and hallow them as the homes of freedom! Let us make them, too, the homes of a nobler freedom,-of freedom from vice, from evil passion,-from every corrupting bondage of

the soul.

EXERCISE XVI.-CONVERSATION.-Cowper.

[The appropriate elocution of the following extract, implies a free and lively style, highly expressive, in its character,-but_not carried to the extent of mimicry, either in voice or gesture. The tone should be carefully kept from running into measured chant or jingle.]

The emphatic speaker dearly loves to oppose,
In contact inconvenient, nose to nose,-
As if the gnomon on his neighbour's phiz,
Touched with a magnet, had attracted his.
His whispered theme, dilated, and at large,
Proves, after all, a wind-gun's airy charge,-
An extract of his diary,-no more,-
A tasteless journal of the day before.
He walk'd abroad, o'ertaken in the rain,
Call'd on a friend, drank tea, stepped home again,
Resumed his purpose, had a world of talk
With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk.
I interrupt him with a sudden bow,-
'Adieu, dear sir! lest you should lose it now.'
I cannot talk with civet in the room,-
A fine puss gentleman, that's all perfume:
His odoriferous attempts to please,

Perhaps might prosper with a swarm of bees;
But we that make no honey, though we sting,-
(Poets,)—are sometimes apt to maul the thing.

A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see,
Quite as absurd, though not so light as he;
A shallow brain behind a serious mask,
An oracle within an empty cask,

The solemn fop;-significant and budge,
A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge;
He says but little, and that little said
Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead.
His wit invites you, by his looks, to come,
But, when you knock, it never is at home:
'Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage,-
Some handsome present, as your hopes presage :

"Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove
An absent friend's fidelity and love,-

But, when unpacked, your disappointment groans,
To find it stuffed with brickbats, earth, and stones.

EXERCISE XVII. SAND STORM IN THE DESERT.-Frazer.

[The tones of serious and earnest description, as in the following example, should always be firm, grave, and energetic, but spirited and cxpressive.]

Day dawned at last; and morning found me still in a wide and trackless waste of sand,-which, as the sun arose, was only bounded by those flitting vapours which deceive the thirsty traveller, with the belief that water is near, and have thence obtained the name of the water of the desert.' In vain I looked for the marks by which my friend Selim had taught me to recognise a place of refreshment.

There was too much cause to fear that I was now in one of those terrible tracts of dry and moving sand, in which no water is found; and which sometimes, when set in motion by the wind, swallow up whole caravans and their conductors. Alas! the morning light, so earnestly expected, only dawned to prove that I was surrounded by dangers I had never dreamed of.

The wind, which had blown so piercingly all night, lulled, as it generally does, towards morning. But the hazy vapour, loaded with light particles of sand, through which the sun rose as red as blood, gave warning that the calm would not continue long; nor had I pursued my course another hour, before the roar of the desert wind was heard; columns of dust began to rise in the horizon; and the air became gradually filled with drifting sand.

As the wind increased, the whole plain around me, which had been heaped by former tempests into ridges like the waves of a troubled sea, now got in motion; the sand blew from off their crests, like spray from the face of the waters, and covered myself and horse with its dense eddies; while, often unable to distinguish the true course, my horse toiled over the ridges, sinking up to the very girths, in their deep baffling substance.

I continued, for some hours, to persevere, struggling against the fury of the gale, when my alarm became increased by observing that my horse, which hitherto had stood out with admirable perseverance, even when his progress was the most painfully impeded by the deep sand, now became terrified

and restive. He snorted, reared, and appeared unable, as well as unwilling, to face the sharp drifting of the still increasing storm. In vain I soothed him, or urged him on with heels and hand: the animal, which hitherto had obeyed my voice, almost like an intelligent being, now paid no attention either to caresses or blows. In the severe squalls that drove past at intervals, he fairly turned his back to them, and would not move; and, even when the wind lulled for a little, he could hardly be forced to advance a step.

I scorned to yield my life without a struggle, yet saw not the means of preserving it. To abandon my horse, would have been, in fact, to give up hope; for I could not have proceeded a single mile on foot; yet to remain stationary, as I was forced to do by the terror of the animal, involved manifest destruction. Every thing that offered resistance to the torrent of sand, which sometimes poured along the earth, like a rapid stream of water, was overwhelmed by it, in an incredibly short time: even while my horse stood still, for a few moments, the drift mounted higher than his knees; and, as if sensible of his danger, he made furious efforts to extricate himself.

