cultivate his perception, exercise his imagination, strengthen his memory, accumulate ideas, supply himself with facts and illustrations, practise himself in logic, proof, and philosophy, observe the emotions of feeling and passion, learn how to portray them, and beyond all this, train his mind into habits of thought and virtue, and his physical powers into pliancy, gracefulness, and strength. This, you may depend, will make a man a far greater Orator than he will become under the mere impulse of genius, or aided by the most extended human knowledge.

Opener (in reply). Sir, I have been led by this debate to see that excellence in Oratory depends not upon any one of the elements to which my question refers, but upon all. Mere genius will never make an Orator: nor will mere Knowledge; nor will mere Art; it is only by the union of the three that a successful Orator can be formed. I would not bestow too much attention upon Art; for it has a tendency to mechanize and unspiritualize the mind: but I would keep it in its due place, and perpetually fix attention upon the more important elements beyond it. Above all, I would instruct the mind of the student in truth and virtue. I would say to him, "Let truth be your aim, and to that, and that only, bow." have but one cause to serve: yes, understand me well! you must serve the cause of goodness, and that cause alone, or your acquirements will be a curse to you rather than a blessing, and a reproach rather than an honour. "Let your aim," I would say to him in conclusion, "be the interest and the good of those around you:" let the means you employ be honour and sincerity, and then you will find that in seeking the happiness of your fellow-beings, you have taken the best and most effectual method to advance your own.-Rowton's Debater.

You

Sir P. WHEN an old bachelor marries a young wife, what is he to expect? 'Tis now six months since Lady Teazle made me the happiest of men-and I have been the most miserable dog ever since! We tiffed a little going to church, and fairly quarrelled before the bells had done ringing. I was more than once nearly choked with gall during the honeymoon, and had lost all comfort in life before my friends had

done wishing me joy. Yet I chose with caution—a girl bred wholly in the country, who never knew luxury beyond one silk gown, nor dissipation above the annual gala of a raceball. Yet now she plays her part in all the extravagant fopperies of the fashion and the town, with as ready a grace as if she had never seen a bush or a grass-plot out of Grosvenor Square! I am sneered at by all my acquaintance, and paragraphed in the newspapers. She dissipates my fortune, and contradicts all my humours; yet, the worst of it is, I doubt I love her, or I should never bear all this. However, I'll never be weak enough to own it. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it!

Lady T. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as you please; but I ought to have my own way in everything, and what's more, I will, too.

Sir P. Very well, ma'am, very well;-so a husband is to have no influeuce, no authority?

Lady T. Authority! no to be sure;-if you wanted authority over me, you should have adopted me and not married me: I am sure you were old enough.

Sir P. Old enough!-ay, there it is. Well, well, Lady Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by your temper, I'll not be ruined by your extravagance.

Lady T. My extravagance! I'm sure, I'm not more extravagant than a woman of fashion ought to be.

Sir P. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums on such unmeaning luxury. 'Slife! to spend as much to furnish your dressing-room with flowers in winter, as would suffice to turn the Pantheon into a green-house, and give a fête champêtre at Christmas, but you forget what your situation was when I married you.

Lady T. No, no, I don't; 'twas a very disagreeable one, or I should never have married you. O, yes! I remember it very well, and a curious life I led. My daily occupation to inspect the dairy, superintend the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt-book, and-comb my aunt Deborah's lap-dog.

Sir P. I am glad you have so good a memory. Yes, madam, these were the recreations I took you from; but now you must have your coach-vis-à-vis-and three powdered footmen before your chair; and, in the summer, a pair of white cats to draw you to Kensington gardens. No recollection, I suppose, when you were content to ride double, behind the butler, on a dock'd coach-horse.

Lady T. No-I swear I never did that: I deny the butler and the coach-horse.

Sir P. You did! He was blind of one eye, and his name was Dobbin. This madam, was your situation; and what have I done for you? I have made you a woman of fashion, of fortune, of rank; in short, I have made you my wife.

Lady T. Well, then,-and there is but one thing more you can make me, to add to the obligation, and that isSir P. My widow, I suppose?

Lady T. Hem! hem!

Sir P. I thank you, madam-but don't flatter yourself; for though your ill-conduct may disturb my peace, it shall never break my heart, I promise you; however, I am equally obliged to you for the hint.

Lady T. Then why will you endeavour to make yourself so disagreeable to me, and thwart me in every little elegant expense?

Sir P. 'Slife, madam, I say, had you any of these little elegant expenses when you married me?

Lady T. Lud, Sir Peter! would you have me be out of the fashion?

Sir P. The fashion, indeed! what had you to do with the fashion before you married me?

Lady T. For my part, I should think you would like to have your wife thought a woman of taste.

