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visible and tangible in every sentence': whereas, if', after having attended to the last mentioned orator', I enter on the same amusement', I shall be astonished at the elevation and vigour of my own thoughts'; and', if I accidentally meet with the same production a month or two afterwards', when my mind has lost the inspiration', I shall scarcely be able to recognize it for my own work'?

Whence is all this'? To me it would seem', that it must proceed', either from the subtile commerce between the spirits of men', which lord Verulam notices', and which enables the speaker thereby to identify his hearer with himself', or else', that the mind of man possesses', independent of any volition on the part of its proprietor', a species of pupillary faculty of dilating and contracting itself', in proportion to the pencil of the rays of light which the speaker throws upon it'; which dilation or contraction', as in the case of the eye', cannot be immediately and abruptly altered'.

Whatever may be the solution', the fact', I think', is certainly as I have stated it': and it is remarkable that the same effect is produced', though perhaps in a less degree', by perusing books into which different degrees of spirit and genius have been infused'. I am acquainted with a gentleman who never sits down to a composition in which he wishes to shine', without previously reading', with intense application', half a dozen pages of his favourite Bolingbroke'. Having taken the character and impulse of that writer's mind', he declares that he feels his pen flow with a spirit not his own'; and that', if', in the course of his work', his powers begin to languish', he finds it easy to revive and charge them afresh from the same never-failing source'.

If these things are not visionary', it becomes important to a man', for a new reason', what books he reads', and what company he keeps', since', according to lord Verulam's notion', an influx of the spirits of others', may change the native character of his heart and understanding', before he is aware of it'; or', according to the other suggestion', he may so habitually contract the pupil of his mind', as to be disqualified for the comprehension of a great subject', and fit only for microscopick observations'. Whereas', by keeping the company', and reading the works', of men of magnanimity and genius only', he may receive their qualities by subtile transmission', and eventually get the eye', the ardour', and the enterprise of an eagle'.

But whither am I wandering'? Permit me to return'.-Admitting the correctness of the principles first mentioned', it

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would seem to be a fair conclusion', that whenever an orator wishes to know what effect he has produced on his audience', he should coolly and conscientiously propound to himself this question': Have I myself, throughout my oration', felt those clear and cogent convictions of judgment', and that pure and exalted fire of the soul', with which I wished to inspire others'? For', he may rely upon it', that he can no more impart or (to use lord Bacon's word,) transmit convictions and sensations which he himself has not', at the time', sincerely felt', than he can convey a clear title to property in which he himself has no right'.

This leads me to point out a fault which I have often noticed'. Following up too closely the cold conceit of the Roman division of an oration', some speakers set aside a particular part of their discourse', (usually the peroration',) in which they take it into their heads that they will be pathetick'. Accordingly', when they reach this part', whether it be prompted by the feelings or not', a mighty bustle commences'. The speaker pricks up his ears', erects his chest', tosses his arms with hysterical vehemence', and says everything which he supposes ought to affect his hearers', but it is all in vain': for it is obvious that every thing he says is prompted by the head'; and', however it may display his ingenuity and fertility', however it may appeal to the admiration of his hearers', it will never strike deeper'. The hearts of the audience will refuse all commerce except with the heart of the speaker'; nor', in this commerce', is it possible', by any disguise however artful', to impose false ware upon them'. However the speaker may labour to seem to feel', however near he may approach to the appearance of the reality', the heart', nevertheless', possesses a keen', unerring sense which never fails to detect the imposture'. It would seem as if the heart of man stamps a secret mark on all its effusions', which alone can give them currency', and which no ingenuity', however adroit', can successfully counterfeit'.

I have been not a little diverted in listening to some of these fine orators who deal almost entirely in this pathos of the head'. They practise the start', the pause'—make an immense parade of attitudes and gestures', and seem to imagine themselves piercing the heart with a thousand wounds'. The heart', all the time', developing every trick that is played off to cajole her', and sitting serene and composed', looks on and smiles at the ridiculous pageant as it passes'.

Páj'ant.

Nothing', in my opinion', can be more ill-judged in an orator', than to indulge himself in this idle', artificial parade'. It is particularly unfortunate in an exordium'. It is as much as to say', caveat auditor'; (let the auditor take care';) and', for my own part', the moment I see an orator rise with this menacing majesty', assume a look of solemn wisdom', stretch forth his right arm', like the rubens dexter (red right hand) of Jove', and hear him open his throat in deep and tragick tone', I feel myself involuntarily braced', and in an attitude of defence', as if I were going to take a bout with Mendoza'.

SECTION VIII.
Caspar Hauser.

The following sketch of this extraordinary and ill-fated youth, is extracted from an account given of him by ANSELM VON FEUERBACH, President of one of the Bavarian courts of appeal-translated by H. G. LINBERG, and published at Boston, by ALLEN & TICKNOR, 1832.

On the 26th of May, 1828, towards the close of the day, a citizen of Nuremberg, (in Franconia,) who lived near the small and unfrequented Haller gate, and who was, at the time, loitering before his door, observed at a short distance, a young man in a peasant's dress. He was standing in a very singular posture, and, apparently like one intoxicated, was endeavouring to walk, but without the ability to keep himself erect, or to govern the movement of his legs. The citizen approached the stranger, who held out to him a letter, directed "To the captain of the 4th Esgataren of the Shwoliskay regiment, Nuremberg."

