, and any move- ment that does not naturally arise out of it is inconsistent and erro- neous. If you feel a poem and dehver it with energy, you will l)e sure to give action which is not very inappropriate, and redundan- cies and awkward peculiarities are best got rid of by practising before a judicious friend. T'-ue purity and digiiity of action is a collection of " Niuueless graces which uo methods teach, And which a master's hand alone can reach," and wliich notliing but a long experience and correct taste can impart. — Tyrrell. 18. Conversational dialogues are among the most eSective means of breaking up monotonous and mechanical tones, and are of great service in facilitating the acquisition of an appropriate style of reading. — Eussell. 19. Modulation should never be resorted to for the sake of variety, it should always be subservient to the sense ; for it is the province of modulation to mark changes of sentiment, changes in the train of strength, and parenthetical clauses. — Comstock. 20. The management of passion in accordance with the character that is represented to labour under it, its natural sentiments, its fluc- tuations, and its combinations, must be intuitively present to the mind of the dramatic author. The person who acts a character has, in some respects, a minuter and more delicate task to perform, as he must watch over every tone, look, and gesture, and keep them in consistency with the situation of the person represented. Tlicre is a smile of benignity, of love, of contempt ; there is a smile of innocence and of guilt ; of dignity and of silliness ; there is the smile of the peasant and that of the king. To var>^ the expression of passion, so as to preserve it in keeping with the character, to ex- hibit inferior and incidental passions" as modified by a dominant one, are the attainments of a great actor, who, in his delineations, IS not always assisted by the composition of the dramatist. For, although in representations of passion, in agreement with the cha- racter represented, yet the actor has the difficult task of preserving the consistency of the functions of voice, look, and gesture, in tiiose parts where there is little excitement, and wher- *he familiar Useful Hints. 35 parts or the dialogue arc apt to make one forget the idiosyncrasy of Uie character. This jireservation of the consistency of character, iu Viinute and incidental matter, is much more difficult to accomplish Uian a forcible representation in some highly-wrought scene. Besides, written language is frequently so inexpressive, that different meanings are often attached to the same passages ; for this reason, it is highly important to know the nature of passion, its natural sentiments, its combinations and endurance, that we may be enabled to give that reading, aa it is called, which a cultivated taste prefers. --Graham. '21. There is a certain mechanical dexterity to be acquired before the beautiful conceptions we possess can be communicated to others. This mechanism is an essential part of all the fine arts. Nothing l)ut habitual practice will give the musician his neatness of execu- tion, the painter his force of colouring, and even the poet the happiest choice and an-angement of his words and thoughts. How, then, can wo expect that a luminous and elegant expression in reading and speaking can be acquired without a similar attention to habitual practice ? This is the golden key to excellence, but can be purchased only by labour, unremitting labour, and perseverance^ — Walkkk. 22. ^IiiMOKV. — As the great purpose to which this faculty is sub- 8ci*vient is to enable us to collect and retain, for the future regula- tion of our conduct, the results of our past experience, it is evident that the degree of perfection which it attains in the case of different persons must vary ; first, with the facility of making the original acquisition ; secondly, with the permanence of the acquisitiou ; and thirdly, with the quickness or readiness with which the individual is al.)le, on particular occasions, to apply it to use. The qualities, therefore, of a good memory are, in the first place, to be susceptible ; secondly, to be retentive ; and thirdly, to be ready. It is but rarely these three qualities are united in the same person. "We often, indeed, meet Avith a memory Avhich is at once susceptible and ready ; but I doubt much if such memories be commonly very retentive ; for the same set of habits which are favourable to the two first qualities are adverse to the third. Those individuals, for example, who, with a view to conversation, make a constant business D 2 36 Elocution. of informing themselves with respect to the popular topics of the day, or of turning over the ephemeral piiblicatioiis subservient to the amusement or to the pohtics of the times, are naturally led to cultivate a susceptibility and readiness of memory, but have no inducement to aim at that permanent retention of selected idea.s which enables the scientific student to combine the most remote materials, and to concentrate at will, on a particular object, all the scattered lights of his experience and of his reflexions. Such men (as far as my observation has reached) seldom possess a familiar or correct acquaintance even with those classical remains of our own earUer writers which have ceased to furnish topics of discourse to the circles of fasliion. A stream of novelties is perpetually passing through their minds, and the faint impression which it leaves will soon vanish to make way for others, like the traces which the ebbing tide leaves upon the sand. Kor is this all. In proportion as the associating principles which lay the foundation of susceptibility and readiness predominate in the memory, those which form the basis of our more solid and lasting acquisitions may be expected to be weakened, as a natural conse(iuence of the general laws of our intellectual frame. — Dugald Stew.\rt. 23. Pompous spouting, and many other descriptions of unnatural tone and measured cadence, are frequently admired by many as excellent reading, which admiration is itself a proof that it is not desei-ved ; for when the delivery is rcaZ/y good, the hearers (except any one who may dehberately set himself to observe and criticise) never iliinh about if ; but are exclusively occupied with the sense it conveys, and the feelings it excites. — AnciiBisHor Wuately. 2-t. Force and Expression. — Loudness, with its degrees to softness, is signified in elocution, as in music, by the term force. A proper adaptation of its varying degrees to corresponding shades of expression will give that variety which is so pleasing to the ear. These several degrees have been denoted by words borrowed from the language of the Italians. They arc generally written abbiv- viated, as in the following table. Useful Bints. 37 Degrees of Force. Coi-respoudiug States of Mind, aud other condi- tions which direct the ap- plication of the degi-ees of Force. / Piano, riaiiissiinn. sofU very soft. Secrecy, caution, doubt ; pity, love, prief, awe ; ten- dei-uess and plaintive sen- timent ; humility, shame; repose; fatigue and pros- tration. Mezzo forte 111. f. ratlier loud, (literally, middling loud). Common conversation ; plain narrative aud de- scription ; uuimpassioned speech. Forto. Fortissimo. loud very oud. Certainty; anger, i-age, hate, ferocity, revenge ; mirth, exultation, joy ; and excited states of mind generally. "We may a^ld to this Table, aa comintj under the head of Force, a ^'w marks of expression, also borrowed from the art of music. A gradual increase of loudness is expressed by the word crescendo, or by the si<^n ~-==^^ A gradual decrca.so of loudness is expressed l)y the word diininufmdo, or by the sign :z-^:^^^- An explosive or abrupt utterance is denoted by the word flaccafo when the expression is spread over a whole clause, or, when limited to a few words, by points or dots ( ' ' ' • • • ) I'laced over the intended syllables.— John Millakd. PART II. MISCELLANEOUS READINGS IN PROSE. LABOUR. Thomas Carlyle. [Tliomas Carlvle was bom at Ecclefeclian, in Dumfriesshire, in 179.5. Diadually drifted into literature, utUiziug the results of his studies throu-h the medium of the press. He became a great admirer of the German hmguage " • '• ' Oue of his earliest works was ^,.„ spondeuc. He married about 1827, and resided in Scotland (near Dumfries) until ISoO, when he took up his residence in London. He was ever an honest worker at Ids craft, and an inveterate exposer of '■ shams." His style of composition h:is been the subject of some difl'erence of opinion, many accusing him of an atfected ruggedness. It is clearly not the style approved of by those who hold to the polished diction of Addison and his contemporaries as models for the study of ckgaut English prose. Still his force and power are undeniable, thougli his cuUmg satire has often caused him to be (and very undeservedly so) re^jardcd as a cjTiic. Died 1881.] Two men I lionour. and no third. First, the toil-worn craftsman that with earth-made implement laboriously conquers the earth and makes lier man's. Venerable to me is the hand, hard and coarse ; wherein notwithstanding hesa cunning virtue, indo feasibly royal, as of this ])lanet. Venerable, too, is the rugged face all weather-tanned, besoiled, with his rude intelhgence ; for it is the face of a man li\nng man-like. Oh, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because we must pity as well as love thee ! Hardly entreated brother ! For us was thy back so bent, for ns were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed; thou wert our conscript on whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles wei't so marred. For in thee too lay a God-created foi-m, but it was not to be unfolded ; encrusted must it stand with the thick adhesions and defacements of labour ; and thy body, like thy soul, was not to know freedom. Yet, toil on, toil'on : thou art in thy duty, be out of it who may ; thou toilest for the altogether indispensable daily bread. A second man I honour, and stUl more highly, liim who is scon The Clouds. 39 toiling for the spiritually indispensable — not daily bread, but the bread of Hfe. Is not he, too, in his duty ; endeavouring towards in- ward harmony ; revealing tliis, by act or by word, through all his outward endeavours, be they high or low ? Highest of all when his outward and his inward endeavours are one : when we can name him artist ; not earthly craftsman only, but inspired thinker, who with heaven-made implement conquers heaven for us ! If the poor and humble toil that we have food, miist not the high and glorious toil for him in return that he may have light, guidance, freedom, immortality ? These two, in all their degrees, I honour ; all else is chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it listeth. There is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in work. Were he ever so benighted, or forgetful of his high calling, there is always lioi)C in a man that actuall}^ and earnestly works ; in idle- ness alone there is jK-rjietual despair. Consider how, even in the meanest .sorts of labour, the whole sonl of a man is composed into real harmony. He bends himself with free valour against his task ; and douljt, desire, sorrow, remorse, indignation, desjiair itself, shrink murmuring far off in their caves. The glow of labour in him is a purifying tire, wherein all poison is burnt \\\) ; and of smoke itself there is made a bright and blessed flame. Blessed is he who has found his work ; let him ask no other blessedness ; he has a life pui'pose. Labour is life. From the heart of the worker rises the celestial force, breathed into him by Almighty Uod, awakening him to all nobleness, to all knowledge. Hast thou valued ])atience, courage, openness to light, or readiness to own thy mistakes ? In wrestling with the dim brute powers of fact, ihou wilt contini;ally learn. For every Jioble work the possi- bilities are diffused through immensity, undiscoverable, except to faith. Man, son of heaven ! is there not in thine inmost heart a spirit of active method, giving thee no rest till thou unfold it ? Comjilain not. Look \x\>, wearied brother. See thy fellow-workmen surviving through eternity, the sacred band of immortals. THE CLOUDS. Joicx EUSKIX. [Mr, Ruskin, flin omiueut art-critie, was boru in 1819, and is still liviug. He was educated at Oxford, and stvidii-d the pictorial art under Copley Fielding and J. D. Harding. His principal works are his "Modem Painters," "The Seven Lamps of Architecture," and " The Stones of Venice."] It is a strange thing how little, in general, people know about the sky. It is the part of creation in which Xature has done more for the sake of pleasing man, more for the sole and evident purpose of talking to him and teaching him, than in any other of her works ; and it is just the part in which we least attend to her. There are 40 Miscellaneous Readings m Prose. not many of her other works in which some more material or essential purpose than the mere pleasing of man is not answered by every part of their organization ; but every essential purpose ot the sky miid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop it — to stem it with his childish hands — -or choke its way with sand — and when he saw it coming on resistless, he cried out. But a word from Florence, who was always at his side, restored him to himself; and leaning his poor head iipon her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled. When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun ; and when its cheerful light began to s]>arkle in the room, he pictured to himself — pictured ? — he saw the high church towers rising up into the morning sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and the country bright with dew. Famfliar sounds and cries came by degi-ces into the street below ; the seiwants in the house were roused and busy ; faces looked in at the door, and voices asked his atten- dants softly how he was. Paul always answered for himself, " I am better. I am a great deal better, thank you ! Tell papa so !" By little and httle, he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise of carriages and carts, and people passing and repassing ; and would fall asleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again — the child could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his waking moments — of that rushing river. "Why, wfllit never stop, Floy P" he would sometimes ask her. " It is bearing me away, I think." ]]ut Floy could always soothe and reassure him ; and it was his daily delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take some rest. " You are always watching me, Floy. Let me watch you now !" They would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would recline the while she lay beside him; bending forward oftentimes to kiss her, and whispering to those who were near that she was tired, and how she had sat up so many nights beside him. Thus the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would gi-adually decline ; and again the golden water would be dancing on the walL 44 Aliscellaneous Readings in Prose. He was visited by as many as three grave doctors— tliey used to assemble downstairs, and come up together— and the room whs so jjuiet, and Paul was so observant of them (though he never asked of iinybodywhat they said), that he even knew the difference m the sound of their watches. But his interest centered m Sir Parker Peps, who always took his seat on the side of the bed. For 1 aul had heard them say long ago, that that gentleman had been with his mamma when she clasped Florence in her arms, and died. And he could not forget it now. He liked him for it. He was not afraid. The i:.eople round him changed as unaccountably as on that first night at Dr. Blimber's— except Florence; Florence never changed— and what had been Sir Parker Peps was now his father, sitting with his head upon his hand. Old Mrs. Pipchin, dozing on an easy-chair, often changed to Miss Fox, or his aunt ; and Paul was quite content to shut his eyes again, and see what hapj)ened next without emotion. But this figure Avith its head upon its hand returned so often, and remained so long, and sat so still and solemn, never speaking, never being spoken to, and rarely Ufting up its face, that Paul began to wonder languidly if it were real ; and in the night-time saw it sitting there -with fear. " Floy," he said, " what is that ?" " Where, deare.st ?" " There ! at the bottom of the bed." " There's nothing there, except pajni !" The figure lifted up its head, and rose, and coming to the l>edsido, said — " My own boy, don't you know me ?" Paul looked it in tho face, and thought, was this his father! But the face, so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if it were in pain ; and before he could reach out both his hands to take it between them, and draw it towards him, the figure turned away quickly from the little bed, and went out at the door. Paul looked at Florence with a fiuttering heart, but he knew what she was going to say, and stopped her with his face against her lips. The next time he observed the figure sitting at tlie bottom of the bed, he called to it, "Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa; indeed I am quite hajipy !"' His father coming, and bending down to him — which he did quickly, and without first pausing by the bedside — Paul held him round the neck, and repeated these words to him several times, and very earnestly ; and Paul never saw him again m his room at any time, whether it were day or night, but he called out, " Don't be so sorry for me ; indeed I am cpiite happy." This was the beginning of his always saying in the morning that he was a great deal better, and that they were to tell his father so. How many times the golden water danced upon the wall ; how many nights the dark dark river rolled towards the sea in spite of him ; Paul never counted, never sought to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it, could have increased, they were more kind, and he more grateful every day ; but whether they were many days, or few, appeared of little moment now to the gentle boy. One night he had been thinking of his mother, and her picture in the dra\ving- room downstairs, and had thought she ninst have loved sweet Florence better than his lather did, to have held her in her arms The Death of Paul Domhey. 45 when she felt that she was dying ; for even he, her brother, who had such dear love for her, could have no greater wish than that. The train of thought suggested to hiiu to inquire if he had ever seen his mother ; for he could not remember whether they had told him yes or no, the river running very fast, and confusing his mind. " Floy, did I ever see mamma ?" " Ko, darling ; why ?'' " Did I never see any kind face, like mamma's, looking at me when I was a baby, Floy?" he asked, incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face before him. " Oh yes, dear !" " Whose, Floy ?"' "Your old nurse's; often." "And where is my old nurse?" said Paul. " Is she dead too ? Floy, are we all dead,- except you P" There was a hurry in the room, for an instant — ^longer, perhaps ; but it seemed no more — then all was still again ; and Florence, ^^dth her face quite colourless, but smiling, held his head upon her arm. Her arm trembled very much. " Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please P" " She is not here, darling. She shall come to-mor- row." — " Thank you, Floy !" " And who is this ? Is this my old nurse ?" said the child, re- garding with a radiant smile a figure coming in. Yes, yes ! No other stranger woidd have shed those tears at sight of liim, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down liy his bed, and taken up his wasted hand and put it to her lips and bi-east, as one who had some right to fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody there but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. " Floy, this is a kind good face," said Paul, "lam glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse! Stay here !" "Now lay me down," he said; " ami, Floy, come close to me, and let me sec you!" Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together. " Huw fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy ! But it's veiy near the sea. I hear the waves ! They always said so." Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now, how bright the flowers grow- ing on them, and how tall the rushes ! Now the boat was oi;t at sea, but gliding smoothly on ; and now there was a shore befor. them. Who stood on the bank ? He put his hands together, as he had been usee! to do at his prayers. He did not remove his anus to do it; but they saw him fold them so behind her neck. " Mamma is like you, Floy ; I know her by the face ! But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about the head is shining on me as I go !" The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing e^se stirred m the room. The old, old fashion ! The fashion that came in ^^^th our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has nm its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion — Death ! Oh, thank God, all who see it, for 46 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. that older fashion yet, of Immortality ! And look upon us, angels of young children, Avith regards not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean ! (By permission of Messrs. Ciiapnian and Hall.') ONE NICHE THE HIGHEST. .Tlihu Burritt. [Born iu America (U.S.), 1811. Originally a blacksmith, but baviug acquired the raastory of many languages, he adopted literature as a profcssiou, and became a popular lecturer and journalist. Died 1879.]- The scene opens with a view of the great Natural Bridge in Yii*- ginia. There are three or four lads standing in the channel below, looking up with awe to that vast arch of unhewn rocks which the Almighty bridged over those everlasting hutments, " when the morning stars sang together." The little piece of sky spanning those measureless piers is full of stars, although it is mid-day. It is almost five hundred feet from where they stand, up those perpen- dicular bulwarks of limestone to the key of that vast arch, which api3ears to them only of the size of a man's hand. The silence of death is rendered more impressive by the little stream that falls from rock to rock down the channel. The sun is darkened, and the boys have uncovered their heads, as if standing iu the presence- chamber of the Majesty of the whole earth. At last this feeling begins to wear away ; they look around them ; and find that others have been there before them. They see the names of hundreds cut in the limestone butments. A new feeling comes over their young hearts, and their knives are in their hands in an instant. " What man has done, man can do," is their watchword, while they draw themselves up, and carve their name a foot above those of a hundred full-grown men who have been there before them. They are all satisfied with this feat of physical exertion, except one, whose example illustrates perfectly the forgotten tnith, that there is " no royal road to learning." This ambitious youth sees a name just above his reach— a name wliich will be green in the me- mory of the world when those of Alexander, Cajsar, and Bonaparte, shall rot in oblivion. It was the name of Washington. Before ho marched with Braddock to that fatal field, he had been there and left I his name, a foot above any of his predecessors. It was a glorious thought to write his name side by side with that great father of liis country. He grasps his knife with a firmer hand, and clinging to a little jutting crag, he cuts a gain into the limestone, about a foot above where he stands ; he then reaches up and cuts another for his hands. _ 'Tis a dangerous adventure ; but as he puts his feet and hands uito those gains, and draws himself up carefully to his full length, he finds himself a foot above every name chronicled in that mighty wall. While his companions are regarding him with con- cern and admiration, he cuts his name in wide capitals, large and deep, into that flinty album. His knife is still in his hand, and One Niche the Ilighes'i. ].7 strengtli in his sinews, and a new-ci"eated aspiration in his heart. Again he cuts another niche, and again he carves his name in Uirgej capitals. This is not enough ; heedless of the entreaties of his companions, he cuts and climbs again. The gradations of his as- cending scale grow wider apart. He measures his length at every gain he cuts. The voices of his friends wax weaker and weaker, till their words are finally lost on his car. He now for the first time casts a look beneath him. Had that glance lasted a moment, that» moment would have been his last. He cUngs with a convulsive shudder to his little niche in the rock. An awful abyss awaits his almost certain fall. He is faint with sevei'e exertion, and trembling from the sudden view of the dreadful destruction to which he is ex- posed. His knife is worn half-way to the haft. He can hear the voices, but not the words, of his terror-stricken companions below. What a moment ! what a meagre chance to escape destruction ! there is no retracing liis steps. It is impossible to put his hands into the same niche with his feet, and retain his slender hold a mo- ment. His companions instantly perceive this new and feart'ul dilemma, and await his fall with emotions that " freeze their young blood." He is too high to ask for his father and mother, his brothers and sisters, to come and witness or avert his destruction. But one of his companions anticipates his desire. Swift as the wind, he bounds down the channel, and the situation of the fated boy is told upon his father's hearthstone. ]\Iinutes of almost eternal length I'oll on, and thero are hundreds standing in that rocky channel, and himdreds on the bi'idge above, all holding their breath, and awaiting the fearful catastrophe. The poor boy hears the hum of new and numerous voices both above and below. He can just distinguish the tones of his father, wlio is shouting with all the energy of despair, — " William ! William ! Don't look down ! Yoiir mother, and Henr}', and Harriet, are all liere praying for you ! Don't look do^vn ! Keep jowr ej'e towards the top !" The boy didn't look down. His eye is fixed like a Hint tov/ards heaven, and his young heai-t on Him who reigns there. He grasiis again his knife. He cuts another niche, and another foot is added TO tlie hundreds that remove him from the reach oi human help from below. How carefully he iises his wasting blade,' How anxiously he selects the softest places in that vast pier ! How he avoids every fiinty grain ! How he economises his physical powers, resting a moment at each gain he cuts. How everj^ motion is watched from below ! There stand his father, mother, brother, an^J sister, on the very spot, where if he falls, he will not fall alone. The sun is half-way down in the west. The lad has made fifty additional niches in that mighty wall, and now finds hunself du-ectly under the middle of that vast arch of rock, earth, and trees. He tnust cut his way in a new direction, to get from this overhanging mountain. The inspiration of hope is in his bosom ; its vital heat is fed by the increasing shouts of hundreds j^erchedupon cliffs, trees, and others who stand \\'ith rojies in their hands upon the bridge above, or with ladders below. Fifty more gains must 1)0 cut before 48 31 iscellaneous Readings in Prose. the longest rope can reach him. His wasting blade strikes again into the limestone. The boy is emerging painfully foot by foot, from under that lofty arch. SpHced ropes are in the liands of those who are leaning over the outer edge of the bridge. Two minutes more, and all will be over. That blade is worn to the last half inch. The boy's head reels ; his eyes are starting from their sockets. His last hope is dying in his heart, his life must hang upon the next gain he cuts. That niche is his last. At the last Hint gash he makes, his knife— his faithful knife— falls from his little nerveless hand, and, ringing along the precipice, falls at his mother's foot. An involuntary groan of despair runs like a death-knell tln-oiigh the channel Ixdow, and all is still as the grave. At a height of nearly three hundred feet, the devoted boy lifts liis hoiJcless heart and clos- ing eyes to commend his soul to God. 