V. THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

FROM SOUTHEY.

ROBERT SOUTHEY, a distinguished English poet, was born in Bristol, in 1774. He wrote upon a great variety of subjects, and was, in 1813, appointed Poet Laureate, a post which he retained till his decease, in March, 1843.

[This lesson is inserted on account of its very peculiar adaptation for practice on the difficult sound ing.]

How does the water

Come down at Lodore?

From its sources which well
In the tarn on the fell;
From its fountains

In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills;

Through moss and through brake,
It runs and it creeps,

For awhile, till it sleeps
In its own little lake.
And thence at departing
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,
And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade
In sun and in shade,

And through the wood-shelter,
Among crags in its flurry.
Helter-skelter,

Hurry-skurry.

Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling:
Now smoking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in,
Till, in this rapid race,
On which it is bent,

It reaches the place
Of its steep descent.

The cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging,

As if a war waging

Its caverns and rocks among;

Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,

Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,

Eddying and whisking,

Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound:
Smiting and fighting,

A sight to delight in,

Confounding, astounding,

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound:

Collecting, projecting,

Receding and speeding,

And shocking and rocking,

And darting and parting,

And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning;
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering;

Dividing and gliding and sliding,

And falling and brawling and sprawling,

And driving and riving and striving,

And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling.

And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar :
And this way, the water comes down at Lodore.

ON INFLECTION.

The following exercises to the 62 are, most of them, marked with the appropriate inflections, beginning with a few of the more simple principles, and gradually adding others.

VI. INDUSTRY NECESSARY FOR THE ORATOR.

FROM H. WARE, Jr.

1. THE history of the world is full of testimony to prove how much depends upon industry; not an eminent author has lived but is an example of it. Yet, in contradiction to all this ́, the almost universal feeling appears to be, that industry can effect nothing, that eminence is the result of accident, and that every one must be content to remain just what he may happen to be`. Thus multitudes, who come forward as teachers and guides, suffer themselves to be satisfied with the most indifferent attainments, and a miserable mediocrity, without so much as inquiring how they might rise higher, much less making any attempt to rise.

2. For any other art they would serve an apprenticeship, and would be ashamed to practice it in public', before they have learned it. If any one would sing', he attends a master, and is drilled in the very elementary principles; and, only after the most laborious process, dares to exercise his voice in public. This he does, though he has scarce any thing to learn but the mechanical execution of what lies, in sensible forms, before his eye. But the extempore speaker", who is to invent as well as to utter, to carry on an operation of the mind as well as to produce sound, enters upon

the work without preparatory discipline, and then wonders that he fails.

3. If he were learning to play on the flute for public exhibition, what hours and days would he spend in giving facility to his fingers, and attaining the power of the sweetest and most impressive execution. If he were devoting himself to the organ', what months and years would he labor, that he might know its compass, and be master of its keys, and be able to draw out, at will, all its various combinations of harmonious sounds, and its full richness and delicacy of expression. And yet, he will fancy, that the grandest, the most various, the most expressive of all instruments", which the infinite. Creator has fashioned by the union of an intellectual soul with the powers of speech", may be played upon without study or practice. He comes to it a mere uninstructed tyro`, and thinks to manage all its stops', and to command the whole compass of its varied and comprehensive power. He finds himself a bungler in the attempt, is mortified at his failure ́, and settles in his mind forever, that the attempt is vain`.

4. Success in every art, whatever may be the natural talent, is always the reward of industry and pains. But the instances are many, of men of the finest natural genius, whose beginning has promised much, but who have degenerated wretchedly as they advanced, because they trusted to their gifts, and made no effort to improve. That there have never been other men of equal endowments with Cicero and Demosthenes, none would venture to suppose. If those great men had been content, like others, to continue as they began, and had never made their persevering efforts of improvement, their countries would have been little benefited by their genius, and the world would never have known their fame. They would have been lost in the undistinguished crowd that sank to oblivion around them.

5. Of how many more will the same remark prove true! What encouragement is thus given to the industrious! With such encouragement, how inexcusable is the negligence which suffers the most interesting and important truths to seem heavy and dull, and fall ineffectual to the ground, through mere sluggishness in the delivery! How unworthy of one who performs the high function of a religious instructor, upon

whom depend, in a great measure, the religious knowledge`, and devotional sentiment, and final character of many fellow beings, to imagine that he can worthily discharge this great concern by occasionally talking for an hour, he knows not how, and in a manner he has taken no pains to render correct, or attractive`; and which, simply through that want of command over himself, which study would give, is immethodical, verbose, inaccurate, feeble', trifling! It has been said of a great preacher,

That truths divine come mended from his tongue.

Alas! they come ruined and worthless from such a man as this. They lose that holy energy, by which they are to convert the soul, and purify man for heaven`, and sink, in interest and efficacy, below the level of those principles, which govern the ordinary affairs of this lower world`.

REMARK.—In the last paragraph, the words "knowledge," "sentiment," "character," and "immethodical," "verbose," "feeble;" &c., are embraced under the rule for series. See Rules X and XI.

VII. THE OLD HOUSE CLOCK.

1. OH! the old, old clock of the household stock',
Was the brightest thing, and neatest`;

Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold,
And its chimes rang still the sweetest;

'Twas a monitor, too, though its words were few ́,
Yet they liv'd, though nations alter’d`;

And its voice, still strong, warn'd old and young,
When the voice of friendship falter'd`;
"Tick! tick!" it said, "quick, quick to bed`:
For ten I've given warning`;

Up! up! and go, or else you know ́,

You'll never rise soon in the morning!"

2. A friendly voice was that old, old clock ́,
As it stood in the corner smiling,
And bless'd the time with a merry chime,
The wintry hours beguiling;

But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock ́,
As it call'd at daybreak boldly`;

When the dawn look'd gray o'er the misty way,