valuable treatises on Elocution. By learning to read according to this notation, the student will become familiar with those principles of accentuation and pause which should guide him in public speaking. Nor is this method merely mechanical; it is the one adopted in all our studies. In the Greek grammar, we conjugate first the regular verbs, and afterwards those which are irregular or defective. In learning to reason, we study first the pure mathematics, involving only certainties; and afterwards metaphysics, involving probabilities, or moral certainty, as distinct from absolute demonstration. We are warranted then in the assertion, that every good speaker must be a good reader, and that every man may become a good reader by the observance of rules. In childhood our teachers are our models in reading and speaking; yet they are often imperfect models. Hence, Dr. Rush argues, "that this subject is of the utmost importance in the schools of elocution, will be admitted by those who have observed the manner in which children learn to read: for the close attention which their ignorance requires, and the slowness of utterance, lead them to lay an equal stress on every syllable, or at least upon every word.” But rhythmus is, strictly, no less natural than important. The poet seeks to adapt his verse to that delicate perception of rhythm which exists in the mind of every intelligent reader. Take, for instance, the following line:

"Aroint thee, witch! the rump-fed ronyon cries."—Macbeth.

Here we should instinctively lay on each syllable its proper stress, even if all marks of punctuation were omitted; and so of ten thousand instances. Gardiner, in his able treatise on "The Music of Nature," makes the following remark: "A well-constructed sentence, simply as it regards the flow of words, will, when measured by musical notes, have all the relative proportion of a strain of music, founded upon the laws of musical expression. If we inspect the fine adagios of Haydn and Beethoven, we shall find them composed of sounds varying in duration from the slowest note to those of the greatest quickness; and if we examine a speech of Shakspeare, or a description of Milton's, we shall find them also composed of words ponderous and slow, mingled with particles and syllables of the greatest rapidity." In the chapter on Language, the author gives several pleasing illustrations of this fact. We do violence then to the structure of language when we neglect rhythm.

There is a further analogy between speech and song. Both are based upon the diatonic scale; but in speech the voice glides from one note to another, whilst in song it ascends or descends by regular intervals. In the one case an inclined plane is used, in the other a ladder; both for the same purpose. Hence, by the study of music a speaker may gain great compass of voice, and

command over its powers. He may acquire a correct intonation, which is the third thing essential to good elocution. What can be more unpleasant than a "tone," in the voice of a public speaker? It is insupportable in one who attempts to read the service of the Episcopal church. We have heard the liturgy read, when to listen was torture; and we have mentally said, in the words of Cæsar to a poor reader, "Do you read or sing? If you sing, you sing very ill." A tone is wearisome alike to the speaker and the audience; and as it usually results from a strained effort to be heard, it makes the utterance indistinct. Speakers sometimes pitch upon a high key at the commencement of a discourse, and afterwards attempt to lower their tone; thus alternating between two unpleasant sounds. On this subject, the following quaint remarks are quoted by Gardiner, from Roger Ascham, tutor to Queen Elizabeth. "When a matter is spoken with an apte voyce for everye affection, the hearers, for the most part, are moved as the speaker woulde; but when a man is always in one tone, like a humble bee, or els now in the top of the church, now downe that no man knoweth where to have him; or, piping like a reede, or roaring like a bull, as some lawyers do, which thinke they do best when they cry loudest; these shall never move, as I have known manye well learned have done, because theyr voyce was `not stayed afore, with learninge to singe. For all voyces, great and small, base and shrill, weak or soft, may be holpen and brought to a good point by learninge to singe."

It is to be regretted that so many look upon the arts of speech with contempt. The rules of rhetoricians and elocutionists they regard as trivial, or as fitted only to teach men how to impose on their fellows. Dr. Blair has so ably refuted this opinion, that it is needless to dwell upon it here. It is indeed true, that men must rely, for success in speaking, on good common sense. Thought is the substance of speech. But how much stronger is the conviction which argument produces when presented with the authority of Demosthenes or the grace of Cicero! Vocal exercises should form an essential part of a collegiate education. The Corporation of this Institution have accordingly made a provision for instruction in the art of Elocution, which its importance demands.

Improvement in speaking depends on individual exertion. Without frequent and careful practice upon selected pieces, few can learn either to read or speak well. Yet what have not men sacrificed for oratory? Demosthenes is a noble example of perseverance amid difficulties, against which few orators are called to contend. Rather than shrink from any labors for this end, let us say in the words of Cicero, "dicendi autem me non tam fructus et gloria, quam studium ipsum exercitatioque, delectat."

EARLY DAYS.

I WISH I was a child again,
From every trouble free;

Oh, why did not those days remain,
Those days of youthful glee.

I wish this heart had never known,
What now it knows too well;
And early pleasures ne'er had flown,
Nor broke my childhood's spell.

How brightly then my hours did speed,
How free from every care;

Like fairy steppings on the mead,

When dew-drops glisten there.

I thought the clouds were angels' wings,—
I'm sure I know not why,-

And all the stars some golden things
Arranged along the sky.