'Tis but a moment— there I one foot swings off! — he is reeling — tremblmg — toppling over into eternity. Hark! — a shout falls on his ears from above ! The man who is lying with half his length over the bridge, has caught a glimpse of the boy's head and shoulders. Quick as thought, the noosed rope is within reach of the smking youth. No one breathes. With a faint convulsive effoi-t, the swooning boy drops his arni into the noose. Darkness comes over him, and with the words " God!" and " mother !" whisj^ered ou his lips just loud enough to be heard in heaven — the tightening vope lifts hun out of his last shallow niche. Not a lip moves while he is dangling over that fearful abyss ; but when a sturdy Virginian reaches down and draws i;p the lad, and holds him up in his arms before the tearful, breathless multitude — such shouting! and such leai:)ing and weeping for joy, never greeted a human being so recovered from the yawning gulf of eternity. LOVE'S INFATUATION. E. T. AV. norFM.\NN, [The works of Ernest Thcodor "Wilhclm Hoffmau have been chiefly brouglit under the notice of our countrymen through the pcu of the kite Thomas C,iri\'k'. On the Contment, Holfmann's weird tales are becoming day by day more imd more poinilar. Jacques Oft'eubach has composed an elaborate fantasiic oi)t ru founded upou the " Band ^Man," from whicli the following is an e.Ntract. Uoi n at Kouigsberg, in Prussia, January 24th, 1776. Died June 2-5, 1822.] The company was both numerous and brilliant; Olimpia was richly and tastefully dressed. One could not but admire her tiguro and the regular beauty of her features. The striking inward curvu of her back, as well as the wasp-Hke smallness of her waist, ap- peared to be the result of too tight lacing. There was somethin," stiff and measured in her gait and bearing that made an unfavour- able impression upon many; it was ascribed to the constraint imposed upon her by the company. The concert began, Olimiiiu played on the piano with great skill, and sang as skilfully an aria Loves Infatuation. 49 di hravitra, in a voice •which was, if anything, almost too sharp, but clear as glass bells. Nathanaol was transported with delight ; he stood in the background farthest from her, and owing to the blinding lights could not distinguish her features. So, without being observed, he took Coppola's glass out of his pocket and directed it upon the beautiful Olimpia. Oh I then he perceived how her yearning eyes sought him, how every note only reached its full purity in the loving glance which penetrated to and in- flamed his heart. Her artificial roulades seemed to him to be the exultant cry towards heaven of the soul refined bj' love ; and when at last, after the cadenza, the long trill rang shrilly and loudly through the hall, he felt as if he were suddenly grasped by burning arms, and could no longer control himself — he could not help shouting aloud in his mingled pain and delight, " Olimpia ! " All eyes were turned upon him ; many people laughed. The face of the cathedral organist wore a still more gloomy look than it had done before, but all he said was, " Verj- well ! " The concert came to an end, and the ball began. Oh ! to danco with her — with her — that now was the aim of all Nathanael's wishes, of all his desires. But how should he have courage to request her, the queen of the ball, to gi-ant him the honour of a dance ? And yet he couldn't tell how it came about, just as the dance began he found himself standing close beside her, nobody having as yet asked her to be his partner ; so, with some difficulty stammering out a few words, ho grasped her hand. It was cold as ice ; ho shook with an awful frosty shiver. But, fixing his eyes upon her face, ho saw that her glance was beaming upon him with love and longing, and at the same moment he thought that the pulse began to boat in her cold hand, and the warm life-blood to course through her veins. And passion burned more intensely in his own heart also : ho threw his arm around her beautiful waist and whirled her round the hall. He had always thought that he kept good and accurate time in dancing, but from the perfectly lythmioal evoimess with which Olimj^ia danced, and which fre- quently put him quite out, ho perceived how very faulty his own time really was. Notwithstanding, he would not danco with any other lady ; and everybody else who approached Olimpia to call upon her for a dance ho would have liked to kill on the spot. This, however, only happened twice ; to his astonishment, Olimpia remained after this without a partner, and he failed not on each occasion to take her out again. If Nathanael had been able to see anything else except the beautiful Olimpia there would inevitably have been a good deal of unpleasant quarrelling and strife ; for it was evident that Olimpia was the object of the smothered laughter, only with difficulty suppressed, which was heard in various corners amongst the young people ; and thej' followed her with very curious looks, but nobody knew for what reason. Nathanael, excited by dancing and the plentiful supplj' of wine he had con- sumed, had laid aside the shyness which at other times characterised him. He sat beside Olimpia, her hand in his own, and declared his 50 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. love enthusiasticaUy and passionately in words wliicli neither of them understood, neither he nor Olimpia. And yet she perhaps did, tor she sat with her eyes fixed unchangeably upon his, sighing re- peatedly, "Ach! Ach! Ach ! " Upon this Nathanael would answer, "Oh you glorious heavenly lady! You ray from the promised paradise of love ! Oh ! what a profound soul you have . my whole being is mirrored in it! " and a good deal more m the same strain. But Olimpia only continued to sigh, "Ach! Ach ! again and again. Professor Spalanzani passed by the two happy lovers once or twice, and smiled with a look of peculiar satisfaction. All at once it seemed to Nathanael— albeit he was far away in a different ■wrorld — as if it were growing perceptibly darker down below at Professor Spalanzani's. He looked about him ; and to his very- great alarm became aware that there were only two lights left burning in the hall, and they were on the point of going out. The music aud dancing had long ago ceased. " Wo must part — part I" he cried, wildly and despairingly ; he kissed 01imr)ia,'s hand ; he bent down to her mouth, but ice-cold lips met his burning ones. As ho touched her cold hand he felt his heart thrilled with awe : tho legend of "The Dead Bride" shot suddenly through his mind. But Olimpia had drawn him closer to her, and tho kiss appeared to warm her lips into vitality. Professor Spalanzani strode slowly through the empty apartment, his footsteps giving a hollow echo, and his figure had, as the flickering shadows played about him, a ghostly awful appearance. " Do you love me ? Do you love me, Olimpia? Only one little word — do you love mo?" whispered Nathanael ; but she only sighed, "Ach ! Ach ! " as she rose to her feet. "Yes, you are mj' lovely, glorious star of love," said Nathanael, " aud will shine for ever, purifj'ing and ennobling my heart." "Ach! Ach I " replied Olimpia, as she moved along. Nathanael followed her ; they stood before the Professor. "You have had an extrordinarily animated conversation with my daughter," said he, smiling; " well, well, my dear Mr. Natha- nael, if you find pleasure in talking to the stupid girl, I am ^-uro I shall be glad for you to come and do so." Nathanael took his leave, his heart singing and leaping in a perfect delirium of happiness. During the next few days Spalanzani's ball was the gemral topic of conversation. Although the professor had done everything to make the thing a splendid success, yet certain gay .spirits related more than one thing that had occurred which was quite irregular and out of order. They were especially keen in pulling Olimpia to pieces for her taciturnity and rigid stiffness ; in spite of her beautiful form they alleged that she was hopelessly stupid, and in this fact they discerned the reason why Spalanzani had so long kept her concealed from publicity. Nathanael heard all this with inward wrath, but nevertheless he held his tongue ; for, thought he, would it indeed be worth while to prove to these fellows that it is their own stupidity which prevents them from appreciating Olimpia's profound and brilliant parts ? One day Siegmund said Lovers Infatuation. 51 to him, " Pray, brother, have the kindnes to tell me how j-ou — a sensible fellow, came to lose your head over that Miss "\Yax-face — that wooden doll across there ? " Nathanaei was about to fly into a rage, but he recollected himself and replied, "Tell me, Siegmund, how came it Olimpia's divine charms could escape j-our eye, so keenlj' alive as it always is to beautj', and your acute perception as well ? Bat Heaven be thanked for it, otherwise I should have had you for a rival, and then the blood of one of us would have had to be spilled." Siegmund, perceiving how matters stood with his friend, skilfully interposed and said, after remarking that all argument with one iu love about the object of his affections was out of place, " Yet it's very strange that several of us have formed pretty much the same opinion about Olimpia. We think she is — you won't take it ill, brother r — that she is singularlj' statuesque and soulless. Her figure is regular, and so are her features, that can't be gainsaid ; and if her eyes were not so utterly devoid of life, I may say, of the power of vision, she might pass for a beauty. She is strangely measured iu her movements ; thej' all seem as if they were dependent upon some wound-up clock-work. Her playing and singing has the disagreeablj^ perfect but insensitive time of a singing machine, and her dancing is the same. We felt quite afraid of this 01imi)ia, and did not bke to have anything to do with her ; she seemed to us to be only acting like a living creature, and as if there was some secret at the bottom of it all." Nathanaei did not give way to the bitter feelings which threatened to master him at these words of Siegmund's, he iought down and got the better of his displeasure, and merely said, very earnestly, "You cold prosaic fellows may verj' well bo afraid of her. It is only to its like that the poetically organised spirit unfolds itself. Upon mo alone did her loving glances fall, and through mj' mind and thoughts alone did they radiate ; and only in her love can I find my own self again. Perhaps, however, she doesn't do quite right not to jabber a lot of nonsense and stupid talk like other shallow people. It is true, she speaks but few words ; but the few words she does speak are genuine hieroglyphs of the inner world of Love and of tho higher cognition of the intellectual life revealed in tho intuition of tho Eternal bej-ond the grave. But you have no understanding for all these things, and I am only wasting words." *' God be with you, brother," said Siegmund, verj' gently, almost sadly, "but it seems to me that you are in a very bad way. Y'ou may rely upon me, if all — Xo, I can't say any more." It all at once dawned upon Nathanaei that his cold prosaic friend Siegmund reallj' and sincerely wished him well, and so he warmly shook his proffered hand. Nathanaei had completely forgotten that there was a Clara in tho world, whom he had once loved — and his mother and Lothair. They had all vanished from his mind ; he lived for Olimpia alone. He sat beside her every day for hours together, rhapsodising about his love and sympathy enkindled into life, and about psychic electric affinity — aU of which Olimpia listened to with great rever- E 2 52 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. ence. He probed up from tlie very bottom of his desk all the things that he had ever -written — poems, fancy sketches, visions, romances, tales, and the heap was increased daily with all kinds of aimless sonnets, stanzas, canzonets. All these he read to Olimpia hour after horn- without growing tired; but then he had never had such an exemplary listener. She neither embroidered nor knitted ; she did not look out of the window, or foed a bird, or play with a little pet dog or a favoui'ite cat, neither did she twist a piece of paper or anything of that kind round her finger ; she did not forcibly convert a yawn into a low affected cough — in short, she sat hour after hour with her eyes bent unchangeably upon her lover's face, without moving or altering her position, and her gaze grew more ardent and more ardent still. And it was only when at last Natbanael rose and kissed her lips or her hand that she said, "Ach! ach ! " and then "Good night, dear I " Arrived at his own room, Nathanael would break out with " Oh ! what a brilliant — what a profound mind ! Onlj- you — you alone understand me." And his heart trembled with rapture whon ho reflected upon the wondrous harmony which daily revealed itself between his own and his Olimpia's character ; for he fancied that she had expressed in respect to his works and his poetic genius tho identical sentiments which he himself cherished deep down in his own heart in respect to the same, and even as if it was his own heart's voice speaking to him. And it must indeed have been so ; for Olimpia never uttered any other words than those already mentioned. And when Nathanael himself in his clear and sober moments, as, for instance, directly after waking in a morning, thought about her utter passivity and taciturnity, he only said, "What are words — but words ? The glance of her heavenly eyes says more than any tongue on earth. And how can, anyway, a child of heaven accustom herself to tho narrow circle which the exigencies of a wretched mundane life demand ? " Professor Spalanzani appeared to be greatly pleased at the inti- macy that had sprung up between his daughter Olimpia and Nathanael, and showed the young man many unmistakable proofs of his good feeling towards him ; and when Nathanael ventured at length to hint very delicately at an alliance with Olimpia, tho Professor smiled all over his face at once, and said he should allow his daughter to make a perfectly free choice. Encouraged by these words, and with the fire of desire burning in his heart, Nathanael resolved the very next day to implore Olimpia to tell him frankly, m plain words, what he had long read in her sweet, loving glances,— that she would be his for ever. lie looked for the ring which his mother had given him at parting ; he would present it to Olimpia as a symbol of his devotion, and of the happy life he was to lead with her from that time onwards. Whilst looking for it, he came across his letters from Clara and Lothair ; he threw them carelessly aside, found the ring, put it in his pocket, and ran across to Olimpia. Whilst still on the stairs, in the entrance- passage, he heard an extraordinary hubbub ; the noise seemed to Loves Infatuation. 53 proceed from Spalanzani's study. There -u-as a stamping — a rattling — pushing — knocking against the door, -with curses and oaths intermingled. " Leave hold — leave hold — you monster — you rascal — staked your life and honour upon it ? Ha ! ha I ha ! ha ! That was not our wager. I, I made the ej'es — I the clockwork. Go to the devil with your clockwork— you damned dog of a watch- maker — be off — Satan — stop — you paltry turner— you infernal beast — stop — begone — let me go.'* The voices which were thus making all this racket and rumpiis were those of Spalanzani ar'd the fearsome Coppelius. Nathanael rushed in, impelled by some nameless dread. The Professor was grasping a female figure by the shoulders, the Italian Coppola held her by the i'eet ; and they were pulling and dragging each other backwards and forwards, fighting furiously to get possession of her. Nathanael recoiled with horror on recognising that the figure was Olimjiia. Boiling with rage, he was about to tear his beloved from the grasp of tho madmen, when Coppola, by an extraordinary exertion of strength, twisted the figure out of tho Professor's hands, and gave him such a terrible blow with her, that he reeled backwards and fell over tlio table, all amongst tho vials and retorts, the bottles andglass-cylindcrs which covered it ; all these things were smashed into a thovisand pieces. But Coppola threw tho figure across his shoulder, and, laughing shrilly and horribly, ran hastily down the stairs, tho figure's ugly feet hanging down, and banging and rattling like wood against tho steps. Nathanael was stupefied ; he had seen only too distinctly that in Olimjiia's pallid, waxen face there were no eyes, merely black holes in their stead; she was an inanimate puppet. Spalanzani was rolling on the floor ; the pieces of glass had cut his head, and breast, and aim; the blood was escaping from him in streams. But he gathered his strength together by an effort. "After him — after him ! "What do you stand staring there for ? Coppelius — Coppelius — he's stolen my best automaton — at which I've worked for twenty years — staked my life upon it — tho clockwork — speech — movement — mine — your eyes — -stolen your eyes — damn him — curse him — after him — fetch me back Olimpia — there are the eyes ! '' And now Nathanael saw a pair of bloodless eyes lying on tho floor, staring at him; Spalanzani seized them with his uninjured hand, and threw them at him, so that they hit his breast. Then madness dug her burning talons into him, and swept down into his heart, rending his mind and thoughts into shreds. "Aha! Aha! Aha! Fire-wheel — fire-wheel! Spin round, fire-wheel I merrily, merrilj^ ! Aha ! wooden doll ! spin round, pretty wooden doll ! " and he threw himself upon the Pro- fessor, clutching him fast by the throat. He would certainly have strangled him, had not several people, attracted by the noise, rushed in and torn away the madman ; and so they saved the Pro- fessor, whose wounds were immediately dressed. Siegmund, with all his strength, was not able to subdue the frantic lunatic, who continued to scream in a dreadful way, "Spin round, wooden doll ! " and to strike out right and left with his doubled fists. At 54 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. lengtli the united strength of several succeeded in ovorpowenng him, by throwing him on the floor and binding him. His cries passed into a brutish bellow that was awful to hear; and thus raging with the harrowing violence of madness, ho was taken away to the madhouse. {From "JFeird Stories" by pcrnmsion of Mr. J. C. Ximmo.) THE EAELY STRUGGLES OF A PHYSICIAN. Samuel Wareex. [Mr. Warren was originally intended for the medical profession, and for sonio years carried on a tolerable practice. Circumstances, however, caused him to relinquish it for the Bar; and at the time of his death lie was a Master in Chan- cery and Kecordcr for Hull. Those works by which his name will ever be asso- ciated with the standard literature of our century would probably never have seen the light had it not been for the encouragement aflbrded to him by the late Mr. Blackwood, who discerned the intrinsic merits of his essay on the early struggles of a physician's career, when three other editors had rejected it. Sub- sequent chapters added to this essay culminated in their collection under the title of "The Diary of a Late Physician." His other best known works are "Ten Thousand a Year," and " Now and Then." Born 1807. Died 1877-] From what cause, or combination of causes, I know not, but I seemed marked out for failure in my profession. Though my name shone on my door, and the respectable neighbourhood could not but have noticed the regularity and decorum of my habits and manners, yet none ever thought of calling me in ! Had I been able to exhibit a line of carriages at my door, or open my houso for the reception of company, or dash about town in au elegant equipage, or be seen at the opera and theatres — had 1 been able to do this, the case might have been different. In candour I must acknowledge that another probable cause of my ill success was a somewhat insignificant person and unprepossessing countenance. I could not wear such an eternal smirk of conceited complacency, or keep my head perpetually bowing, mandarin-liko, as many of my professional brothers. Still there wore thousands to whom these deficiencies proved no serious obstacles. The great mis- fortune in my case was, undoubtedly, the want of introductions. There was a man of considerable rank and great woaltli, who was I a sort of fiftieth cousin of mine, resided in one of the fashionable I squares not far from mo, and on whom I had called to claim kindred and solicit his patronage ; but after having sent up my name and address, I was suffered to wait so long in an ante-room, that, what with this and the noise of servants bustling past with in.solent familiarity, I quite forgot the relationship, and left the house, wondering what had brought me there. I never felt inclined to go near it again ; so there was au end of all prospects of intro- duction from that quarter. I was left, therefore, to rely exclu- sively on my own efforts, and trust to chance for patients. It is true that, in the time I have mentioned, I was twice called in at The Early Struggles of a Physician. 55 au instant's ■warning; but, in both cases, the objects of my visits bad expired before my arrival, probably before a messenger could bo despatched for me; and the manner in ■ss'hich my fees were proifered convinced me that I should be cursed for a mercenary •wretch if I accepted them. I was therefore induced, in each case, to decline the guinea, though it would have purchased me a week's happiness ! I was also, on several occasions, called in to visit the inferior members of families in the neighbourhood — servants, housekeepers, porters, &c. ; and of all tlie trying, the mortifying occurrences in the life of a young physician, such occasions as these are the most irritating. You go to the house — a large one probablj^ — and arc instructed not to knock at the front door, but to go down by tho area to your i:)atient ! As was generally the case, I found Emily busily engaged in painting little fire-screens, and other ornamental toys, which, when completed, I was in the habit of carrying to a kind of piivate bazaar in Oxford Street, where I was not known, and where, with an aching heart, I disposed of the delicate and bcautitul produc- tions of my poor wife, for a tritle hardly worth taking home. Could any man, pretending to tho slightest feeling, contemplate his young wife, far advanced in a critical state, and requiring air, exercise, and cheerful company, toiling, in the manner I have related, from morning to night, and for a miserably inadequate remuneration ? She submitted, however, to our misfortunes with infinitcdy more firmness and equanimity than I could pretend to ; and her uniform cheerfulness of demeanour, together with the passionate fervour of her fondness for mo, contributed to fling a few rays of trembling and evanescent lustre over tho gloomj' jirospects of tho future. Still, however, the dreadful question incessantly presented itself — What, in heaven's name, is to become of us ? I cannot say that wo were at this time in absolute, literal want ; though our parsi- monious fare hardly deserved ihe name of food, especially such as my wife's delicate situation re(iuired. It was the hopelessness of all prospective resources that kept us in perpetual thraldom. With infinite eS'ort wo might contrive to hold on to a given period — say, till the next half-yearly demand of old L ; and then we must sink altogether, unless a miracle intervened to save us. Had I been alone in the world I might have braved the worst, havo turned my hand to a thousand things, have accommodated myself to almost any circumstances, and borno the estremest privations with fortitude. But my darHng — my meek, smiling, gentle Emily ! —my heart bled for her. Not to leave any stone unturned, seeing an advertisement ad- dressed, " To medical men," I applied for the situation of assistant to a general practitioner, though I had but little skill in the practical part of compounding medicines. I applied personally to the advertiser, a fat, red-faced, vulgar fellow, who had contuved to gain a very large practice, by what means God only knows. His terms were— and these named in the most ofiensive contemptu- 56 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. ousness of manner— £80 a-year, board and lodge out, and give all my time in the day to my employer ! Absurd as was the idea of acceding to terms like these, I thought I might still consider them. I pressed hard for £100 a-year, and told him I was married " Married ! " said he, with a loud laugh. " No, no, sir, you are not the man for my money ; so I wish you good morning." Thus was I baffled in every attempt to obtain a pennanont sourco of support from my profession. It brought me about £40 per annum. I gained, by occasional contributions to magazines, an average sum annually of about £25. My wife earned about that sum by her pencil. And these were all the funds I had to meet the enormous interest duo half-j^early to old L ■, to discharge my rent, and the various other expenses of housekeeping, &c. Might I not well despair ? I did ; and God's goodness only pro- served me from the frightful calamity which has suddenly termi- nated the earthly miseries of thousands in similar circumstauces. And is it possible, I often thought, with all the tormenting credulousness of a man half stupefied with his misfortunes — is it possible, that, in the very heart of this metropolis of splendour, wealth, and extravagance, a gentleman and a scholar, who has laboured long in the honourable toil of acquiring professional knowledge, cannot contrive to scrape together even a competent subsistence? and that, too, while ignorance and infamy arc wallowing in wealth — while charlatanrj' and quackery of all kinds are bloated with success ! FuU of such thoughts as these, how often have I slunk stealthilj' along the streets of London, on cold and dreary winter evenings, almost fainting with long abstinence, yet reluctant to return home and incur the expense of an ordinary family dinner, while my wife's situation required the most rigorous economy to enable us to meet, even in a poor and small waj-, the exigencies of her aj^proaching accouchement I How often — by hundreds of times — have I envied the coarse and filthy faro of the minor eating-houses, and been content to interrupt a twelve hours' fast with a bun or biscuit and a draught of water or turbid table- beer, under the wretched pretence of being in too great a hurry to go home to dinner ! I have often gazed with envy— onco, I recollect, in particular — on dogs eating their huge dailj' slico of boiled horse's flesh, and envied their contented and satiated looks ! With what anguish of heart have I seen carriages setting down company at the door of a house, illuminated by the glare of a hundred tapers, where were ladies dressed in the extreme of fashion, whose cast-off clothes would have enabled me to acquire a tolerably respectable livelihood I O, ye sons and daughters of luxury and extravagance ! how many thousands of needy and deserving families would rejoice to eat of the crumbs which fall from your tables, and they may not ! I have stood many a time at my parlour window, and envied the kitchen fare of the servants of my wealthy opposite neighbour ; while I protest I have been ashamed to look our own servant in the face, as she, day after day, served up for two what was little moro Fame v. Useful Toil. 57 than sufficient for one : and j'et, bitter mockery ! I was to sup- port abroad the farce of a cheerful and respectable professional exterior. FAME t'. USEFUL TOIL. Nathaniel IIawthorxe. [The most popular romancist of the New "World. Ilis works comprise " The Ilmisc witlitho Seven Gables," "The Scarlet Letter," "The Blithedale Romance," "Our Old Home," "Twice-told Tales," and "Mosses from an Old Manse." Born 1804. Died 18G4. His son, Julian Hawthonie, is well known as a novelist, and a contributor of social skeiches to the London periodicals.] It contributes greatly towards a man's moral and intellectual health, to bo brought into habits of companionship with individuals unlike himself, who care little for his pursuits, and whoso sphere and abilities he must go out of himself to appreciate. The acci- dents of my life have often afforded mo this advantage, but never with more fulness and variety than during my continuance in office. It is a good lesson — though it may often be a hard one — for a man who has dreamed of literary fame, and of making for himself a rank among the world's dignitaries by such means, to step aside out of the narrow circle in which his claims are recog- nised, and to find how utterly devoid of significance, beyond that circle, is all that ho achieves, and all ho aims at. I know not that I especially needed the lesson, either in the way of warning or rebuke ; but, at any rate, I learned it thoroughly : nor, it gives me pleasure to reflect, did tho truth, as it came homo to my per- ception, ever cost mo a pang, or require to be thrown off in a sigh. In tho way of litei'arj' talk, it is true, tho Naval Officer — an excel- lent fellow, who camo into offico with mo and went out only a littlo later — would often engage mo in a discussion about one or the other of his favourite topic-^, Napoleon or Shakspeare. The Col- lector's junior clerk, too, — a young gentleman who, it w'as whispered, occasionally covered a sheet of Uncle Sam's letter- paper with w'hat (at tho distance of a few yards) looked very much like poetry, — used now and then to speak to me of books, as matters with which I might possibly be conversant. This was my all of lettered intercourse ; and it was quite sufficient for my necessities. No longer seeking nor caring that my name should be blazoned abroad on title-pages, I smiled to think that it had now another kind of vogue. The Custom-House marker imprinted it, with a Btencil and black paint, on pepper-bags, and baskets of anatto, and cigar-boxes, and bales of all kinds of dutiable merchandise, in testimony that these commodities had paid the impost, and gone regularly through the office. Borne on such queer vehicle of fame, a knowledge of my existence, so far as a name conveys it, was carried -where it had never been before, and, I hope, will never go again. 