The captain referred to, lived near the New gate; and, though not without much difficulty, thither the citizen conducted the strange youth. On entering the captain's mansion, the stranger advanced towards the servant that had opened the door, with his hat on his head, and the letter in his hand, addressing him in a jargon of indistinct and almost altogether inarticulate sounds, the meaning of which no one could comprehend. The servant asked him what he wanted; who he was; and whence he came; but the stranger appeared to understand none of these interrogatories, his only reply being, "Ae sechtene möcht ich waehn," &c.: the same unintelligible jargon he had previously uttered when accosted by the citizen who accompanied him. The young man was so much fatigued as scarcely to be able to walk or stand. Weeping, and with an expression of excessive Mo'ment. Ap-på'rênt-lè. To'årdz.

pain, he pointed to his feet, which were sinking under him. He appeared, also, to be suffering from hunger and thirst. A small piece of meat was, therefore, offered him; but the first morsel had scarce touched his lips, before he shuddered, the muscles of his face being, at the same time, seized with spasms; and, with visible horrour, he spit it out. On tasting a few drops of beer that was presented to him, he likewise showed the same marks of aversion. But a bit of bread, and a glass of water, he swallowed greedily, and with great satisfaction. In the mean time, all attempts to gain any information respecting his person, his arrival, or his residence, were altogether fruitless. His language consisted of tears, moans, and unintelligible sounds, or of an awkward attempt at the words already mentioned.

In the captain's house, he was taken for a kind of demisavage. The captain knew nothing of the stranger; nor could he learn anything concerning him from the letter which he had brought, any more than by questioning him. For a develop ment of the mystery which hung over the character and purposes of this singular being, as well as for the care of his person, he was, therefore, consigned over to the city police. His journey to the police-office, in his pitiable situation, (for, it afterwards proved, that this was about his first attempt at walking, and the first time he had worn shoes or boots; and, moreover, that the boots he then had on, had excoriated and sorely blistered his feet,) was almost a course of martyrdom, and not accomplished but with the greatest difficulty.

At the guard-room, he was equally looked upon as a most extraordinary phenomenon. The attempt to examine him by questions, proved altogether unavailing. A repetition of the sounds, "Ae reuta waehn," &c. (to which sounds he himself, as was afterwards ascertained, attached not the shadow of a mean. ing,) were the only sounds or words which, on the most diverse occasions, he uttered. He appeared neither to know, nor to consider, where he was. He betrayed neither astonishment,a fear, nor confusion; but rather showed that kind of insensibility, or brutish dullness, which either leaves external objects entirely unnoticed, or gazes at them without thought, and suffers them to pass without being affected by them. His tears and whimpering, while he was frequently pointing to his tortured and tottering feet, together with his awkward and child-like demeanour, soon excited the compassion of all who were present. A soldier offered him a piece of meat and a glass of beer; but these, in dAs-tônish

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the same manner as at the captain's house, he rejected with shuddering and abhorrence. Another gave him a piece of coin. At this he expressed the joy of a little child; and, in short, his whole conduct and demeanour seemed to be that of a child scarcely two years old, although he possessed the stature of a young man.

The police, not knowing whether to consider him an idiot, a madman, or a savage, or whether, under the guise of a stupid boy, some cunning deceiver might not be concealed, sent him to the tower of the Vestner gate, a place used for the confinement of rogues and vagabonds.

The name, CASPAR HAUSER, he wore upon his hat, when first discovered in Nuremberg. His dress was very shabby, though evidently not that of a peasant, nor one made for himself. His pockets were stuffed with religious manuscripts and books. The letter which he carried in his hand, was written, a part in German characters, and a part in Latin; but, instead of giving any satisfactory information concerning him, it seemed purposely penned with a view to render still more difficult the solution of the dark enigma which Caspar presented in his own person. It purported to be written by a female; stated that Casper was 17 years old; and that he wished to become a soldier.

On his first appearance in Nuremberg, Caspar was only four feet and nine inches in height; but his stature soon rapidly increased. His complexion was fair; his limbs were delicately formed; his hands small and beautifully shaped; and the soles of his feet, as well as the palms of his hands, were as soft as those of an infant; but his countenance lacked animation and expression; and the staring look of his clear and bright blue eyes, betrayed an infantile inanity. If any thing pleasant, however, affected his mind, a smiling, heart-winning sweetness diffused itself over his features, and lighted up his countenance with that irresistible charm which alone is revealed by the joy of an innocent child. He knew but little better how to use his hands and fingers, than he did his legs and feet. In taking hold of any thing, he employed the tips of his first finger and thumb, with the others stretched out stiff and straight, in the uncouth and awkward manner of a little child that has not yet learned to handle things. His gait, like that of an infant making its first essays in leading-strings, was, properly speaking, not a walk, but rather a waddling, tottering, groping of his way-a painful medium between the motion of falling, and of endeavour

Pôz-zest'. Wêr.

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