tive intellects, and bring down my powers exactly to the level of his own; or that the last shall descend upon me like an angel of light, breathe new energies into my frame, dilate my soul with his own intelligence, exalt me into a new and noble region of thought, snatch me from the earth at pleasure, and rap me to the seventh heaven? And, what is still more wonderful, how does it happen that these different effects endure so long after the agency of the speaker has ceased? In so much that if I sit down to any intellectual exercise, after listening to the first speaker, my performance shall be unworthy even of me, and the numb-fish visible and tangible in every sentence; whereas, if I enter on the same amusement, after having attended to the last mentioned orator, I shall be astonished at the elevation and vigour of my own thoughts; and if I meet accidentally with the same production a month or two afterwards, when my mind has lost the inspiration, shall scarcely recognize it for my own. work. Whence 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, independently of any volition on the part of its proprietor, a species of pupillary faculty of dilating and contracting it self in proportion to the pencil of the rays of light which the speaker throws upon it; which dilatation 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 wherein 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 to 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 be not visionary, it becomes important to a man, for a new reason, what book 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 subtle transmission, and eventually get the eye, the ardour and the enterprise of an eagle. *** LETTER IV. BRITISH SPY. LETTER IV. RICHMOND, SEPTEMBER, 15. BUT whither am I wandering? Permit me to return. Admitting the correctness of the principles formerly mentioned, it would seem to be a fair conclusion, that whenever an orator wishes to know what effect he has wrought on his audience, he shonld cooly 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 on it, that he cannot more impart (or, to use 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 title. This leads me to remark a defect, which I have noticed more than once in this country. Following up too closely the cold conceit of the Roman division of an oration, the speakers set aside a particular part of their discourse, usually the peroration, in which E 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 hysterick vehe mence, and says every thing 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 fertilityhowever 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 on 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 imitate. I have been not a little diverted here, in listening to some 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 |