58 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. MODEEN GALLANTRY. Chakles Lamb rTh-"eeDtle Elia," as this delightful essayist has been fondly called, wag bum in London, 1776, and educated at Christ's Hospitas- ture-hhesm their clothed multitude, and the abiding of the bun. in-. peaks in then- nearness to the opened heaven, shall be the type." and the blessmgs, of those who have chosen light, and of whom it ' ^m^ri^:^^:^''' '''''' '""" ^"^^^ '' '''' 1"^!^^^ ■ ■^''' ^^-' ' iFrom " Modern Painters." By permission of Messrs. Smith and Elder.^ 63 LIY HOLIDAY AT WEETCHEDVILLE. George Augustus Sala. [Jfr. Siila is universally recognised as the King of Journalists. He was ori- ginally an engraver, but, under the encouragement of the late Charles Dickens, adopted a. journalistic career. He has worked in all the various departments of literature ; and has been connected with the" Daily Telegraph " from its earliest days. As a special correspondent he has penetrated to nearly every quarter of the globe. He was the first editor of "Temple Bar," and the author of the characteristic " Hogarth Papers" in the early numbers of the " The Cornhill Magazine." His essays have been collected under the titles of " Breakfast in Bed," '• After Breakfast," and " Under the Sun." In fiction he is represented by "The Two Prima Donnas," "Captain Dangerous," and " The Seven Sons of Mammon." Two exhaustive book's, " Dayliglit and Gaslight," and " Twice Round the Clock," reflect his observations upon London life and labour. Other important works comprise, " Uome and Venice," " America Revisited," " Paris Herself Again," " Dutch Pictures," " A Journey due North," "A Journey due South," "From AVatcrlon to the Peninsula," "A Trip to Barbarj'," and, "most recently, " Tlie Land of the Golden Fleece," the result of his travels iu Austra- lia and New Zealand in 1886. Born 182G.] How I camo to bo acquainted with Wretcliodville was in this wise. I was in quest last autumn of a nice quiet place within a conve- nient distance of town where I could finish an epic poem — or stay, was it a live-act drama ? — on which I had been long engaged, and where I could bo secure from the annoj'anco of organ-grindors and of reverend gentlemen leaving little subscription-books one day and calling for them the next. I pined for a place where one could bo verj' snug, and where one's friends didn't drop in "just to look you up, old follow ; " and where the jiost didn't come in too often. So I picked up a bag of needments, and availing myself of a mid-day train on the Groat Domdauiel Eailway, alighted hap- hazard at a station. It turned out to be Sobbington. I saw at a glance that Sobbington was too fashionable, not to say stuck-up, for me. The Waltz from " Faust " was piauofortetically audible from at least half-a-dozen semi-detached windows; and this, combined with some painful variations on " Take, thini, the Sabre," and a cursorj- glance into a stationer's shop and fancy warehouse where two stern mammas of low-church aspect were purchasing the back numbers of " The Now Pugwell Square Pulpit," and three young ladies were telo- graphicallj' inquiring, behiiul tlicir parents' backs, of the young person at the counter whether any letters had boeti left for them, sufficed to accelerate my departure from Sobbington. The next station on the road, I was told, was Doleful Ilill, and then camo Deadwood Junction. I thought I would take a little walk, and see what the open and what the covert yielded. I left my bag with a moody porter at the Sobbington station, and trudged along the road which had been indicated to me as leading to Doleful liill. It happened to bo a very si>londid afternoon. There were patches of golden and of purple gorso skirting those parts of the road in which the semi-detached viUa eruption had 64j Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. not yet broken out ; the distant hills were delicately blue, and the mellow sun was distilling bis rays into diamonds and rubies on the roof of a wondrous Palace of Glass, which does duty in these parts, as Vesuvius does duty in Naples, as a pervading presence. At Portici and at Torre del Greco, at Sobbington or at Doleful IIill, turn whithersoever you will, the mountains seem close upon you always. It is true that I was a little dashed when I encountered an organ- grinder lugubriously winding "Slap, bang, here we are a.t,'ain I " ofS his brazen reel, and looking anything but a jolly dog. Organ- grinding was contrary to the code I had laid down to govern my retirement. But the autumnal sun shone very genially on this child of the sunny South — who had possibly come from the bleakest part of Piedmont ; his smile was of the sunniest likewise, and there was a roguish twinkle in his black eyes ; and though his cheeks were brown, his teeth were of the whitest. So, as I gave him pence, I determined inwardly that I would tolerate at least one organ-grinder if he came near where I lived. It is true that I had not the remotest idea of where I was going to live. I walked onwards and onwards, admiring the pied cows in the far- off pastures — cows the white specks on whose hides occurred so artistically that one might have thought that the scenic arrange- ment of the landscape had been intrusted to Mr. Birket Foster. Anon I saw coming towards me a butcher- boy in his cart, drawn by a fast-trotting pony. It was a light high spring- cart, very natty and shiny, with the names and addi-esses of the proprietors, Messrs. Hock, Butchers to the Eoyal Family, West Deadwood — which of the princes or princesses resided at West Deadwood, I wonder? — emblazoned on the panels. The butcher-boy shone, too, with a suety sheen. The joints which formed his cargo wore of the hue of which an English girl's cheeks should be — pure red and white. And the good sun shone upon all. The equipage came rattling along at a high trot, the butcher squaring his arms and whistling— I could see him whistle from afar off. I asked him, when he neared me, how far it might be to Doleful Hill, " Good two mile," quoth the butcher-boy, pulling up. " Steady, you warmint!" This was to the trotting pony. ""But," ho contmued, "you'll have to pass Wretched villo first. Lays' in a 'ole a httle to the left, arf a mile on." "Wretchedville," thought I; what an odd name! "What sort of a place is it ? " I inquired. "Well," replied tho butcher-bov ; "it's a lively place, a worry lively place. I should say it was lively enough to make a cricket burst himself for spite: it's so uncommon lively." And with this enigmatical dehverance the butcher- boy relapsed into a whistle of the utmost shrillness, and rattled away towards Sobbington. T+Zi ^^1 ^^^^ ^* ^^'^ "°* ^^^^ 1^^^^ s'^ golden an afternoon. A little dulness, a few clouds in the sky, might have acted as a caveat against Wretchedville. But I plodded on and on, finding all thin-s lookmg beautiful iu that autumn glow. I came positively on ''a My Holiday at Wretchedvillc. 65 gipsy encampment ; blanket tent ; donkey tethered to a cart- wheel; brown man in awido-a-wake hammering at a tin pot; brown woman with a yellow kerchief, sitting cross-legged, mending brown man's pantaloons ; brown little brats of Egypt swarming across the road and holding out their burnt-sienna hands for largesse, and the regular gipsy's kettle swinging from the crossed sticks over a fire of stolen furze. Farmer Somebody's poultry simmering in the pot, no doubt. Family linen — somebody else's linen yesterday — drying on an adjacent bush. "Who says that the picturesque is dead '^ The days of Sir Roger do Coverlej' had come again. So I went on and on admiring, and down the declivitous road into Wretchedville and to destruction. Were there anj- apartments "to let"? Of course there were. The very first house I came to was as regards the parlour-window nearly blocked up by a placard treating of " Apartment.i Furnished." Am 1 right in describing it as the parlour- window ? I scared J' know ; for the front door, with which it was on a level, was approached by such a very steep flight of steps that when you stood on the topmost grade it seemed as though, with a very slight effort, you could have peeped in at the bedroom window, or touched one of the chimnej'-pots ; while as concerns the basement, the front kitchen — I beg pardon, the breakfast parlour" — appeared to bo a good way above tho level of the street. The .space iu tho iirst-floor window not occn])ied by tho placard was filled by a monstrous grouj) of wax fruit, the lemons as big as pumpkins and the leaves of an unnaturally vivid green. Tho window below — it was a single-windowed front — served merely as a frame for the half-length portrait of a lady in a cap, ringlets, and a colossal cameo brooch. Tho ej^es of this portrait were fixed upon me ; and before almost I had lifted a very small light knocker, decorated, so far as I could make out, with the cast-iron effigy of a desponding ape, and had struck this against a door which, to judgo from tho amount of percussion produced, was composed of bristol- board highly varnished, the portal itself flew open and the portrait of the basement appeared in the flesh. Indeed, it was the same portrait. Downstairs it had been Mrs. Primpris looking out into the Wretchedville Eoad for lodgers. Upstairs it was Mrs. Primpris letting her lodgings and glorying in the act. She didn't ask for any references. She didn't hasten to inform me that there were no children or anj' other lodgers. She didn't look doubtful when I told her that tho whole of my luggage consisted of a black bag which I had left at the Sobbington station. She seemed rather pleased than otherwise at tho idea of tho bag, and said that her Alfred should step round for it. She didn't object to smoking ; and she at once invested me with the Order of the Latch-key — a latch-key at Wretchedville, ha I ha ! She further held me with her glittering ej'e, and I listened like a twc- years child while she let me the lodgings for a fortnight certain. Perhajjs it was less her eye that dazed me than her cameo, on which there was, in high relief and on a ground the hue of a pig's 66 Miscellaneom Readings in Prose. liver, the effigy of a young -woman witli a straight nose and a round chin and a quantity of snakes in her haii-. I don't think that cameo came from Rome. I think it came from Tottenham Court Eoad. She had converted me into a single gentleman lodger of quiet and retired habits — or was I a widower of independent means seeking a home in a cheerful family ?— so suddenly that I beheld all things as in a dream. Thinking, perchance, that the first stono of that monumental edifice, :;he bill, could not be laid too quickly, she immediately provided me with tea. There was a little cottage- loaf, so hard, round, shiny, and compact, that I experienced a well- nigh uncontrollable desire to fling it up to the ceiling to ascertain whether it would chip off any portion of a preposterous rosette in stucco in the centre, representing a sunflower, surrounded by cabbage-leaves. This terrible ornament was, by the way, one of the chief sources of my misery at Wretchedville. I was continually apprehensive that it would tumble down bodilj' on the table. In addition to the cottage-loaf there was a pretentious teapot, which, had it been of sterling silver, would have been worth fifty guineas, but which, in its ghastly gleaming, said plainly "Sheffield" and "imposture." There was a piece of butter in a "shape" like a diminutive haystack, and with a cow sprawling on the top in unctuous plasticity. It was a pallid kind of butter, from which with difficulty you shaved off" adipocerous scales, which would not be persuaded to adhere to the bread, but flew oif at tangents and went rolling about an intolerably large tea-tray, on whoso papier- mache surface was depicted the death of Captain Iledley Vicars. The Crimean sky was inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and the gallant captain's face was highly enriched with blue-and-crirason foil-paper. As for the tea, I don't think I ever tasted such a peculiar mixture. Did you ever sip warm Cutsup sweetened with borax !' That might have been something like it. And what was that sediment, strongly resembling the sand at Great Yarmouth, at the bottom of the cup ? I sat down to my meal, however, and made as much play with the cottage-loaf as I could. Had the loaf been varnished ? It smelt and looked as though it had undergone that process. Everything in the house smelt of varnish. I was uncomfortably conscious, too, during mj' repast — one side of the room being all window — that I was performing the part of a "Portrait of the Gentleman in the first floor," and that as such I was " sitting '' to Mrs. Lucknow at Number Twelve opposite — I know her name was Lucknow, for a brass plate on the door said S3 — whose own half-length effigy was visible in her breakfast- parlour window, glowering at me reproachfully because I had not xaken her first floor, in the window of which was, not a group of wax fruit, but a sham alabaster vase full of artificial flowers. Every window in Wretchedville exhibited one or other of these ornaments, and it was from their contemplation that I began to understand how it was that the "fancy goods'' trade in the Mij Holiday at Wretcheclville. 67 Minories and Houndsditch throve so well. They made things there to be purchased by the housekeepers of "Wretchedyille. The shades of evening fell, and Mrs. Primpris brought me in a monstrous paraffin-lamp, tho flame of which wouldn't do anything but lick the chimney-glass till it smoked it to the hue proper to observe eclipses by, and then splutter into extinction, and charnel- like odour. After that we tried a couple of composites (six to tho pound) in green glass candlesticks. I asked Mrs. Primpris if she could send me up a book to read, and she favoured me, per Alfred and Selina, with her whole library, consisting of the Asylum Press Almanack for 1800 ; two odd volumes of the Calcutta Directory ; the Brewer and Distiller's Assistant ; Julia de Crespigny, or a "Winter in London ; Dunoycr's French Idioms ; and the Eeverend Mr. Huntingdon's Bank of Faith. I took out my cigai'-case after this and began to smoke ; and then I heard Mrs. Primpris coughing and a number of doors being thrown wide oj^en. Upon this I concluded that I would go to bed. My sleeping apartment — the first-floor back — was a perfect cube. One side was a window overlooking a strip of clay-soil hemmed in between brickwalls. There were no tombstones yet, but if it wasn't a cemetery, why, when I opened tho window to get rid of the odour of the varnish, did it smell like one ':* Tho opposite side of the cube was composed of a chest of drawers. I am not impertinently curious by nature, but as I was the first-floor lodger, bethought myself entitled to open tho top long drawer with a view to the bestowal therein of the contents of my black bag. The drawer was not emptj' ; but that which it held made mo very nervous. I sup- pose the weird figure I saw stretched out there with pink arms and legs sprouting from a shroud of silver paper, a quantity of ghastly auburn curls, and two blue glass eyes unnaturally gleaming in the midst of a mask of salmon- coloiu'cd wax, was Selina's best doll ; the present, perhaps, of her uncle, who was, haply, a Calcutta director, or an Asylum Press Almanac-maker, or a brewer and dis- tiller, or a cashier in tho Bank of Faith. I shut the drawer again hurriedly, and that doll in its silver paper cerecloth haunted me all night. The third side of my bedroom consisted of chimney — tho coldest, hardest, brightest-looking fireplace I over saw out of Hampton Court Palace guardroom. The fourth side was door. I forgot into ■which corner was hitched a washhand stand. The ceiling was mainly stucco rosette, of the pattern of tho one in my sitting-room. Among the crazes which came over mo at this time was one to the effect that this bedroom was a cabin on board ship, and that if tho ship should happen to lurch or roll in the trough of the sea, I must in- fallibly tumble out of the door or the window, or into the drawer where the doll was — unless the drawer and the doll came out to me — or up the chimnej-. I think that I murmured " Steady " as I clomb into bed. My couch — an "Arabian" one, Mrs. Primpris said proudly — seemingly consisted of the Logan, or celebrated rocking-stone of ^2 68 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. Cornwall, loosely covered with bleacted canvas, under which was certain loose foreign matter, but whether composed of flocculi of wool or of the halves of kidney potatoes I am not in a position to state. At all events I awoke in the morning veined all over like a scagliola column. I never knew, too, before, that any blankets were ever manufactured in Yorkshire, or elsewhere, so remarkably small and thin as the two seeming flannel pocket-handkerchiefs with blue-and-crimson edging, which formed part of Mrs. Prim- pris's Arabian bed-furniture Nor had I hitherto been aware, as I was when I lay with that window at my feet, that the moon was so very large. The orb of night seemed to tumble on me flat, until I felt as though I were lying in a cold ftying-pan. It was a " watery moon," I have reason to think ; for when I awoke the next morn- ing, much battered with visionary conflicts with the doll, I found that it was raining cats and dogs. "The rain," the poet tells us, " it raineth every day." It rained most prosaically all that day at Wretched ville, and the next, and from Monday morning till Saturday night, and then until the middle of the next week. Dear me ! dear me ! how wretched I was I I hasten to declare that I have no kind of complaint to make against Mrs. Primpris. Not a flea was felt in her house. The cleanliness of the villa was so scrupulous as to be distressing. It smelt of soap and scrubbing-brush like a Eefuge. Mrs. Primpris was strictly honest, even to the extent of inquiring what I would like to have done with the fat of cold mutton-chops, and sending mo up ante- diluvian crusts, the remnants of last week's cottage-loaves, with which I would play moodily at knock-'em-downs, using the pepper- caster as a pin. I have nothing to say against Alfred's fondness for art. India-rubber, to be sure, is apter to smear than to obli- terate drawings in chalk ; but a three-penny piece is not much ; and you cannot too early encourage the imitative faculties. And again, if Selina did requii-e correction, I am not prepared to deny that a shoe may be the best implement and the bladebones the most fitting portion of the human anatony for such an exercitation. I merely say that I was wretched at Wretchedville, and that Mrs. Primpris's apartments very much aggravated my misery. The usual objections taken to a lodging-house are to the effect that the furniture is dingy, the cooking execrable, the servant a slattern, and the landlady either a crocodile or a tigress. Now my indict- ment against my Wretchedville apartments simply amounts to this : that everything was too new. Never were there such staring paper-hangings, such gaudily printed druggets for carpets, such blazing hearthrugs— one representing the Dog of Montargis seizing the murderer of the Forest of Eondy — such gleaming fire-irons, and such remarkably shiny looking-glasses, with gilt halters for frames. The crockery was new, and the glue on the chairs and tables was scarcely dry. The new veneer peeled off the new chillb- nier. The roller-blinds to the windows were so new that they wouldn't work. The new stair-carpeting used to dazzle my eyes 80, that I was always tripping myself up ; the new oil-cloth in the The Death of Little Nell 69 ball smelt like the Trinity House repository for new buoj's ; and Mrs. Primpris was always full-clressed, cameo brooch and all, by nine o'clock in the morning. She confessed once or twice during my stay that her house was not quite "seasoned." It was not even seasoned to sound. Every time the kitchen-fire was poked you heard the sound in the sitting-room. As to perfumes, when- ever the lid of the copper in the washhouse was raised, the first- floor lodger was aware of the fact. I knew by the simple evidence of my olfactory organs what Mrs. Primpris had for dinner every day.' Pork, accompanied by some green esculent, boiled, predominated. When my fortnight's tenancj' had expired — I never went out- side the house until I left it for good — and my epic poem, or what- ever it was, had more or loss been completed, I returned to London, and had a rare bilious attack. The doctor said it was painter's colic ; I said at the time it was disappointed ambition , for the book- sellers had looked very coldly on my poetical proposals, and the managers to a man had refused to read my plaj' ; but at this pre- sent writing I believe the solo cause of my malady to have been Wretchedville. I hope they will pull down the villas and build the jail there soon, and that the rascal convicts will be as wretched as I was. {From " Under the Sioi," bi/ permission of Messrs. VizetcUij ^- Co.) THE DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. Charles Dickens. [Seo pago 42.] WirE\ morning came, and they could s^Dcak more calmly on the subject of their grief, they heard how her life had closed. She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time, knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after day- break. They had read and talked to her in the earlier jjortion of the night, but as the hoiu-s crept on she sunk to sleep. They could tell, by what she faintly uttered in her di'cams, that they were of her journeyings with the old man; they were of no painfiil scenes, but of people who had helloed and used them kindl3% for she often said " God bless you !"' with great fervour. Waking, she never wandered in her mind but once, and that was of beautiful music which she said was in the air. God knows. It may have been. Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old man with a lovely smile upon her face — such, they said, as they had never seen, and never could forget — and clung with both her arms about his neck. They did not know that she was dead, at first. She had spoken very often of the two sisters, who, she said, were like dear friends to her. She wished they could be told how much she thought about them, and how she had watched them as they walked together, by the river side at night. She would like to see 70 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. poor Kit, she had often said of late. She wished there was some- body to take her love to Kit. And even then, she never thought or spoke about him, but with something of her old, clear, merry laugh. For the rest, she never murmured or complained ; but with a quiet mind, and manner quite unaltered — save that she every day became more earnest and more grateful to them — faded like the light upon a summer's evening. The child who had been litr little friend came there, almost as soon as it was day, with an offering of dried flowers which he begged them to lay on her breast. It was he who had come to the window over-night and spoken to the sexton, and they saw in the snow traces of small feet, where he had been lingering near the room in which she lay, before he went to bed. He had a fanc\% it seemed, that they had left her there alone ; and could not bear the thought. He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her being Restored to them, just as she used to be. He begged hard to see iier, saying that he would be very quiet, and that they need not fear of his being alarmed, for he had sat alone by his young brother all day long when lie was dead, and had felt glad to be so near him. They let him have his wish : and indeed he kept his word, and was, in his childish way, a lesson to them all. Up to this time, the old man had not spoken once — except to her — or stirred from her bedside. But, when he saw her little favourite, he was moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as though he would have him come nearer. Then, pointing to the bed, he burst into tears for the first time, and they who stood by, knowing that the sight of this child had done him good, left them alone together. Soothing him with his artless tallc of her, the child persuaded him to take some rest, to walk abroad, and to do almost as he desired him. And when the day came on, which must remove her in her earthly shape from earthly eyes for ever, he led him away, that he might not know when she was taken from him. They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed. It was Sunday — a bright, clear, wintry afternoon — and as they travers(?d the village street, those who were walking in their path drew back to make way for them, and gave them a softened greeting. Some shook the old man kindly by the hand, and some uncovered while he tottered by, and many cried " God bless him," as he passed along. * * =x= * * # And anon the bell— the bell she had so often heard, by nio-ht and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure almost as a livTnc voice— rang its remorseless toll, for her, so young, so beautiful so good. Decrepit age, and %agorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless inlancy poured forth— on crutches, in the pride of strength and health, m the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life— to gatner round her tomb. Old men were there, whose eyes were The Death of L Ittle Nell. 71 dim and senses failing — grandmothers \\\\o might have died ten years ago, and still been old — the deaf, the blind, the lame, tha palsied, the living deail in many shapes and forms, to see the closing of that early grave. What was the death it woiild shnt in, to that whifh still oonld crawl and creep cabove it ? Along the crowded path they bore her now ; pure as the newly- fallen snow that covered it ; whose day on earth had been as fleet- ing. Under the porch, where she had sat when Heaven in its mercy brought her to that peaceful spot, she passed again ; and the old church received her in its quiet shade. They carried her to one old nook, where she had many and many a time sat musing, and laid their burden softly on the pavement. The light streamed on through the coloured window— a window where the boughs of trees were ever rushing in the summer, and where the birds sang sweetly all day long. With every breath of ail that stirred among those branches in the sunshine, some trembling, changing light would fall upon her grave. