But it is not merely three millions of people, the produce of America we have to contend with in this unnatural struggle; many more are on their side, dispersed over the face of this wide empire. Every Whig in this country and in Ireland is with

them.

Who, then, let me demand, has given, and continues to give, this strange and unconstitutional advice? I do not mean to level at one man, or any particular set of men; but thus much I will venture to declare, that, if his Majesty continues to hear such counsellors, he will not only be badly advised, but undone.

He may continue indeed to wear his crown; but it will not be worth his wearing. Robbed of so principal a jewel as America, it will lose its lustre, and no longer beam that effulgence which should irradiate the brow of majesty.

In this alarming crisis I come, with this paper in my hand, to offer you the best of my experience and advice, which is, that a humble petition be presented to his Majesty, beseeching him, that in order to open the way towards a happy settlement of the dangerous troubles in America, it may graciously please him that immediate orders be given to General Gage for removing his Majesty's forces from the town of Boston.

And this, my lords, upon the most mature and deliberate grounds, is the best advice I can give you at this juncture. Such conduct will convince America that you mean to try her cause in the spirit of freedom and enquiry, and not in letters of blood.

There is no time to be lost. Every hour is big with danger. Perhaps, while I am now speaking the decisive blow is struck, which may involve millions in the consequence. And, believe me, the very first drop of blood which is shed will cause a wound which may never be healed.

IMMORTALITY OF TRUE GREATNESS.
BY EDWARD EVERETT.

To be cold and breathless, to feel not and speak not, this is not the end of existence to the men who have breathed their spirits into the institutions of their country, who have stamped their characters on the pillars of the age, who have poured their hearts' blood into the channels of the public prosperity. Tell me, ye who tread the sods of yon sacred height, is Warren dead? Can you not still see him, not pale and prostrate, the blood of his gallant heart pouring out of his ghastly wound, but moving resplendent over the field of honour, with the rose of heaven upon his cheek and the fire of liberty in his eye? Tell me, ye who make your pious pilgrimage to the shades of Vernon, is

Washington indeed shut up in that cold and narrow house? That which made these men, and men like these, cannot die. The hand that traced the charter of Independence is, indeed, motionless; the eloquent lips that sustained it are hushed; but the lofty spirits that conceived, resolved, and maintained it, and which alone, to such men, "make it life to live," these cannot expire:

"These shall resist the empire of decay,

When time is o'er, and worlds have passed away;
Cold in the dust the perished heart may lie,

But that which warmed it once can never die."

DRAMATIC STYLE.

This covers practically all styles combined.

The sudden

changes from one style to the other, and the combinations which occur, render it of course very difficult. Take the following as a sample.

FROM ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND,

March 7, 1862.

By GEORGE H. BOKER.

"Stand to your guns, men!" Morris cried;

Small need to pass the word;

Our men at quarters ranged themselves
Before the drum was heard.

And then began the sailors' jests:
"What thing is that, I say?"
"A 'long-shore meeting-house, adrift,
Is standing down the bay!"

A frown came over Morris' face;
The strange, dark craft he knew:
"That is the iron Merrimac,

Manned by a rebel crew.'

In the above extract, "Stand to your guns, men!" should be given in the Shouting Style; "Morris cried," changes to the Didactic Style; "Small need to pass the word," etc., should be given in the Grave Style; "And then began the sailors' jests," requires the Lively Style; while "What thing is that, I say?" etc., can only be appropriately given in the Gay or Joyous Style.

“A frown came over Morris' face,” etc., requires the Grave Style, while "That is the iron Merrimac," etc., will require the Oratorical Style.

Thus, it will be seen, there is a constant change of style with almost every line.

An analysis of any dramatic selection will disclose a similar combination of styles. No one should attempt to read or speak a selection of the Dramatic Style without first carefully analysing it, not merely to comprehend clearly the thought, but to discover the various styles of utterance it will require. It cannot be too earnestly impressed upon the mind of the pupil that the comprehension of the sentiment does not imply the appropriate vocal delivery.

ABOU BEN-ADHEM.
By LEIGH HUNT.

Abou Ben-Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben-Adhem bold;
And to the presence in the room he said,

"

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made all of sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. 66 'Nay, not so,'
Replied the angel. Abou spake more low,
But cheerily still, and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo, Ben-Adhem's name led all the rest.

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.
By A. G. Greene.

O'er a low couch the setting sun
Had thrown its latest ray,
Where, in his last strong agony,
A dying warrior lay

The stern old Baron Rudiger,
Whose frame had ne'er been bent
By wasting pain, till time and toil
Its iron strength had spent.

"They come around me here, and say
My days of life are o'er-

That I shall mount my noble steed
And lead my band no more;

They come, and to my beard they dare
To tell me now, that I,

Their own liege lord and master born-
That I-ha! ha!-must die!

"And what is death? I've dared him oft
Before the Paynim's spear-
Think ye he's entered at my gate,

Has come to seek me here?

I've met him, faced him, scorned him,
When the fight was raging hot-

I'll try his might-I'll brave his power-
Defy, and fear him not!

"Ho! sound the tocsin from the tower,
And fire the culverin!

Bid each retainer arm with speed,
Call every vassal in!

Up with my banner on the wall!
The banquet board prepare?
Throw wide the portal of my hall,
And bring my armour there!"

A hundred hands were busy then ;
The banquet forth was spread,
And rang the merry oaken floor
With many a martial tread;
While from the rich, dark tracery,

Along the vaulted wall,

Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear,

O'er the proud Gothic hall.

Fast hurrying through the outer gate,
The mailed retainers poured

On through the portal's frowning arch,
And thronged around the board;
While at its head, within his dark,
Carved oaken chair of state,

Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger,

With girded falchion, sate.

"Fill every beaker up, my men;
Pour forth the cheering wine;
There's life and strength in every drop-
Thanksgiving to the vine!

Are ye all there, my vassals true?—
Mine eyes are waxing dim :

Fill round, my tried and fearless ones,
Each goblet to the brim !

Ye're there, but yet I see you not!
Draw forth each trusty sword,
And let me hear your faithful steel
Clash once around my board!
I hear it faintly-louder yet!
What clogs my heavy breath?
Up, all! and shout for Rudiger,
Defiance unto death!'"

Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel,
And rose a deafening cry,
That made the torches flare around,
And shook the flags on high :
"Ho! cravens! do ye fear him?
Slaves! traitors! have ye flown?
Ho! cowards, have ye left me
To meet him here alone?

"But I defy him! let him come?'
Down rang the massy cup,

While from its sheath the ready blade
Came flashing half-way up;

And with the black and heavy plumes
Scarce trembling on his head,
There, in his dark, carved oaken chair,
Old Rudiger sat-dead!

We

THE VAGABONDS.

By TROWBRIDGE.

e are two travellers, Roger and I.
Roger's my dog. Come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentlemen-mind your eye!
Over the table-look out for the lamp!

The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold,

And eat and drunk-and starved together.