WINTER.

See! Winter comes, to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train, Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme; These, that exalt the soul to solemn thought, And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms! Congenial horrors, hail! With frequent foot, Pleas'd, have I, in my cheerful morn of life, When, nurs'd by careless solitude, I liv'd, And sung of nature with unceasing joy. Pleas'd, have I wand'red through your rough domain; Trod the pure virgin snows, myself as pure; Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst; Or seen the deep fermenting tempest brew'd In the grim evening sky. Thus pass the time, Till, through the lucid chambers of the south, Look'd out the joyous spring, look'd out, and smil'd.



DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.

My name is Norval. On the Grampian Hills My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain, Whose constant cares were to increase his store, And keep his only son, myself, at home. For I had heard of battles, and I long'd To follow to the field some warlike lord: And heav'n soon granted what my sire deny'd. This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield, Had not yet fill'd her horns, when by her light, A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills Rush'd, like a torrent, down upon the vale, Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled For safety and for succour. I alone, With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows, Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd The road he took; then hasted to my friends; Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men, I met advancing. The pursuit I led, Till we o'ertook the spoil encumber'd foe. We fought—and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn, An arrow, from my bow, had pierc'd their chief, Who wore, that day, the arms which now I wear. Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd The shepherd's slothful life: and having heard That our good king had summon'd his bold peers, To lead their warriors to the Carron side, I left my father's house, and took with me A chosen servant to conduct my steps— Yon trembling coward who forsook his master. Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers; And, heaven directed, came this day, to do The happy deed, that gilds my humble name.



DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF THE MANNER IN WHICH HE LEARNED THE ART OF WAR.

Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote And inaccessible by shepherds trod, In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, A hermit liv'd; a melancholy man, Who was the wonder of our wand'ring swains, Austere and lonely, cruel to himself, Did they report him; the cold earth his bed, Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms. I went to see him, and my heart was touch'd With rev'rence and with pity. Mild he spake, And, entering on discourse, such stories told, As made me oft revisit his sad cell. For he had been a soldier in his youth, And fought in famous battles, when the peers Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led, Against th' usurping infidel display'd The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land. Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire His speech struck from me; the old man would shake His years away, and act his young encounters. Then having shewn his wounds; he'd sit him down. And all the live long day, discourse of war. To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf He cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts: Describ'd the motions, and explain'd the use Of the deep column and lengthen'd line, The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm; For, all that Saracen or Christian knew Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known. Unhappy man! Returning homeward by Messina's port, Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won, A rude and boist'rous captain of the sea Fasten'd a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought; The stranger fell, and with his dying breath, Declar'd his name and lineage! Mighty God! The soldier cry'd, my brother! Oh! my brother! They exchanged forgiveness: And happy, in my mind, was he that died; For many deaths has the survivor suffer'd, In the wild desart on a rock he sits, Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks, And ruminates all day his dreadful fate. At times, alas! not in his perfect mind! Hold's dialogues with his lov'd brother's ghost; And oft each night forsakes his sullen couch, To make sad orisons for him he slew.



BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

In ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about; but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality.

It happened, on a winter night, As authors on the legend write, Two brother hermits, saints by trade; Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguis'd in tattered habits, went To a small village down in Kent; Where, in the stroller's canting strain, They begg'd from door to door, in-vain; Tri'd every tone might pity win, But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints, in woeful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village pass'd, To a small cottage came at last, Where dwelt a good old honest yoeman, Call'd in the neighbourhood, Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night; And, then, the hospitable sire Bid goody Baucis mend the fire; While he, from out the chimney, took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And, freely from the fattest side, Cut out large slices to be fry'd: Then stept aside, to fetch them drink, Fill'd a large jug up to the brink; Then saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what is wonderful) they found, 'Twas still replenish'd to the top, As if they had not touch'd a drop.

The good old couple were amaz'd, And often on each other gaz'd; For both were frighten'd to the heart, And just began to cry—What art! Then softly turn'd aside to view, Whether the lights were turning blue, The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, Told them their calling and their errand; "Good folks you need not be afraid; "We are but saints," the hermit said; "No hurt shall come to you or yours; "But for that pack of churlish boors, "Not fit to live on Christian ground, "They, and their houses shall be drown'd; "While you see your cottage rise, "And grow a church before your eyes."

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, The roof began to move aloft; Aloft rose every beam and rafter; The heavy wall climb'd slowly after. The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire. The kettle to the top was hoist; With upside down, doom'd there to dwell, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. A wooden jack, which had almost Lost, by disuse, the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels, Increas'd by new intestine wheels; And strait against the steeple rear'd, Became a clock, and still adher'd; And, now, in love to household cares, By a shrill voice the hour declares, Warning the housemaid not to burn The roast-meat which it cannot turn. The easy chair began to crawl, Like a huge snail along the wall; There, stuck aloft in public view, And, with small change, a pulpit grew. A bed-stead of the antique mode, Made up of timber many a load, Such as our ancestors did use, Was metamorphos'd into pews: Which still their ancient nature keep, By lodging folks dispos'd to sleep.

The cottage by such feats as these, Grown to a church by just degrees, The hermits then desir'd their host Old goodman Dobson of the green, Remembers, he the trees has seen; He'll talk of them from morn to night, And goes with folks to shew the sight. On Sundays, after ev'ning prayer, He gathers all the parish there; Points out the place of either yew: "Here Baucis, there Philemon grew; "Till, once, a parson of our town, "To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; "At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd; "How much the other tree was griev'd; "Grew scrubby, died a-top, was stunted; "So the next parson stubb'd, and burnt it."



ON HAPPINESS.

Oh happiness! our being's end and aim; Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate'er they name, That something still which prompts the eternal sigh, For which we bear to live, or dare to die: Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool, and wise: Plant of celestial seed! if drop'd below, Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow: Fair op'ning to some court's propitious shrine; Or deep with di'monds in the flaming mine? Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field? Where grows? where grows it not? If vain our toil, We ought to blame the culture, not the soil. Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere? 'Tis no where to be found, or every where.

Order is heaven's first law: and this confest, Some are, and must be, greater than the rest; More rich, more wise. But, who infers from hence That such are happier, shocks all common sense; Heaven to mankind impartial we confess, If all are equal in their happiness. But mutual wants this happiness increase; All natures difference keeps all natures peace. Condition, circumstance, is not the thing; Bliss is the same, in subject, or in king; In who obtain defence, or who defend; In him who is, or him who finds a friend.

Fortune her gifts may variously dispose, And these be happy call'd, unhappy those; But heaven's just balance equal will appear, While those are plac'd in hope, and these in fear; Nor present good or ill, the joy or curse, But future views of better, or of worse.

Oh sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise, By mountains pil'd on, mountains, to the skies? Heaven still, with laughter, the vain toil surveys, And buries madmen in the heaps they raise.

Know, all the good that individuals find, Or God and nature meant to mere mankind, Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, Lie in three words—Health, Peace, and Competence.



SPEECH OF ADAM TO EVE.

Now morn, her rosy steps in th' eastern clime Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl, When Adam wak'd; so custom'd; for his sleep Was airy light, from pure digestion bred, And temperate vapours bland, which the only found Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the thrill matin song Of birds on ev'ry bough. So much the more His wonder was to find unwaken'd Eve With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek. As through unquiet rest. He, on his side Leaning half rais'd, with looks of cordial love, Hung over her enamour'd; and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces. Then, with voice Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes, Her hand soft touching, whispered thus; "Awake, "My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found: "Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight, "Awake!—The morning shines, and the fresh field "Calls us. We lose the prime; to mark how spring "Our tended plants; how blows the citron grove: "What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed; "How nature paints her colours; how the bee "Sits on the bloom, extracting liquid sweet."



SOLILOQUY AND PRAYER OF EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF POICTIERS.

The hour advances, the decisive hour, That lifts me to the summit of renown, Or leaves me on the earth a breathless corse, The buzz and bustle of the field before me; The twang of bow-strings, and the clash of spears: With every circumstance of preparation; Strike with an awful horror!—Shouts are echo'd, To drown dismay, and blow up resolution Even to its utmost swell.—From hearts so firm, Whom dangers fortify, and toils inspire, What has a leader not to hope! And, yet, The weight of apprehension sinks me down— "O, soul of Nature! great eternal cause, "Who gave, and govern's all that's here below! "'Tis by the aid of thy almighty arm "The weak exist, the virtuous are secure. "If, to your sacred laws obedient ever "My sword, my soul, have own'd no other guide, "Oh! if your honour, if the rights of men, "My country's happiness, my king's renown, "Were motives worthy of a warrior's zeal, "Crown your poor servant with success this day: "And be the praise and glory all thy own."



INVOCATION TO PARADISE LOST.

Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste Brought death into the world, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater man Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, Sing heav'nly muse! that on the sacred top Of Oreb, or of Sinai, did'st inspire That shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed, In the beginning, how the heav'ns and earth Rose out of chaos: or, if Sion hill Delight thee more, and Silo's book that flow'd. Fast by the oracle of God; I thence Invoke thy aid to my advent'rous song, That, with no middle flight, intends to soar Above th' Aonian mount, while it pursues Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme And chiefly thou, O Spirit! that dost prefer Before all temples, th' upright heart and pure, Instruct me, for thou know'st; thou, from the first, Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread, Dove-like sat'st brooding o'er the vast abyss, And mad'st it pregnant; what in me is dark, Illumine: what is low, raise and support; That, to the height of this great argument, I may assert eternal providence, And justify the ways of God to men.



MORNING HYMN.

These are thy glorious works, Parent of good! Almighty! thine this universal frame, Thus wond'rous fair: thyself, how wond'rous, then, Unspeakable! who fit'st above these heav'ns, To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine— Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, Angels!—for ye behold him, and, with songs And choral symphonies, day without night, Circle his throne, rejoicing. Ye in heav'n!— On earth, join all ye creatures, to extol Him first, him last, him midst, and without end, Fairest of stars! last in the train of night, If better then, belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. Thou fun! of this great world both eye and foul, Acknowledge him thy greater: found his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high noon has gain'd, and when thou fall'st, Moon! that now meet'st the orient fun, now fly'st With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies; And ye five other wand'ring fires! that move In mystic dance, not without song; resound His praise, who out of darkness, call'd up light. Air, and ye elements! the eldest birth Of nature's womb, that, in quaternion, run Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change Vary, to our great Maker, still new praise, Ye mists and exhalations! that now rise From hill or streaming lake, dusky or grey, Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honour to the world's great Author, rise; Whether to deck with clouds, th' uncolour'd sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs, Rising, or falling, still advance his praise. His praise, ye winds! that from four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud! and wave your tops, ye pines! With ev'ry plant, in sign of worship, wave, Fountains! and ye that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise.—- Join voices, all ye living souls. Ye birds, That, singing, up to heaven-gate ascend, Bear, on your wings, and in your notes, his praise.— Ye, that in waters glide! and ye, that walk The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep! Witness, if I be silent, morn or ev'n, To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade, Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.— Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still, To give us only good: and, if the night Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd— Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.



THE HERMIT.—BY DR. BEATIE.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove; When nought, but the torrent, is heard on the hill; And nought, but the, nightingale's song, in the grove; 'Twas then, by the cave of the fountain afar; A hermit his song of the night thus began; No more with himself, or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man.

'Ah! why thus abandon'd to darkness and woe? 'Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? 'For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, 'And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. 'Yet, if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay; 'Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn; 'Oh! soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away, 'Full quickly they pass—but they never return.

'Now, gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, 'The moon, half extinguish'd, her crescent displays; 'But lately I mark'd; when majestic: on high 'She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 'Roll on, thou fair orb! and with; gladness pursue 'The path that conducts thee to splendor again— 'But man's faded glory no change shall renew: 'Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain.

''Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; 'I mourn; but ye woodlands! I mourn not for you: 'For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, 'Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew. 'Nor, yet, for the ravage of winter I mourn; 'Kind nature the embryo blossom will save— 'But, when shall spring visit the mould'ring urn? 'O! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!'

'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betray'd, That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind; My thoughts want to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 'O! pity, great father of light!' then I cry'd, 'Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee; Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride: From doubt, and from darkness, thou only canst free.'

And darkness, and doubt, are now flying away, No longer I roam, in conjecture forlorn, So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending, And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of death, smiles and roses are blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb,



COMPASSION.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, Whole trembling limbs have borne him to your door; Whole days are dwindled to the shortest span, Oh! give relief and heav'n will bless your store, These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak, Those hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek Has been the channel to a flood of tears. You house erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect, drew me from my road, For plenty there a residence has found, And grandeur a magnificent abode. Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor! Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread, A pamper'd menial drove me from the door, To seek a shelter in an humbler shed. Oh! take me to your hospitable dome; Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold: Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor and miserably old. Should I reveal the sources of my grief, If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity would not be represt. Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine? 'Tis heav'n has brought me to the state you see; And your condition may be soon like mine, The child of sorrow and of misery. A little farm was my paternal lot, Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn: But, ah! oppression forc'd me from my cot, My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. My daughter, once the comfort of my age, Lur'd by a villain from her native home, Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage, And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam. My tender wife, sweet soother of my care, Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair, And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door; Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, Oh! give relief, and heav'n will bless your store.



ADVANTAGES OF PEACE.

Oh, first of human blessings and supreme, Fair Peace! how lovely, how delightful, thou! By whose wide tie, the kindred sons of men, brothers live, in amity combin'd, And unsuspicious faith: while honest toil Gives ev'ry joy; and, to those joys, a right, Which idle barbarous rapine but usurps. Pure is thy reign; when, unaccurs'd by blood, Nought, save the sweetness of indulgent show'rs, Trickling, distils into the vernant glebe; Instead of mangled carcases, sad scene! When the blythe sheaves lie scatter'd o'er the field; When only shining shares, the crooked knife, And hooks imprint the vegetable wound; When the land blushes with the rose alone, The falling fruitage, and the bleeding vine. Oh! peace! then source and soul of social life! Beneath whose calm inspiring influence, Science his views enlarges, art refines, And swelling commerce opens all her ports— Bless'd be the man divine, who gives us thee! Who bids the trumpet hush its horrid clang, Nor blow the giddy nations into rage; Who sheathes the murd'rous blade; the deadly gun Into the well-pil'd armory returns; And, ev'ry vigour from the work of death To grateful industry converting, makes The country flourish, and the city smile! Unviolated, him the virgin sings; And him, the smiling mother, to her train. Of him, the Shepherd, in the peaceful dale, Chaunts; and the treasures of his labour sure, The husbandman, of him, as at the plough, Or team, he toils. With him, the Tailor soothes, Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave; And the full city, warm, from street to street, And shop to shop, responsive rings of him. Nor joys one land alone: his praise extends, Far as the sun rolls the diffusive day; Far as the breeze can bear the gifts of peace; Till all the happy nations catch the song.



PROGRESS OF LIFE.

All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts; His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in his nurse's arms; And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel, And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then, a soldier Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation, Ev'n in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd; With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances, And so he plays his part. The sixth age foists Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side. His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice Turning again towards childish treble, pipes. And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.



SPEECHES IN THE ROMAN SENATE.

CATO.—Fathers! we once again are met in council. Caesar's approach, has summon'd us together, And Rome attends her fate from our resolves. How shall we treat this bold aspiring man? Success still follows him, and backs his crimes, Pharsalia gave him Rome. Egypt has since Receiv'd his yoke, and the whole Nile is Caesar's. Why should I mention Juba's overthrow, And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sands Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should decree What course to take. Our foe advances on us, And envies us ev'n Lybia's sultry deserts. Fathers, pronounce your thoughts. Are they still fix'd To hold it out and fight it to the last? Or, are your hearts subdu'd, at length, and wrought; By time and ill success, to a submission?— Sempronius, speak.

SEMPRONIUS.—My voice is still for war. Gods! can a Roman senate long debate Which of the two to chuse, slav'ry or death? No—let us rise at once; gird on our swords; And, at the head of our remaining troops, Attack the foe; break through the thick array Of his throng'd legions; and charge home upon him. Perhaps, some arm, more lucky than the rest, May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. Rise, Fathers, rise! 'Tis Rome demands your help; Rise, and revenge her slaughter'd citizens, Or share their fate! The corpse of half her senate Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we Sit here, delib'rating' hi told debates, If we should sacrifice our lives to honour, Or wear them out in servitude and chains. Rouse up, for shame: Our brothers of Pharsalia Point at their wounds, and cry aloud—to battle! Great Pompey's shade complains that we are flow; And Scipio's ghost walks unreveng'd amongst us!

CATO.—Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason. True fortitude is seen in great exploits, That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides; All else is tow'ring frenzy and distraction. Are not the lives of those who draw the sword In Rome's defence, entrusted to our care? Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter, Might not th' impartial world, with reason, say We lavish'd, at our deaths, the blood of thousands; To grace our fall, and make our ruin glorious? Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion.

LUCIUS.—My thoughts, I must confess, are turn'd on peace, Already have our quarrels fill'd the world With widows and with orphans. Scythia mourns Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions Lie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome. 'Tis time to sheathe the sword, and spare mankind, It is not Caesar, but the gods, my fathers! The gods declare against us, and repel Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle, (Prompted by a blind revenge and wild despair) Were, to refuse th' awards of providence, And not to rest in heav'n's determination. Already have we shewn our love to Rome; Now, let us shew submission to the gods. We took up arms not to revenge ourselves, But free the commonwealth. When this end fails, Arms have no further use. Our country's cause, That drew our swords, now wrests them from our hands, And bids us not delight in Roman blood Unprofitably shed. What men could do Is done already. Heav'n and earth will witness, If Rome must fall, that we are innocent.