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust ! Man}'' a young hand dropped in its little wreath, many a stifled sob was heard. Some^ and, they were not a few, knelt down. All were sincere and truth, ful in their sorrow. The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the villagers closed round to look into the grave before the pavement-stone should be replaced. One called to mind how he had seen her sitting on that very spot, and how her book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing with a ))ensive face ui)on the sky. Another told how he had wondered much that one so delicate as she should be so bold ; how she had never feared to enter the church alone at niglit, but had loved to linger there when all w;i.s quiet, and even to climb the tower stair, witli no more light than that of the moon's rays stealing through the loopholes in the thick old wall. A whisper went about among the eldest, that she had seen and talked with angels; and when they called to mind how she had looked and spoken, and her early death, some thought it might l)e so, indeed. Thus, coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three ov four, the church was cleared in time of all but the se.\tou and the mourn- ing friends. They saw the vault covered, and the stone fixed down. Then, when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a soimd disturbed the sacred stillness of the place — when the bright moon poured her light on tomb and monume'"'':, on pillar, well, and arch, and most of all (it seemed to them) upon Ler quiet grave, — in that calm time, when outward things and inward thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust before them — then, witli tranquil and submissive hearts, they turned away, and leit the child with God. Oh ! it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths will teach, but let no man reject it, for it is one that we must all learn, and is a mighty, universal Truth, When death strikes down the 72 Miscellaneous Headings in Prose. innocent and young, for every fragile form from whicli lie lets the panting spirit free, a Imndi-ed virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, chanty, and love, to walk the world, and bless it. Of every tear that sor- ))vving mortals shed on such green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature comes. In the Destroyer's steps there spring up bright creatures that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to Heaven. It was late when the old man came home. The bey had led him to his own dwelling, under some pretence, on their way back ; and, rendered drowsy by his long ramble, he had sunk into a deep sleep by the fireside. He was perfectly exhausted, and they had taken care not to rouse him. The slumber held him a bag time, and when he at length awoke the moon was shining. The younger brother, uneasy at his protracted absence, was watch- ing at the door for his coming, when he appeared in the pathway with his little guide. He advanced to meet them, and tenderly obliging the old man to lean upon his arm, conducted him with slow and trembling stej^s towards the house. He repaired to her chamber, straight. Not finding wliat he had left there, he returned with distracted looks to the room in which they were assembled. From that, he rushed into the schoolmaster's cottage ; calling her name. They followed close upon him, and when he had vainly searched it, brought him home. With such persuasive words as pity and aS'ection could suggest, they i^revailed upon him to sit among them and hear what they should tell him. Then, endeavouring by every httle artifice to pre- pare his mind for what must come, and dwelling with many fervent words ui3on the happy lot to which she had been removed, they told him, at last, the truth. The moment it had passed their lips, ho fell down among them like a murdered man. For many hours they had little hopes of his surviving ; but grief is strong, and he recovered. If there be any who have never known the blank that follows death — ^the weary void — the sense of desolation that will come upon the strongest minds, when something familiar and beloved is missed at every turn — the connexion between inanmiate and senseless things, and the object of recollection, when every household god becomes a monument, and every room a grave — if there be any who have not known this, and proved it by their own experience, they can never faintly guess, how, for days, the old man pined and moped away the time, and wandered here and there as if seeking something, and had no comfort. ****** _ At length, they found, one day, that he had risen early, and, with his knapsack on his back, his stafi" in hand, he:' ovn straw hat, and httle basket full of such things as she had been used to carry, was gone. As they were making ready to pursue him far and vndc, a trightened schoolboy came who had seen him, but a moment before, sitting in the church— upon her grave. They hastened there, and going softly to the door, espied him in TJte Flower of the Forest. 73 the attitude of one who waited patiently. They did not disturb him then, but kept watch upon him all that day. AVhen it grew quite dark, he rose and returned home, and went to bed, murmuring to himself " she will come to-morrow !" Upon the morrow he was there again frorp. r/-nrise until night ; and still at night he laid him down to rest, and miirmured, " She will come to-morrow !" And thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited at her grave, for her. How many pictures of new journeys over pleasant country, of resting-jilaces under the free broad sky, of rambles in the fields and woods, and paths not often trodden — how many tones of that one well-remembered voice — how many glimpses of the form, the flut- tering dress, the hair that waved so gaily in the wind — how many visions of what had been, and what he hoped yet to be, rose up before him, in the old, dull, silent church ! He never told them what he thought, or where he went. He would sit with them at night, ])ondering with a secret satisfaction, they coxild see, upon the flight that he and she would take before night came again ; and still they would hear him whisper in his prayers, " Lord ! let her come to-morrow !" The last time was on a genial day in spring. He did not return at the usual hour, and they went to seek him. He was lying dead upon the stone. They laid him by the side of her whom he had loved so well ; and in the church where they had so often prayed, and mused, and lingered hand in hand, the child and the old man slept together. (By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Ilall.) THE FLOWER OF THE FOEEST. Thofessou "Wilsox. [Jolm 'U'ilson was the son of a mauufacturer in Paisley, where he was bom, 17»5. He was educated firstly at the University of Glasgow, whence he passed to Magdalene College, Oxford. On completing his studies ho took up his abode on the Ixiuks of Windermere, and here -wTote his first poems, the prin- cipal of which were — "The Isle of Palms," 1812, followed by "Tlie City of the Plague." lie next essayed prose fiction, and added to our permanent literature '-Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life;" the "Trials of Margaret LjTidsay ;" and "The FoiTesters." In 1820 he was appointed to the chair of Moral I'hilosophy in Edinburgh, and thenceforth known as "Professor." This position he resigned in 1851, when the Crown settled on him a pension of 300/. a year. He died 1854, and his w6rks, including his magazine papers and the cekbrated "Noctes" of " Bhvckwood's Magazine," ha73 nince been pub- lished by the Messrs. Blackwood in a complete fonn.] The y.iidow of the lonely cottage of Hilltop was beaming far above the highest birch-wood, seeming to travellers at a distance in the long valley below, who knew it not, to be a star in the sky. A bright fire"was in the kitchen of that small tenement; the floor was Avashed, swept, and sanded, and not a footstep had marked its perfect neat- 74 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. ness ; a small table was covered, near the ingle, with a snow-white cloth, on which was placed a frugal evening meal ; and in happy but pensive mood, sat there, all alone, the woodcutter's only daughter, a comely and gentle creature, if not beautiful ; such an one as dif- fuses ];)leasure round her in the hay-field, and serenity over the scat in which she sits attentively on the Sabbath, listening to the Word of God, or joining ^vith mellow voice in His praise and worshiix On this night she expected a visit from her lover, that they might fix their marriage-daj"- ; and her parents, satisfied and happy that, their child was about to be wedded to a respectable shepherd, had gone to pay a visit to their nearest neighbour in the glen. A feeble and hesitating knoclc was at the door, not like the glad and joyful touch of a lover's hand; and, cautiously opening it, Mary Robinson beheld a female figure wrapped up in a cloak, with her face concealed in a black bonnet. The stranger, whoever sho might be, seemed wearied and worn out, and her feet bore witness to a long day's travel across the marshy mountains. Altliough she could scarcely help considering her an unwelcome visitor at such an hour, yet Mary had too much sweetness of dis[)Osition — too much humanity, not to request her to step forward into the hut ; for it seemed as if the wearied woman had lost her way, and had come towards the shining window to be put right upon her journey to tho low country. The stranger took off her bonnet on reaching the fire, and Maiy Robinson beheld the face of one whom in youth she had tenderly loved ; although, for some years past, the distance at which they lived from each other had kept them from meeting, and only a letter or two, written in their simple way, had given them a few notices of each other's existence. And now Mary had opportunity, in the first speechless gaze of recognition, to mark the altered face orher friend ; and her heart was touched with an ignorant compassion. " For mercy's sake ! sit down, Sarah ! and tell me Avhat evil has befallen you ; for you are as white as a ghost. Fear not to confide anything to my bosom ; we have herded sheep together on tlie lone- some braes ; we have stripped the bark together in the more lonesome woods; wehaveplayed, laughed, sung, danced together; wehave talked merrily and gaily, but innocently enough surely, of sweethearts to- gether; and, Sarah, graver thoughts, too, have we shared, for, when your poor brother died away like a frosted fiowcr. I wept as if I had been his sister ; nor can I ever be so happy in this world as to for- get him. lell me, my friend, why are you here? and why is your sweet face so ghastly ?" j j The heart of this unexpected visitor died within her at these kind and affectionate inquines. For she had come on an errand that was hkely to dash the joy from that hap]iy countenance. Her heart up- braided her with the meanness of the purpose for which she hid paid this visit ; but that was only a i)assing thought ; for was she, innocent and free from sin, to submit, not only to desertion, but t^ iSfr^'i '^1 *™'^ ^''''^^ ^'^^ her wrongs, and her hopes of redress, to her whom she loved t^s a sister, and wlio^e generous na- The Flower of trie Forest. 75 ture she well knew, not even love, the changer of so many things, could change utterly ; though, indeed, it might render it colder than of old to the anguish of a female friend. " Oh ! Mary, I must speak ; yet must my words make yoij, grieve, far less for me than for yourself. Wretch that I am, I brmg evil tidmgs into the dwelling of my dearest friend ! These ribands,— they are worn for his sake, — they become well, as he thinks, the auburn of your bonny hair ; that blue gown is worn to-night because he likes it ; but, Mary, will you curse me to my face, when I declare before the God that made us that that man is pledged unto me by all that is sacred between mortal creatures ; and that I have here in my bosom written promises and oaths of love from him who, I was this morning told, is in a few days to be thy husband ? Turn me out of the hut now, if you choose, and let me, if you choose, die of hunger and fatigue, in the woods where we have so often walked to- gether ; for such death would be mercy to me, in comparison with vour marriage with him who is mine for ever, if there be a God who needs the oaths of the creatures he has made." Mary Robinson had led a haj^py life, but a life of quiet thoughts, tranquil hopes, and meek desires. Tenderly and truly did she love the man to whom she was now betrothed ; but it was because she had thought him gentle, manly, upright, sincere, and one that feared God. His character was unimiieached ; to her his behaviour had always been fond, affectionate, and respectful; that he was a fine- looking man, and could show himself among the best of the country round at church, and market, and fair-day, she saw and felt with pleasure and pride. But in the heart of this poor, humble, con- tented, and pious girl, love was not a violent passion, but an affec- tion sweet and profound. She looked forwards to her marriage \vith a joyful sedateness, knowing that she would have to toil for her family, if blest with children ; but happy in the thought of keeping her husband's house clean, — of preparing his frugal meals, and welcoming him, when wearied at night, to her faitliful, and af- fectionate, and grateful bosom. At first, perhaps, a slight Hush of anger towards Sarah tinged her cheek ; then followed, in quick succession, or all blenc!.:d to- gether in one sickening pang, fear, disappointment, the sense of wrong, and the cruel j^ain of disesteeming and despising one on whom her heart had rested with all its best and purest aifections. But though there was a keen struggle between many feelings in her heart, her resolution was formed during that very conflict ; and she said within herself, " If it be even so, neither will I be so unjust as to deprive poor Sarah of the man who ought to marry her, nor yviH I be so mean and low-spirited, poor as I am, and dear as he has been unto me, as to become his wife." While these thoughts were calmly passing in the soul of this magnanimous girl, all her former affection for Sarah re\"ived ; and as she sighed for herself, she wept aloud for her friend. " Be quiet, be quiet, Sarah, and sob not so as if your heart were breaking. It need not be thus -s^-ith you. Oh ! sob not so sair ! You surely 76 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose jiave not walkea in this one day from the heart of the parish of Montrath ?" "I have indeed done so, and I am as weak as the wreathed snaw. God knows, little matter if I should die away; for, after all, I fear he will never think of me for his wife ; and you, Mary, will lose a husband with whom yoii would have been happy. I feel, after all, that I must appear a mean wretch in your eyes." There was silence between them ; and Mary Eobinson, looking at the clock, saw that it wanted only about a quarter of an hour from the time of tryst. " Give nie the oaths and promises you men- tioned out of your bosom, Sarah, that I may show them to Gabriel when he comes. And once more I promise, by all the sunny and all the snowy days we have sat together in the same plaid, on the hniside, or in the lonesome charcoal plots and nests o' green in the woods, that if my Gabriel — did I say my Gabriel? — has for- saken you, and deceived me thus, never shall his lips touch mine again — never shall he put ring on my finger— never shall this head lie in his bosom — no, never, never ! notwithstanding all the happy, too happy hours and days I have been with him, near or at a distance — on the corn-rig — among the meadow-hay — in the singing- school — at harvest-home — in this room — and in God's own house. So help me God, but I will keep this vow !" Poor Sarah told, in a few hurried words, the st-ory of her love and desertion, — how Gabriel, whose business as a shejiherd often took him into Montrath parish, had wooed her, and fixed everything about their marriage nearly a year ago. But that he liad become cause- lessly jealous of a young man whom she scarcely knew — had accused her of want of virtue — and for many months had never once come to see her. " This morning, for the first time, I heard for a certainty, from one who knew Gabriel well, and all his concerns, that the bans had been proclaimed in the church between him and you, and that, in a day or two, you were to be married. And, though I felt drown- ing, I determined to make a struggle for my hfe— for oh ! Mary, Mary, my heart is not like your heart, — it wants your wisdom, your meekness, your piety ; and, if I am to lose Gabriel, I will destroy my miserable life, and face the \\Tath of God sitting in judgment ftjaon sinners." _ ^ At this burst of passion, Sarah hid her face with her hands, as if sensible that she had committed blasphemy.— Mary, seeing her wearied, hungry, thirsty, and feverish, spoke to her in the°most Boothmg manner ; led her into the little parlour, called the spence, then removed mto it the table, with the oaten cakes, butter, and milk; and, tellmg her to take some refreshment, and then lie down on the bed, but on no account to leave the room till called for, gave her a sisterly kiss, and left her. In a few minutes the outer door opened, and Gabriel entered. The lover said, "How is my sweet Mary?" with a beaming countenance ; and, gently drawing her to his bosom, he kissed her cheek- Mary did not, could not, wished not, at once to release nerselt irom his enfolding arms. Gabriel had always treated her as ttie woman who was to be his wife ; and though at tliis time her The FCower of the Forest 77 heart knew its own bitterness, yet she repelled not endearments that were so lately delightful, and suffered him to take her almost in his anns to their accustomed scat. He held her hand in his, and began to speak in his usual kind and affectionate language. Kind and affectionate it was ; for, though he ought not to ha\ e done so, he loved her, as he thought, better than his life. Her heart could not, in one small short hour, forget a whole year of bliss. She could not yet fling away with her own hand what, only a few minutes ago, seemed to her the hope of 2"»aradise. Her soul sickened within her, and she wished that she were dead, or never had been born. " Gabriel ! Gabriel ! well indeed have I loved you ; nor -will I 3ay, after all that has passed between us, that you are not deser\'ing., ifter all, of a Ijctter love than mine. Vain were it to deny my lovo cither to you or to my own soul. But look me in the face — be not wrathful — think not to hide the truth either from yourself or me, for that now is impossible,— but tell me solemnly, as you shall answer to God at the judgment-day, if )^ou know any reasou why I must not be your wedded wife." She kept her mild moist eyes fixed ui:)on him ; but he hung down his head, and uttered not a word, for he was guilty before her, before his ovm soul, and before God. " Gabriel, never could we have been happy ; for you often told me that all the secrets of your heart were known imto me, yet never did j'ou tell me this. How could you desert the poor innocent creature that loved 3'ou ; and how coiild you use me so, avIio loved you perhaps as well as she, but whose heart God will teach not to forget you, for that may I never do, but to think on you with that friendshij) and affection which, innocently, I can bestow upon you, when you are Sarah's husband? For, Gabriel, I have this night sworn, not in anger or passion — no, no — but in sorrow and pity for another's wrongs, in sorrow also — deny it will I not — for my own, to look on you from this hour as on one whose life is to be led apart from my life, and whose love must never more meet with my love. Speak not unto me, look not on me with beseeching eyes. Duty and religion forbid us ever to '>e man and wife. But you know there is one besides me, whom you loved befor vou loved me, and therefore it may be, better too ; and that she loves you, and is faithful, as if God had made you one, I say without fear, — I who have known her since she was a cliild, although, fatally for the peace of us both, we have long hved apart. Sarah is in the house, and I will bring her iinto you in tears, but not tears of penitence, for she is as umocent of that sin as I ar^i, who now speak." Mary went into the little parlour, and led Sarah forward m her hand. Despairing a : she had been, yet when she had heard from poor iMary's voice si:)eaking so fei-vently, that Gabriel had come, and that her fi-iend was interceding in her behalf, — the j^oor girl had arranged her hair in a small looking-glass, tied it up -vvath a riband which Gabriel had given her, and put into the breast of hei gown a little gilt brooch that contained locks of their blended hair. 78 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. Pale, but beautiful -for Sarah Pringle was the fairest girl in ax, the country —she advanced with a flush on that paleness of reviving hope, injured pride, and love that was ready to forgive all, and forget all, so that once again she could be restored to the place m his heart that she had lost. " What have I ever done, Gabriel, that YOU should fling me from you? May my soul never live by the atonement of my Saviour, if I am not innocent of that sin, yea, of all distant thought of that sin with which you, even you, have in your hard-heartedness charged me. Look me in the face, Gabriel, and think of all I have been unto you, and if you say that before God, and in your own soul, you beUeve me guilty, then will 1 go away out into the dark night, and, long before morumg, my troubles will be at an end." i i j. • n Truth was not only in her fen'ent and simple words, but in the tone of her voice, the colour of her face, and the light of her eyes. Gabriel had long shut up his heart against her. At first, he had doubted her virtue, and that doubt gradually weakened his affec- tion. At last he tried to beheve her guilty, or to forget her alto- gether, when his heart turned to Mary Robinson, and he thought of making her his wife. His injustice— his wickedness — his baseness — which he had so long concealed, in some measure, from himself, by a dim feeling of wrong done him, and aftenvards by the pleasure of a new love, now appeared to him as they were, and without dis- guise. Mary took Sarah's hand and placed it within that of hor contrite lover, — for, had the tumult of conflicting passions allowed him to know his own soul, such at that moment he surely was, — saying, with a voice as composed as the eyes wth which she looked upon them, " I restore you to each other ; and I already feel the comfort of being able to do my duty. I will be bridesmaid. And I now implore the blessing of God upon your marriage. Gabriel, your betrothed will sleep this night in my bosom. AVe will think of you, better, perhaps, than you deserve. It is not for me to tell you what you have to repent of. Let us all three pray for each otlier this night, and evermore when we are on our knees before our Maker. The old people will soon be at home. Good-night, Gabriel !" He kissed Sarah, and, giving Mary a look of shame, humility, and reverence, he went home to meditation and repentance. It was now Midsummer .' and before the harvest had been gathered in throughout the higher valleys, or the sheep brought from the mountain-fold, Gabriel and Sarah were man and wife. Tuiis passed on, and a blooming family cheered their board and fireside. Nor did Mary Robinson, the Flower of the Forest (for so the Woodcutter's daughter was often called,) pass her life in single blessedness. She too became a Avifo and mother ; and the two families, who lived at last on adjacent farms, were remarkable for mutual affection, throughout all the parish ; and more than one intermarriage took place between them, at a time when the worthy parents had ahnost entirely forgotten the trying incident of their youth. 70 GOLDSMITH IN GREfiN-ARBOR COURT. Washington Irving. rWashington Irrlngls, without doubt, universally considered the most delight- ful and popular of American authors. Born in 1783, he made his literarv debut in the columns of a New York newspaper with his " Knickerbocker's tlistoiy of New York." In 1819 he paid a visit to England, where, as the result of his rambles in town and country, he penned those jdeasant pa])ers wliich, under the collected form of "The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon," raised him to a prominent position amongst writers on both sides of the Atlantic. '' Braccbiidge Hall " and " Tales of a Traveller," soon followed to enhance his reputation. After these he devoted himself to more important literary eflbrts, chief among which were *' Tales of the Alhambra," "The Conquest of Granada." '• The Life of Columbus," "A Tour of the Prairies," " The Adventures of Captain Bonneville," " Abbots- ford and Xewstead Abbey," "Mahomet and his Successors," "The Life of Washington," and most valuable of all, " The Life of Goldsmith." He died at his favourite retreat, Sunuyside, near Tarrytown, New Y'ork, Nov. 28, 1859.] As it was now growing late, we parted for the evening, though I felt anxious to know more of this practical philosopher. I was glad, therefore, when Buckthornc proposed to have another meeting, to talk over old school times, and inquired his schoolmate's address. The latter seemed, at first, a little shy of naming his lodgings; but suddenly, assuming an air of hardihood — "Green-arbor Court, sir," exclaimed he — "Number — in Green-arbor Court. You must know the place, classic giound, sir, classic ground ! It was there Goldsmith wrote his ' Yicar of Wakefield,' — I always like to live in literary haunts." I was amused by this whimsical apology for shabby quarters. On our way homeward, Buckthorne assured me that this Diibble had been the prime wit and great wag of the school in their boyish days, and one of those lucky ur chins denominated bright geniuses. As ho perceived mo, curious respecting his old schoolmate, he promi.sed to take mo with him in his proposed visit to Green-arbor Court. A few mornings afterwards he called upon me, and we set forth on our expedition. Ho led me through a variety of singular alleys, and courts and blind passages; for he appeared to be V perfectly versed in all the intricate geography of the metropolis. At length we came out upon Fleet Market, and traversing it, turned up a narrow street to the bottom of a long steep flight of stone steps, called Break-neck Stau's. These, he told rne, led up to Green-arbor Court, and that down them poor Goldsmith might many a time have ri.sked his neck. "When we entered the court, I could not but smile to think in what out-of-the-way corners genius produces her bantlings. And the muses, those capricious dames, who, forsooth, so often refuse to visit palaces, and deny a single smile to votaries in splendid studies, and gilded drawing-rooms, — what holes and burrows will they frequent to lavish theii' favours on some ragged disciple I 80 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. This Green- arbor Court I found to be a small square, surrounded by tall and miserable houses, the very intestines of which seemed turned inside out, to judge from the old garments and frippery fluttering from every window. It appeared to be a legion of washerwomen, and lines were stretched aboiit the little square, on which clothes were dangling to drJ^ Just as we entered the square, a scuffle took place between two viragoes about a disputed right to a wash-tub, and immediately the whole community was in a hubbub. Heads in mob-caps appeared out of every window, and such a clamoiu- of tongues ensued, that I was fain to stop my ears. Every amazon took part with one or other of the disputants, and brandished her arms, dripping with soap-suds, and fired away from her window as from an embrazure of a fortress ; while the swarms of children nestled and cradled in every procreant chamber of* this hive, waking with the noise, set up their shrill pipes to swell the general concert. Poor Goldsmith ! what a time he must have had of it, with his quiet disposition and nervous habits, penned up in this den of noiso and vulgarity ! How strange that, while every sight and sound was sufficient to embitter the heart, and fill it with misanthropy, his pen should be dropping the honey of Hybla ! Yet it is more than probable that he drew many of his inimitable pictures of low life from the scenes which surrounded him in this abode. Tlio circumstance of Mrs. Tibbs being obliged to wash her husband's two shirts in a neighbour's house, who refused to lend her wash- tub, may have been no sport of fancy, but a fact passing under his own eye. His landlady may have sat for the picture, and Beau Tibbs's scanty wardrobe have been a facsimile of his own. It was with some difficulty that we found our way to Dribble's lodgings. They were up two pair of stairs, in a room that looked upon the court ; and when wo entered, he was seated on the cdgo of his bed, writing at a broken table. Ho received us, however, with a free, open, poor-devil air that was irresistible. It is true he did at first appear slightly confused ; buttoned up his waistcoat a little higher, and tucked in a strav frill of linen. But he recol- lected himself m an instant ; gave a half swagger, half leer, as he stepped forth to receive us; drew a three-legged stool for Mr. Buckthorne; pointed me to a lumbering old damask chair that looked like a dethroned monarch in exile ; and bade us welcome to nis garret. ON THE FATE OF ROBERT BURNS. Thomas Caulyle. [Sec page 38.] CONTEMPLATIXG the sad end of Burns-how he sank unaided by anv real help, uncheered by anywise sympathy,— generous minds have Bometimes figured to themselves, with a reproachful soriow that On the Fate of Robert Barns. 