least with satisfaction; and if I find fault now and then, I shall not be deemed a traitor to my generation, as those who are continually engaged in depreciating their contemporaries, and in setting the lowest value on every thing which characterises the time in which they live. Such eternal complaints are neither profitable nor amusing, except to those who make them; nor are they such as I shall indulge in, though I could do so with more propriety than those who now undertake them. My age was peculiarly the age of orators. Distinguished as England then was for many brilliant speakers, as well as for a number of talented debaters, the study of oratory could not but claim a considerable portion of the thoughts and exertions of aspiring men. I with many others was infected by this desire: being by nature of a dreamy and contemplative mind, I imagined that the days of the Athenian Demosthenes were come again. I studied the orators ancient and modern; I was indefatigable in my attendance on lectures in elocution, and societies for the practice of speaking. I was noted by my equals in age for the eagerness I always displayed to be heard on any question whatever, and for my uncommon readiness to speak on any subject, prepared or unprepared. In my closet I studied language and composition, and covered with writing as many sheets as it would have done good to an author to behold. Logic and rhetoric too formed part of the system, by which I hoped to make myself the greatest orator the world ever saw. In conversation I never felt easy till engaged in an argument, which I flattered myself I could conduct with great ability; though I must confess that my hearers, and even my antagonists, were sometimes confounded by my subtilty, and wearied by the variety of illustration I displayed. My depth of research and my powers of amplification were enormous, I thought, if people only knew how to appreciate them. If in conversation with a single friend, he was doomed to hear a lengthy disquisition on something which he did not care about;-if in company with many others, I never omitted an opportunity of making a remark, or of using my best common-places to illustrate subjects of which I was completely ignorant. It is true that my volubility of language was great; though I never considered reflection and thought worthy of my notice, but as only intended by nature for the use of those who did not possess the inspiration of oratorical feeling. I had many phrases ready prepared for immediate use, and used to carry a tablet or book in which I noted down on the spot whatever ideas occurred

VOL. I. NO. III.

to me. In short, having fluency, I thought it easy to acquire the other powers of a speaker, and would often quote to those who rallied me about it, the Latin adage-" Nascitur poëta, fit orator."

And here I must do myself the justice to affirm, that however deluded I might have been about my rhetorical capacity, I never considered myself a poet,—a vain imagination which I have found to lay hold of many in the present age. My conduct was peaceable, though my language was sometimes forcible, and even violent. By many young men of my own standing I was much admired and followed; by some pitied; and by a few despised. My reputation adhered to me long, though I never met with success in parliament; and some venerable men who remember the influence I had exerted in our talented society, will shake their heads at the mention of my name, and lament the downfal of the orator's aspirations. When my duties as a member of the senate called me from that scene of my inspirations, I foresaw its ruin-it fellbut it was long supported by my name alone, as we read in history that the war-cry of a fallen leader could restore his retreating soldiers to the combat and to victory. Pardon my protracted description of myself, my passion is an impulse almost unknown in the present age-for the rhetorical delusion is said to be succeeded by the poetical mania. In turning over some of my old papers, I found the following description of the “débût” of a young orator, written when I was a member of parliament, and which I shall communicate to you as a specimen :

THE YOUNG ORATOR'S MAIDEN SPEECH.

I entered the house rather late, just as an able and experienced speaker was bringing out the climax of his concluding sentence. When the applause which followed the speech had subsided, and was dying away into a faint murmur at the lower end of the house, the young orator arose to combat it, without a single friend in the assembly to greet him. At the sound of a new voice, those who were earnestly engaged in conversation stopped short to stare at the man from whom it proceeded, and then seeing nothing remarkable in his appearance, relapsed into the finishing of the interrupted sentence. The few who were interested in the question seemed to listen, at first attentively, and as he proceeded, eagerly, to the arguments he used.

He continued for some time to employ a progressive train of reasoning, even and clear, with occasional illustrations and similes.

