ON THEATRICAL MANNER.

IT is an old trick, says Walker, to depreciate what we cannot attain, and calling a spirited pronunciation "Theatrical", is but an artful method of hiding our own inability of speaking with force and energy. But though persons studying Pulpit, Forensic, or Senatorial eloquence ought not, perhaps, to be taught those nice touches which form the greatest difficulties in the profession of an actor, they should not be too much restrained from an exertion of voice, so necessary to strengthen the vocal organs, because they may sometimes be too loud and vociferous. Perhaps nine out of ten, instead of too violent a manner of speaking, which these persons seem so much to dread, have as Dr. Johnson calls it, a frigid equality, a stupid langor, and a torpid apathy. These must be roused by something strong and excessive, or they will never rise even to mediocrity; while the few who have a tendency to rant are very easily reclaimed,—and ought to be treated in pronunciation and action as Quintilian advises us to do in composition; that is, we should rather allow of an exhuberance, than by too much correctness, check the vigor and luxuriance of nature. But, say our clerical friends, this intense style will not do in the pulpit. Perhaps the best and most conclusive answer to this objection is the simple fact, that those preachers whose manner is said to be theatrical, are the men who are always the most popular, and who have been instrumental in doing the most good.

The Bishop of London once asked Garrick, why it was that actors, in representing mere fiction, should move a whole assembly, even to tears, while ministers of the gospel, in representing the most solemn realities, could scarcely obtain a hearing? The philosophical actor justly replied, "It is because we represent fiction as reality, and you represent reality as fiction." This is telling the whole story. Now what is the design of the actor in a theatrical representation? It is so to throw himself into the spirit and meaning of the author, as to adopt his sentiments, make them his own, feel them, embody them,

throw them out upon the audience as living reality. And, what is the objection to all this in preaching? The actor suits the action to the word, and the word to the action. His looks, his hands, his attitudes, and every thing are designed to express the full meaning of the writer. And certainly this ought to be the aim of the preacher. And if by theatrical be meant the strongest possible representation of the sentiments expressed, then the more theatrical a preacher is the better. And if ministers are too stiff, and the people too fastidious to adopt a more earnest manner, which would be the best method of swaying mind, of enforcing sentiment, and diffusing the warmth of burning thought over a congregation, then they must go on with their frigid, apathetic prosing, and churches and chapels will still continue to be thinly attended, while places of amusement will be crowded.

GREENBANK.

THE DYING INFIDEL.

PEOPLE doubt because they will doubt.

Dreadful disposition! Can nothing discover thine enormity? What is infidelity good for? By what charm doth it lull the soul into a willing ignorance of its origin and end? If, during the short space of a mortal life, the love of independence tempt us to please ourselves with joining this monstrous party; how dear will the union cost us when we come to die!

O! were my tongue dipped in the gall of celestial displeasure, I would describe to you the state of a man expiring in the cruel uncertainties of unbelief; who seeth, in spite of himself, yea, in spite of himself, the truth of that religion, which he hath endeavoured, to no purpose, to eradicate from his heart. Ah! see! every thing contributes to trouble him now. "I am dying-I despair of recoveringphysicians have given me over-the sighs and tears of my friends are useless-yet they have nothing else to bestow-medicines take no effect-consultations come to nothing-alas! not you-not my

little fortune-the world cannot cure me-I must die-it is not a preacher it is not a religous book—it is not a trifling declaimerit is death itself that preacheth to me-I feel, I know not what, shivering cold in my blood-I am in a dying sweat-my feet, my hands, every part of my body is wasted-I am more like a corpse than a living body-I am rather dead than alive-I must dieWhither am I going? What will become of me? What will become of my body? My God! what a frightful spectacle! I see it! the horrible torches-the dismal shroud-the coffin-the pallthe tolling bell-the subterranean abode-carcasses—worms— putrefaction—what will become of my soul? I am ignorant of its destiny- I am tumbling headlong into eternal night-my infidelity tells me, my soul is nothing but a portion of subtile matter—another world a vision-immortality a fancy—But yet, I feel, I know not what, that troubles my infidelity—annihilation, terrible as it is, would appear tolerable to me, were not the ideas of heaven and hell to present themselves to me, in spite of myself—But I see that heaven, that immortal mansion of glory shut against me—I see it at an immense distance-I see it a place, which my crimes forbid me to enter-I see a hell-hell, which I have ridiculed-it opens under my feet-I hear the horrible groans of the damned—the smoke of the bottomless pit chokes my words, and wraps my thoughts in suffocating darkness.”

