with an active imagination, warm sensibilities, a vigourous mind, and an easy flow of speech. To these he added, as we have seen, all that labour could achieve; nor was he inattentive to the minuter accomplishments of the voice and gesture, which contribute, in their degree, to successful speaking, and, by the authority of the most illustrious examples, are shewn to be worthy of attention.

In his gesture it was a great triumph of art and perseverance to overcome defects, in which he eminently succeeded. To improve his voice, it was his practice for many years to task it with long and varied declamation, trying it upon his ear with frequent repetition, to attain the exact intonation, for he properly conceived that there is " full many a tone" of thought and feeling beyond the reach of words or action, which are vibrated to the heart by the voice only. Besides these exercises, he subjected it to the more invigorating discipline of speaking in the open harbour, to a remote part of which he was occasionally rowed by his servant, where he declaimed upon the vacant air and sea, passages from the ancients or moderns, and sometimes whole speeches from Cicero. The result was, that he brought his voice to great perfection, especially in its loftier tones, to which, when it was tasked to the utmost, may be applied the words of Quintillian, quicquid immensum infinitumque.

The general characteristics of his style of speaking were similar to those of his writing; developed, of course, with greater elevation and intenseness, as speaking admits of a wider range and bolder contrast, from the highest ascent into the regions of passion, to the most familiar and colloquial narrative. His method of constructing a speech was systematic and exact—the argument always forcibly conceived, and skilfully concatenated, the occasional remarks acute and pregnant and the learning and thought on the immediate subject or collateral to it, most rich and abundant. The affluence of his knowledge and the quickness of his sensibility, gave him a tendency to amplitude and vehemence, which exposed his oratory to the charge of declamation, as his literary accomplishments had created a suspicion of his law knowledge-the same error arising from the same

sources.

In the art of speaking, as in all other arts, a just combination of those qualities necessary to the end proposed, is the

true rule of taste. Excess is always wrong. Too much ornament is an evil-too little, also. The one may impede the progress of the argument, or divert attention from it, by the introduction of extraneous matter-the other may exhaust attention or weary by monotony. Elegance is in a just medium. The safer side to err on, is that of abundance

-as profusion is better than poverty; as it is better to be detained by the beauties of a landscape, than by the weariness of the desert.

It is commonly, but mistakenly, supposed, that the enforcing of truth is most successfully effected by a cold and formal logic; but the subtleties of dialectics and the forms of logic, may play as fantastic tricks with truth, as the most potent magic of Fancy. The attempt to apply mathematical precision to moral truth, is always a failure, and generally a dangerous one. If man, and especially masses of men, were purely intellectual, then cold reason would alone be influential to convince-but our nature is most complex, and many of the great truths which it most concerns us to know, are taught us by our instincts, our sentiments, our impulses and our passions.

Even in regard to the highest and holiest of all truth, to know which concerns us here and hereafter, we are not permitted to approach its investigation in the confidence of proud and erring reason, but are taught to become as little children, before we are worthy to receive it. It is to this complex nature that the speaker addresses himself, and the degree of power with which all the elements are evoked, is the criterion of the orator. His business, to be sure, is to convince, but more to persuade; and most of all, to inspire with noble and generous passions.

It is the cant of criticism, in all ages, to make a distinction between logic and eloquence, and to stigmatize the latter as declamation. Logic ascertains the weight of an argument, Eloquence gives it momentum. The difference is that between the vis inertia of a mass of metal, and the same ball hurled from the cannon's mouth. Eloquence is an argument alive and in motion-the statue of Pygmalion, inspired with vitality.

When in 1828, Mr. Legaré depicted the possible consequences of a collision of the State with the Federal Government, in a few glowing sentences-brother struggling with

brother, parent with child, and the face of the land wrapped in conflagration and streaming with blood-while the slave, amidst the awful confusion, clanking his manacles, leaps up to join the dreadful revelry-was there less power in the argument to arrest the power of Nullification, than if it had been presented with cold continuity and precision? If Mr. Legaré erred in his general manner of speaking, it was not accidental, but the result of a wrong judgment; for his opinion was, that the elegant and vehement style of oratory was the best.

LESSON XVIII.

The Death of Leonidas.-REV. GEORGE CROLY.

It was the wild midnight,- -a storm was in the sky,
The lightning gave its light, and the thunder echoed by ;
The torrent swept the glen, the ocean lashed the shore,
Then rose the Spartan men, to make their bed in gore !

Swift from the deluged ground, three hundred took the shield;

Then, silent, gather'd round the leader of the field.
He spoke no warrior-word, he bade no trumpet blow;
But the signal thunder roar'd, and they rush'd upon the foe.

The fiery element, show'd, with one mighty gleam,
Rampart and flag, and tent, like the spectres of a dream.
All up
the mountain side, all down the woody vale,
All by the rolling tide, waved the Persian banners pale.

And king Leonidas, among the slumbering band,

Sprang foremost from the pass, like the lightning's living brand;

Then double darkness fell, and the forest ceased to moan,
But there came a clash of steel, and a distant dying groan.

Anon, a trumpet blew, and a fiery sheet burst high,
That o'er the midnight threw, a blood-red canopy.
A host glared on the hill; a host glared by the bay;
But the Greeks rush'd onwards still, like leopards in their
play.

The air was all a yell, and the earth was all a flame,
Where the Spartan's bloody steel on the silken turbans

came;

And still the Greek rushed on, beneath the fiery fold,
Till, like a rising sun, shone Xerxes' tent of gold.

They found a royal feast, his midnight banquet, there!
And the treasures of the East lay beneath the Doric spear
Then sat to the repast, the bravest of the brave!

That feast must be their last, that spot must be their grave.

They pledged old Sparta's name in cups of Syrian wine, And the warrior's deathless fame, was sung in strains divine. They took the rose-wreath'd lyres from eunuch and from slave,

And taught the languid wires the sounds that freedom gave.

But now the morning star crown'd Eta's twilight brow, And the Persian horn of war from the hill began to blow; Up rose the glorious rank, to Greece one cup pour'd high, Then, hand in hand, they drank-"To Immortality!"

Fear on King Xerxes fell, when, like spirits from the tomb,

With shout and trumpet-knell, he saw the warriors come; But down swept all his power, with chariot and with

charge;

Down pour'd the arrowy shower, till sank the Dorian's targe.

They march'd within the tent, with all their strength unstrung;

To Greece one look they sent, then on high their torches flung;

To heaven the blaze uproll'd, like a mighty altar-fire;
And the Persians' gems and gold were the Grecians' fune-

ral pyre.

Their king sat on the throne, his captains by his side,
While the flame rush'd roaring on, and their

pæan

loud re

plied!

Thus fought the Greek of old!

Thus will he fight again!

Shall not the self-same mould bring forth the self-same men?

LESSON XIX.

Death for Our Country.-J. G. PERCIVAL.

OH! it is great for our country to die, when ranks are contending:

Bright is the wreath of our fame; glory awaits us for ayeGlory, that never is dim, shining on with a light never ending―

Glory that never shall fade, never, Oh! never away.

Oh! it is sweet for our country to die: how softly reposes Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love, Wet by a mother's warm tears; they crown him with garlands of roses,

Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he tri umphs above.

Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for country hath perished:

Hebé awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her smile;

There at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherished; Gods love the young, who ascend pure from the funeral pile.

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river;

Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue rolling sea; But on Olympian heights, shall dwell the devoted for ever; There shall assemble the good, there the wise, valiant and free.

Oh! then, how great for our country to die, in the front rank to perish,

Firm with our breast to the foe, Victory's shout in our

ear:

Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our memory

cherish;

We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the sweet music to hear.