My soul is sick with every day's report Of wrongs and outrage with which earth is filled." At the word ear, his finger was brought near this organ; and his right hand was upon his heart at the word soul; upon wrongs, it was brought down with force, and repeated on outrage, attended also with the left; and upon the word earth they were both spread wide apart and he drew from the audience a thundering applause-an audience not the best judges, of course. Now, stripped of the poetry, and put into plain prose, it means, "I am pained—I am sick at heart from hearing of the wrongs and outrage which every where prevail." But poetry and passion go together; and the latter is very liable to be "torn into tatters,”—especially by youthful orators. And further-if the pupil put forth his gestures with much force and frequency, before the importance of the subject, and the force of his eloquence have really awakened his own feelings, and fired his auditors; so that it would seem a restraint upon nature to withhold these outward signs, he may consider them as wholly uncalled for, and his speech all the better without them.

The pupil must not suppose, however, from these remarks, that his countenance for a single moment after he begins to speak, may lack expression, or his body and limbs some degree of motion. This would be a fault greater than the others: yet it is one to which very young speakers are greatly liable. If he hold his head and body bolt upright, or too still; and his eyes fixed on vacancy; or, if moved at all, they are so, without the correspondent movements of the head and body; and his arms are suffered to hang lifeless by his sides,

during the intervals of prominent gesture, he cannot but afford a ludicrous or a painful spectacle to all that look at him.

St. Paul's example before King Agrippa may perhaps encourage some to a freer use of gesture, when they begin to speak: "Then Paul stretched forth the hand, and answered for himself": or, to a general excess of it, from the noted answers of Demosthenes, when he was asked what he thought the first requisite in an orator, he said "action"; what the second; he replied "action"; what the third; and still the reply was 66 action!"

In the case of St. Paul, it appears to me that the phrase should be considered merely as referring to a mode of salutation still preserved among the inhabitants of the East, and means no more than what we express by a slight bow. Any other view of it would be preposterous, and wholly unsuited to the high dignity and character of the inspired apostle.

LESSON XXIII.

ACTION-IV.

No doubt a great many have been misled by that ac count of Demosthenes; and it is likely that he himself attached an undue importance to action, from the circumstances mentioned in the last lesson. But if we

admit the account to be true, it does not follow that he meant merely external action. There is every reason to suppose he was understood at the time, to use the term in its broadest sense the action within as well as without-viz. feeling, earnestness, tone, emphasis, expression, in "thoughts that breathe, and words that burn." Such seems to be the true import: any other is obviously absurd. A blind man would have been overpowered by the eloquence of Demosthenes or Cicero. Hence, though gesture is an indispensable accompaniment to a finished style of delivery, it is not to be esteemed the first requisite, nor the second, nor even the third. Since language has become so improved, and so universally read and written, and therefore so generally understood, the movements of the body and limbs add but a small share to what makes up the sum of true eloquence.

The Indian orator, from the want of a copious language to convey his thoughts and feelings, has recourse to gesticulations, and to bold and striking figures: and, accustomed to roam the forests fearless, and free from all the restraints of civilized life, his action is easy, forcible and commanding: and he is eloquent in his rude way, because every word and motion carries with it some prominent thought. Here it may not be out of place to relate a short anecdote of one possessed of native eloquence in another condition of life.

Some years ago, says a New York gentleman, I was in the habit of attending ward meetings, called to discuss the merits of public men then up for office, and the character of public measures: and I was sometimes induced to take a part myself. Among the favorite

speakers, accustomed to be invited to the stand, was a man without the advantage of any, but a very common education. He was a carman -one of "the hardfisted," an honest, sober, and industrious class,-a man of strong, practical, common sense, some wit and humor, and pretty well versed in the politics of the day. Some who addressed the meeting were distinguished in forensic debate, and eloquent; but not one of them produced a deeper sensation, nor received greater applause. He evidently spoke from present impulse, just as subjects upon which he had doubtless thought much, happened to present themselves to his mind. His looks were always true to his thoughts and feelings, if his words sometimes were not: his gestures were always well-timed, easy and forcible; though not the most graceful and never really awkward; for he was entirely free from all constraint. As he had no reputation to sustain for accuracy and elegance of diction, he was fearless, and without embarrassment: and if he used a wrong word, or a wrong pronunciation, which raised a laugh, he could laugh too: and it often seemed to bring. to him the occasion of putting forth more power than he could have done, had no mistake occurred.

What object in the whole range of our observation is more lovely, or is more beautiful in all its movements, than a little child; especially when kept from bad examples, and blessed with parents more anxious to make him vigorous and happy, than prematurely wise? Ever treated with kindness and affection, he loves every body, and never suspects but that every body loves him. What he does and says is without the fear of making mistakes,

offending others, or disgracing himself. He has not yet learned the factitious distinctions of the world he approaches the President of the United States, and talks with him as freely, and with as much familiarity as with his uncle George: he is happy in his blameless ignorance, and as free as the air he breathes.

How happens it that he is so graceful, so easy and true in all his motions? Because he acts without constraint, and with perfectly guileless simplicity—that is, just as he feels. The time for tasks, for school corrections and criticisms, has not yet come; and he is free from all servile fear. All his knowledge has been gathered from the open book of nature. The whole system

of education is a system of art. It produces constraint, both because it interferes with our previous habits, and it reveals to us our ignorance and errors: and this constraint will, in a measure, continue, till education again, in completing its office, leads us back to nature, and gives to all our improvements the perfect type of nature's handiwork. And this is the case, when, by a faithful and skilful course of discipline, our every word, look and gesture becomes, from habit, perfectly natural and appropriate; and we exhibit the graceful ease and artless simplicity of the little child.

Our moral perfection is also brought to the same test. When our Saviour was asked by his disciples, "Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” he called a little child, and set him in the midst of them, and said, "Verily I say unto you, except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven." Hence it is safe to infer that