81 much might have been done for him ; that, by counsel, true affec- tion, and friendly ministrations, he might have been saved to himself and the world. But it seems dubious whether the richest, wisest, most benevolent individual could have lent Burns any effectual helj). Counsel, — which seldom jn'ofits any one, — he did not need. In his understanding, he knew the right from the wrong, as well per- haps as any man ever did ; but the persuasion which would have availed him, lies not so much in the head as in the heart, where no argument or expostulation could have assisted much to implant it. As to money, we do not believe that this was his essential want ; or well see that any private man could have bestowed on him an independent fortune, with much prospect of decisive advantage. It is a mortifying truth, that two men, in any rank of society, can hardly be found virtuous enough to give money, and to take it as a necessary gift, without an injury to the moral entireness of one or both. But so stands the fact : Friendship, in the old heroic sense of the term, no longer exists ; it is in reality no longer expected, or recognised as a virtue among men. A close observer of manners has pronounced " patronage," — that is, pecuniary or economic furtheraucc, — to be "twice cursed;" cursing him that gives, and him that takes ! And thus, in regard to oiitward matters, it has become the rule, as, in regard to inward, it always Avas and must be the rule, that no one shall look for eficctual help to another ; but that each shall rest coiitented with what help ho can afford himself. Such is the principle of modern Honour ; naturally enough growing out of the sentiment of Pride, which we inculcate and encourage as the basis of our whole social morality. Wo have already stated our doubts whether direct pecuniary help, had it been offered, would have been accepted, or could have proved very effectual. "We shall readily admit, liowever, that much was to be clone for Burns ; that many a poisoned arrow might have been warded from his bosom ; many an entanglement in his path cut asunder by the hand of the powerful ; light and heat, shed on him from high places, would have made his humble atmosjohere more gonial ; and the softesi heart then breathing, might have lived Und died with fewer pangs. Still we do not think that the blame of Burns's failui-e lies chietly with the world. The world, it seems to us, treated him with more, rather than with less kindness than it usually shows to such men. It has ever, we fear, shown but sm.all favour to its teachers : hunger and nakedness, perils and reviling, the prison, the poison-chalice, the Cross, have, in most times and countries, been the market-price it has offered for wisdom — the welcome with which it has treated those who have come to enlighten and purify it. Homer and Socrates, and the Christian Apostles, belong to old days ; but the world's martyrology was not comjjleted with these. Roger Bacon and Galileo languish in priestly dungeons ; Tasso pines in the cell of a mad-house ; Camoens dies begging on the streets of Lisbon. So neglected, so "persecuted they the frophets," not ia Judea only, but iu all places where men have Q 82 Miscellaneous Headings in Prose. Lceu. Wo reckon that every poet of Burns's order i.s, or should be a Prophet and Teacher to his age ; that he has no right to cxjiect kindness, but rather is bound to doit; that Burns, in particular, experienced fully the usual proportion of goodness ; and that the blame of his failure, as we have said, lies not chiefly with the world. Where then does it lie ? We are forced to answer, with himself: it is his inward, not his outward misfortunes, that bring him to the dust. Seldom, indeed, is it otherwise; seldom is a life morally wrecked, but the grand cause lies in some internal mal-arrangement, ■ — some want less of good fortune than of good guidance. Kature fashions no creature without iinjilantiug in it the strength needful for its action and duration ; least of all does she neglect her master- piece and darling, the poetic soul ! Keither can we believe that it is in the power of any external circumstances, utterly to ruin the mind of a man ; nay — if proper \visdom be given him, — even so much as to affect its essential health and beauty. The sternest sum-total of all worldly misfortunes is Death ; nothing more can can lie in the cup of human woe : yet many men, in all ages, have triumjihed over death and led it cajitive ; converting its physical victory into a moral victory for themselves — into a seal and immortal consecration for all that their past life had achieved. What has been done may be done again ; imy, it is but the degree, and not the kind, of suck hei'oism, that differs in different seasons : for, without some portion of this spirit, not of boisterous daring, but of silent fearlessness — of SELF-DENIAL in all its forms, no great man, in any scene or time, has ever attained to be good. POETRY. Dii. Chanxing. [The Eov, William Ellory Chaimiug, D.D., was bom at Newport, Rhode Island, IT..S., ill 1780. His gi-audfather was oue of those who sigued the Decluration of Iiidopondcuce. He Avas educated at Harvard College aud iuteuded for the juedical professiou, hut he abandoned the idea to prepare jiiniself for the Uui- tariau miui.stry. His great eloquence soon reudert'd hiui oue of the most cou- si)ieuous nieu in America; even tliose M'ho were most o])posed to his doctrine admitted the force of his genius aud the fiuishcd elegance of his oratory. To his great honour, during a long period when to denounce slavery in Auierii;ji was to court unpopularit3% Chanuing was persistent in his opposition to the pi'niicious system. Ho died Oct. 2ud, 1842.] PotTiiY ! v/e believe that poetry, fur from injuring society, is one of the great instruments of its refinement and exaltation. It lifts the mind above ordinary life, gives it a respite from depressing cares, and awakens the consciousness of its affinity with what is pure and noble. Ill its legitimate and highest efforts, it has the f-ame ten- dency and aim with Christianity ; that is, to spiritualize our nature. True, poetry has been made the instrument of vice, the ]iander of bad i^assions ; but when genius thus stoops, it dims its lires, and parts with muc^"> of its power; and even when j^oetry is enslaved to Poetry. 83 jicentiousuess or misanthropy, she cannot wholly forget her true vocation. Strains of pure feeling, touches of tenderness, images of innocent happiness, sympathies with suffering virtue, bursts of scorn or indignation at the hollowness of the world, passages true to our moral nature, often escape in an immoral work, and show us ]io\v hard it is for a gifted sjairit to divorce itself wholly from what is good. Poetry has a natural alliance with our best affections. It delights in the beauty and sublimity of the outward creation and of the soul. It indeed jwrtrays, with terrible energy, the excesses of the passions ; but they are passions which show a mighty nature, which are full of power, which command awe, and excite a deep though shuddering symiDathy. Its great tendency and j^urpose is, to carry the mind above and beyond the beaten, dusty, weary walks of ordinary life ; to lift it into a purer element ; and to breathe into it more profound and generous emotion. It reveals to us the loveliness of nature ; brings ])ack the freshness of eaidy feeling ; re- vives the relish of sim))le pleasures ; keeps unquenched the enthu- siasm which warmed the spring-time of our being; refines youthful love ; strengthens our interest in liuman nature by vi^^d delinea- tions of its tenderest and loftiest feelings ; spreads our sympathies over all classes of society ; knits us by new ties with universal being ; and through the Ijrightness of its j^rophetic \asions, helj^s faith to lay hold on the future life. "We are aware that it is objected to poetry, that it gives wrong views and excites false exiiectations of life, peoples the mind with shadows and illusions, and builds up imagination on the ruins of wisdom. That there is a wisdom, against which poetry wars, the wisdom of the senses, which makes physical comfort and gratification the supreme good, and wealth the chief interest of hfe, we do not deny ; nor do we deem it the least service which poetry renders to mankind, that it redeems them from the thraldom of this earth-born prudence. But passing over this topic, we Avould observe, that the complaint against poetry, as abounding in illusion and decej^tion, is in the main groundless. In many poems there is more of truth than in many histories and philosophic tlieories. The fictions of genius are often the vehicles of the sublimest verities, and its fiashes often ojjen new regions of thought, and throw new light on the mysteries of our being. In jDoetry when the letter is falsehood, the spirit is often profoundest wisdom. And if truth thus dwells in the boldest fictions of the poet, much more may it be expected in his delineations of life ; for the present life, which is the first stage of the immortal mind, abounds m the materials of poetry, and it is the high office of the bard to detect this di\ane element among the grosser labours and pleasures of our earthly being. The present life is not only prosaic, precise, tame, and finite. To the gifted eye it abounds in the poetic. The affections which spi'eadbeyondourselves and stretch far into futurity; the workings of mighty passions, which seem to arm the soul with an almost superhuman cnci-gy; the innocence and irrepressible joj^ of in- fancy; the bloom, and buoyancy, and dazzling hopes of youth ; the. throbbings of the heart, when it first wakes to love, and dreams of a G 2 84 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. happiness too vast for earth ; woman, with her beauty, and grace, and gentleness, and fuhiess of feeling, and depth of atiection, and blushes of purity, and the tones and looks which only a mother's heart can inspii-e ; — these are all poetical. It is not true that the poet jDaints a life which does not exist. He only exti'acts and con- centrates, as it were, hfe's ethereal essence, arrests and condenses its volatile fragrance, brmgs together its scattered beauties, and prolongs its more ref.ncd but evanescent joys. And in this he does well ; for it is good to fe-^l that life is not wholly usurped by cares for subsistence and i^hysical gratifications, but admits, in measures which may be indefinitely enlarged, sentiments and de- Hghts worthy of a higher Ijeing. This power of poetry to refine our views of life and hajipiness, is more and moi'C needed as society ad- vances. It is needed to withstand the encroachments of heartless aid artificial manners, that make civilization so tame and unin- teresting. It is needed to counteract the tendency of physical science, which being now sought, not, as formerly, for intellectual gratification, but for multiplying bodily comforts, requires a new development of imagination, taste, and jioetiy, to preserve men from sinking into an earthly, material, Epicurean life. TITTLEBAT AT HOME. S.\MIEL WaUKEX. [Seep. 51.] Crash went all his castle building at the sound of his tea-kettle, hissing, whizzing, sputtering in the agonies of boiling over ; as if the intolerable heat of tho fire had driven desperate the poor creature placed upon it, who instinctively tried thus to extinguish the cause of its anguish, lla-viug taken it off and placed it upon the hob, and put on tho fire a tiny fragment of fresh coal, ho began to make preparations for shaving, by pouring some of the hot water into an old tea-cup, which was presently to servo for the purposes of breakfast. Then ho si>rcad out a bit of crumpled whity-brown paper, in which had been folded up a couple of cigars bought overnight for tho Sunday's special enjoyment — and as to which, if ho supposed they had come from any jdaco beyond the four seas, I imagine him to have been slighth' mistaken. Ho placed this bit of paper on tho little mantelpiece ; drew his solitary, well-worn razor several times across the palm of his left hand ; dipped his brush, worn within a third of an inch to the stump, into [ho hot water ; presently passed it over so much of his face as ho intended to shave; then rubbed on tho damp sm'fiico a bit of yellow soap — and in less than five miiuites Mr. Titmouse was a shaved man. But mark — don't suppose that he had ]>crformed an ex- tensive operation. One would liavo thought him anxious to get rid of as much as possible of his abominable sandy- coloured hair— Tittlebat at Home. 85 quite the contrary. Every hair of his spreading whiskers was sacred from the touch of steel ; and a bushy crop of hair stretched underneath his chin, coining curled out on each side of it, above his stock, like to little horns, or tusks. An imperial — i.e. a dirt- coloured tuft of hair, permitted to grow perpendicularly down the under-lip of pujipies — and a pair of promising moustaches, poor Mr. Titmouse had been compelled to sacrifice some time before, to the tyrannical whimsies of his vulgar employer, Mr. Tag-rag, who imagined them not to be exactly suitable appendages for counter- jumpers. So that it will bo seen that the space shaved over on this occasion was somewhat circumscribed. This operation over, he took out of his trunk an old dirty-looking pomatum pot. A little of its contents, extracted on the tips of his two fore-fingers, he stroked carefullj' into his eyebrows ; then spreading some on the palms of his hands, ho rubbed it vigorously into his stubborn hair and whiskers for some quarter of an hour ; and then combed and brushed his hair into half a dozen different dispositions — so fastidious in that matter was Mr. Titmouse. Then he dipped the end of a towel into a little water, and twisting it round his right fore-finger, passed it gently over his face, carefullj' avoiding his eyebrows, and the hair at the top, sides, and bottom of his face, which ho then wiped with a dry corner of the towel ; and no farther did Mr. Tittlebat Titmouse think it necessary to carry his ablutions. Had ho been able to " see himself as others saw him," in respect of those neglected regions which lay somewhere behind and beneath his cars, ho might not possibly have thought it super- fluous to irrigate them with a little soap and water ; but, after all, ho knew best ; it might have given him cold, and besides, his hair was very thick and long behind, and might perhaps con- ceal anything that was unsightly. Then Mr. Titmouse drew from underneath tlio bed a bottle of Warren's " incomparable blacking," and a couple of brushes, with great labour and skill polishing his boots up to a wonderful point of brilliancy. Having replaced his blacking implements under the bod and washed his hands, he devoted a few moments to boiling about three teaspoonfuls of coffee (as it was styled on the paper from which he took, and in which he had bought it — whereas it was, in fact, chiconj). Then he drew forth from his trunk a calico shirt, with linen wristbands and collars, which had been worn only twice since its last washing — i.e. on the preceding two Sundays — and put it on, taking great care not to rumple a very showy front, containing three little rows of frills; in the middle one of which he stuck three "studs," connected together with two little gilt chains, looking exceedingly stylish — especially coupled with a span-new satin stock, which he next buckled round his neck. Having put on his bright boots (without, I am sorry to say, anj' stockings), he carefully insinuated his legs into a pair of white trousers, for the first time since their last washing; and what with his short straps and high braces, they were so tight that you would have feared their bursting if he should have sat down hastily. I am almost afraid that I shall 86 Mlsctllaneous Readlags in Prose, hardly be believed ; but it is a fact lliat the rext thing liQ did was to attach a pair of spurs to his boots : — but, to bo sure, it was not impossible that he might intend to ride during tho day. Then ho put on a queer kind of under-waistcoat, which in fact was only a roll-collar of rather faded pea-green silk, and designed to set ott: a very fine flowei-ed damson-coloured silk waistcoat ; over which ho drew a massive mosaic gold chain (to purchase which he had sold a serviceable silver watch), which had been carefully wrapped up in cotton-wool ; from which soft repository, also, he drew ins Eixc; (those must have been sharp eyes which could tell, at a distance and in a hurry, that it was not a diamond), which he placed on the stumpy little finger of his red and thick right hand — and con- templated its sparkle with exquisite satisfaction. Having proceeded thus far with his toilet, he sat down to his breakfast, spreading the shirt ho had taken off upon his laji, to preserve his white trousers from spot or stain — his thoughts alternating between his late waking vision and his purposes for the day. He had no butter, having used the last on the preceding morning ; so ho was fain to put up with dry bread, and very dry and teeth-trying it was, poor lellow — but his eye lit on his ring I Having swallowed two cups of his jHr/sZ-coffee (eugh ! such stuff !\ he resumed his toilet, by drawing out of his other trunk his blue surtout, with embossed silk buttons and velvet collar, and an outside pocket in the left breast. Having smoothed down a few creases, he put it on : — then, before the little vulgar-fraction of a glass, he stood twitching about the collar, and sleeves, and front, so as to make them sit well ; concluding with a careftil elongation of the wrist-bands of his shirt, so as to show their whiteness gracefully beyond the cuff of his coat-sleeve — and ho succeeded in producing a sort of white boundary line between the blue of his coat-sleeve and tho red of his hand. At that useful member he could not help looking with a sigh, as he had often done before — for it was not a handsome hand. It was broad and red, and the fingers were thick and stumpy, with very coarso deep wrinkles at every joint. His nails also were flat and shapeless ; and he used to be continually gnawing them till he had succeeded in getting them down to tho quick — and they were a sight to set one's teeth on edge. Then ho extracted from the first-mentioned trunk a white pocket hand- kerchief — an exemi^larj' one that had gone through four Sundays' show (not vse be it understood), and yet was capable of exhibition again. A pair of sky-coloured kid gloves next made their appear- ance : which, however, showed such bare-faced marks of former service as rendered indispensable a ten minutes' rubbing with bread-crumbs. His Sunday hat, carefully covered with silver- paper, was next gently removed from its well-worn box — ah, how lightly and delicately did he pas^ his smoothing hand round its glossy surface ! Lastly, he took down a thin black cane, with a gilt head, and full brown tassel, from a peg behind the door — and his toilet was complete. Laying down his cane for a moment, ho passed his hands again through his hair, arranging it so as to fall Tittlebat at Home. 87 nicely on each side beneath his hat, which he then placed upon his head with an elepmt inclination towards the left side. lie was really not bad-looking, in spite of his sandy-coloured hair. His forehead, to be sure, was contracted, and his eyes were of a very light colour, and a tritle too protuberant ; but his mouth was rather well-formed, and being seldom closed, exhibited very beautiful tectli ; and his nose was of that description which generally passes for a lloman nose. His countenance wore generally a smile, and was expressive of — self-satisfaction: and surcl}' any expression is bettor than none at all. As for there being the slightest traco of infcUed in it, I should be misleading the I'eader if I were to say anything of the sort. In height, he was about five feet and a quarter of an inch in Jiis hoots, and he was rather strongly set, with a little tendency to round shoulders : — but his limbs were pliant and his motions nimble. Hero you have, then, Mr. Tittlebat Titmouse to the life — certainly no more than an average sample of his kind ; but as he is to go through a considerable variety of situation and circumstance, I thought you would like to have him as distinctly before your mind's eye as it was in my power to present him. — Well — he i)ut his hat on, as I have said ; buttoned the lowest two buttons of his surtout, and stuck his white pocket handkerchief into the outside pocket in front, as alreadj' mentioned, anxiously disposing it so as to let a little of it appear above the edge of the pocket, with a sort of careful carelessness — a graceful contrast to the blue ; drew on his gloves ; took his cane in his hand ; drained the last sad remnant of infusion of chicory in his coftoe-cup ; and the sun shining in the full splendour of a July noon, and promising a glorious day, forth sallied this poor fellow, an Oxford Street Adonis, going forth conquering and to conquer ! Petty finery without, a pinched and stinted stomach within : a case of Back veisus Belly (as the lawyers would say), the plaintiff winning in a canter ! Forth sallied, I say, Mr. Titmouse, as also sallied forth that day some five or six thousand similar personages, down the narrow, creaking close staircase, which he had not quitted before he heard exclaimed from an opposite window, " My eyes, aiut that a swell ! " He felt how true the observation was, and that at that moment he was somewhat out of his element ; so he hurried on, and soon reached the great broad street, apostrophized by the celebrated Opium- Eater, with bitter feeling, as — "Oxford Street! — stony-hearted step-mother ! Thou that listenest to the sighs of orphans, and drinkest the tears of children ! " Here, though his spirits were not just then very buoyant, our poor little dandy breathed more freely than when ho was passing through the nasty crowded court (Closet Court) which he had just quitted. {Front " Tell TJiousaud a Year.'') '' 88 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. SOREOW FOR THE DEAD. "Washington Irving. [See p. 79.] TtlE sniTOW for the dead is the only sorrow from which wo refuse to bo divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal — every other ■ affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and bi'ood over in solitude. Wliere is the mother who would willingly forget tlie infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament ? Wlio, even in the hour of agony, would forgot the friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her ho most loved ; when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal ; would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness ? No, the love which siirAaves the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; and when the overwhelmijg burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection ; when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agonj' over tlie ])resent ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness — who would root out such a sorrow from the heart ? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gaiety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry ? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave I the grave I It buries every error — covers every defect — extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave oven of an enemj' and not feel a com- punctious throb, that ho should ever have warred with the handful of earth that lies mouldering before him I But the grave of those wo love — what a place for meditation ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of rirtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy — then it is we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs — its noiseless attendants — its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love I The feeble, fluttering, thrilling — oh ! how thrilling— pressure of the hand ! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affec- tion I The last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us eyea from the threshold of existence ! Character of Dr. Johnson. 89 If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul,, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent — if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth — if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee — if thou art a lover, and hast ever given an iinmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet ; — then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul — then bo sure that thou wilt lie down, sorrowing and repentant, on the grave, and utter the mi- heard groan, and pour the unavailing tear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. CHARACTER OF DR. JOHNSON. Lonn IIacavlay. [Thomas Babington Macaulay was bom October 25th, 1800. In 1811 was entered of Trinity College, Cambridge, took his degree of B.A. in 1822 ; became a Fellow in 1824, and M.A. 1825. Meanwhile lie liad become a contributor to Knight's Quarterly MnijHiinc. lu 182C he was called to the bar, and in 1830 entered rurliameut as number for Calnc. After returning from India, where he had proceeded as legal adviser to the Supremo Council of Calcutta, he joined the administration of Lord Melbourne as Secretary at War, and in that of Lord John liussell was Paymaster of the Forces. He was returned to Parliament for Edinburgh in 1830; but at the election of 1847 he was unseated — only, however, to be returned without canvass or solicitation in 1852. Hard work under high pressure told on the health of the Hon. 'J'. P>. Macaulay, as it has done on many: he was compelled to with- draw from Parliament in 185G, when (1857) he was elevated to the peerage as Baron Macaulay. He died 1859. Maeaulay's fame as a poet was first established in 1842, when he published his "Lays of Ancient Rome." They are Homeric in tlieir minuteness, whilo for narrative power they carry us along with them by the sheer force ani rapidity of their incidents. Though homely in style, they are vigorous and full of energy, like Scott's best ballads; above all, they are highly dramatic, and among Uie liest in tlio lauguagt> for oral delivery. A number of brilliaut Essays in the "Quarterly Peview " contributed to Pord iMaeaulay's reputation. Of his great work, his "ilistoiy of England," Macaulay only lived to publish four volumes — a fragment of the fifth being published after his death.] At the time when Johnson commenced his literary career, a writer had little to hope from the patronage of powerful individuals. The patronage of the public did not yet furnish the means of comfortable subsistence. The prices paid l)y booksellers to authors were so low that a man of considerable talents and unremitting industry coiild do little more than proWde for the day which was passing over him. The lean kine had oaten up the fat kine. The thin and ^vithered ears had devoured the good ears. The season of rich harvests was over, and the period of famine had begun. All that is squalid and miserable might now be summed up in the word Poet ! That '^.'ord 90' JJ idcellaneous Readings in.Ficse, denoted a creature di-essed like a scarecrow, familiar with compters and spmigiDg-liouses, and perfectly qualified to decide on the com- parative merits of the Common Side in the King's Bench Prisou an 1 of Mount Scoundrel in the Fleet. Even the pooi-est pitied him, — and they well might pity him ; for if their condition was equally abject, their aspirings were not equally high, nor their sense of in- sult equally acute. To lodge in a garret up four pair of stairs, to dine in a cellar among footmen out of place, to translate ten hours a day for the wages of a ditcuer, to be hunted by bailiffs from one haunt of beggary and pestilence to another, from Grub Street to St. George's Fields, and from St. George's Fields to the alleys behind St. Martin's Church, to sleep on a Ijulk in June, and amidst the ashe.