CATO—Let us appear, not rash, nor diffident, Immoderate valour swells into a fault; And fear, admitted into public councils, Betray like treason. Let us shun 'em both.— Father's, I cannot see that our affairs Are grown thus desp'rate. We have bulwarks round us; Within our walls, are troops inur'd to toil In Afric heats, and season'd to the sun. Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us, Ready to rise at its young prince's call. While there is hope, do not distrust the gods: But wait, at least, till Caesar's near approach Force us to yield. 'Twill never be too late To sue for chains, and own a conqueror. Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time? No—let us draw our term of freedom out In its full length, and spin it to the last: So shall we gain still one day's liberty. And, let me perish, but, in Cato's judgment, A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty, Is worth a whole eternity of bondage.

CATO, solus, sitting in a thoughtful posture: In his hand Plato's book on the immortality of the soul. A drawn sword on the table by him.

It must be so—Plato, thou reason'st well!— Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis heav'n itself, that points out—an hereafter, And intimates—eternity to man. Eternity!—thou pleasing—dreadful thought! Through what variety of untry'd beings, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass! The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me— But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.— Here will I hold. If there's a pow'r above us, (And that there is all nature cries aloud Through all her works) he must delight in virtue; And that which he delights in must be happy. But, when! or where! this world—was made for Caesar. I'm weary of conjectures—this must end 'em. [Laying his hand on his sword.

Thus am I doubly arm'd; my death and life, My bane and antidote are both before me: This, in a moment, brings me to an end; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amid the war of elements, The wrecks of matter; and the crush of worlds. What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? This lethargy that creeps through all my senses? Nature oppress'd, and harrass'd out with care; Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her; That my awaken'd soul may take her flight, Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life; An offering fit for Heav'n. Let guilt or fear Disturb man's rest; Cato knows neither of 'em; Indiff'rent in his choice, to sleep or die.



HAMLET'S MEDITATION ON DEATH.

To be—or not to be!—that is the question.— Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune; Or to take arms against a siege of troubles, And, by opposing, end them?—To die—to sleep— No more;—and, by a sleep, to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to—'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die—to sleep— To sleep—perchance to dream—aye, there's the rub.— For, in that sleep of death what dreams may come; When we have shuffled off this mortal coil; Must give us pause.—There's the respect That makes calamity of so long a life For, who would bear the whips and scorns o' th' time, Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes; When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To groan and sweat under a weary life; But that the dread of something after death (That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne No traveller returns) puzzles the will; And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of; Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; And enterprizes of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn away, And lose the name of action.



SELECT PASSAGES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS, EXPRESSIVE OF THE PRINCIPAL EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS.



JOY.

Then is Orestes blest! My griefs are fled! Fled like a dream! Methinks I tread in air!— Surprising happiness! unlook'd for joy! Never let love despair! The prize is mine!— Be smooth, ye seas! and, ye propitious winds, Blow from Epirus to the Spartan coast!



GRIEF.

I'll go; and in the anguish of my heart—- Weep o'er my child—If he must die, my life Is wrapt in his; I shall not long survive. 'Tis for his sake that I have suffer'd life; Groan'd in captivity; and outliv'd Hector.— Yes, my Astyanax! we'll go together; Together—to the realms of night we'll go.



PITY.

Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how, at last, Thy beauties, Belvidera, like a wretch That's doom'd to banishment, came weeping forth, Whilst two young virgins, on whose arms she lean'd, Kindly look'd up, and at her grief grew sad! E'en the lewd rabble, that were gather'd round To see the sight, stood mute when they beheld her, Govern'd their roaring throats—and grumbled pity.



FEAR.

Come on, Sir,—here's the place—stand still,— How fearful 'tis to cast one's eyes so low! The crows and coughs, that whig the midway air, Shew scarce so gross as beetles. Half way down, Hangs one that gathers samphire—dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than one's head, The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark Seems lesson'd to a cock; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for fight. The murmuring surge; That on th' unnumbered idle pebbles chases, Cannot be heard so high.—I'll look no more, Lest my brain turn and the disorder make me Tumble down headlong.



AWE AND FEAR.

Now, all is hush'd and still as death— How reverend is the face of this tall pile, Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, To bear aloft its arch'd and pond'rous roof, By its own weight made stedfast and immoveable, Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe And terror on my aking sight. The tombs, And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice— Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice—my own affrights me with its echoes.



HORROR.

Hark!—the death-denouncing trumpet founds The fatal charge, and shouts proclaim the onset. Destruction rushes dreadful to the field, And bathes itself in blood. Havock, let loose. Now, undistinguish'd, rages all around; While Ruin, seated on her dreary throne, Sees the plain strew'd, with subjects truly her's, Breathless and cold.



ANGER.

Hear me, rash man; on thy allegiance hear me, Since thou hast striven to make us break our vow, Which, nor our nature, nor our place can bear, We banish thee forever from our sight And kingdom. If, when three days are expir'd, Thy hated trunk be found in our dominions, That moment is thy death—-Away!



REVENGE.

If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me of half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what's his reason—I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Is he not fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? if you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And, if you wrong us—shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility?—Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example?—-Why, revenge. The villainy you teach me, I will execute; and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction.



ADMIRATION.

What find I here? Fair Portia's counterfeit?—What demi-god Hath come so near creation! Move these eyes! Or, whether, riding on the balls of mine, Seem they in motion?—Here are sever'd lips, Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends.—Here, in her hair, The painter plays the spider, and hath woven A golden mesh, t' entrap the hearts of men Falter than gnats in cobwebs.—But her eyes— How could he see to do them! having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his, And leave itself unfinish'd!



HAUGHTINESS.

Make thy demands to those that own thy power! Know, I am still beyond thee. And tho' fortune Has strip'd me of this train, this pomp of greatness; This outside of a king, yet still my soul, Fix'd high, and on herself alone dependant, Is ever free and royal: and, even now, As at the head of battle—does defy thee!



CONTEMPT.

Away! no woman could descend so low, A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you are; Fit only for yourselves. You herd together; And when the circling glass warms your vain hearts, You talk of beauties that you never saw, And fancy raptures that you never knew.



RESIGNATION.

Yet, yet endure—nor murmur, O my foul! For, are not thy transgressions great and numberless? Do they not cover thee, like rising floods? And press then, like a weight of waters, down? Does not the hand of righteousness afflict thee? And who shall plead against it? who shall say To Pow'r Almighty, Thou hast done enough; Or bid his dreadful rod of vengeance it stay?— Wait, then, with patience, till the circling hours Shall bring the time of thy appointed rest And lay thee down in death.



IMPATIENCE.

Oh! rid me of this torture, quickly there, My Madam, with the everlasting voice. The bells, in time of pestilence, ne'er made Like noise, or were in that perpetual motion. ————————————————-All my house, But now, steam'd like a bath, with her thick breath, A lawyer could not have been heard, nor scarce Another woman, such a hail of words She has let fall.



REMORSE AND DESPAIR.

Henceforth, let no man trust the first false step Of guilt. It hangs upon a precipice, Whose deep descent in last perdition ends. How far am I plung'd down, beyond all thought Which I this evening fram'd— Consummate horror! guilt beyond, a name!— Dare not, my soul, repent. In thee, repentance Were second guilt; and 'twere blaspheming Heav'n To hope for mercy. My pain can only cease When gods want power to punish.—Ha!—the dawn— Rise never more, O fun!—let night prevail: Eternal darkness close the world's wide scene— And hide me from myself.



DISTRACTION.

Mercy!—I know it not—for I am miserable. I'll give thee misery—for here she dwells, This is her house—where the sun never dawns: The bird of night sits screaming o'er the roof; Grim spectres sweep along the horrid gloom; And nought in heard, but wailings and lamenting. Hark!—something cracks above;—it shakes—it totters! And see—the nodding ruin falls to crush me!— 'Tis fallen—'Tis here!—I feel it on my brain! A waving flood of bluish fire swells o'er me! And now 'tis out—and I am drown'd in blood.— Ha! what art thou? thou horrid headless trunk!— It is my Hastings—See, he wafts me on! Away I go!—I fly!—I follow thee!



GRATITUDE.

My Father! Oh! let me unlade my breast; Pour out the fullness of my soul before you; Shew ev'ry tender, ev'ry grateful thought, This wond'rous goodness stirs. But 'tis impossible, And utt'rance all is vile; since I can only Swear you reign here, but never tell how much.



INTREATY.

Reward him for the noble deed, just Heavens! For this one action, guard him, and distinguish him With signal mercies, and with great deliverance, Save him from wrong, adversity, and shame, Let never-fading honours flourish round him; And consecrate his name; ev'n to time's end. Let him know nothing else, but good on earth And everlasting blessedness hereafter.



