Master Emmet.-Ah, Sir, I can fully testify to the truth of what Master C. says. No one could well have greater self-possession and confidence than I, when I first presented myself here to speak. I came off with the first honors for speaking at my former school: of course I expected to produce a sensation. But think of the surprise and disappointment I felt, at the looks of my teacher and companions. At first I thought them void of all correct taste, and astonishingly dull not to be able to see and to appreciate the merit of my performance: but afterwards, Sir, when you very gently and delicately remarked upon some of my defects, no one could well judge of my mortification for it was then clearly revealed to myself as well as the rest, what a ludicrous spectacle I had presented: all my full-blown confidence was dashed to the ground and though I have somewhat recovered it since, I am very certain I shall never fully regain what I then lost.

T-And yet I think you would be far from wishing to recover back what produced that full-blown confidence.

E-Yes, Sir, indeed! for that would be to wish to unlearn all I have gained since. I set little value upon that confidence which springs only from ignorance. We come here to get rid of it; and the sooner the better: for the sooner shall we be upon a course to acquire that confidence which springs from knowledge: a confidence always safe, and likely to be associated with true modesty.

T. Yes, truly, that is the kind of confidence and self-possession, young gentlemen, I wish you all to have.

Master C., I presume, would have no objection to share them too, if they cost no labor, and were of a spontaneous growth. But Master E. has very pleasantly and quite facetiously exposed any such absurd notion. It has been remarked that "all improvement is the price of labor," except what springs from correct example. If we retained, as we grew up, all the simplicity and ease of early childhood, most of us would need but little training, to give to us ease of manners and elegance of gesture they might be safely left to themselves; but, unfortunately, it so happens that nearly all depart from that graceful simplicity, and become awkward; and we must be brought back to our original condition, in these respects, by the force of instruction, or we can never hope to have the address of a gentleman, or that of a good speaker.

Master F.-As Master E. has amused us with some of his early experience here, I will give a page from mine. I would not say that I was just like him in my verdant confidence; but I think I had nearly the same foundation for it. My chagrin commenced in the recitation room, at the first line of the Eneid, which I read "Armā vīrumque," for Armă vìrūmquè, &c. And I remember saying "cũi bōno" for kī bonō, and "sine die" for sině die, on other occasions; but my being shown up in such mistakes of quantity produced slight twinges compared with my first trial in declamation. This scene must have been diverting, especially to those having a keen sense of the ludicrous. I was not sensible, at first, of the effects I produced; for my companions were restrained by politeness and kind feelings from

an open expression: and I had not sufficient penetration then to see what was passing in their minds. I remember, in making my bow, I stood up square, my feet apart, and toes pointing towards the front of the audience: I then threw my head forward, and spread out both hands. In the first school I went to, we were required to give a sweep with the right hand; but in the last one, both hands were required; and I thought it a very sensible improvement. By the time, however, I had got through the first line in my piece, "My name | is Norval on the Grampian hills"; including all after name in a grouped division, and shooting forth my right hand in a straight line from the side: it became too much for flesh and blood to bear any longer and even you, Sir, were driven from your propriety: your gravity, for a moment, gave place to a gentle smile: then a roar burst forth from all my diverted auditory; and nature had the rein,—till your stern but parental look restored calm to the ruffled elements : Vultu quo coelum 'tempestatésque serénat (By which look he calms heaven and tempests).

T.-Young gentlemen, I am gratified to witness the very respectful and affectionate consideration with which you always regard me, joined to a freedom of expression so happy; and I may say, so indispensable to pleasant companionship and mutual advantage.

The exposure of our ignorance, especially, in what nourishes our pride and confidence, must be attended with some degree of mortification; whether we make the exposure ourselves, or it is ever so delicately made to us by others and yet, however painful it may be, it is a

necessary preliminary in every case of improvement. But you and Master E. exaggerated, and, I think, caricatured the scenes you have described so graphically, with a view no doubt to add some life to our conversation, as well as argument for industry and rigid criticism.

How much mortification, expense, and loss of time would be saved, if children were always properly instructed, and kept on a steady course! but few enjoy that fortune in general, very much of the business of succeeding years consists in getting rid of the bad habits, errors and prejudices contracted in previous ones.

It is my wish that our conversation while here should take a range wide enough to afford each an opportunity to ask questions, and to contribute from his own reflections, or from books, whatever he may think interesting on the subject of elocution.

G.-The author of Telemachus-I cannot now call his name

A.-Fenelon, Bishop of Cambray.

G.-Thank you. In some of his writings, he says, a speaker's body must betray action, when there is movement in his words; and his body must remain in repose when what he utters is of a level, simple, unimpassioned character. Nothing seems to me so shocking and absurd as the sight of a man lashing himself to a fury in the utterance of tame things. The more he sweats, the more he freezes my very blood.

T.—Yes, truly, nothing could be more just, nor more pertinent. It is what every body feels; but what few could so well express.

A.—I have been trying to call up an anecdote, which

the same author, I think, tells of himself; as a practical illustration of making too much of a character, and drawing too deeply upon the sympathies of an audience. It occurred while he was preaching the funeral sermon of the Duchess, who, I believe, was not known to be the most distinguished for the purity of her life. After, he says, I had given a long list of her virtues and graces, and swept the whole catalogue of ancient and modern heroines, and finding among them all, no parallel ; I exclaimed with increased warmth, Where shall we place thee? the beautiful, the lovely, the sainted one! where shall we place thee? At that moment, a gentleman rising, looked up with provoking gravity; and pointing to the place where he had been sitting, exclaimed, Here, Sir, in my seat-I am leaving ít.”

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T-An excellent anecdote, and well told! but in our places of worship at the present day, to show up such a piece of affectation in the same way, would be a great outrage it would be far better to forego the wit, than to desecrate the place. I have seen the anecdote before; I cannot say where but you have dressed it up in your own style; and, I think, with some embellish

.ment.

H.—While reading a passage in the life of Sir Isaac Newton, the other day, I was forcibly reminded of the instruction which is so repeatedly urged here, that all improvement in our manners, gestures and every thing else, depends on attention. Being asked how he had discovered the true system of the universe, he replied, "By continually thinking upon it. If I have done the world any service, it was due to nothing but industry