Such is the infidel on a dying bed. This is not an imaginary flight it is not an arbitrary invention, it is a description of what we see every day in the fatal visits to which our ministry engageth us, and to which God seems to call us to be sorrowful witnesses of his displeasure and vengeance. This is what infidelity comes to. This is what infidelity is good for. Thus most sceptics die, although, while they live, they pretend to free them from vulgar errors. I ask again, what charms are there in a state that hath such dreadful consequences? How is it possible for men, rational men, to carry their madness to such an excess?

SAURIN.

REMARKABLE FAULTS OF BAD SPEAKERS.

LUDOVICUS CRESOLLIUS, a Jesuit of Brittanny, who wrote a treatise upon the perfect action and pronunciation of an orator, published in Paris in 1620, gives the following description of the delivery of a public speaker, whose style was polished and whose composition was learned.

"When he turned himself to the left, he spoke a few words accompanied by a moderate gesture of the hand, then bending to the right, he acted the same part over again; then back again to the left, and presently to the right, almost at an equal and measured interval of time, he worked himself up to his usual gesture, and his one kind of movement; you could compare him only to the blindfolded Babylonian oxen going forward and returning back by the same path." The Jesuit was so disgusted, that he shut his eyes, but even so he could not get over the disagreeable impression of the speaker's manner. He concludes, "I therefore give judgment against, and renounce all such kind of orators." In another place he has made an enumeration of the most remarkable faults of bad speakers, it is peculiarly spirited and characteristic.

"Some hold their heads immoveable, and turned to one side, as if they were made of horn; others stare with their eyes as horribly, as if they intended to frighten every one; some are twisting their mouths continually, and working their chins while speaking, as if, at all times, they were cracking nuts; some, like the apostate Julian, breathe insult, express in their countenance contempt and impudence. Others, as if they personate the fictitious heroes in a tragedy, gape enormously, and extend their jaws as widely as if they were going to swallow up every body; above all, when they bellow with fury, they scatter their foam about and threaten with contracted brow and eyes like Saturn.

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These, as if they were playing some game, are continually making motions with their fingers, and by the extraordinary working of their hands, endeavour to form in the air, I may almost say, all the figures of the mathematics. Those, on the contrary, have hands

so ponderous and so fastened down by terror, that they could more easily move beams of timber; others labor so with their elbows, that it is evident, either that they had been formerly shoemakers themselves, or had lived in no other society but that of cobblers. Some are so unsteady in the motions of their bodies, that they seem to be speaking out of a cock-boat; others again are so unwieldy and uncouth in their motions, that you would think them to be sacks of tow painted to look like men. I have seen some who jumped on the platform, and capered nearly in measure: men that exhibited the fuller's dance, and, as the old poet says, expressed their wit with their feet. But who in a short compass is able to enumerate all the faults of bad gesture, and all the absurdities of bad delivery?"

CRESOLLIUS.

CHATHAM.

TALENTS, whenever they have had a suitable theatre, have never failed to emerge from obscurity, and assume their proper rank in the estimation of the world. The jealous pride of power may attempt to repress and crush them; the base and malignant rancor of impotent spleen and envy may strive to embarrass and retard their flight; but these efforts, so far from achieving their ignoble purpose, so far from producing a discernible obliquity in the ascent of genuine and vigorous talents, will serve only to increase their momentum, and mark their transit with an additional stream of glory.

When Chatham first made his appearance in the House of Commons, and began to astonish and transport the British Parliament and the British Nation, by the boldness, the force, and range of his thoughts, and the celestial fire, and pathos of his eloquence it is well known that the minister, Walpole, and his brother Horace, from motives very easily understood, exerted all their wit, all their oratory, all their acquirements of every description, sustained and enforced by the unfeeling insolence of office, to heave a mountain on his gigantic genius, and hide it from the world.-Poor and