COMMANDING.

Silence, ye winds! That make outrageous war upon the ocean: And then, old ocean? lull thy boist'rous waves. Ye warring elements! be hush'd as death, While I impose my dread commands on hell. And thou, profoundest hell! whose dreary sway, Is given to me by fate and demogorgon— Hear, hear my powerful voice, through all thy regions And from thy gloomy caverns thunder the reply.



COURAGE.

A generous few, the vet'ran hardy gleanings Of many a hapless fight, with a, fierce Heroic fire, inspirited each other: Resolv'd on death, disdaining to survive Their dearest country. "If we fall," I cry'd, "Let us not tamely fall, like passive cowards! No—let us live, or let us die—like men! Come on, my friends. To Alfred we will cut Our glorious way: or as we nobly perish, Will offer to the genius of our country— Whole hecatombs of Danes." As if one soul Have mov'd them all, around their heads they flash'd Their flaming falchions—"lead us to those Danes! Our Country!—Vengeance!" was the general cry.



BOASTING.

I will tell you, Sir, by the way of private, and under seal. I am a gentleman; and live here, obscure, and to myself; but, were I known to his Majesty, and the Lords, observe me, I would undertake, upon this poor head and life, for the public benefit or the state, not only to spare the entire lives of his subjects in general, but to save the one half, nay three parts of his yearly charge, in holding war, and against what enemy soever. And how would I do it, think you? Why thus, Sir. I would select nineteen more to myself, throughout the land; gentlemen they should be; of good spirit, strong and able constitution. I would chuse them by an instinct that I have. And I would teach these nineteen, the special rules; as your Punto, your Reverso, your Stoccaio, your Imbroccato, your Passada, your Montonto; till they could all play very near, or altogether, as well as myself. This done, say the enemy were forty thousand strong. We twenty, would come into the field the tenth of March or thereabouts; and we would challenge twenty of the enemy; they could not, in their honour refuse us: Well, we would kill them; challenge twenty more, kill them: twenty more, kill them: twenty more, kill them too. And thus, would we kill, every man, his twenty a day; that's twenty score; twenty score; that's two hundred; two hundred a day; five days, a thousand: forty thousand—forty times five—five times forty—two hundred days kill them all up by computation. And this I will venture my poor gentleman-like carcase to perform (provided there by no treason practised upon) by fair and discreet manhood; that is, civilly by the sword.



PERPLEXITY.

—Let me think— What can this mean—Is it to me aversion? Or is it, as I feared, she loves another? Ha! yes—perhaps the king, the young count Tancred? They were bred up together—surely that, That cannot be—Has he not given his hand, In the most solemn manner, to Constantia? Does not his crown depend upon the deed? No—if they lov'd, and this old statesman knew it, He could not to a king prefer a subject. His virtues I esteem—nay more, I trust them— So far as virtue goes—but could he place His daughter on the throne of Sicily— O! 'tis a glorious bribe; too much for man! What is it then!—I care not what it is.



SUSPICION.

Would he were fatter—but I fear him not. Yes, if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid, So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much— He is a great observer—and he looks Quite through the deeds of men. He loves no plays: he hears no music. Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort, As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit, That could be moved to smile at any thing. Such men as he be never at heart's ease, Whilst they behold a greater than themselves— And, therefore, are they very dangerous.



WIT AND HUMOUR.

A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain. Dries me there, all-the foolish, dull, and crudy vapours which environ it: makes it apprehensive, quick, inventive; full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes, which, delivered over to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit—The second property of your excellent sherris, is, the warming of the blood; which, before, cold and settled, left the liver white and pale: which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice. But the sherris warms it, and makes its course from the inwards to the parts extreme. It illuminateth the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then, the vital commoners, and inland petty spirits, muster me all to their captain, the heart; who, great, and puffed up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage—and this value comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon, is nothing without sack; for that sets it a-work; and learning, a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack commences it, and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, steril, and bare land, manured, husbanded, and tilled, with drinking good, and good store of fertile sherris—If I had a thousand sons, the first human principle I would teach them, should be—to foreswear thin potations, and to addict themselves to sack.

A plague on all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too, marry and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy—Ere I lead this life long, I'll sew nether socks and mend them, and foot them too. A plague on all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant? [Drinks.

You rogue! here's lime in this sack too. There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man. Yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it—-Go thy ways, old Jack! die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then a'nt I a shotten herring. There lives not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat, and grows old, God help the while!—A plague on all cowards, I say still!—-Give me a cup of sack. [Drinks.

I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have escaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet; four through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw—ecce signum! I never dealt better since I was a man. All would not do. A plague on all cowards!—But I have peppered two of them; two, I am sure I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face; call me a horse.—Thou knowest my old ward. Here I lay; and thus I bore my point.—Four rogues in buckram let drive at me. These four came all afront, and mainly thrust at me. I made no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus. Then, these nine in buckram, that I told thee of, began to give me ground. But I followed them close; came in foot and hand; and, with a thought—seven of these eleven I paid.—A plague on all cowards, say I!—Give me a cup of sack. [Drinks.



RIDICULE.

I can as well be hanged, as tell the manner of it; it was mere foolery.—I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown; and, as I told you, he put it by once—but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again; then, he put it by again—but, to my thinking, he was very loth to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it a third time; he put it the third time by; and still as he refused it, the rabblement shouted, and clapt their chopt hands, and threw by their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath, because Caesar refused the crown, that it had almost choaked Caesar, for he swooned, and, fell down at it; and for mine own part, I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips, and receiving the bad air.

Before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd were glad, he refused the crown, he plucked me ope his doublet, and offered them his throat to cut: an' I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues!—and so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, "if he had done, or said any thing amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his infirmity." Three or four wenches where I stood, cried, Alas, good soul!—and forgave him with all their hearts. But there's no heed to be taken of them: if Caesar had stabbed their mothers they would have done no less.



PERTURBATION.

Vengeance! death! plague! confusion! Fiery! what quality?—-Why, Gloster, Gloster! I'd speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife: The King would speak with Cornwall—-the dear father Would with his daughter speak; commands her service. Are they inform'd of this?—-My breath and blood! Fiery! the fiery Duke! Tell the hot Duke— No' but not yet: may be he is not well: I beg his pardon: and I'll chide my rashness, That took the indisposed and sickly fit. For the sound man,—-But wherefore sits he there?— Death on my state! this act convinces me, That this retiredness of the Duke and her Is plain contempt—Give me my servant forth— Go tell the Duke and's wife I'd speak with 'em: Now: instantly—Bid 'em come forth and hear me; Or, at their chamber-door, I'll beat the drum— 'Till it cry—Sleep to death.



Elements of Gesture.



SECTION I.

On the Speaking of Speeches at Schools.

Elocution has, for some years past, been an object of attention in the most respectable schools in this country. A laudable ambition of instructing youth in the pronunciation and delivery of their native language, has made English speeches a very conspicuous part of those exhibitions of oratory which do them so much credit.

This attention to English pronunciation has induced several ingenious men to compile Exercises in Elocution for the use of schools, which have answered very useful purposes; but none, so far as I have seen, have attempted to give us a regular system of gesture suited to the wants and capacities of school-boys. Mr. Burgh, in his Art of Speaking, has given us a system of the passions, and has shewn us how they appear in the countenance, and operate on the body; but this system, however useful to people of riper years, is too delicate and complicated to be taught in schools. Indeed, the exact adaptation of the action to the word, and the word to the action, as Shakespear calls it, is the most difficult part of delivery, and therefore can never be taught perfectly to children; to say nothing of distracting their attention with two difficult things at the same time. But that boys should stand motionless, while they are pronouncing the most impassioned language, is extremely absurd and unnatural; and that they should sprawl into an aukward, ungain, and desultory action, is still more offensive and disgusting. What then remains, but that such a general style of action be adopted, as shall be easily conceived and easily executed, which, though not expressive of any particular passion, shall not be inconsistent with the expression of any passion; which shall always keep the body in a graceful position, and shall so vary its motions; at proper intervals, as to seem the subject operating on the speaker, and not the speaker on the subject. This, it will be confessed, is a great desideratum; and an attempt to do this, is the principal object of the present publication.

The difficulty of describing action by words, will be allowed by every one; and if we were never to give any instructions but such as should completely answer our wishes, this difficulty would be a good reason for not attempting to give any description of it. But there are many degrees between conveying a precise idea of a thing, and no idea at all. Besides, in this part of delivery, instruction may be conveyed by the eye; and this organ is a much more rapid vehicle of knowledge than the ear. This vehicle is addressed on the present, occasion, and plates, representing the attitudes which are described, are annexed to the several descriptions, which it is not doubted will greatly facilitate the reader's conception.