-; of a glass-house in December, to die in an hospital and to be burieil in a parish vault, was the fate of more than one writer, who, if hi had lived thirty years earlier, would have been admitted to thi sittings of the Kitcat or the Scriblorus Club — would have sat in Earliament, and would have been entrusted with embassies to the igh Allies ; who, if he had lived in our time, would have found encouragement scarcely less muniticcnt in Albemarle Street or in Paternoster Row. As every climate has its peculiar diseases, so every walk of life has its peculiar temptations. The lit^-rary character, assuredly, has always had its share of faults — vanity, jealousy, morbid sensibility. To these faults were now superadded the faults which are commonly found in men whose livelihood is precarious, and whose principles are exposed to the trial of severe distress. All the vices of the gambler and of the beggar wore blended with those of the author. The prizes in the wretched lottery of book-making were scarcely less ruinous than the blanks. If good fortune came, it came in such a manner that it was almost certain to be abuseil. After months of starvation and despair, a fidl third-night or a well-received dedica- tion filled the pocket of the lean, ragged, unwashed i^oet with guineas. He hastened to enjoy those luxuries with the images of which his mind had been haunted Avhile he was sleeping amidst the cinders, and eating potatoes at the Irish ordinary in Shoe Lane. A week of taverns soon qualified him for another year of night- cellars. Such was the life of Savage, of Boyse, and of a crowd of others. Sometimes blazing in gold-laced hats and waistcoats ; some- times lying in bed because their coats had gone to pieces, or wearing paper cravats because their linen was in pawn; sometimes drinking Champagne and Tokay with Betty Careless; sometimes standing at the window of an eating-house in Porridge Island, to snufF up the scent of what they could not afford to taste. They knew luxury ; they knew beggary ; but they never knew comfort. These men Avere irreclaimable. They looked on a regular and frugal life with the same aversion which an old gipsy or a ]Mohawk hunter feels for a stationary abode, and for the restraints and securities of civilized communities. They were as untameable, as much wedded to their desolate freedom, as the wild ass. They cjuld no more be broken Character of Dr. Johnson. 91 in to the offices of social man than the unicorn could be trained to serve and abide by the crib. It was well if they did not, like beasts of a still fiercer race, tear the hands which ministered to their neces- Bities. To assist them was impossible ; and the most benevolent of mankind at length became weary of giving relief which was dissipated with the wildest profusion as soon as it had been received. If a sum was bestowed on the wretched adventurer, such as, properly husbanded, might have supplied him for six months, it was instantly spent in strange freaks of sensualit}^ ; and, before forty-eight hours had elapsed, the poet was again pestering all his acquaintances for twopence to get a plate of shin of beef at a subterraneous cookshop. If his friends gave him an asylum in their houses, those houses were forthwith turned into taverns. All order was destro^-ed; all business was suspended. The most good-natured host began to rejient of his eagerness to serve a man of genius in distress when he heard his guest roaring for fresh ^^unch at five o'clock in the morning. A few eminent writers were more fortunate. Pope had been raised above poverty by the active patronage which, in his youth, both the great political parties had extended to his Homer. Young had received the only pension ever bestowed, to the best of our re- collection, by Sir Kobert "Waljwle, as the reward of mere literary merit. One or two of the many poets who attached themselves to the opposition — Thomson in particular, and Mallet — obtained, after much severe suffering, the means of subsistence from their political friends. Richardson, like a man of sense, kept liis shop ; and his shop kept him, whicli his novels, admirable as they are, would scarcely nave done. 15ut nothing could be more deplorable than the state even of the ablest men who at that time depended for sub- sistence on their writings. Johnson, Collins, Fielding, and Thom- son were certainly four of the most distinguished persons that England produced during the eighteenth century. It is well known that they were all four arrested for del)t. Into calamities and difficulties sucli as these Johnson plunged in his twenty-eighth year. From that time, till he was three or four and fitty, we have little intbrmation respecting him ; little, we mean, compared with the full and accurate information which we possess respecting his proceedings and habits towards the close of his life. He emerged at length from cocklofts and sixpenny ordinaries into the society of the polished and the opulent. His fame was established. A pension sufficient for his wants had been conferred on him ; and he came forth to astonish a generation with which he had almost as little in common as with Frenchmen or Spaniards. In his early years he had occasionally seen the great ; but he had seen them as a beggar. He now came among them as a companion. The demand for amusement and instniction had, during the course of twenty years, been gradually increasing. The price of literary labour had risen; and those rising men of letters with whom John- son was henceforth to associate, were for the most part persons widely different from those who had walked about with him all 92 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. night in the streets for want of a lodging. Burke, Robertson, tho Wartons, Gray, Mason, Gibbon, Adam Smith, Bcattie, Sir William Jones, Goldsmith, and Churchill were the most distinguished writers of what may be called the second generation of the J ohnsonian age. Of these men, Churchill was the only one in whom we can trace the stronger lineaments of that character which, when Johnson lirst came up to London, was common among authors. Of the rest, scarcely any had felt the pres.^ure of severe poverty. Almost all had been early admitted into the most respectable society on an equal footing. They were men of quite a dift'erent species from the de- pendents of Curll and Osborne. Johnson came among them the solitary specimen of a past age — the last survivor of the genuine race of Grub Street hacks ; the last of that generation of authors whose abject misery and whose disso- lute manners had furnished inexhaustible matter Id the satirical genius of Pope. From nature he liad received an uncouth figure, a diseased constitution, and an irritable temper. The manner in which the earlier years of his manhood had Ijcen passed liatl given to his demeanour, and even to his moral character, some peculiari- ties appalling to the civilized beings who were the companions of his old age. The perverse irregularity of his hours, the slovenliness of his person, his fits of strenuous exertion, interrupted Ijy long intervals of sluggishness, his strange abstinence, and his equally strange voracity, his active benevolence, contrasted with the con- stant rudeness and the occasional ferocity of his manners in society, made him, in the opinion of those with whom he lived during the last twenty years of his life, a complete original. An original he was, undoubtedly, in some resjiects. But if we possessed full infor- mation concerning those who shared his early hardships, we should probably find that what we call his singularities of manner were, for the most part, failings which he had in common with the class to which he belonged. He ate at Streatham Park as he had been used to eat behind the screen at St. John's Gate, when he was ashamed to show his ragged clothes. He ate as it was natural that a man should eat, who, during a great part of his life, had passetj the morning in doubt whether he should have food for the after- noon. The habits of his early life had accustomed him to bear privation with fortitude, but not to taste pleasure with moderation. He could fast ; but when he did not fast, he tore his dinner like a famished wolf, with the veins swelling on his forehead, and the per- si)iratioii running down his cheeks. He scj:.rcely ever took wine, but when he drank it. he drank it greedily and in large tumblers. These were, in fact, mitigated symptoms of that same moral disease which raged with such deadly malignity in his friends Savage and Boyse. The roughness and violence which he showed in society were to be expected from a man whose tem])er, not naturally gentle, had been long tried by the bitterest calamities, by the want of meat, of tire, and of clothes, by the importunity of creditors, by the insolence of patrons, by that bread which is the bitterest of allfood, by those stairs which are the most toilsome of all jiaths, bv that On the Study of Latin and GreeJc. 93 deferred hope which makes the heart sick. Through all these things the ill-dressed, coarse, ungainly pedant had struggled man- fully up to eminence and command. It was natural that, in the exercise of his power, he should be the more austere because he had himself endured, that, though his heart was undoubtedly gene- rous and humane, his demeanour in society should be harsh and despotic. For severe distress he had sympathy, and not only symnathy, Imt munificent relief. But for the suffering which "a liarsli word iuHicts upon a delicate mind he had no 2)ity ; for it was a kind of suffering which he could scarcely conceive. He would carry home on his shoulders a sick and starving girl from the streets. He turned his house into a place of refuge for a crowd of wretched old creatures who could find no other asylum ; nor could all their peevishness and ingratitude weary out his benevolence. But the ])angs of a wounded vanity seemed to him ridiculous ; and he scarcely felt sufficient compassion even for the pangs of wounded affection. He had seen and felt so much of sharp misery, that he was not affected by paltry vexations ; and he seemed to think that everybody ought to be as much hardened to these vexations as liimself He was angry with Boswell for complaining of a head- ache, with ;Mrs. Thrale for grumbUng about the dust on the road, or the smell of the kitchen. These were, in his phrase, "fojDpish lamentations," which people ought to be ashamed to utter m a world so full of sin and sorrow. Goldsmith crying because the " Good-natured Man " had failed, insjiired him with no pity. Though his own health was not good, he detested and despised valetudinarians. Pecuniary losses, unless they reduced the loser absolutely to beggary, moved him ver_y little. People whose hearts had been softened by prosperity might weep, he said, for such events ; but all that could be expected of a plain man was not to laugh. He was not much moved even by the spectacle of Lady Tavistock dying of a broken heart for the loss of her lord. Such grief he considered as a luxiiry resented for the idle and the wealthy. A washerwoman, left a widow with nine small children, would not have sobbed herself to death. ON THE STUDY OF LATIN AND GEEEK. Sydney SMrm. [Sydney Smith was born in 1768 at Woodford, in Essex, and educated at Winchester School and New College, Oxford. In conjunction with Jeffrey and Brougham he founded the "Edinburgh E- view," the first number of which ke edited, and to which he long remained a powerful contributor. His " Letters of Peter PljTiiley " effectually aided the cause of Catholic EmanciiDation. Id 1827 ho was made a Canon of Bristol Cathedral, and four years afterwarda Canon residentiary of St. Paul's. He had the reputation of being the most witty ^\Titer in the language. — Died, 184o.] Latin and Greek are useful, as they inure children to intellectual difficulties, and make the life of a young student what it ought to be, a life of considerable labour. "We do not, of course, mean t€ 94 Miscellaneous Readings in Frooc. confine this praise exclusively to the study of Latin and Greek, or to suppose that other difficulties might not be found which it would be useful to overcome ; but though Latin and Greek have this merit in common with many arts and sciences, still they have it ; and, if they do nothing else, they at least secure a solid and vigorous appUcation at a period of life which materially intiuences all other periods. To go through the grammar of one language thoroughly is of great use for the mastery of every other grammar ; because \ there obtains, through all L'.nguages, a certain analogy to each other in their grammatical construction. Latin and Greek have now mixed themselves etymologically with all the languages of Modern j Europe, and with none more than our own ; so that it is necessary \ to read these two tongues for other objects than themselves. _ The two ancient languages are, as mere inventions — as i)ieces o\ j mechanism — incomparably more beautiful than any of the modern ' languages of Europe; their mode of signifying time and case by ij terminations, instead of auxiliary verbs and 2)articles, would uf itself |i stamp their superiority. Add to this, the copiousness of the Greek language, with the fancy, harmony, and majesty of its compounds ; and there are cpiite sufficient reasons why the classics should be studied for the beauties of language. Compared to them merely as vehicles of thought iind passion, all modern languages arc dull, ill-contrived, and barbarous. That a great i)art of the Scriptures have come down to us in the i Greek langiiage is of itself a reason, if all others were wanting, why ' education should be i)lanned so as to jn-oducc a supply of Greek I scholars. ^ I The cultivation of style is veiy justly made a part of education. '] Everything which is written is meant either to please or to instruct. | The second object it is difficult to effect without attending to the first ; and the cultivation of style is the acquisition of those rules and literary habits which sagacity anticipates, or exjierience shows ' to be the most effiictual means of pleasing. Those works are the best which have longest stood the test of time, and pleased the ! gi'eatest number of exercised minds. Whatever, therefore, our conjectures may be, we cannot be so sure that the best modern writers can aftbrd us as good models as the ancients ; wc cannot be certain that they will live through the revolutions of the world, and continue to please in every climate, under every species of govern- ment, through every stage of civilization. The moderns have been well taught by their masters ; but the'time is hardly yet come when the necessity for such instruction no longer exists. "We may still borrow descriptive power from Tacitus ; dignified perspicuity from Livy ; simphcity from Caisar : and from Homer some portion of that light and heat which, dispersed into ten thousand channels, has filled the world with bright images and illustrious thoughts. Let the cultivator of modern literature addict himself to the ]->uresl models of taste which France, Italy, and England could sujjply, he might still learn from Virgil to be majestic, and from Tibullua to be tender; he might not y€t look upon the face of nature as Sliahhy-Gtntcd People. 95 Theocritus saw it, nor might he reach those springs of pathos with •which Euripides softened the hearts of his audience. In short, it appears to ns, that there are so mauj' excellent reasons why a certain number of scholars should be kejit up in this and in every ci\'ilized country, that we should consider every system of education from which classical education was excluded, as radically erroneous and completely absui'd. SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE. Chakles Dickens. [See p. 42.] There are certain descri]itions of people who, oddly enough, appear to appertain exclusively to the metropolis. You meet them every day in the streets of London, but no one ever encounters them elsewhere; thej' seem indigenous to the soil, and to belong as cxclusivelj^ to London as its own smoke, or the dingy bricks and mortal'. Wo could illustrate the remark by a varietj' of examples, but, in our present sketch, we will only advert to one class as a specimen — that class which is so aj^tly and expressively designated as " shabby-genteel." Wo will endeavour to explain our conception of the term which forms the title of this paper. If you meet a man lounging up iJrury Lane, or leaning with his back against a post in Long Acre, with his hands in the pockets of a pair of drab trousers plentifully besprinkled with grease-spots : tho trousers made very full over the boots, and ornamented with two cords down the outside of each log — wearing, also, what has been a brown coat with bright buttons, and a hat very much pinched up at tho sides, cocked over his right eye — don't pity him. He is not shabby-genteel. The "harmonic meetings" at some fourth-rate public-house, or tho purlieus of a private theatre, are his chosen haunts ; ho entertains a rooted antijiathy to any kind of work, and is on familiar tei'ms with several pantomime men at the largo houses. But, if you see hurrying along a by-street, keeping as closo as he can to the area railings, a man of about forty or fiftj', clad in an old rusty suit of threadbare black cloth which shines with constant wear as if it had been bees'- waxed — tho trousers tightly strapped down, partly for , the look of tho thing, and partly to keep his old shoes from slipping , off at tho heels, — if you observe, too, that his yellowish-white ' ncckei'chief is carefulh' pinned up, to conceal the tattered garment underneath, and that his hands are encased in the remains of an old pair of beaver gloves, you may set him down as a shabby- genteel man. A glance at that depressed face, and timorous air of conscious poverty, will niako your heart ache — always supposing that you are neither a i)hilosopber nor a political economist. We were once haunted by a shabby-genteel man ; he was bodily present to our senses all day, and he was in our mind's eye all 96 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. night. The man of whom Sir "Walter Scott speaks in his Demon- ology did not suffer half the persecution from his imaginary gentle- man-usher in black velvet, that -sve sustained from our friend in quondam black cloth. He first attracted our notice by sitting opposite to us in the reading-room at the British Museum ; and what made the man more remarkable was, that he always had be- fore him a coujile of shabby-genteel books — tT\'o old dogs'-eared folios, in mouldy worm-eaten covers, which had once been smart. He was in his chair, every morning, just as the clock struck ten ; he was always the last to leave the room in the afternoon ; and, when he did, he quitted it with the air of a man who knew not where else to go for warmth and quiet. There ho used to sit all day, as close to the table as possible, in order to conceal the lack of buttons on his coat : with his old hat carefully deposited at his feet, where he evidently flattered himself it escaped observation. About two o'clock, 5'ou would see him munching a French roll or a penny loaf; not taking it boldly out of his pocket at once, like a man who knew ho was only making a lunch; but breaking off little bits in his pocket, and eating them by stealth. He knew too well it was his dinner. When we first saw this poor object, we thought it quite impos- sible that his attire could ever become worse. We even went so far as to speculate on the possibility of his shortly appearing in a decent second-hand suit. We knew nothing about the matter ; he grew more and more shabby-genteel eveiy daj-. The buttons dropped off his waistcoat, one by one ; then, he buttoned his coat; and, when one side of the coat was reduced to the same condition as the waistcoat, he buttoned it over on the other side. Ho looked somewhat better at the beginning of the week than at the conclu- sion, because the neckerchief, though yellow, was not quite so dingy ; and, in the midst of all this wretchedness, ho never ap- peared without gloves and straps. He remained in this state for a week or two. At length, one of the buttons on the back of tho coat fell off, and then the maa himself disappeared, and we thought he was dead. We were sitting at the same table about a week after his disap- pearance, and, as our eyes rested on his vacant chair, we insensibly fell into a train of meditation on the subject of his retirement from public life. We were wondering whether he had hung himself, or thrown himself off a bridge — whether he really was dead, or had only been arrested — when our conjectures were suddenly set at rest by the entrj* of the man himself. He had undergone some strange metamorphosis, and walked up tho centre of the room with an air which showed he was fully conscious of the improvement in his appearance. It was very odd. His clothes were a fine, deep glossy black ; and yet they looked like the same suit ; nay, there were the very darns with which old acquaintance had mado us familiar. The hat, too — nobody could mistake the shape of that hat, with its high crown graduallj- increasing in circumference to-wards the top. Long service had imparted toit a reddish- brown ^hahhy-Genteel Peoije. 97 tint ; but no-^, it was as black as the coat. The truth flashed sud- denly upon us — they had been " revived." It is a deceitful liquid, that black and blue revivf r ; we have vratched its effects on many a shabby-genteel man. It betrays its victims into a tempoiaiy assumption of importance ; possibly into the pui'chase of a new jxaii- cf gloves, or a cheap stock, or some other trifling article of dress. It elevates their spirits for a week, onlj"to depress them, if possible, below their original level. It was so in this case ; the transient digiiitj' of the unhappy man decreased, in exact proportion as the "revivor" woro oi^. The knees of the unmentionables, and tho clbijws of the coat, and the seams geneially, soon began to get alarmingly white. The hat was onco more deposited under the tulil'^ and itr owner crept into his scat as quietly as ever. Tliero was a week of incessant small rain and mist. At its expiration the "reviver" had entirely vanishf;d, and the shabby- genteel man never afterwards attempted to effect any improvement 111 his outward appearance. It would bo ditiicult to name any particular part of town as Iho principal resort of shabbj'-gonteel men. '\^'e have met a great many persons of this description in the neighbourhood of the inns of court. They may be met with, in Ilolborn, between eight and ten any morning; and whoever has the curiosity to enter the Insolvent Debtors' Court will observe, both among spectators and practitioners, a great variety of them. We never went on 'Change, by any chance, without seeing* some ehabbj'-gcnteel men, and we have often wondered what earthly business they can have there. They will sit there for hours, leaning on gieat, dropsical, mildewed umbrellas, or eating Abernethy biscuits. Nobody speaks to ihem, nor they to any one. On consideration, we remember to have occasionally seen two shabbj' -genteel men conversing together on 'Change, but our experience assures us that this is an luicommon circumstance, occasioned by the, oft'er of a pinch of snufl', or some such civility. It would be a task of equal difficulty either to assign any par- ticular sjwt for the residence of these beings, or to endeavour to enumerate their general occupations. "We were never engngcd in business with more than one- shabby-genteel man ; and he was a drujiken engraver, and lived in a damp back-parlour in a new row cf houses at Camden Town, half street, half brick-field, somewhero near the canal. A shabby- genteel man may have no occupation, or ho may be a corn agent, or a coal ogrnt, or a wine agent, or a collector of debts, or a broker's assistant, or a broken-down attorney. He maj' be a clerk of the lowest description, or a con- tributor to the press of the same grade. Whether our readers have noticed these men, in their walks, as often as we have, we know not ; this we know — that the miserably poor man (no matter whether he owes his distresses to his own conduct, or that of others) who feels his poverty, and vainlj' strives to conceal it, is one of the most pitiable objects in human nature. Such objects, "with few exceptions, are shabby-genteel people. H 98 2Iiscellaneous Readings in Prose. CEUELTY TO ANIMALS. Dk. Chaljiers. I The liev. Dr. Thomas Chalmers was born at Austnithcr, iu Fifo, 1780. Iln was educated at St. Andrew's University, of which coUege he obtained thb chair of moral philosophy iu 1824. In 1828 he was removed to the chair of tlioolof!;y in the University of Edinburirh, where he died suddenly m the spnng of 1817. His works, published during his lifetime, in twenty-five vols., em- brace a wide range of subjects, chiefly relating to theology and political economy. His posthumous works, in nine vols., comprise his " Daily Scripture Headings," &c. &c.] Man is the direct agent of a wide and continual distress to the lower animals ; and the question is, " Can any method be devised for its alleviation ?" On this subject that Scrii)tural image is strikingly realized: "the whole inferior creation groaning and travailing together in pain" because of him. It signihes not to the substantive amount of the suffering, whether this be prompted by the hardness of his heart, or only pennitted through the heedlessness of his mind. In either Avay it holds true, not onlv that the arch-devourer Man stands pre-eminent over the fiercest children of the wilderness as an animal of prey, biit that for his lordly and luxurious a]>petite, as well as for his service or merest curiosity and amusement, nature must be ransacked throughout all her elements. Rather than forego the veriest gratifications of vanity, he will wring them from tlie anguish of wretched and ill-fated creatures; and whether for the indulgence of his baroaric sensuality or barbaric splendour, can stalk paramount over the sufferings of that prostrate creation which has been placed beneath his feet. That beauteous domain, whereof he has been constituted the terrestrial sovereign, gives out so many lihssful and benignant asjiects ; and whether we look to its peaceful lakes, or to its flowery landscapes, or its evening skies, or to all that soft attire which overspreads the hills and the valleys, lighted up by smiles of sweete.st sunshine, and where animals disport them- selves in all the exuberance of gaiety, — this surely were a moix befitting scene for the rule of clemency than for the iron rod of a murderous and remorseless tyrant. But the present is a mysterious' world wherein we dwell. It still bears much upon its materialism of the impress of Paradise. But a breath from the air of Pande- monium has gone over its living generations ; and so "the fear of man and the dread of man is now upon every beast of the earth, and upon every fowl of the air, and upon all that moveth \ipon the earth, and upon all the fishes of the sea ; into man's hands are they delivei'ed : every moving thing that liveth is moat for him ; yea, even as the green herbs, there have been given to him all things." Such is the extent of his jurisdiction, and with most full and wanton licence has he revelled among its privileges. The whole earth labours and is in violence because of his cruelties ; and from the am]ihitheatre of sentient nature, there sounds in fancy's ear Cruelty to Animals. 