his throat, and ventures to begin. “Sir, I am sensible”(some titter near him)—“I am, Sir, sensible”—“Hear! hear!” (they cheer him.) Now bolder grown, for praise mistaking pother, teapots one arm, and spouts out with the other. "I am, Sir, sensible-I am, indeed—that, though—I should want-words—I must proceed; and, for the first time in my life I think-I think-that-no great orator-should shrink: —and, therefore,-Mr. Speaker-I for one—will speak out freely. Sir-I've not yet done. Sir, in the name of those

, enlightened men who sent me here to-speak for themwhy, then, to do my duty—as I said before-to my constituency-I'LL SAY NO MORE."

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(See Tone Drill No. 105.) [Gasping indicates a struggle for breath. This spasmodic tone may be caused by overexertion or by a great mental shock or by a physical injury.]

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Let me lie down
Just here, in the shade of this cannon-torn tree,
Here, low on the trampled grass, where I may see
The surge of the combat, and where I may hear
The glad cry of victory, cheer upon cheer:

Let me lie down.

Dying at last !
My mother, dear mother! with meek tearful eye,
Farewell! and God bless you, for ever and aye!
O that I now lay on your pillowing breast,
To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest !

Dying at last !

Great Heaven ! this bullet-hole gapes like a grave;
A curse on the aim of the traitorous knave!
Is there never a one of you knows how to pray,
Or speak for a man as his life ebbs away?

Pray! Pray!

Our Father! our Father ! why don't you proceed ?
Can't you see I am dying ? Great God, how I bleed !

Ebbing away!
Ebbing away! The light of the day is turning to gray

I am dying; bend down, till I touch you once more;
Don't forget me, old fellow: God prosper this war!


(See Tone Drill No. 140.) [Moaning manifests mental or physical pain, with exhaustion. It is agony in its weaker states. Sometimes there is unconsciousness. ]

Lady Macbeth in Her Sleep.


Yet here's a spot.

Out, damned spot! out, I say ! One: two: why, then 'tis time do do ’t. Hell is murky. Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afеard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? What, will these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting

Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!

Wash your hands; put on your nightgown; look not so pale: I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out on 's grave. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate: come, come, come, come, give me your hand: what's done cannot be undone: to bed, to bed, to bed.—Macbeth, v., 1.



(See Tone Drill No. 207.) [The tone of Uproar manifests great perturbation, commotion or turmoil. It is akin to Excitement.]

The War in Heaven.


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Immediate in a flame
But soon obscured with smoke, all Heaven appeared,
From those deep-throated engines belched, whose roar
Embowelled with outrageous noise the air,
And all their entrails tore, disgorging foul
Their devilish glut, chained thunderbolts and hail
Of iron globes; which, on the victor host
Levelled, with such impetuous fury smote
That whom they hit none on their feet might stand,
Though standing else as rocks, but down they fell
By thousands, Angel on Archangel rolled.

But they stood not long;
Rage prompted them at length, and found them arms
Against such hellish mischief fit to oppose.
Forthwith-behold the excellence, the power,
Which God hath in his mighty Angels placed !-
Their arms away they threw, and to the hills
-For Earth hath this variety from Heaven
Of pleasure situate in hill and dale-
Light as the lightning-glimpse, they ran, they flew;
From their foundations loosening to and fro
They plucked the seated hills, with all their load,
Rocks, waters, woods, and by their shaggy tops

Uplifting bore them in their hands. Amaze,
Be sure, and terror seized the rebel host,
When coming toward them so dread they saw
The bottom of the mountains upward turned;
Till on those cursed engines' triple row
They saw them whelmed, and all their confidence
Under the weight of mountains buried deep;
Themselves invaded next, and on their heads
Main promontories flung, which in the air
Came shadowing, and oppressed whole legions armed.
Their armour helped their harm, crushed-in and bruised
Into their substance pent, which wrought them pain
Implacable, and many a dolorous groan,
Long struggling underneath, ere they could wind
Out of such prison; though Spirits of purest light,
Purest at first, now gross by sinning grown.
The rest, in imitation, to like arms
Betook them, and the neighbouring hills up-tore;
So hills amid the air encountered hills,
Hurled to and fro, with jaculation dire,
That underground they fought in dismal shade;
Infernal noise; war seemed a civil game
To this uproar; horrid confusion heaped
Upon confusion rose.

- Paradise Lost, Book VI.


(See Tone Drills Nos. 96a, 37a, 204b.) [The tone of Cunning has in it Triumph, Exultation, and Carefulness; it manifests a subtle pride, bordering at times on fiendishness.]

The Telltale Heart.


True !-nervous—very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why, will you say that I am mad? Hearken ! and


observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object, there was none. Passion, there was none. I loved the old

He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture—a pale-blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded--with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. Every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it-oh, so gently! and then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly-very, very, slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. Would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously (for the hinges creaked). I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights-every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his evil eye.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. To think that there I was, opening the

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