The first plate represents the attitude in which a boy should always place himself when he begins to speak. He should rest the whole weight of his body on the right leg; the other, just touching the ground, at the distance at which it would naturally fall, if lifted up to shew that the body does not bear upon it. The knees should be strait and braced, and the body, though perfectly strait, not perpendicular, but inclining as far to the right as a firm position on the right leg will permit. The right arm must then be held out with the palm open, the fingers straight and close, the thumb almost as distant from them as it will go, and the flat of the hand neither horizontal nor vertical, but exactly between both. The position of the arm perhaps will be best described by supposing an oblong hollow square, formed by the measure of four arms, as in plate the first, where the arm in its true position forms the diagonal of such an imaginary figure. So that, if lines were drawn at right angles from the shoulder, extending downwards, forwards, and sideways, the arm will form a& angle of forty-five degrees every way.

When the pupil has pronounced one sentence in the position thus described, the hand, as if lifeless, must drop down to the side, the very moment the last accepted word is pronounced; and the body, without altering the place of the feet, poise itself on the left leg, while the left hand rises itself into exactly the same position as the right was before, and continues in this position till tine end of the next sentence, when it drops down on the side, as if dead; and the body poizing itself on the right leg as before, continues with the right arm extended, till the end of the succeeding sentence, and so on from right to left, and from left to right alternately, till the speech is ended.



Great care must he taken that the pupil end one sentence completely, before he begin another. He must let the arm drop to the side, and continue for a moment in that posture in which he concluded, before he poizes his body on the other leg, and raises the other arm into the diagonal position before described; both which should be done before he begins to pronounce the next sentence. Care must also he taken in shifting the body from one leg to the other, that the feet do not alter their distance. In altering the position of the body, the feet will necessarily alter their position a little; but this change must be made by turning the toes in a somewhat different direction, without suffering them to shift their ground. The heels, in this transition, change their place, but not the toes. The toes may be considered as pivots, on which the body turns from side to side.

If the pupil's knees are not well formed, or incline inwards, he must be taught to keep his legs at as great a distance as possible, and to incline his body so much to that side, on which the arm is extended, as to oblige him to rest the opposite leg upon the toe; and this will, in a great measure, hide the defect of his make. In the same manner, if the arm be too long, or the elbow incline inwards, it will be proper to make him turn the palm of his hand downwards, so as to make it perfectly horizontal. This will infallibly incline the elbow outwards, and prevent the worst position the arm can possibly fall into, which is that of inclining the elbow to the body. This position of the hand so necessarily keeps the elbow out, that it would not be improper to make the pupil sometimes practice it, though he may have no defect in his make; as an occasional alteration of the former position to this, may often be necessary both for the sake of justness and variety. These two last positions of the legs and arms, are described in plate second.

When the pupil has got the habit of holding his hand and arm properly, he may be taught to move it. In this motion he must be careful to keep the arm from the body. He must neither draw the elbow backwards, nor suffer it to approach to the side, bur, while the hand and lower joint of the arm are curving towards the shoulder, the whole arm, with the elbow forming nearly an angle of a square, should move upwards from the shoulder, in the same position as when gracefully taking off the hat; that is, with the elbow extended from the side, and the upper joint of the arm nearly on a line with the shoulder, and forming an angle of a square with the body—(see plate III.) This motion of the arm will naturally bring the hand with the palm downwards, into an horizontal position, and when it approaches to the head, the arm should with a jerk be suddenly straitened into its first position, at the very moment the emphatical word is pronounced. This coincidence of the hand and voice, will greatly enforce the pronunciation; and if they keep time, they will be in tune as it were to each other, and to force and energy add harmony and variety.

As this motion of the arm is somewhat complicated, and may be found difficult to execute, it would be adviseable to let the pupil at first speak without any motion of the arm at all. After some time he will naturally fall into a small curvature of the elbow, to beat time, as it were, to the emphatic word; and if, in doing this, he is constantly urged to raise the elbow, and to keep it at a distance from the body, the action of the arm will naturally grow up into that we have just described. So the diagonal position of the arm, though the most graceful and easy when the body is at rest, may he too difficult for boys to fall into at first; and therefore it may be necessary, in order to avoid the worse extreme, for some time to make them extend the arm as far from the body as they can, in a somewhat similar direction, but higher from the ground, and inclining more to the back. Great care must be taken to keep the hand open, and the thumb at some distance from the fingers; and particular attention must be paid to keeping the hand in the exact line with the lower part of the arm, so as not to bend at the wrist, either when it is held out without motion, or when it gives the emphatic stroke. And above all, the body must be kept in a straight line with the leg on which it bears, and not suffered to bend to the opposite side.



At first it may not be improper for the teacher, after placing the pupil in the position plate I. to stand at some distance exactly opposite to him in the same position, the right and left sides only reversed, and while the pupil is speaking, to show him by example the action he is to make use of. In this case the teacher's left hand will correspond for the pupil's right, by which means he will see as in a looking-glass, how to regulate his gesture, and will soon catch the method of doing it by himself.

It is expected the master will be a little discouraged at the aukward figure his pupil makes in his first attempts to teach him. But this is no more than what happens in dancing, fencing, or any other exercise which depends on habit. By practice, the pupil will soon begin to feel his position, and be easy in it. Those positions which were at first distressing to him, he will fall into naturally, and if they are such as are really graceful and becoming (and such it is presumed are those which have been just described) they will be adopted with more facility than any other that can be taught him.



SECTION II.

On the Acting of Plays at School.

Though the acting of plays at schools has been universally supposed a very useful practice, it has of late years been much laid aside. The advantages arising from it have not been judged equal to the inconveniencies; and the speaking of single speeches, or the acting of single scenes, has been generally substituted in its stead. Indeed when we consider the leading principle and prevailing sentiments of most plays, we shall not wonder that they are not always thought to be the most suitable employment for youth at school; nor, when we reflect on the long interruption to the common school-exercises, which the preparation for a play must necessarily occasion, shall we think it consistent with the general improvement:—But, to wave every objection from prudence or morality, it may be confidently affirmed, that the acting of a play is not so conducive to improvement in elocution, as the speaking of single speeches.

In the first place, the acting of plays is of all kinds of delivery the most difficult; and therefore cannot be the most suitable exercise for boys at school. In the next place, a dramatic performance requires so much attention to the deportment of the body, so varied an expression of the passions, and so strict an adherence to character, that elocution is in danger of being neglected: Besides, exact propriety of action, and a nice discrimination of the passions, however essential on the stage, are but of a secondary importance in a school. It is plain, open, distinct, and forcible pronunciation which school-boys should aim at; and not that quick transition from one passion to another, that archness of look, and that jeu de theatre, as it is called, so essential to a tolerable dramatic exhibition, and which actors themselves can scarcely arrive at. In short, it is speaking rather than acting which school-boys should be taught, while the performance of plays is calculated to teach them acting rather than speaking.

But there is a contrary extreme into which many teachers are apt to run, and that is, to condemn every thing which is vehement and forcible as theatrical. It is an old trick to depreciate what we can not attain, and calling a spirited pronunciation theatrical, is but an artful method of hiding an utter inability of speaking with force and energy. But though school-boys ought not to be taught those nice touches which form the greatest difficulties in the profession of an actor, they should not be too much restrained from an exertion of voice, so necessary to strengthening the organs of sound, because they may sometimes be too loud and vociferous. Perhaps nine out of ten, instead of too much confidence, and too violent a manner of speaking, which these teachers seem so much to dread, have as Dr. Johnson calls it, a frigid equality, a stupid languor, and a torpid apathy. These must be roused by something strong and excessive, or they will never rise even to mediocrity; while the few who have a tendency to rant, are very easily reclaimed; and ought to be treated in pronunciation and action, as Quintillion advises to do in composition; that is, we should rather allow of an exuberance, than, by too much correctness, check the vigour and luxuriancy of nature.



Though school-boys, therefore, ought not to be taught the finesses of acting, they should as much as possible be accustomed to speak such speeches as require a full, open, animated pronunciation: for which purpose, they should be confined chiefly to orations, odes, and such single speeches of plays, as are in the declamatory and vehement style. But as there are many scenes of plays, which are justly reckoned among the finest compositions of the language, some of these may be adopted among the upper class of boys, and those more particularly who have the best deportment: for action in scenes will be found much more difficult than in single speeches. And here it will be necessary to give some additional instructions respecting action, as a speaker who delivers himself singly to an auditory, and one who addresses another speaker in view of an auditory, are under very different predicaments. The first has only one object to address, the last has two:—For if a speaker on the stage were to address the person he speaks to, without any regard to the point of view in which he stands with respect to the audience, he would be apt to turn his back on them, and to place himself in such positions as would be highly ungraceful and disgusting. When a scene, therefore, is represented, it is necessary that the two personages who speak should form a sort of picture, and place themselves in a position agreeable to the laws of perspective. In order to do this, it will be necessary that each of them should stand obliquely, and chiefly make use of one hand: that is, supposing the stage or platform where they stand, to be a quadrangle, each speaker should respectively face that corner of it next to the audience, and use that hand and rest upon that leg which is next to the person he speaks to, and which is farthest from the audience. This disposition is absolutely necessary to form any thing like a picturesque grouping of objects, and without it, that is, if both speakers use the right hand, and stand exactly fronting each other, the impropriety will be palpable, and the spectacle disgusting.

