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nous, sing-song of delivery, to exercise the patience of his flock, at the expense of their other Christian graces ?

Or is it the genuine orator of heaven, with a heart sincere, upright, and fervent; a mind stored with that universal knowledge, required as the foundation of his art: with a genius for the invention, a skill for the disposition, and a voice for thes elocution of every argument to convince, and of every sentiment to persuade? If then we admit, that the art of oratoryqualifies the minister of the gospel to perform, in higher per-fection, the duties of his station, we can no longer question whether it be proper for his cultivation. It is more than proper; it is one of his most solemn and indispensable duties."

THE FATAL FALSEHOOD.-Mrs. Opie..

[The following extract is designed as an example of impressive narrative reading, such as is sometimes introduced in discourses from the pulpit. 'Expression' and 'variation' are, in passages like this, the main objects of attention in the practice of elocution. The thrilling effect of the story requires that these should' be deep and subdued, yet intensely vivid.]

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Mrs. Opie, in her Illustrations of Lying,' gives, as an instance of what she terms 'the lie of benevolence,' the melan-choly tale of which the following passage is the conclusion.Vernon, is a clergyman in Westmoreland, whose youngest son, at a distance from home had, in a moment of passion, committed murder. The youth had been condemned and executed for his crime. But his brothers had kept the cause and form of his death concealed from their father, and had informed him that their brother had been taken suddenly ill, and died on his road homeward. The father hears the awful. truth un-: der the following circumstances, when on a journey.

The coach stopped at an inn outside the city of York; and as Vernon was not disposed to eat any dinner, he strolled along the road, till he came to a small church, pleasantly situated, and entered the church-yard to read, as was his custom, the inscriptions on the tombstones. While thus engaged, he saw a man filling up a new-made grave, and entered into conversation with him. He found it was the sexton himself; and

he drew from him several anecdotes of the persons interred around them.

During their conversation, they had walked over the whole of the ground, when, just as they were going to leave the spot, the sexton stopped to pluck some weeds from a grave near the corner of it, and Vernon stopped also; taking hold, as he did so, of a small willow sapling, planted near the corner itself.

As the man rose from his occupation, and saw where Vernon stood, he smiled significantly, and said, "I planted that willow; and it is on a grave, though the grave is not marked out."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; it is the grave of a murderer."

"Of a murderer!"-echoed Vernon, instinctively shuddering, and moving away from it.

"Yes," resumed he, "of a murderer who was hanged at York. Poor lad-it was very right that he should be hanged; but he was not a hardened villain! and he died so penitent! and as I knew him when he used to visit where I was groom, I could not help planting this tree for old acquaintance' sake."-Here he drew his hand across his eyes. "Then he was not a low-born man ?"

"Oh! no; his father was a clergyman, I think."

"Indeed! poor man was he living at the time?" said Vernon, deeply sighing.

"Oh! yes; for his poor son did so fret, lest his father should ever know what he had done: he said he was an angel upon earth; and he could not bear to think how he would grieve; for, poor lad, he loved his father and his mother too, though he did so badly."

"Is his mother living?"

"No; if she had, he would have been alive; but his evil courses broke her heart; and it was because the man he killed reproached him for having murdered his mother, that he was provoked to murder him."

"Poor, rash, mistaken youth! then he had provocation ?"

"Oh! yes; the greatest: but he was very sorry for what he had done; and it would have done your heart good to hear him talk of his poor father."

"I am glad I did not hear him," said Vernon. hastily, and in a faltering voice, (for he thought of Edgar.)

"And yet, sir, it would have done your heart good too." "Then he had virtuous feelings, and loved his father, amidst all his errors ?"

"Aye."

"And I dare say his father loved him, in spite of his faults." "I dare say he did," replied the man; "for one's children are our own flesh and blood, you know, sir, after all that is. said and done; and may be this young

the bringing up."

fellow was spoiled in

"Perhaps so," said Vernon, sighing deeply.

"However, this poor lad made a very good end."

"I am glad of that! and he lies here," continued Vernon, gazing on the spot with deeper interest, and moving nearer to it as he spoke. "Peace be to his soul! but was he not dis

sected ?"

"Yes; but his brothers got leave to have the body after dissection. They came to me, and we buried it privately at night."

"His brothers came! and who were his brothers?

"Merchants, in London; and it was a sad cut on them; but they took care that their father should not know it." "No!" cried Vernon, turning sick at heart.

"Oh! no; they wrote him word that his son was ill; then went to Westmoreland, and -”

"Tell me," interrupted Vernon, gasping for breath, and laying his hand on his arm, "tell me the name of this poor youth!"

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Why, he was tried under a false name, for the sake of his family; but his real name was Edgar Vernon."

The agonized parent drew back, shuddered violently and repeatedly, casting up his eyes to heaven, at the same time, with a look of mingled appeal and resignation. He then

rushed to the obscure spot which covered the bones of his son, threw himself upon it, and stretched his arms over it, as if embracing the unconscious deposit beneath, while his head rested on the grass, and he neither spoke nor moved. But he uttered one groan ;-then all was stillness!

His terrified and astonished companion remained motionless, for a few moments,-then stooped to raise him; but the FIAT OF MERCY had gone forth, and the paternal heart, broken by the sudden shock, had suffered, and breathed its last.

MUSINGS ON THE GRAVE.-Washington Irving.

[An example of the deepest pathos.]

Oh! the grave! the grave!—It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring none but found regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down, even upon the grave of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that ever he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that now lies mouldering before him? But the grave of those we lovedwhat a place for meditation! There it is we call up, in long review, the whole history of the truth and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheard in the daily course of intimacy; there it is we dwell upon the tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, with all its stifled grief; its noiseless attendants; its most watchful assiduities, the last testimonials of expiring love,—the feeble, fluttering, thrilling-oh! how thrilling is the beating of the pulse-the last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us from the threshold of existence, the faint faltering accent, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection.

There

Ah! go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! settle the account, with thy conscience, of every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who never, never can be soothed by contrition. If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered

brow of an affectionate parent;-if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt a moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast injured by thought, word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee;— if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to the true heart that now lies cold beneath thy feet, there be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knock dolefully at thy soul; be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repenting on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear,-bitter, because unheard and unavailing.

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'Lashed by the furies of the mind,

From Wrath and Vengeance wouldst thou flee?—

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