I thought the wind was music made
By spirits in the trees;

And oft I flung me in the shade,
To prattle with the breeze.

I thought each flower a little home,
Where tiny sprites did dwell;

And watched to see the young bees come,
Their tales of love to tell.

And when I laugh'd beside the lake,
Where I was wont to play,

I never thought that time would take
Those early joys away.

I did not think this lightsome heart,
Would ever weep for pain;

And all my childhood's mirth depart,
To come no more again.

And when beside my mother's knee,
I breath'd my infant prayer,

I never dream'd that life to me,
Would ever be but fair.

Oh, give me back those days again,

Of childhood's merry joy;

And let me ever thus remain,

A happy, laughing boy.

THE DOOMED.

A SKETCH.

"In each human heart terror survives The ruin it has gorged: the loftiest fear

All that they would disdain to think were true."

Shelley.

"In some minds the first impression is so strong and so permanent, and resists in such a manner those considerations which might remove or moderate it, that we find difficulty in drawing the line between it and that kind of false impression which constitutes the lower degree of insanity.”—Abercrombie.

'HARD down your helm-hard down I tell you!'

'Hard down it is, sir,-the tiller is already jamm'd alee against the round-house.'

'Let fly those jib-sheets-haul after the spanker-shiver the head-sailsease off that fore-spencer-sheet-be quick, my men, be quick, or you will be food for the sharks in less than ten minutes!'

Such were the hasty orders of Captain Hinckley, at one of those moments of sudden and extreme peril when all the judgment and firmness of the sailor are called into requisition. To ascertain the cause of these orders, we must sketch you, Reader, the dangerous situation in which the good ship Canton was unexpectedly placed.

The southern coast of Norway from the Naze to the harbor of Frederickwaern, a distance of one hundred and seventy miles, is bounded by a high, precipitous wall of rock against which the uneasy swell of the sea has been dashing and wreathing for many thousand years. So perpendicular have the waters worn this frowning battlement that to scale it from below is impossible, and although at its base the largest man of war might be sunk entirely out of sight, yet owing to the powerful surge which is incessantly rolling up and breaking, not even a life-boat could live there for a moment. The Canton had recently sailed from St. Petersburg on her homeward-bound voyage to B, but owing to the lightness of the wind, had been nearly two weeks in beating through the Categat and around the Scaw. It was now the month of July, and the day on which this sketch commences was ushered in by a gorgeous morning when nature was busy in adorning herself. Scarcely a breath trembled on the gently undulating surface of the deep, and the sun, as he came up from among the Norwegian rocks and mountains, had flung a single, broad glance over his bounded path and then retired, as if in disdain of this lesser planet, behind the cloudy drapery;—or, to leave the

poetical for the nautical, " 4 A. M. light breezes-heavy clouds in the north-the sun almost obscured-ship is moving very heavily, having scarcely steerage way." Captain Hinckley had noted the peculiar beauty of the morning, and with that sagacity which seems almost intuitive in an old sailor had remarked to his chief mate that there would soon be a change, attended with a cracking breeze. His predictions were verified, and when the sun went down on that evening, the Canton was flying along under the press of all her canvass at the rate of over eleven knots an hour, with the Naze, bearing west by north, on her starboard bow, distant about forty miles. As the night closed in, the mist, which had been gathering during the latter part of the afternoon, settled heavily down into a dense fog, and so intense was the darkness that it seemed to oppress with its weight. Captain H. stirred not from his position beside the helmsman. His eye was steadily fixed on the compass, noticing the slightest variation from the prescribed course, save once or twice when he strove, but in vain, to pierce the impenetrable gloom that poured in on every side. He was fully aware of the peril he incurred in standing across so near the Norway shore, but he knew the fidelity of his noble vessel, and more than once she had brought him safely out from greater dangers than now threatened, and had there not been a strong lee-current setting in towards the land, all his calculations as to bearing and distance would now have been correct. He had just ordered the second mate to see if the men forward were keeping a good "look out," when almost simultaneously shouts were heard, "breakers ahead!-breakers abeam!-breakers on the starboard bow!"

Such was the situation of the Canton. 'The current had set her close into the shore, until she was scarcely her length from the iron-bound barriers. Instantaneous death seemed inevitable; for so great was the ship's momentum that, even though she should obey the influence of her sails and rudder, she would necessarily sweep far ahead in making the circle that would change her direction while going "in stays." No time was allowed for reflection,-it was action or death. More quickly, if possible, than the thought was conceived were the orders given, and as rapidly obeyed. The noble ship rounded up swiftly into the wind in defiance of its strength, and with a single slat of her sails, which ringing on the air like thunder was echoed back from the beetling precipice, she gracefully but firmly fell off on the other tack, and in a moment after was shooting away from the danger, flinging in high spray the stainless white foam from her bows like the proud pantings of the victorious racer.

'Said I not so?' observed Fitz-Eustace, the supercargo, to Captain Hinckley. 'It was no unmeaning word I uttered when I bid you beware of the Naze of Norway. I felt that the spell was