It need scarcely be noted, that the speaker in a scene uses that hand which is next the audience, he ought likewise to poize his body upon the same leg: this is almost an invariable rule in action: the hand should act on that side only on which the body bears. Good actors and speakers may sometimes depart from this rule, but such only will know when to do it with propriety.

Occasion may be taken in the course of the scene to change sides. One speaker at the end of an impassioned speech, may cross over to the place of the other, while the latter at the same moment crosses over to the place of the former. This, however, must be done with great care, and so as to keep the back from being turned to the audience: But if this transition be performed adroitly, it will have a very good effect in varying the position of the speakers, and giving each an opportunity of using his right hand—the most favourable to grace and expression. And if from so humble a scene as the school, we may be permitted to raise our observations to the senate, it might be hinted, that gentlemen on each side of the house, while addressing the chair, can with grace and propriety only make use of one hand; namely, that which is next to the speaker; and it may be observed in passing, that to all the other advantages of speaking, which are supposed to belong to one side of the house—may be added—the graceful use of the right hand.

The better to conceive the position of two speakers in a scene, a plate is given representing their respective attitudes; and it must be carefully noted, that when they are not speaking; the arms must hang in their natural place by the sides; unless what is spoken by one is of such importance, as to excite agitation and surprize in the other. But if we should be sparing of gesture at all times, we should be more particularly so when we are not speaking.

From what has been laid down, it will evidently appear, how much more difficult and complicate is the action of a scene than that of a single speech; and, in teaching both to children, how necessary it is to adopt as simple and easy a method as possible. The easiest method of conveying instruction in this point, will be sufficiently difficult; and therefore, the avoiding of aukwardness and impropriety should be more the object of instruction, than the conveying of beauties.

There are indeed some masters who are against teaching boys any action at all, and are for leading them in this point entirely to nature. It is happy, however, that they do not leave that action to nature, which is acquired by dancing; the deportment of their pupils would soon convince them they were imposed on by the sound of words. Improved and beautiful nature is the object of the painter's pencil, the poet's pen, and the rhetorician's action, and not that sordid and common nature, which is perfectly rude and uncultivated. Nature directs us to art, and art selects and polishes the beauties of nature. It is not sufficient for an orator, says Quintilian, that he is a man: he must be an improved and cultivated man: he must be a man favoured by nature and fashioned by art.

But the necessity of adopting some method of teaching action, is too evident to need proof. Boys will infallibly contract some action; to require them to stand stock-still while they are speaking an impassioned speech, is not only exacting a very difficult task from them, but is, in a great measure, checking their natural exertions. If they are left to themselves, they will in all probability fall into very wild and ungraceful action, which, when once formed into habit, can scarcely ever be corrected: giving them therefore a general out-line of good action, must be of the utmost consequence to their progress and improvement in pronunciation.

The great use, therefore, of a system of action like the present, is, that a boy will never be embarrassed for want of knowing what to do with his legs and arms; nor will he bestow that attention on his action, which ought to be directed to his pronunciation: he will always be in a position which will not disgrace his figure; and when this gesture is easy to him, it may serve as a ground-work to something more perfect: he may either, by his own genius or his master's instructions, build some other action upon it, which may in time give it additional force and variety.

Thus, what seemed either unworthy the attention, or too difficult for the execution of others, the author of the present publication hits ventured to attempt. A conviction of the necessity of leaching some system of action, and the abundant success of the present system in one of the most respectable academies near London, has determined him to publish it, for the use of such seminaries as make English pronunciation a part of their discipline.

It may not be useless to observe, that boys should be classed in this, as in every other kind of instruction, according to their abilities. That a class should not consist of more than ten; that about eight or ten lines of some speech, should be read first by the teacher, then by the boy who reads best; and then by the rest in order, all having a book of the same kind, and all reading the same portion. This portion they must be ordered to get by heart against the next lesson; and then the first boy must speak it, standing at some distance from the rest; in the manner directed in the plates; the second boy must succeed him, and so on till they have all spoken. After which another portion may be read to them, which they must read and speak in the same manner as before. When they have gone through a speech in this manner by portions, the two or three first boys may be ordered, against the next lesson, to speak the whole speech; the next lesson two or three more, and so on to the rest. This will excite emulation, and give the teacher an opportunity of ranking them according to their merits.



SECTION III.

Rules for expressing with Propriety, the principal Passions and Humours which occur in Reading or public Speaking.

Every part of the human frame contributes to express the passions and emotions of the mind, and to shew, in general, its present state. The head is sometimes erected, sometimes hung down, sometimes drawn suddenly back with an air of disdain, sometimes shews by a nod, a particular person or object; gives assent or denial, by different motions; threatens by one sort of movement, approves by another, and expresses suspicion by a third.

The arms are sometimes both thrown out, sometimes the right alone. Sometimes they are lifted up as high as the face, to express wonder; sometimes held out before the breast, to shew fear; spread forth with the hands open to express desire or affection; the hands clapped in surprise, and in sudden joy and grief; the right hand clenched, and the arms brandished, to threaten; the two arms set a-kimbo, to look big, and express contempt or courage. With the hands, we solicit, we refuse, we promise, we threaten, we dismiss, we invite, we in treat, we express aversion, fear, doubting, denial, asking, affirmation, negation, joy, grief, confession, penitence. With the hands we describe, and point out all circumstances of time, place and manner of what we relate; we excite the passions of others, and soothe them: we approve and disapprove, permit or prohibit, admire or despise. The hands serve us instead of many sorts of words, and where the language of the tongue is unknown, that of the hands is understood, being universal and common to all nations.

The legs advance, or retreat, to express desire, or aversion, love or hatred, courage or fear, and produce exultation, or leaping in sudden joy; and the stamping of the foot expresses earnestness, anger, and threatening.

Especially the face, being furnished with a variety of muscles, does more in expressing the passions of the mind, than the whole human frame besides. The change of colour (in white people) shews, by turns, anger by redness, and sometimes by paleness; fear likewise by paleness, and shame by blushing. Every feature contributes its part. The mouth open, shews one state of the mind, shut, another; the gnashing of the teeth another. The forehead smooth, eyebrows arched and easy, shew tranquility or joy. Mirth opens the mouth towards the ears, crisps the nose, half shuts the eyes, and sometimes fills them with tears. The front wrinkled into frowns, and the eyebrows overhanging the eyes, like clouds fraught with tempest, shew a mind agitated with fury. Above all, the eye shews the very spirit in a visible form. In every different state of the mind, it assumes a different appearance. Joy brightens and opens it. Grief half-closes, and drowns it in tears. Hatred and anger, flash from it like lightning. Love darts from it in glances, like the orient beam. Jealousy, and squinting envy, dart their contagious blasts from the eye. And devotion raises it to the skies, as if the soul of the holy man were going to take its flight to heaven.

The force of attitude and looks alone appears in a wonderously striking manner, in the works of the painter and statuary, who have the delicate art of making the flat canvas and rocky marble utter every passion of the human mind, and touch the soul of the spectator, as if the picture, or statue, spoke the pathetic language of Shakspear. It is no wonder, then, that masterly action, joined with powerful elocution, should be irresistible. And the variety of expression, by looks and gestures, is so great, that, as is well known, a whole play can be represented without a word spoken.

The following are, I believe, the principal passions, humours, sentiments and intentions, which are to be expressed by speech and action. And I hope it will be allowed by the reader, that it is nearly in the following manner, that nature expresses them.

Tranquility, or apathy, appears by the composure of the countenance, and general repose of the body and limbs, without the exertion of any one muscle. The countenance open; the forehead smooth; the eyebrows arched; the mouth just not shut; and the eyes passing with an easy motion from object to object, but not dwelling long upon any one.

Cheerfulness, adds a smile, opening the mouth a little more.

Mirth, or laughter, opens the mouth still more towards the ears; crisps the nose; lessens the aperture of the eyes, and sometimes fills them with tears; shakes and convulses the whole frame, giving considerable pain, which occasions holding the sides.