His style was lucid though somewhat florid, his words well chosen, and suitable to the method of arguing which he had adopted. One by one a few turned round to listen; some awoke with a confused idea of a pillow being snatched from under their heads; for inferior speeches were in my time the pillows of somnolent members; during the delivery they thought themselves entitled to repose. Many dropped into the little listening circle, because they saw others attentive; the striking imagery he used attracted the more superficial: so that by this time he was addressing a tolerable audience. Gaining confidence from this, he began to animadvert on the speech of his predecessor: and as he attacked it in an able and spirited manner, that gentleman and his party, before supercilious, became suddenly and considerably interested. He proceeded by a calm course of reasoning to overthrow piece by piece the argumentative structure which his antagonist had been so industriously raising: until the solid edifice was levelled, and only the ornaments remained scattered about in cumbrous profusion. Having succeeded in erasing from the minds of his hearers all the impression which his adversary's arguments had made, he burst forth in a strain of sarcasm, as brilliant as unexpected, which pealed through the house and forced the attention of all. His unfortunate opponent looked like one who had imprudently removed the dam of a torrent, and stood expecting to be overwhelmed. The vivid blaze of his satire, which played in every direction, made each speaker fear for himself: and from that display of his powers he ever after received the deference which men always hasten to pay to speakers possessed of such formidable weapons.

Having, as it were, annihilated in turn all his antagonists, and now feeling himself thoroughly excited by his subject, he gave full scope to the impulsive fervour of his mind, and let forth a torrent of declamation, which forcibly laid hold of the feelings of every one of the hearers, and made them subservient to his direction. He had now complete mastery over the minds of his audience--even of the coldest and dullest-each thought as he thought; every one was led, by an irresistible power, to feel as he felt, and to let his affections and passions flow in the direction he pointed out. But, as if unconscious of this, the speaker was entirely absorbed in his subject, and so engrossed in it as to be insensible to the effect he was producing. And when at last he sat down, holding, as it were, the reins of every heart and every understanding in that vast assembly, all seemed released from the skill of the enchanter, which

had held them so long. In the applause and confusion that succeeded, I was not able to learn his name-which afterwards became so familiar to me and to every Englishman.

Such is the fate of an orator: he rises an unknown and unacknowledged man; he sits down one whose powers all are acquainted with, and whose genius all must confess and admire. Strange things are wrought during the flight of a few hours.

ONE FORGOTten.

THE WITHERED LEAF.

THE summer time hath passed away, brown Autumn spreads around,
And through the forest withered leaves lie strown along the ground.
Oh! many a silent moral, sad and eloquent, though brief,
The heart may learn, if learn it will, e'en from the withered leaf.

The time hath been when every one that's dead and withered now
Hung fresh and full of lusty life upon the healthful bough;
And, but a chilling blast hath swept the branch whereon it grew,
Yet now how changed its beauty! and how desolate its hue!

And is not this the history of that allotted span
The wisdom of omniscient Heaven hath portioned out to man?
Is not his life as passing all, and every way as brief,

As that the Maker's hand hath given the frail and tender leaf?

E'en Love, that fairest, holiest of every mortal flower,
Let but a blast of envy strike, doth wither in an hour;

E'en Hope, the nurse of every joy, doth sicken into grief,
Beneath the withering hand of time, as doth the autumn leaf.

The brightest wreath the conqueror's brow in gaudy triumph wears,
The common fate of earthly things, for all its glory, shares;
E'en Beauty, Love's idolatry, hath still a reign as brief,
And falls to earth as sadly as the sear and withered leaf.

Then go thou to the forest, where the spoils of Autumn lie,
And mark the red and fallen leaves, as on the ground they die;
Then own there is a moral, sad and eloquent, though brief,
The heart may learn, if learn it will, e'en from the withered leaf.

C. H. H.

EARLY in the morning, a maiden went into the garden to gather a garland of roses. They all stood yet in their buds, closed or half-closed-fragrant chalices for the morning dew. "I will not gather you yet," said the maiden. "The sun shall first open you: then you will shine more beautifully, and your perfume will be stronger."

She came at noon, and saw the beautiful roses corroded by the worm, bowed down, faded and withered by the heat of the sun. The maiden wept for her folly; and the following morning she gathered her garland while it was yet early.

God calls his dearest children early from this life, before the hot sunbeam hath scorched them—before the worm hath touched them. The paradise of children is a high degree of blessedness; the most righteous man may not come near it; for his soul hath been stained.

PUCK.

THE NIGHT OF THE BURIAL.
WE'VE laid her in the cold church yard,
Beneath a mound of clay;

Loved as she was, we've left her there,
To loathsome worms a prey.

And lo! the mist is on the hill,
The rain is gathering fast,

The evening skies are wild and dark,
And chilly blows the blast.

And now this roof-(for many a year,

In many a storm so wild,

This humble roof hath been a home,
A shelter for my child-)

And now this roof-her father's roof-
Can be her home no more.-
How can I close my house to-night?

How bear to bar my door?

To shut her out, for whom so oft

It gladly opened wide!

To shut her out that was so long

My hope, my joy, my pride!