Quite certain that my only hope lay in constant motion, and the chance of gaining the leeside of some hillock or mass of rock, that might afford a shelter till the storm should blow over, I gave up my true course, turned my back to the wind, and made all possible efforts to press forward; and at last, just when both man and horse were exhausted, during a partial squall, I observed something like a rock or mound of earth, looming through a dusky atmosphere. On approaching it, I discovered that it was the bank of an inconsiderable hollow, which was now nearly filled with sand, and the opposite side of which, being exposed to the wind, had, by the same means, become merely an inclined plane. Beneath this bank I fortunately retired, resolved to trust to its protection, rather than run the risk of a farther progress, with the imminent peril of perishing in the drifting sand, where vision could not extend for the space of many yards.

EXERCISE XVIII.-NIGHT IN VENICE.—Byron.

[In the following passage, the tones are low, grave, and slow,— the pauses long,-the articulation soft, but clear.]

Palace of the patrician Lioni. Lion, laying aside the cloak and mask which the Venetian nobles wore in public.

Lioni. I will to rest, right weary of this revel,
The gayest we have held, for many moons.
And yet, I know not why, it cheered me not;
There came a heaviness across my heart;
Which, in the lightest movement of the dance,
Oppressed me,

And through my spirit chilled my blood, until
A damp, like death, rose o'er my brow; I strove
To laugh the thought away, but 't would not be ;
So that I left the festival before
It reached its zenith, and will woo my pillow
For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness.
I will try

Whether the air will calm my spirits: 'tis
A goodly night: the cloudy wind which blew
From the Levant, hath crept into its cave,

And the broad moon has brightened.—What a stillness!
And what a contrast with the scene I left,

Where the tall torches' glare, and silver lamps'

More pallid gleam along the tap'stried walls,
Spread over the reluctant gloom which haunts
Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries,
A dazzling mass of artificial light,

Which showed all things, but nothing as it was!"
Around me are the stars and waters,-
Worlds mirrored in the ocean, goodlier sight
Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass;
And the great element, which is to space
What ocean is to earth, spreads its blue depths,
Softened with the first breathings of the spring;
The high moon sails upon her beauteous way,
Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls
Of those tall piles, and sea-girt palaces,
Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly fronts,
Fraught with the orient spoil of many marbles,
Like altars ranged along the broad canal,
Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed.
Reared up

from out the waters, scarce less strangely

Than those more massy and mysterious giants
Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics,

Which point in Egypt's plains to times that have
No other record. All is gentle: nought
Stirs rudely; but, congenial with the night,
Whatever walks, is gliding like a spirit.
The tinkling of some vigilant guitars

Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress,
And cautious opening of the casement, showing
That he is not unheard; while her young hand,—
Fair as the moonlight, of which it seems part,
So delicately white, it trembles in

The act of opening the forbidden lattice,

To let in love through music,-makes his heart
Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight;-the dash
Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle

Of the far lights of skimming gondolas,
And the responsive voices of the choir

Of boatmen, answering back, with verse for verse ;—
Some dusky shadow, checkering the Rialto;-
Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering spire;-
Are all the sights and sounds which here pervade
The ocean-born and earth-commanding city.
How sweet and soothing is the hour of calm!
I thank thee, Night! for thou hast chased away
Those horrid bodements, which, amidst the throng,
I could not dissipate, and,-with the blessing
Of thy benign and quiet influence,-
Now will I to my couch, although to rest
Is almost wronging such a night as this.

EXERCISE

XIX.-INCAPABILITY

OF THE BRITISH MINISTRY OF

1782.-Lord Holland.

From a Speech on the Address after the news had been received, of the surrender of Lord Cornwallis's army in Virginia.

[The style of the following extract, is, at first, the same with that of EXERCISE IV., but afterwards rises to great vehemence,in the most powerful style of parliamentary invective.]

I expected, and I know it has been expected by many others, to hear on this occasion, his majesty declare from the throne, that he had been deceived and imposed upon, by misinformation and misrepresentation; that, in consequence of his delusion, the parliament had been deluded; but that