Raillery, in sport, without real animosity, puts on the aspect of cheerfulness. The tone of voice is sprightly. With contempt, or disgust, it casts a look asquint, from time to time, at the object; and quits the cheerful aspect for one mixed between an affected grin and sourness—the upper lip is drawn up with an air of disdain. The arms are set a-kimbo on the hips, and the right hand now and then thrown out toward the object, as if one were going to strike another a slight back-handed blow. The pitch of the voice rather loud, the tone arch and sneering; the sentences short; the expressions satyrical, with mock-praise intermixed. There are instances of raillery in scripture itself, as 1 Kings xviii. and Isa. xliv. It is not, therefore, beneath the dignity of the pulpit-orator, occasionally to use it, in the cause of virtue, by exhibiting vice in a ludicrus appearance. Nor should I think raillery unworthy the attention of the lawyer; as it may occasionally come in, not unusefully, in his pleadings, as well as any other stroke of ornament, or entertainment.

Buffoonery assumes an arch, sly, leering gravity. Must not quit its serious aspect, though all should laugh to burst ribs of steel. This command of face is somewhat difficult, though not so hard, I should think, as to restrain the contrary sympathy, I mean of weeping with those who weep.

Joy, when sudden and violent, expresses itself by clapping of hands, and exultation, or leaping. The eyes are opened wide; perhaps filled with tears; often raised to heaven, especially by devout persons. The countenance is smiling; not composedly, but with features aggravated. The voice rises from time to time, to very high notes.

Delight, or pleasure, as when one is entertained, or ravished with music, painting, oratory, or any such elegancy, shews itself by the looks, gestures, and utterance of joy; but moderated.

Gravity, or seriousness, the mind fixed upon some important subject, draws down the eyebrows a little; casts down, or shuts, or raises the eyes to heaven; shuts the mouth, and pinches the lips close. The posture of the body and limbs is composed, and without much motion. The speech, if any, slow and solemn; the tone unvarying.

Enquiry into an obscure subject, fixes the body in one posture, the head stooping, and the eye poring, the eyebrows drawn down.

Attention to an esteemed, or superior character, has the same aspect, and requires silence; the eyes often cast down upon the ground; sometimes fixed on the face of the speaker; but not too pertly.

Modesty, or submission, bends the body forward; levels the eyes, to the breast, if not to the feet, of the superior character. The voice low; the tone submissive; and words few.

Perplexity, or anxiety, which is always attended with some degree of fear and uneasiness, draws all the parts of the body together; gathers up the arms upon the breast, unless one hand covers the eyes, or rubs the forehead; draws down the eyebrows; hangs the head upon the breast; casts down the eyes; shuts and pinches the eye-lids close; shuts the month, and pinches the lips close, or bites them. Suddenly the whole body is vehemently agitated. The person walks about busily; stops abruptly: then he talks to himself, or makes grimaces. If he speaks to another, his pauses are very long; the tone of his voice, unvarying, and his sentences broken, expressing half, and keeping in half of what arises in his mind.

Vexation, occasioned by some real or imaginary misfortune, agitates the whole frame; and, besides expressing itself with the looks, gestures, restlessness, and tone of perplexity, it adds complaint, fretting, and lamenting.

Pity, a mixed passion of love and grief, looks down upon distress with lifted hands; eyebrows drawn down; mouth open, and features drawn together. Its expression, as to looks and gesture, is the same with those of suffering, (see Suffering) but more moderate, as the painful feelings are only sympathetic, and therefore one remove, as it were, more distant from the soul, than what one feels in his own person.

Grief, sudden and violent, expresses itself by beating the head; groveling on the ground; tearing of garments, hair, and flesh; screaming aloud, weeping, stamping with the feet, lifting the eyes, from time to time, to heaven; hurrying to and fro, running distracted, or fainting away, sometimes without recovery. Sometimes violent grief produces a torpid silence, resembling total apathy.

Melancholy, or fixed grief, is gloomy, sedentary, motionless. The lower jaw falls; the lips pale; the eyes are cast down, half shut, eye-lids swelled and red, or livid, tears trickling silent, and unwiped; with a total inattention to every thing that passes. Words, if any, few, and those dragged out, rather than spoken; the accents weak, and interrupted, sighs breaking into the middle of sentences and words.

Despair, as in a condemned criminal, or one who has lost all hope of salvation, bends the eyebrows downward; clouds the forehead; roils the eyes around frightfully; opens the mouth towards the ears; bites the lips; widens the nostrils; gnashes with the teeth, like a fierce wild beast. The heart is too much hardened to suffer tears to flow; yet the eye-balls will be red and inflamed, like those of an animal in a rabid state. The head is hung down upon the breast. The arms are bended at the elbows, the fists are clenched hard; the veins and muscles swelled; the skin livid; and the whole body strained and violently agitated; groans, expressive of inward torture, more frequently uttered than words. If any words, they are few, and expressed with a sullen, eager bitterness; the tone of voice often loud and furious. As it often drives people to distraction, and self-murder, it can hardly be over-acted by one who would represent it.

Fear, violent and sudden, opens very wide the eyes and mouth; shortens the nose; draws down the eyebrows; gives the countenance an air of wildness; covers it with a deadly paleness; draws back the elbows parallel with the sides; lifts up the open hands, the fingers together, to the height of the breast, so that the palms face the dreadful object, as shields opposed against it. One foot is drawn back behind the other, so that the body seems shrinking from the danger, and putting itself in a posture for flight. The heart beats violently; the breath is fetched quick and short; the whole body is thrown into a general tremor. The voice is weak and trembling; the sentences are short, and the meaning confused and incoherent. Imminent danger, real or fancied, produces in timorous persons, as women and children, violent shrieks, without any articulate sound of words; and sometimes irrecoverably confounds the understanding; produces fainting, which is sometimes followed by death.

Shame, or a sense of one's appearing to a disadvantage, before one's fellow-creatures; turns away the face from the beholders, covers it with blushes, hangs the head, casts down the eyes, draws down the eyebrows, either strikes the person dumb, or, if he attempts to say any thing in his own defence, causes his tongue to faulter, and confounds his utterance, and puts him upon making a thousand gestures and grimaces, to keep himself in countenance; all of which only heighten the confusion of his appearance.

Remorse, or a painful sense of guilt; casts down the countenance, and clouds it with anxiety; hangs down the head, draws the eyebrows down upon the eyes; the right hand beats the breast; the teeth gnash with anguish; the whole body is strained and violently agitated. If this strong remorse is succeeded by the more gracious disposition of penitence, or contrition, then the eyes are raised (but with great appearance of doubting and fear) to the throne of heavenly mercy; and immediately cast down again to the earth. Then floods of tears are seen to flow. The knees are bended, or the body prostrated on the ground. The arms are spread in a suppliant posture, and the voice of deprecation is uttered with sighs, groans, timidity, hesitation and trembling.

Courage, steady, and cool, opens the countenance, gives the whole form an erect and graceful air. The accents are strong, full-mouthed and articulate, the voice firm and even.

Boasting, or affected courage, is loud, blustering, threatening. The eyes stare; the eyebrows draw down; the face red and bloated; the mouth pouts out; the voice hollow and thundering; the arms are set a-kimbo; the head often nodding in a menacing manner; and the right fist, clenched, is brandished, from time to time, at the person threatened. The right foot is often stamped upon the ground, and the legs take such large strides, and the steps are so heavy, that the earth seems to tremble under them.

Pride, assumes a lofty look, bordering upon the aspect and attitude of anger. The eyes open, but with the eyebrows considerably drawn down; the mouth pouting out, mostly shut, and the lips pinched close. The words walk out a-strut, with a slow, stiff bombastic affectation of importance. The arms generally a-kimbo, and the legs at a distance from one another, taking large tragedy strides.

Obstinacy adds to the aspect of pride, a dodged sourness, like that of malice. See Malice.

Authority, opens the countenance, but draws down the eyebrows a little, so far as to give the look of gravity. See Gravity.

Commanding requires an air a little more peremptory, with a look a little severe or stern. The hand is held out, and moved toward the person to whom the order is given, with the palm upwards, and the head nods towards him.

Forbidding, on the contrary, draws the head backwards, and pushes the hand from one with the palm downward, as if going to lay it upon the person, to hold him down immoveable, that he may not do what is forbidden him.

Affirming, especially with a judicial oath, is expressed by lifting the open right hand and eyes toward heaven; or if conscience is appealed to, by laying the right hand upon the breast.

Denying is expressed by pushing the open right hand from one, and turning the face the contrary way. See Aversion.

Differing in sentiment may be expressed as refusing. See Refusing.

Agreeing in opinion, or Conviction, as granting. See Granting.

Exhorting, as by a general at the head of his army, requires a kind, complacent look; unless matter of offence has passed, as neglect of duty, or the like.

Judging demands a grave, steady look, with deep attention; the countenance altogether clear from any appearance of either disgust or favour. The accents slow, distinct, emphatical, accompanied with little action, and that very grave.

Reproving puts on a stern aspect, roughens the voice, and is accompanied with gestures not much different from those of Threatening, but not so lively.

Acquitting is performed with a benevolent, tranquil countenance and tone of voice; the right hand, if not both, open, waved gently toward the person acquitted, expressing dismission. See Dismissing.

