gifts, which raise man far above the brute creation, God has coupled powers of expression which are equally pre-eminent, and without which, those gifts would have been all but useless. But such gifts and powers, as bestowed by Nature, are by no means perfect. Until duly trained, they are crude, irregular, and impul sive. It is the object of culture to unfold them, to give them expansion and vigour, and to subject them to the perfect dominion of the will. As an art, eloquence would cultivate all the capacities of the soul with reference to its own specific object. It views man, as a being to be wrought upon by speech. It considers the nature of his understanding and sensibilities, of his fancy and taste, and determines how each of these can best be moved or gratified. It then teaches how the orator is to deal with his own powers, and by what means he is to train them to their perfect maturity; how he is to discipline judgment, enrich and yet chasten imagination, refine taste, and strengthen those generous sentiments which ensure him access to the hearts of others. It aims to give him, too, a high idea of the power and dignity of his art, and to inspire him with an ambition for its greatest achievements. All this is inculcated, not in precept merely, but by noble examples

of the art, and also by frequent exercises; and when by such means the faculties of the orator are unfolded, this art strives to subject them to his complete control, so that, when he bids, they shall come forth obediently, and do their appropriate work. The eloquence of the uncultivated is elicited by occasions and emergencies. It is not at command. The speaker does not master his powers, but is mastered by them. When wanted, they are not always at hand; and when drawn forth by circumstances, they often transport him beyond his mark. But the eloquence of the trained and cultivated speaker is a power, though often dormant, yet always ready for use: when summoned, it comes, though there be no favouring circumstance. It can speak even to reluctant ears, and compel an audience. Neglected or despised truths it can invest with majesty, such that they shall bow men's hearts; and a taste, however fastidious or hypercritical, if just, it can satisfy and delight.

Instances of such eloquence have been rare in every age. One, not often noticed, has been commemorated by Ben Jonson, and it will be peculiarly appropriate here, as showing that they who best exemplify eloquence are best qualified to define its office and duty. "There

happened," says he, "in my time, one noble speaker (he means Bacon), who was full of gravity in his speaking. No man ever spoke more neatly, more pressly, more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness in what he uttered. No member of his speech but consisted of its own graces. His hearers could not cough or look aside from him without loss. He commanded where he spoke, and had his judges angry and pleased at his devotion. The fear of every man that heard him was, that he should make an end."* No finer description, says Dugald Stewart, of the perfection of this art is to be found in any author, ancient or modern.

II. WHERE DOES ELOQUENCE FLOURISH? Though cultivation and discipline are essential to the formation of the perfect orator, it is not to be inferred that the highest excellence will always be attained, when such cultivation is apparently most prevalent. Schools of

This striking passage will remind the classical reader of Cicero's picture of the orator. "Volo hoc oratori contingat, ut cum auditum sit eum esse dicturum, locus in subselliis occupetur, compleatur tribunal, gratiosi scribæ sint in dando et cedendo locum, corona multiplex, judex erectus; cum surgit is, qui dicturus sit, significetur a corona silentium, deinde crebræ assensiones, multæ admirationes; risus cum velit ; cum velit, fletus; ut, qui hæc procul videat, etiamsi quid agatur nesciat, at placere tamen, et in scena roscium intelligat."

rhetoric have generally flourished most, when true oratory was declining. It will be found true, indeed, of almost every art and branch of literature, that that period in its history termed the critical period, is usually posterior to that which is distinguished for originality and creative genius. This was the case with oratory, both in Greece and Rome. The earliest Grecian rhetoricians, such as Empedocles and Gorgias, were but little earlier than the time of Demosthenes; and even they were instrumental in founding that school of sophists, who did as much to vitiate eloquence, as to corrupt the education and virtue of the youth of the republic. On the overthrow of Grecian independence, genuine oratory began to decline, and yet the schools in which the art was taught steadily increased in number, and swarmed with pupils. Eloquence ceased to be employed as an instrument in directing public affairs and deciding great personal interests, and was used by that acute and restless people, for the most part, only in curious disputations, or as a source of amusement. In Rome, it was the same. All the great orators, who rank next to Cicero, appeared before his own time; all the distinguished rhetoricans afterward. In each case, the great luminary was

preceded by a train of inferior lights; and when his brief but glorious day was run, nothing remained to either land but twilight and deepening shadows, until, at length, total darkness shrouded those places, once so resplendent with the genius of the great masters of speech.

That there is any necessity inherent in the nature of things for this decline of oratory after it has reached a certain height, is not to be supposed; but that its highest efforts should be followed rather than preceded by much formal instruction in rhetoric, is natural. In all the fine arts, execution precedes rules. It is the prerogative of master spirits to strike out new paths; to open to the student, in the results they accomplish, a new world of wonders. They give conceptions of the art and its resources hitherto untaught; and it is from the study of their works, that mankind deduce rules for constructing and judging other works. Thus it was with poetry and music, painting and sculpture. Long before criticism had investigated the principles and rules of the poetic art, the blind old man of Scio had framed that wonderful story, which still retains its place at a peerless height above all similar compositions, at once the model and the admiration of every succeeding bard. So it was in