93 ciie bleat of one wide and universal suffering, a di-eadful homage to the power of nature's constituted lord. These sufferings are really felt. The beasts of the field ara not so many automata Avithout sensation, and just so constructed as to give forth all the natural expressions of it. Xature hath not practised this universal deception iipon our species. These poor animals just look, and tremble, and give forth the very indications of suffering that we do. Theirs is the distinct cry of pain. Theirs is the un- equivocal physiognomy of pain. They put on the same aspect of terror on the demonstrations of a menaced blow. They exhibit the same distortions of agony after the infliction of it. The bruise, or the burn, or the fracture, or the deej) incision, or the fierce en- Dounter with one of ecjual or superior sti-ength, just affects them (iimilarly to ourselves. Their blood circulates as ours. They have pulsations in various parts of the body like ours. They sicken, and they grow feeble with age, and finally, they die, just as we do. They possess the same feelings ; and, what exposes them to like sufi'erings from another quarter, they possess the same instincts with our own species. The lioness robbed of her whelps causes the wil- derness to ring aloud with the proclamation of her wrongs ; or the bird whose little household has been stolen fills and saddens all tho grove with melodies of deepest pathos. All this is palpable even ta the general and unlearned eye ; and when the physiologist lays open the recesses of their system, by means of that scalpel under whose operation they just shrink and are convulsed as any li\-ing subject of our own species, there stands forth to view the same sentient apparatus, and furnished with the same conductors for the trans- mission of feeling to every minutest ]>ore upon the surface. Theirs is unmixed and unmitigated pain, the agonies of martyrdom with- out the alleviation of the hopes and the sentiments whereof they are incapable. "When they lay them down to die, their only fellow- ship is with suffering ; for in tlie i")rison-house of their beset and bounded faculties, there can no relief be afforded by communion vn'dx other interests or other things. The attention does not lighten their distress as it does that of man, by carrjang off his spirit from that existing pungency and pressure which might else be ovei'whelming. There is but room in their mysterious economy for one inmate,— and that is, the absorbing sense of their own single and concentrated anguish. And so in that bed of tonnent whereon the wounded animal lingers and expires, there is an unexplored dejjth and intensity of suffering which the poor dumb animal itself cannot tell, and against which it can offer no remonstrance— an untold and unknown amount of wretchedness of which no artjculatf "oicc gives utterance. 100 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. ACCOMPANIED OX THE ELUTE ; A TALE OF i ANCIENT EOME. F. AXSTEY. I [Mr. Anstcy may be justly regarded as the Edmond About of Englisli litcra- i tui'e. His stories "are ingenious, clever, and cntertainin:^ ; his success in his particular department of letters being due to the fact that he has done for fiction ■what burlesque writers have done for the drama. " Vice- Versa," "The Tinted J Venus," "The Giant's llobe," and "The Black roodle," may be cited as his | most remarkable works.] i The Consul Duilius was entertaining Eomo in triumph after Lis ' celebrated defeat of the Carthaginian fleet at Mylre. lie had won a great naval victory for his country with the first fleet that it ha I ever possessed — which was naturall}- a gratifying reflection, and lio ., would have been perfectly happy now if he had only been a little more comfortable. But he was standing in an extremely ricketj'' chariot, which was crammed with his nearer relations, and a few old friends, to whom " he had been obliged to send tickets. At his back stood a slave, u who held a heavy Etruscan crown on the Consul's head, andji whenever he thought his master was growing conceited threw in ■ the reminder that he was only a man after all — a libei'ty which at j any other time he might have had good reason to regret. Then the large Delphic wreath, which Duilius wore as well as the crown, had slipped down over one eye, and was tickling his ' nose, while (as both his hands were occupied, one with a sceptre, ' the other with a laurel bough, and ho had to hold on tightly to I the rail of the chariot whenever it jolted) there was nothing to do f, but suffer in silence. They had insisted, too, upon painting him a beautiful bright red all over, and though it made him look quite new, and very shining and splendid, he had his doubts at times whether it was altogether becoming, and particularly whether he would ever be able to get it off again. | But these were but trifles after all, and nothing compared with ' the honour and glorv of it ! Was not everybody straining to get a glimpse of him ? Did not even the spotted and skittish horsea which drew the chariot repeatedly turn round to gaze upon his vei-milioned features ? As Duilius remarked this ho felt that he was, indeed, the central personage in all this magnificence, and that, on the whole, he liked it. He could see the beaks of the ships he had captured bobbing up and down in the middle distance; ho could see the white bulls destined for sacrifice entering completely into the spirit of the i thing, and redeeming the procession from any monotony bj' occa- ■ sionally bolting down a back street, or tossing on their gilded : horns some of the flamcus who were walking solcmulj' in front I Of them. ' I AccoTiipanied on the Flute. 101 He could hear, too, above fire distinct brass bands, the remarks of his friends as they predicted rain, or expressed a pained surprise at the smallness of the crowd and the absence of any genuine enthusiasm ; and he caught the general purport of the very oifensive ribaldrj' circulated at his own expense among the brave legions that brought up the rear. This was merely the usual course of things on such occasions, and a great compliment when properly understood, and Duilius felt it to be so. In spite of his friends, the red paint, and the familiar slave, in spite of the extreme heat of the weather and his itching nose, ho told himself that this, and this alone, was worth living for. And it was a painful reflection to him that, after all, it would onlj' last a day ; ho could not go on triumphing like this for the remainder of his natural life — he would not be able to afford it on his moderato income ; and yet — and yet — existence would fall woefully flat after so much excitement. It may be supposed that Duilius was naturally fond of ostenta- tion and notoriety, but this was far from being tho case ; on the contrary, at ordinarj- times his disiwsilion was retiring and almost shj', but his sudden success had worked a temporary change in him, and in the verj' flush of triumph he found himself sighing to think, that in all human probability he would never go about with trumpeters and trophies, -w ith flute-players and white oxen, any more in his whole life. And then ho reached tho Porte Triumphalis, where the chief magistrates and the Senate awaited them, all seated upon spirited Eoman-nosed chargers, which showed a lively emotion at the approach of the procession, and caused most of their riders to dismount with as much aflectation of method and design as their dignity enjoined and the nature of the occasion permitted. '.fhere Duilius was presented with the freedom of the city and an address, which last he put in his pocket, as ho explained, to read at home. And then an .3]dile informed him in a speech, dtiring which he twice lost his notes, and had to be prompted by a lictor, that the grateful Ecpublic, taking into consideration the Consul's dis- tinguished services, had resolved to disregard expense, and on that auspicious day to give him whatever reward he might choose to demand — "in reason," the ^dile added cautiously, as he quitted his saddle with an unexpectedness which scarcely seemed in- tentional. Duilius was naturally a little overwhelmed by such liberality, and, like every one else favoured suddenly with such an oppor- tunit J', was quite incapable of taking complete advantage of it. For a time ho really could not remember in his confusion any- thing he would care for at all, and he thought it might look mean to ask lor monej\ At last ho recalled his yearning for a Perpetual Triumph, but his natural modesty made him moderate, and he could not find 102 Miscellaneous Headings in Prose. courage to ask for more than a fraction of the glory that now attended him. So, not without some hesitation, he replied that they were exceedingly kind, and since they left it entirely to his discretion, he would like — if they had no objection — he would like a flute-player to attend him whenever he went out. Duilius very nearly asked for a white bull as well ; but, on second thoughts, he felt it might lead to inconvenience, and there were many difficulties connected with the proper management of such an animal. The Consul, from what he had seen that day, felt that it would be im^irudent to trust himself in front of the bull, while, if he walked behind, he might be mistaken for a cattle- driver, which would bo odious. And so he gave up that idea, and contented himself with a simple flute-player. The Senate, visibly relieved by so unassuming a request, granted it with positive effusion ; Duilius was invited to select his musician, and chose the biggest, after which the procession moved on through the arch and up the Capitoliue Hill, while the Consul had time to remember things he would have liked even better than a flute-player, and to suspect dimly that he might have made rather an ass of himself. » * • • • That night Duilius was entertained at a supper given at the public expense ; he went out with the proud resolve to show his sense of the compliment paid him by scaling the giddiest heights of intoxication. The Romans of that day only drank wine and water at their festivals, but it is astonishing how inebriated a person of powerful will can become, even on wine and water, if he only gives his mind to it. And Duilius, being a man of remarkr.ble deter- mination, returned from that hospitable board particularly drunk ; the flute-player saw him home, however, helped him to bed, tliough he could not induce him to take off his sandals, and lulled him to a heavy slumber by a selection from the popular airs of the time. So that the Consul, although he awoke late next day with a bad headache and a perception of the vanity of most things, still found reason to congratulate himself upon his forethought in securing so invaluable an attendant, and planned, rather hopefully, sundry little ways of making him useful about the house. As the subs^equent hi.-^tory of this great naval commander is examined with the impartiality that becomes the historian, it is im- possible to be blind to the melancholy fact that in the first flush of his elation Duilius behaved with an utter want of tact and taste that must have gone far to undermine his popularity, and proved a source of much gratification to his friends. lie would use that flute-player everywhere — he overdid the thing altogether : for example, he used to go out to pay formal calls, and leave the flute-player in the hall tootling to such an extent that at last his acquaintances were forced in self-defence to deny them- selves to him. AecomiKLnied on the Flute. 103 When lie attended worshiiD at the temples, too, he would bring the flute-player with him, on the flimsy pretext that he could assist the choir during service ; and it was the same at the theatres, where Duilius — such was his arrogance — actually would not take a box unless the manager admitted the flute-player to the orchestra and guaranteed him at least one solo between the acts. And it was the Consul's constant habit to strut about the Forum with his musician executing marches behind him, until the spec- tacle became so utterly ridiculous that even the Eomans of that age, who were as free from the slightest taint of humour as a self- respecting nation can possibly be, began to notice something peculiar. But the day of retribution dawned at last. Duilius worked tha flute so incessantly that the musician's stock of airs was very soon exhausted, and then he was natui'ally obliged to blow them through once more. The excellent Consul had not a fine ear, but even he began to hail the fiftieth repetition of " Pugnare nolumus," for instance — tlio great national peace anthem of the period — with the feeling that he had heard the same tune at least twice before, and pre- ferred something sHghtly fresher, while others had taken a much shorter time in arriving at the same conclusion. The elder Duilius, the Consul's father, was perhaps the most annoyed by it ; he was a nice old man in his way — the glass and china way — but he was a typical old Roman, with a manly con- tempt for pomp, vanity, music, and the fine arts generally. 80 that his son's flute-player, performing all day in the courtyard, drove the old gentleman nearly mad, until he would rush to the windows and hurl the lighter articles of fainiture at the head of the per- sistent musician, who, however, after dodging them with dexterity, att'ected to treat them as a recognition of his efforts and carried them away gratefully to sell. Duilius senior would have smashed the flute, only it was never laid aside for a single instant, even at meals ; he would have made the player drunk and incapable, but he was a member of iho Maims Hpei, and he would with cheerfulness have given him a heavy bribe to go away, if the honest fellow had not proved absolutely in- corruptible. So he would only sit down and swear, and then relieve his feel- ings by giving his son a severe thrashing, with threats to sell him for whatever he might fetch ; for, in the curious conditions of ancient Eoman society, a father possessed both these rights, how- ever his ortspring might have distinguished himself in public life. Naturally, Duilius did not like the idea of being put up to auc- tion, and he began to feel that it was slightly undignified for a Roman general who had won a naval victory and been awarded a first-class Triumph to be undergoing corporeal punishment daily at the hands of an unflinching parent, and accordingly he determined to go and expostulate with his flute- player. 104 Mlscdlaneous Readings in Prose. He was beginning to find him a nuisance himself, for all his old shy reserve and unwillingness to attract attention had returned to hiin ; he was fond of solitude, and yet he could never be alone ; ho was weary of doing everything to slow music, like the bold, bad man in a melodrama. He could not even go across the street to purchase a postage - stamp without the flute-player coming stalking out after him, playing away like a public fountain ; while, owing to the well- known su-^ceptibility of a rabble to the charm of music, the dis- gusted Consul had to take his -walks abroad at the head of Rome's choicest scum. Duilius, with a lively recollection of these inconveniences, would have spoken verj'' seriously indeed to his musician, but he shrank from hurting his feelings by plain truth. He simply explained that he had not intended the other to accompany him alien ijs, but only on special occasions ; and, while professing the sincerest admiration for his musical proficiency, he felt, as he said, unwilling to monopolise it, and unable to enjoy it at the expense of a fellow- creature's rest and comfort. Perhaps ho put the thing a little too delicately to secure the object he had in view, for the musician, although ho was deeply touched by such unwonted consideration, waved it aside with a graceful fervour which was qaite irresistible. He assured the Consul that he was only too happy to have been selected to render his hnmble tribute to the naval genius of so great a commander, ho would not admit that his own rest and coni- Ibrt were in the least affected by his exertions, for, being natui'ally fond of the flute, he could, he protested, perform upon it con- tinuously for whole days without fatigue. And he concluded by pointing out very respectfully that for the Consul to dispense, even to a small extent, with an honour decreed (at his ovm particular re- quest) by the Republic, would have the appearance of ingratitude, and expose him to the gravest suspicions. After which he rendered the ancient love chant, " Ludus idem, Indus vetus," with singular sweetness and expression. Dudius felt the force of his arguments. Republics are pro- verbially forgetful, and he was aware that it might not be safe, even for him, to risk offending the Senate. So he had nothing to do but just go on, and bo followed about by the flute-player, and castigated by his parent in the old familiar way, until he had very little self-respect left. At last he found a distraction in his care-laden existence — he fell deeply in love. But even here a musical Nemesis attended him, to his infinite embarrassment, in the person of his devoted follower. Sometimes Duilius would manage to elude him, and slip out un- seen to some sylvan retreat, where he had reason to hope for a meeting with the object of his adoration. He generally found that in this expectation he had not deceived himself ; but, always, just as he had found courage to speak of the passion that consumed him, a faint tune would strike his ear from afar, and, turning his Accompanied on the Flute. 105 head in a fury, lie would see his faithful flute-player striding over the fields in pursuit of him with unquenchable ardour. He gave in at last, and submitted to the necessity of speaking all his tender sj^eeches "through music." Claudia did not seem to mind it, perhaps finding an additional romance in being wooed thus, and Duilius himself, who was not eloquent, found that tho flute came in very well at awkward pauses in the conversation. Then they were married, and, as Claudia played very nicelj' her- self upon the tibiw, she got up musical evenings, when she played duets with the flute-player, which Duihus, if he had only had a little more taste for mui?ic, might have enjoyed immensely. As it was, beginning to observe for the hrst time that the musi- cian was far from uncomely, he forbade the duets. Claudia wept and sulked, and Claudia's mother said that Duilius was behaving like a brute, and she was not to mind him ; but the harmonj^ of their domestic life was broken, until the poor Consul was driven to take long country walks in sheer despair, not because he was fond of walking, for ho hated it, but simply to keep the flute-player out of mischief. He was now debarred from all other society, for his old friends had long since cut him dead whenever he chanced to meet them. " How could he expect people to stop and tnlk," thej- asked indig- nantly, "when there was that confounded fellow blowing tunes down tho backs of their necks all the time ? " Duilius had had enough of it himself, and felt this so strongly that one day he took his flute-player a long walk through a lonely wood, and, choosing a moment when his companion had played " Id omnes faciunt " till ho was somewhat out of breath, he turned on him suddenly. "When ho left the lonely wood he was alone, and near it something which looked as if it might onco have been a musician. Tho Consul went home, and sat there waiting for the deed to become generally known. He waited with a certain uneasiness, because it was impossible to tell how the Senate might take the thing, or the means by which their vengeance would declare itself. And yet his uneasiness was counterbalanced by a delicious relief: tho Stato might disgrace, banish, put him to death even, but he had got rid of slow music for ever ; and, as he thought of this, the stately Duilius would snap his fingers and dance with secret delight. All disposition to dance, however, was forgotten upon the arrival of lictors bearing an official missive. He looked at it for a long time before he dared to break the big seal, and cut the cord which bound the tablets which might contain his doom. He did it at last ; and smiled with relief as he began to read : for the decree was coiirteously, if not affectionately, worded. The Senate, considering (or affecting to consider) the disappearance of the flute-player a mere accident, expressed their formal regret at the failure of the proyision made in his honour. lOG Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. Then, as ho read on, Duilius dashed the tal.lets into small fVop:- ments, and rolled on the ground, and tore his hair, and howled ; for the senatorial decree concluded by a declaration that, in con- sideration of his brilliant exploits, the State hereby placed at his dispo-^al two more flute-players, who, it was confidently hoped, would survive the wear and tear of their ministrations longer than the first. Duilius retired to his room and made his wiU, taliinp: care to have it properly signed and attested. Then ho fastened himsell' in ; and when they broke down 1h^ door next daj' they found a lifeless corpse, with a strange sickly smile upon its pale lips. No one in Rome quite made out the reason of this smile, but it was generally thought to denote the gratification of the deceased at the idea of leaving his beloved ones in comfort, if not in luxury ; for, though the bulk of his fortune was left to Carthaginian charities, he had had the forethought to bequeath a flute-playe; apiece to his wiio and mother-in-law. {From " The Black Foodie,'" bij permission of Messrs Longmans, Green ^- Co.) YACHTING EXPERIENCES. F. C. BrnxAND. [Nfr. Bumnnd's predilections for humnroiis Avritin?: and stage-craft were early shown in connection with the Ciunbriil^rc " A. 1). t'." As a humorist, his lame chiefly rests upon the well-known " Happy Thought" papers. As a parodist and a punster, he st;.nds unenuuUed. After having for many years contributed to the columns of " I'unch," he succeeded to the editorial c'liair on the lie itli of ^[r. Tom Taylor in the year 18S0. The following extract from " Our Yaclu" forms a inihlic reading which has hitherto been confined to the author himself, over the delivery of which he is peculiarly happy.] Diary. — I told the commodore I wasn't much of a shot (no more I am, as I have subsoiiuentl)' discovered), when on board a yacht. "What I may be oil shore I don't know, as I have never had the opportunity of trying. I knew something about it, through having luckily practised years ago, :it a penny a shot, or so much a dozen, on a wooden blackbird tied to a pendulum in a gallery at Suvillo House. Then there was a dirty man in shirt-sleeves to load for me, so that I never, as it happened, observed that process. AVhat puzzled me was tho wads. I thought I'd copy the other fellows in loading, but couldn't, as they'd both got rifles that didn't require ramrods and wads, &c. To load a gun bj' the light of nature is not so easy as I had imagined from seeing tho man at Leicester Square. All I had ever noticed him doing was to put a caji on. So I laugh it off (I don't mean I laugh the gun off, but the awkwardness of the situation), by saying to tho lieutenant, " Ua, ha, ha I Yvu dou't know Yachting Experiences. 107 ■wliether powder or shot or wads go iu tirsr, eh ? " He is evidently- annoyed at this charge of mine, though playfully made, and replied " Wads, of course." (I recommend this method of gaining infor- mation in preference to any unnecessary display of ignorance.) He says " wads." I'll use two to begin with. I must here remark what an ill-constructed affair is a powder-flask ; I never seemed to bo getting any out at all, and yet, alter eight or nine attempts, I found the barrel full almost to the brim — I mean muzzle. This delays me, and I h;ivo to begin again. Wo now get in full view of Puffin Island, and into the rough water. I go below to load, where I can bo quiet. I find the Treasure in the cabin, aft. I don't know what associates him in inj mind immediately with brandy and rations. He is very civil, and offers to load my giin. I tell }iiin that the wads are already in, and he takes them out. I say, " Oh, you don't use them, eh ? " So I gather there are more ways than one of loading a gun. The cabin is vcrj^ stuffy and hot, and getting up the companion with a gun in my hand is very difficult. Standing on deck with it is more difficult. I now refer to an entry evidently made in s//o;7hand, on account of the motion of the vessel : — "10 a.m. — Rough. On deck. Difficult to wi'ite. Commdre. says note Puff. Isle. Put gun down, take log. Commdre. says what long, and lat. Man. school atlas. Puff. Isle not down. Long, and lat. 53 by 4. May 2. Miles or feet ? Eough. Waves. Treasure at bow. Waves hat. For help. To fright Puis. Pufs frightd. Flock flying. Commdre. shoots. Lieut, shoots. Not well to-day. Capn. says calm outside; wish it was inside." Dkiry fram IhcoUcdion. — At 2\^i might have attained, like his father, to a good old age. Yet he cannot be said to have fallen jjrematurely whose work was done ; nor ought he to be lamented, who died so full of honours, and at the height of human fame. 'L'he most triumphant death is that of the martyr; the most awful that of the martyred patriot ; the most sj^lendid that of the hero in the hour of \'ictory ; and if the chariot and the horses of fire had been vouchsafed for Nelson's translation, he could scarcely have departed in a brighter blaze of glory. He has left us, not indeed his mantle of inspiration, but a name and an example which are at this ho'>j.r insj^iring thovisands of the youth of England — a name which is our pride, and an example which will continue to be our shield and our strength. Thus it is that the spirits of the g'reat and the wise continue to Uve and to act after them. 114 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. THE OLD MAN AT THE GATE. Douglas Jekuold. [Douglas William Jen-old was bora in London 1803. In bis tentb year be was sent to sea, but after serving two years was apprenticed to a printer iu London. His nautical dninia " Black-eyed Susan " first brougbt bim into notice, but bis subsequent dramatic writings, wbicb were numerous, were of a ;ar bigber cbaracter. Mr. Jerrold was one of tbe first, and for some tinu> tb'3 leading, contributors to Piincli. In 1852 be became editor of Lloyd's Widdn Xewspaper, wbicb post be beld to bis deatb in 1857. His collected works arc published in six vols., forming a mine of wit, wisdom, and recreativu literature.] In Surrey, some three miles from Chertsey, is a quiet, sequestered nook, called Shepporton Greeii. At the time whereof wc write, the oldcu charity dwelt in an old workhouse — a primitive abiding place for the broken ploughman, the palsied shepherd, the old, old peasant, for whom nothing more remained in this world but to die. The governor of this abode of benevo- lence dwelt in the lower part of the building, and therein, as the village trade might fluctuate, made or mended shoes. Let the plain truth be said — the governor was a cobbler. Within a stone's cast of the workhouse was a little white gate, swung between two hedge-banks in the road to Chertsey. Here, pass when you would, stood an old man, whose self-imposed office it was to open the gate ; for the which service the passenger would drop some small benevolence in the withered hand of the aged peasant. Tliis man was a pauper — one of the almsmen of the village workhouse. There was a custom — whether established by the governor afore- said, or by predecessors of a vanished century, we know not — that made it the privilege of the oldest paui:)er to stand the porter at the gate ; his perquisite, by riglit of years, the halfpence of the rare pedestrian. As the senior died, the living senior succeeded to the office. Now the gate — and now the grave. And this is all the history ? All. The story is told — it will not bear another syllable. The " Old ^Man " is at the gate; the custom which places him there has been made known, and with it ends the narrative. How few the incidents of life — how multitudinous its emotions ! How flat, monotonous may be the circumstance of daily existence, and yet how various the thoughts which sprinc: from it ! Look at yonder landscajie, broken into hill and dale, with trees of every hue and form, and water winding in silver threads through velvet fields. How beautiful — for how various ! Cast your eye over that moor ; it is ilat and desolate — barren as barren rock. Not so. Seek the soil, and then, with nearer gaze, contemplate the wondrous forms and colours of the thousand mosses growing there; give ear to the hum of busy life sounding at every root of poorest grass. Listen ! Does not the heart of the earth beat audibly beneath this seeming bar- renness — audibly as where the corn grows and the grape ripens? Is it not so with the veriest rich and the veriest poor — with the most active and with apparently the most inert ! The Old Man at the Gate. 1 1 o That " Old Man at the Gate " has eighty jesivs upon his head — eighty years, covering it Avith natural reverence. He was once in London— only once. This pilgrimage excepted, he has never jour- neyed twenty miles from the cottage in which he was born; of which he became the master ; whereto he brought his wife ; ■where his children saw the light, and their children after ; where many of them died ; and whence, having with a stout soul fought against the strengthenmg ills of poverty and old age. he was thrust by want and sickness out, and with a stung heart, he laid his bones upon a woi-khouse bed. Life to the " Old Man " has been one long path across a moor — a flat, unbroken journey ; the eye uncheered, the heart unsatisfied. Coldness and sterility have comjiassed him round. Yet has he been subdued to the blankness of his destiny ? Has his mind re- mained the unwrit page that schoolmen talk of — has his heart be- come a clod ? Has he been made by poverty a moving image — n plough-guiding, corn-thrashing instrument ? Have not unutterable thoughts sometimes stirred within his brain — thoughts that elevated, yet confused him with a sense of eternal beauty— coming upon him like the spiritual presences to the shepherds.