Condemning assumes a severe look, but mixed with pity. The sentence is to be expressed as with reluctance.

Teaching, explaining, inculcating, or giving orders to an inferior, requires an air of superiority to be assumed. The features are to be composed of an authoritative gravity. The eye steady, and open, the eye-brow a little drawn down over it; but not so much as to look surly or dogmatical. The tone of voice varying according as the emphasis requires, of which a good deal is necessary in expressing matter of this sort. The pitch of the voice to be strong and clear; the articulation distinct; the utterance slow, and the manner peremptory. This is the proper manner of pronouncing the commandments in the communion office. But (I am sorry to say it) they are too commonly spoken in the same manner as the prayers, than which nothing can be more unnatural.

Pardoning differs from acquitting, in that the latter means clearing a person, after trial, of guilt; whereas the former supposes guilt, and signifies merely delivering the guilty person from punishment. Pardoning requires some degree of severity of aspect and tone of voice, because the pardoned person is not an object of entire unmixed approbation; otherwise its expression is much the same as granting. See Granting.

Arguing requires a cool, sedate, attentive aspect, and a clear, slow, emphatical accent, with much demonstration by the hand. It differs from teaching (see Teaching) in that the look of authority is not wanting in arguing.

Dismissing, with approbation, is done with a kind aspect and tone of voice; the right hand open, gently waved toward the person. With displeasure, besides the look and tone of voice which suits displeasure, the hand is hastily thrown out toward the person dismissed, the back part toward him, the countenance at the same time turned away from him.

Refusing, when accompanied with displeasure, is expressed nearly in the same way. Without displeasure, it is done with a visible reluctance, which occasions the bringing out the words slowly, with such a shake of the head, and shrug of the shoulders, as is natural upon hearing of somewhat which gives us concern.

Granting, when done with unreserved good-will, is accompanied with a benevolent aspect and tone of voice; the right hand pressed to the left breast, to signify how heartily the favour is granted, and the benefactor's joy in conferring it.

Dependence. See Modesty.

Veneration, or Worshipping, comprehends several articles, as ascription, confession, remorse, intercession, thanksgiving, deprecation, petition, &c. Ascription of honour and praise to the peerless, supreme Majesty of Heaven, and confession and deprecation, are to be uttered with all that humility of looks and gesture, which can exhibit the most profound self-abasement, and annihilation, before One; whose superiority is infinite. The head is a little raised, but with the most apparent timidity and dread; the eye is lifted, but immediately cast down again, or closed for a moment; the eyebrows are drawn down in the most respectful manner; the features, and the whole body and limbs, are all composed to the most profound gravity; one posture continuing, without considerable change, during the whole performance of the duty. The knees bended, or the whole body prostrate, or if the posture be standing, which scripture does not disallow, bending forward, as ready to prostrate itself. The arms spread out, but modestly, as high as the breast; the hands open. The tone of the voice will be submissive, timid, equal trembling, weak, suppliant. The words will be brought out with a visible anxiety and diffidence, approaching to hesitation; few and slow; nothing of vain repetition, haranguing, flowers of rhetoric, or affected figures of speech; all simplicity, humility, and lowliness, such as becomes a reptile of the dust, when presuming to address Him, whose greatness is tremenduous beyond all created conception. In intercession for our fellow creatures, which is prescribed in the scriptures, and in thanksgiving, the countenance will naturally assume a small degree of cheerfulness beyond what it was clothed with in confession of sin, and deprecation of punishment. But all affected ornament of speech, or gesture in devotion, deserves the severest censure, as being somewhat much worse than absurd.

Respect for a superior, puts on the looks and gesture of modesty. See Modesty.

Hope brightens the countenance; arches the eyebrows; gives the eyes an eager, wishful look; opens the mouth to half a smile; bends the body a little forward, the feet equal; spreads the arms, with the hands open, as to receive the object of its longings. The tone of the voice is eager and unevenly, inclining to that of joy, but curbed by a degree of doubt and anxiety. Desire differs from hope as to expression, in this particular, that there is more appearance of doubt and anxiety in the former than in the latter. For it is one thing to desire what is agreeable, and another to have a prospect of actually obtaining it.

Desire expresses itself by bending the body forward, and stretching the arms toward the object, as to grasp it. The countenance smiling, but eager and wishful; the eyes wide open, and eyebrows raised; the mouth open; the tone of voice suppliant, but lively and cheerful, unless there be distress as well as desire; the expressions fluent and copious: if no words are used, sighs instead of them; but this is chiefly in distress.

Love (successful) lights up the countenance into smiles. The forehead is smoothed and enlarged; the eyebrows are arched; the mouth a little open, and smiling; the eyes languishing, and half shut, doat upon the beloved object. The countenance assumes the eager and wishful look of desire, (see Desire above) but mixed with an air of satisfaction and repose. The accents are soft and winning; the tone of voice persuasive, flattering, pathetic, various, musical, rapturous, as in joy. (See Joy.) The attitude much the same with that of desire. Sometimes both hands pressed eagerly to the bosom. Love, unsuccessful, adds an air of anxiety and melancholy. See Perplexity and Melancholy.

Giving, Inviting, Soliciting. and such-like actions, which suppose some degree of affection, real or pretended, are accompanied with much the same looks and gestures as express love, but more moderate.

Wonder, or Amazement, (without any other interesting passion, as Love, Esteem, &c.) opens the eyes, and makes them appear very prominent; sometimes raises them to the skies; but oftener, and more expressively, fixes them on the object, if the cause of the passion be a present and visible object, with the look, all except the wildness, of fear. (See Fear.) If the hands hold any thing, at the time when the object of wonder appears, they immediately let it drop, unconscious, and the whole body fixes in the contracted, stooping posture of amazement; the mouth open; the hands held up open, nearly in the attitude of fear. (See Fear.) The first excess of this passion stops all utterance; but it makes amends afterwards by a copious flow of words, and exclamations.

Admiration, a mixed passion, consisting of wonder, with love or esteem, takes away the familiar gesture and expression of simple love. (See Love.) Keeps the respectful look and gesture. (See Modesty and Veneration.) The eyes are opened wide, and now and then raised toward heaven. The mouth is opened. The hands are lifted up. The tone of the voice rapturous. This passion expresses itself copiously, making great use of the figure hyperbole.

Gratitude puts on an aspect full of complacency. (See Love.) If the object of it is a character greatly superior, it expresses much submission. (See Modesty.) The right hand pressed upon the breast, accompanies, very properly, the expression of a sincere and hearty sensibility of obligation.

Curiosity, as of a busy-body, opens the eyes and mouth, lengthens the neck, bends the body forward, and fixes it in one posture, with the hands nearly in that of admiration. See Admiration. See also Desire, Attention, Hope, Enquiry, and Perplexity.

Persuasion puts on the looks of moderate love. (See Love.) Its accents are soft, flattering, emphatical and articulate.

Tempting, or Wheedling, expresses itself much in the same way, only carrying the fawning part to excess.

Promising is expressed with benevolent looks, the nod of consent, and the open hands gently moved towards the person to whom the promise is made, the palms upwards. The sincerity of the promiser may be expressed by laying the right hand gently on the breast.

Affectation displays itself in a thousand different gestures, motions, airs and looks, according to the character which the person affects. Affectation of learning gives a stiff formality to the whole person. The words come stalking out with the pace of a funeral procession, and every sentence has the solemnity of an oracle. Affectation of piety turns up the goggling whites of the eyes to heaven, as if the person were in a trance, and fixes them in that posture so long that the brain of the beholder grows giddy. Then comes up, deep grumbling, a holy groan from the lower parts of the thorax; but so tremendous in sound, and so long protracted, that you expect to see a goblin rise, like an exhalation through the solid earth. Then he begins to rock from side to side, or backward and forward, like an aged pine on the side of a hill, when a brisk wind blows. The hands are clasped together, and often lifted, and the head often shaken with foolish vehemence. The tone of the voice is canting, or sing-song lullaby, not much distant from an Irish howl, and the words godly doggrell. Affectation of beauty, and killing, puts a fine woman by turns into all sorts of forms, appearances and attitudes, but amiable ones. She undoes by art, or rather by aukwardness, (for true art conceals itself) all that nature had done for her. Nature formed her almost an angel, and she, with infinite pains, makes herself a monkey. Therefore, this species of affectation is easily imitated, or taken off. Make as many and as ugly grimaces, motions and gestures as can be made, and take care that nature never peep out, and you represent coquetish affectation to the life.

Sloth appears by yawning, dosing, snoring; the head dangling sometimes to one side, sometimes to the other; the arms and legs stretched out, and every sinew of the body unstrung; the eyes heavy, or closed; the words, if any, crawl out of the mouth but half formed, scarcely audible to any ear, and broken off in the middle by powerful sleep.