Sir P. Ay-there again-taste-Zounds! madam, you had no taste when you married me!

Lady T. That's very true, indeed, Sir Peter;-and after having married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I allow. Do be good-humoured now, and let me have two hundred pounds, will you?

Sir P. Two hundred pounds! What, an't I to be in a good humour without paying for it? But speak to me thus, and i'faith there's nothing I could refuse you; you shall no longer reproach me with not giving you an independent settlement. I mean shortly to surprise you. But shall we always live thus, hey?

Lady T. If you please. I'm sure I don't care how soon we leave off quarrelling, provided you'll own you were tired first. Sir P. Well-then let our future contest be, who shall be most obliging.

Lady T. I assure you, Sir Peter, good nature becomes you -you look now as you did before we were married, when you used to walk with me under the elms, and tell me stories of what a gallant you were in your youth, and ask me if I thought I could love an old fellow who would deny me nothing-didn't you

Sir P. Yes, yes, and you were as kind and attentive to me then

Lady T. Ay-so I was, and would always take your part, when my acquaintance used to abuse you, and turn you into ridicule.

Sir, P. Indeed!

Lady T. Ay, and when my cousin Sophy has called you a stiff, peevish old bachelor, and laughed at me for thinking of marrying one who might be my father, I have always defended you, and said, "I didn't think you so ugly by any means, and I dare say you'd make a very good sort of a husband."

Sir P. And you prophesied right, and we shall now be the happiest couple

Lady T. And never differ again?

Sir P. No, never, never, never!—though at the same time, indeed, my dear Lady Teazle, you must watch your temper very seriously; for in all our little quarrels, my dear, if you recollect, my love, you always began first.

Lady T. I beg your pardon, my dear Sir Peter; indeed you always gave the provocation.

Sir P. Now see, my angel!—take care-contradicting isn't the way to keep friends.

Lady T. Then don't you begin it, my love!

Sir P. There, now! you-you are going on. You don't perceive, my life, that you are just doing the very thing which you know always makes me angry.

Lady T. Nay, you know if you will be angry without any reason, my dear

Sir P. There! now you want to quarrel again.

Lady T. No, I am sure I don't; but if you will be so peevish

Sir P. There now! who begins first?

Lady T. Why you, to be sure. I said nothing—but there's no bearing your temper.

Sir P. No, no, madam; the fault's in your own temper. Lady T. Ay, you are just what my cousin Sophy said you

would be.

Sir P. Your cousin Sophy is a forward impertinent gipsy.

Lady T. You are a great bear, I'm sure, to abuse my relations.

Sir P. Now may all the plagues of marriage be doubled on me, if ever I try to be friends with you any more!

Lady T. So much the better.

Sir P. No, no, madam; 'tis evident you never cared a pin for me, and I was a madman to marry you-a pert, rural coquette, that had refused half the honest 'squires in the neighbourhood.

Lady T. And I'm sure I was a fool to marry you—an old dangling bachelor, who was single at fifty, only because he never could meet with any who would have him.

Sir P. Ay, ay, madam; but you were pleased enough to listen to me; you never had such an offer before.

Lady T. No! didn't I refuse Sir Tivy Terrier, who every body said would have been a better match? for his estate is just as good as yours, and he has broke his neck since we have been married.

Sir P. Oh! oh! oh! I have done with you, madam! You are an unfeeling, ungrateful,-but there's an end of everything. A separate maintenance as soon as you please. Yes, madam, or a divorce! I'll make an example of myself for the benefit of all old bachelors-we will separate, madam.

Lady T. Agreed! agreed!—And now, my dear Sir Peter, we are of one mind once more, we may be the happiest couple-and never differ again. [Exit.]

Sir P. Plagues and tortures! Can't I make her angry either! Oh, I am the most miserable fellow! but I'll not bear her presuming to keep her temper: no! she may break my heart, but she shan't keep her temper.

[Exit.]

VICTIMS OF CIRCUMSTANCES.

MR. HERBERT TOMLINSON was a widower with a grown-up daughter, who was eighteen years older than himself. Mr. Tomlinson was thirty years of age. Georgina, his daughter, fat and fair, was forty-eight. Mr. Tomlinson had married for money; his wife had departed a twelvemonth previously, bequeathing him as her only legacy, her daughter by her first husband. Under this incubus the hopes of her stepfather were perpetually withering. Georgina would persist in always calling him "PAPA." Georgina was always more dutiful in this respect in the presence of young unmarried ladies, and so devoted herself to Mr. Tomlinson that scarcely an hour intervened in which parent and child were parted. Actuated, no doubt, by feelings purely disinterested, Mr. Tomlinson endeavoured, as he said, "to marry her off;" but to no purpose.