^ Has he not been be- set by the inward and mysterious yearning of the heart towards the unknown and the unseen ? He has been a ploughman. In the eye of the well-to-do, dignified with the accomplishments of reading and writing, is he of little more intelligence than the oxen treading the glebe. Yet, who shall say that the influence of nature — that the glories of the rising sun — may not have called forth harmonies of soul from the rustic drudge, the moving statue of a man ! That worn-out, threadbare remnant of humanity at the gate ; age makes it reverend, and the incAatable — shall inevitable be said r' — injustice of the world, invests it with majesty; the majesty of suft'ering meekly borne, and meekly decaying. "The poor shall never cease out of the land." This text the self-complacency oi competence loveth to quote : it hath a melody in it, a hilling sweet- ness to the selfishness of our nature. Hunger and cold aii-l naked- ness are the hard portion of man; there is no help for it; lags must flutter about us; man, yes, even the strong man, his only wealth (the wealth of Adam) wasting in his bones, must hold hii pauper hand to his brother of four meals jjcr diem ; it is a necessity of nature, and there is no heli) for it. And thus some men send then- consciences to sleep by the cliinkiug of their own pui'ses. Ne- cessity of evil is an excellent philosophy, applied to everybody bat — ourselves. These easy souls will see nothing in our " Old Man at the Gate " but a pauper, let out of the workhouse, for the chance of a iey his Latin 1 oetry, and, in his twenty-second year, published his iirst English verse. In 1 713 his tragedy of " Cato " was brought upou the stage, but his place in literature is among the first of British essayists. In conjunction wth Sir liichard Steele he published " The Spectator," and it is adjnittid on all sides that to him "we ari! iudrbted for the fonnation of a pure English style." Addison had ofl^irial einploynieut from which he retired on a pension of 150(7. a year. He married the Dowager Countess of Warwick, bul it has been said "married discord in a noble wife, ' He died in Holland House, Kensington, 1719.J To US, who dwell on 'i'c3 surface, the earth is by far the inost exten- sive orb that our eyes can anywhere behold : it is also clothed with verdui-e, distinguished by trees, and adorned with a variety of beau- tiful decorations ; whereas, to a spectator, placed on one of the planets, it wears a uniform asjicct, looks all luminous, and no larger than a spot. To beings who dwell at still greater distances it en- tirely disappears. That wnich we call alternately the morning and the evening star — as, in one part of the orbit, she rides foremost in the procession of night ; in the other, ushers in and anticipates the dawn — is a planetary world ; which, with, those others that so won- derfully vary their mystic dance, are in Qiemselvcs dark bodies, and shine only by reflection ; have fields, and seas, and skies of their own ; are furnished with all accommodations for animal siibsistence, and are supposed to l)e the abodes of intellectual life : all which to- gether with our earthly habitation, are dependent on that grand dispenser of divine munificence, the sun ; receive their fight from the distribution of his rays, and derive their comfort from his benigu agency. The sun, which cssms to perform its daily stages through the eky, is, in this respect, fixed and immovable : it is the great axle of heaven, about which the globe we inhabit, and other more spacious orbs, wheel their stated courses. The sun, though seemingly smaller than the dial it illuminates, is abundantly larger than this whole earth, on which so many lotty mcTintains rise, and such vast oceans roll. A line extending from side to side through the centre of tho.t resplendent orb, would measure more than eight hun- di-ed thousand miles : a girdle fonned to go round its circumference, would require a length of milhons. Were its solid contents to be estimated, the account would overwhelm our understanding, and be almost beyond the power of language to express. Are we startled at these reports of philosophy ? Are we ready to cry out, in a tran- sport of surprise, " How mighty is the Being who kindled such a prodigious fire ; pnd keeps alive from age to age such an enormous mass of flame !" Let us attend our philosophic guides, and we shall be brought acquainted with speculations more enlarged and more inflaming. J 18 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. This sun, with all its attendant j^lanets, is but a veiy Tittle part of the grand machine of the uni%-erse : every star, though in ap- pearance no bigger than the diamond that glitters upon a lady's ring, \s really a vast globe, like the sun in size and in glory; no less spa- cious, no less luminous, than the radiant source of day. So that every star is not barely a -v-rorld, but the centre of a magnificent system ; has a retinue of worlds, irradiated by its beams, and re- volving round its attractive influence ; all which are lost to oiu' sight, in immeasurable wilds of ether. That the stars aj^pear likt BO many diminutive and scarcely-distinguishable points, i.s owing to their imrrense and inconceivable distance. Immense and inconceiv- able indeed it is ; since a ball shot from the loaded cannon, and Hying with iinabated rapidity, must travel, at thia impetuous rate, almost seven hundred thousand years, before it could reach the nearest of these twinkling luminaries ! AVhile, beholding this vast expanse, I learn my own extreme meanness, I would also discover the aoject littleness of all terrestrial things. What is the earth with all lier ostentatious scenes, com- pared with this astonishingly grand furniture of the skies ."^ What, but a dim speck, hardly perceivable in the map of the universe ! It is observed by a very judicious writer, that, if the sun himself, which I'nlightens this pai't of the creation, were extinguished, and all the host of plaiietary worlds which move about him were annihilated, they would not be missed by an eye that can take in the whole com- ]niss of nature, any more than a grain of sand upon the sea shore. The bulk of which they consist, and the space wnich they occupy, are so exceedingly little in comparison of the whole that theu* loss would scarcely leave a blank in the immensity of God's works. If then, not our globe only, but this whole system, be so very diminu- tive, what is a kingdom or a country ? What are a few lordships, or the so-much-admired patrimonies of those who are styled wealthy ? When I measure them with ni}' own little |iittance, thcj' swell into pi'oud and bloated dimensions ; but when I take the universe for my standard, how scanty is their size! hew contemptible their figure! They shrink into pompous nothings. THE CLOW^ OUT OF SERVICE. Allan L.vidlaw. [^^r. Laidliiw, whose cliaractcr-sketclics are excellent, cherishes the arguin-, nt tliat in realistic rci-itations terse prose is more artistic, becau-c truer to the nature of the chtU'actor represented than verse, in which the native pathos of the narrative is apt to be imperilled by the inevitable jingle of rhymes.] "Yes, sir, you're right; I am out o' service, reg'lar brokon down ; but matters might have been worse than they are. There's many got more cause to grumble than I have, sir. What'U I tako bir? Well, thank yo, sir, my weakness is warm whisky and The Cloivn out of Service. llO ■water, with a lump o' sugar and a slice o' lemon. Thank' ee, sh', with your leave, I will take a jiipe. Ah, a wonderful soothing thing, bacca, sir ; many's the time a pipe of it has served me for a dinner and supper. Want me to tell ye some anecdotes of my life ? Well, sir, I'm willing ; but s'cuse me, sir, are you a lit'rary chap ? Lord bless my soul, sir, the numbers of times I've been asked fur anecdotes o' my life, any one 'ud think I was some remarkable pussunage, instead of onlj' a poor broken-down clown. .Beg pardon, sii" ; but you authors seem to take a lot o' trouble, and spend a lot o' money in treats, looking out for subjects. Ah, sir, I've broken down afore my time. I ain't used up with long running ; it's grief and hard times has done it, likewise a bad attack of asthma. Terrible short o' wind I am at times. Bless ye I could no more jump through a " flat " now than I could fly. "Well, sir, I'm sure I'm very pleased to tell you something about my life. I've had many ups and downs and hardships ; for in our profession there's plenty of 'em. There's one very painful part o' my history, that somehow or other I have a melancholy pleasure in lingering over. You shall hear the story, sir ; may be it '11 serve to show that theatrical life ain't the life that some parties think it is. I was engaged for a long time at a flourishing provincial theatre. I had a hitid time of it then, for mj- wife was took bad, and was near her first confinemeut as well. She was a terrible charge on me at times, though she loved me well and so did I her. Bless j'ou, I never let her see she was a bit pulling me back ; but I found it out arterwards. You see, she wasn't a professional — she was a pretty, amiable creature ; but she was a simple country girl. I often think I did very wrong to marry her, for I could'nt keep her comfortable with my poor earnings, and I led her as hard a life as I led mj-self. Business was very bad too, just then. The best days for our line o' business ai'e gone by now, I think. A panto- mimist now wants more eddication in dancing, and gets a better position in the "opening" part. I was never much of an hand at dancing, myself, beyond the hornpipe, double shufiies, or a break- down. But, however, at the time I speak of, we were a strong company, and were doing well; business was good, and the manager was a kind, nice-spoken man — none o' your loud-voiced, cock-o'-the-walk sort — and we wei'e always paid regularly up to time. Tuken alto- gether he was about the best I ever served under. We went on smoothly for four weeks, and I was beginning to get a little more light at heart, though I spent my money as soon as I'd earned it, and my wife was still very ill. Well, one day, about the middle of the fifth week, my wife was took much worse, and became very ill indeed. I was in a terrible state, for the heaviness of mj' heart brought a painful reaction after the excitement of my business. Ah ! httle do the public think what pains and griefs sometimes lie in the hearts of those who are rrjusinir them. 120 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose. Well, that night I was almost floored ; but I couldn't ^ive in, I must do my turn, there was no one to take mj'- phice ; so I had to go and crack my j^oor jokes, and jump about and daxice iu tho the vtre, while there at home was my poor wife dyino:. I felt terrible low when I passed the stage door. The manager — God bless him — came up to me and said a few kind words, and several of the corps came and pressed my hand in sympathy. But there was a girl whose good deed I shall never forget. She was one of the " extras," and that night she came up to me iu one ol the wings whore I was standing, and says she: — " I'm only on two turns, and I'm not wanted after tho fifth scene in tho ojiening ; as soon as I'm done I'll go to your home and nurse your wife. I can help her better than the woman that keeps the hou30. You follow on quickly when you're finished." I could not speak to her, so I only squeezed her hand ; but after the fifth scene was " closed in " she suddenly appeared to me iu her ordinary clothes. " All right," saj's she. " I'm going now ; keep your heart up ; don't break down now ; and follow as sooa as you've done." Well, sir, I barely rubbed the paint oflf my face, huddled my ordinary clothes on over my stage dress, and tore of¥ through the streets hom3 like nixd. I entered tho room quiet like, trying to stay my hird breathing. I took in at a glance what had happened during my absence. The landladj' — good old soul — was a crying, and that kind girl was nursing tho new-born child. My wife was conscious of my being in the room, somehow. I went to her call, and, almost fit to choke, I knelt by her side, took her hand and kissed it. " Joseph dear,'' says she, in a weak, trembling voice. " I'm so glad you've come in time ; I'm going to leave you, Joe. I know you have been the best of husbands ; I know I coul I never have had a better, if a wealthier one. I'm ignorant and awkward, and only dragged you back ; but I loved you dearly. Ycm'll take caro of the child, Joe. It's a girl. Cherish it for my sake, dear, and think of mo sometimes Kiss mo now, Joe, before I go."' I couldn't speak, I could hardlj- breathe. I pressed her hand and kissed her feverish lips. Her mild blue eyes looked at mo very, very soft and kind — I can see 'em now — and then of a sudden they came dull and vacant ; and I knew that the spirit that loved m3 was gone Thank'of, sir, I will take another glass — to your good health and a merry Christmas to you. Well, sir, I manage very well. My datighter earns a good bit now. She's a beautiful dancer — splendid, sir. No, sir, only in the provinces as yet, sir ; but she's a splendid dancer, sir. She'd hold her own easy in London, if she could only get an " opening." You ! a dramatic author ! got influence I and you'll get her an engagement I Ble?.- you, sir, bless you from my heart. The blessing of an old broken- down clown ain't much, I know, sir ; but I do bless you. You've made my Chiistmas happy, sir ; may you never know a sad one." {Ill/ jicrnii.isioii of the Author.) 121 AT A WRONG LECTURE. George Grossmith wrote the foUowinji: account of his experience at one of his own lectures: "In Blankshire once I had the mis- fortune to incur the animosity of an eccentric lady. It was in one of those little countrj'- towns where they do not often have lectures, but where, oddly enough, whenever they have one, they ai-e pretty certain to have two the same night ; fir, being about equally divided by religious dilferences, such is the neighbourly, friendly spirit in which all matters are conducted there that, whenever one side invites a lecturer down from London, the other section are sure to have one down on the same night in opposition. Now I was engaged to hold forth on the ' Sketches by 13oz,' my rival in the opposition room behind en ' The Pilgrim's Progress.' 'Ihe lady in question — elderly, very respectable, but not verj^ intelligent — wan- dered from her peaceful home with the view of attending the latter ; but she went to the wrong room, taking he^- place in the front, and, putting on the most solemn countenance it was ever my misfortune to behold, became a listener to my discourse on the writings of Dickens, and I am certain for the first twenty minutes did not dis- cover the mistake she had made. But, alas I when I at length re- ferred to my author's description of a country fair and the servant - girls out for the day, ' not allowed to have any followers at home, and now resolved to have 'em all at once,' the dear old soul gave a shriek of horror and said quite audiblj', ' Oh, how shocking!' This exclamation was repeated when 1 described ' the fat old lady with the Jack-in-the-b ox, and three shies for a penny,' and I at last became somewhat unnerved. I tried not to look at the old lady ; but there is nothing in creation more difficult than the effort not to look at a thing you don't want to. At length I approached with horror the author's description of a thimble-rig, knowing it would upset her. ' Here's a little game to make ^-ou wake up and laugh six months after you're dead, buried, and forgotten, and turn the hair of your head grey with delight. Hero's "three little thimbles and one little pea. Keep your eye on the pea, and never say die ! Now there, with a one, two, three, and a three, two, one, &c.' This was quite enough. The old lady, mistaking me for the creature I was describing, and believing I was offering to bet with the company, uttered a shriek of horror, and left the room. 'Poor lady,' said I to the quiet old chairman, ' of course she's mad ! But why did the committee let her in ?' ' No, sir,' said the president, 'that lady is not mad; she's my wife.' I apologised; but, much to my comfort, the chairman was not so much offended as I had supposed ; for, addressing me again, he said, ' Never mind ; you'd better get on with your lecture. She's more trouble to me than she is to you.' " READINGS IN POETRY. LYOIDAS. John Miltox. [John Milton -wns born 1C08. At fifteen he Avas a pupil of St. Pa.il's School, I>(iu'lon, and two years afterwards we tiud him at Christ College, Cambri(l,.;e. At the atri" of tweiity-ono he had written his prand "llyma ou the Nativity." In 1032 ho took the degree of ii.A. ; in 1634 his masque of " Comus " was pre- i-.i'nted at Ludlow Castle. In 1649 Milton was appointed Latin secretary to the Council of State, and ho served Cromwell when he had assumed the pro- ti'ctorate. In 1665 "Paradise Loat " was completed, at a cottage at Ch;ilfoi't, iu Bucks, whither the poet had gone to escape the great plague. It -was sold to Simmons, a bookseller, for 5/. Of his three wives, his "unkind daughters," his blindness, and his career, never chequered by extreme povertj-, it is not iu accurdaiiee with the plan of this work to dilate. lie died 167-1.] Yet once more, ye lauic.s,, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come, to pluck your berries liarsli and crude ; And, with, forced fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear. Compels me to disturb your season due : For L3'cida3 is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer : Who wonld not sing for Lycidas ? he knew, Himself, to sing, and build the loftj' rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. B:(gin, then, sisters of the sacred well, That from beneaih the scat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string; Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse : 8o may some gentle muse With lucky words favour my destined um; And, as he passes, turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed upon the self-sumc hill. Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rilL Together both, ere the high lawns appeai-'d L'mier the opening eyelids of the morn. Lycidas. 1^3 We drove a-field, and both togethei* heard What time the gray-fly A\dnds her sultry honi, Battening oiir flocks with the fresh dews of niglit, Oft stfll the star, that rose at evening bright, Toward heaven's descent had slojied his westering vo-li^^sL Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to the oaten flute ; Rough satyrs danced, and fauns ^vith cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long : And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. But, oh ! the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return ! Thee shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves. With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes, mourn : The willows and the hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killmg as the c<^nher to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear^ When first the white-thorn blows ; Such Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where Avere ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deop Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lio, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream = Ah me ! I fondly dream. Had ye been there : for what could that have clone ? AVhat could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore. The Muse herself, for her enchanting son. Whom universal nature did lament. When, by the rout that made the hideous roaiv His gory visage down the sti-eam was sent, Down the swift Hebras to the Lesbian shore ? Alas ! what boots it vnth incessant cai-e To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade. And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? Were it not better done, as others use, To spoi't with Amaryllis, in the shade. Or with the tangles of Netera's hair ? Fame is the spur that the clear spiiij dotk r^lr^Q (That last infirmity of noble minds) To scorn delights and live laborious days : But the fair guerdon when we hope to find. And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred sliesrs, And slits the thin-spun life. " But not the praiso," 124 Readings in Poetry. Phoebus replied, and toucli'd my fesmbliug ears ; " Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, JS^or in the gUstering foil Set off to the world, r-or in broad rumonr liec!. But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyzz. And perfect witness of all -judging Jove; As he pronounces la-^tly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." fountain Ai-ethuse, and thou honour'd flood, Smooth- sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds ! That strain I heard was of a higher mood : But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea ; He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain ? And question'd every gust, of rugged wings, That blows from off each beaked promontory : They knew not of his story ; And sage Hipjiotades their answer brings. That not a blast was from his dungeon stray 'd : The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters jilay'd. It was that fatal and perfidious bark. Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark. That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. "Ah! who hath i-eft," quoth he, " my dearest pledg'^i?" Last came, and last did go. The pilot of the Galilean lake ; Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain, (The golden oi:)es, the iron shuts amain). He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : " How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake. Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ! Of other care they little reckoning make Than how to scramble at the shearer's feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to liCld A sheep-hook, or h-:,ve learn'd aught else the least That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs ! What reck^ it them ? What need they ? They are sjied ; And, when they list, their lean and flashy fsongs Grate on their scrannel pipes ofwretcho(i straw; The hungry sheep look up and are not fed. But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Lycidas. 1:S5 Hot inwardly, and foiil contagion si^read ; Besides what the grim wolf, with privy paw, Daily devours apace, and nothing said : But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, That shrunk thy streams ; return. Sicilian Muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks. On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks ; Throw hither all your quaint enamellVl eyes, That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine. The white pink, and the pansy freak'd Avith jet, The glowing violet. The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine. With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears : Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed. And daffodillies All their cups with tears. To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For, so to interpose a little ease. Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise : Ah me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou, perha2)S, under the whelming tide, Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold ; Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth : And O, ye dolphins, waft the hapless j'^outh. v Weeo no more, woful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed. And yet anon repairs liis drooping head. And tricks his beams, and, with new-spangled ore, Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high. Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the wavc3 Where, other groves and other streams along. With nectar pure liis oozy locks he laves. And }iear« tho uuexi^re.ssive Euptial song • Vi^ Readings in Poetry. In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the saints above, In solemn troops and sweet societies. That sing, and, singing, in their glory move ; And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore. In thy large recx)mpense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous Hood. Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and ril'p, While the still morn went out with sandals gray ; He touched the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay : And now the sim had stretched out all the hUis, And now was dropt into the western bay : At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue : To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastui'es new. LADY CLAEA VERE DE VEEE. ;| Alfred Texxyson. [Lord Tennyson, the present poet liurente, was born in the year 1800. I His iirincipal works are "Poems,' 1832 — 1812; " Tlie Princess," 1847; "In | Menioriani," 1850; "Maud," 18oo ; "Idylls of the Kin:;," 183'J ; and '' Enoeh Arden," ISGo. lie is considered, by cnmiaon consent, the foremost poet of the age, and his works command an extensive sale.] Lady Clara Vere do Vore, of mo you shall not win renown, You thought to break a country heart for pastime, ere you went to town. At mo you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired : The daughter of a hundred earls, you are not one to be desired. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know j'ou proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, too proud to care from whence) I came. Nor would I break for j-our sweet sake a heart that doats on truer | charms, A simple maiden in her flower is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, some meeker pupil you must find. For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind, I You sought to prove how I could love, and my disdain is my roply.! The lion on your old stone gates is not more cold to you than 1. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, you put strange memories in my head, Not thrice your branching limes have blown since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh ! your sweet eyes, your low replies : a great enchantress you m;iy be ; But there was that across his throat which you had hardly caredj to see. To a Shylo.rh. 127 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, when thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, she spake some certain truths of you. Indeed, I heard one bitter word that scarce is fit for you to hear ; Hor manners had not that repose which stamps the caste of Yere do Vere. I.ady Clara Vere de Vere, there stands a spectre in your hall : The guilt of blood is at your door : you changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your coui'se without remorse, to make him trust his modest worth. And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, and slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, from yon blue heavens above us bent, Tiie grand old gardener and his wife .smile at the claims of long descent. Ilowe'er it be, it seems to me, 'tis only noble to be good ; Kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Normau blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere : you pine among your halls and towers : The languid light of your pro-id eyes is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowmg health, with boundless wealth, but sickening of a vague disease. You know so iU. to deal with time, you needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere do Vere, if time bo heavy on your hands, Arc there no beggars at your gate, nor any poor about your lands ? Oh ! teach the orjihan-boy to read, oh ! teach the Orphan-girl to sew, I'lay heaven for a human heart, and let the foolish yeoman go. (By ])triiuiision of Messrs. Moxon and Co.) TO A SKYLAEK. " Percy Bysshe Shelley. [Percy Bysshe Shelley was the eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley, Bart., of Field I'lacf, Sussex, where he was born August 4th, 1792. He was sent to Eton, but, violating the rules of that school, was nmoved to Oxford at an earlier age than is u