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lieve' (12), irreproachable (4); whence it wounds me the more (8), that he should single' me' ouť (24, 2) as the object of his unkindness' (4,2).” “Suppose you have a very valuable' horse (8)," resumed Socrates (20), “ gentle' under the treatment of others', but ungovernable' when you' (11, 27) attempt to use him (26); would you not endeavour', by all means', to conciliate' his affection, and lo treat him in the way most likely to render him tractable' (19, 2)?—Or if you have a dog' (8), highly prized for his fidelity', watchfulness', and care of your flocks“; who is fond of your shepherds', and playful with them; and yet snarls' whenever you' (2) come in his way (26); would you attempt to cure' him of his fault (26), by angry looks or words, or any other' (19, 2) marks of resentment (26)? You would surely pursue an opposite' (19) * course with him (26). And is not the friendship of a brother' of far more worth' (24) than the services' of a horse', or the attachment of a dog' (19, 2)? Why', then, do you delay to put in practice' those' means' which may reconcile' you to l'imon (22, 2)? “Acquaint' (4) me with those means (4)," answered Demetrius (21); “for I am a stranger to them (4).”..“ Answer me a few questions (4)."

' said Socrates (21). "“ If you desire that one of your neighbours should invite you to his feast', when he offers a sacrifice' (11, 2), what course would you take (22)?”—“I would 'first' invite' him to mine' (4, 2, 20).” And how would you induce' him to take the charge of your

affairs', when you are on a journey' (22, 2)?"_“I should be forward to do the same' good office (26) to him. (4), in his absence. +” “If you be solicitous to remove a prejudice' (11) which he may have received against you, I how would you then' (22) behave towards him? Ş"_" I should

$ endeavour to convince him, by my looks', words', and actions' (6), that such prejudice' was ill'-founded' (4,2).' “ And, if he appeared inclined to reconciliation' (11,2), would you reproach' (19) him with the injustice he had done you? |1"-“ Nô!' answered Demetrius (21); I would repeat' no' grievances' (10,2).” “Go',” said Socrates (21)

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. This sentence has, obviously, the force of a question depending on a verb.
+ The phrase, in his absence, is superfluous-consequently unaccented.
T'he clause, which he may, &c. is used expletively

and is therefore unaccented ¿ This phrase is implied in the preceding questions. # The clause, nith the injustice, &c. is inplied in the word prejudice.

and pursue' that' conduct' towards your brother' (11), which you would practise to a neighbour' (4). His' (25) Priendship is of inestimable (8) worth (26); and nothing is more' lovely in the sight of Heaven' (11,2), than for brethren' to dwell' together in unity' (4,2).

Percival.

| Penult. memb.---comp. com.

Series 2 Note 2-Series 3 Final memb-comp. com.

Series
4 Rule 1
5 Note 1-Series
6 Simple com. Series
7 Foot note t-Series
8 Relative emphasis
9 Rhetorical division of words
10 Rule 2
11 Rule 3
12 Rule 7
13 Simple conclud. Series
14 Note---Emphatic phrase

15 Comp. com. Series
16 Penult. memb. comp. con.

cluding Series
17 Final memb. do.
18 Foot note *--Rhet. div. of

words 19 Rule 5 20 Note 1-Interrogation 21 Note 2-Parenthesis 22 Rule 4 23 Rule 6 24 Rule 11 25 Absolute emphasis 26 Note-Rhet. div. of words 27 Rule 12

Τ Η Ε

ELOCUTIONIST.

PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS IN PROSE.

On Study. STUDIES' serve for delight', for ornament', and for ability. Their chief use for delight', is in privateness'

: and retiring'; for ornament', is in discourse'; and for ability', is in the judgement and disposition' of business'. For expert' men can execute', and perhaps judge' of particulars, one' by one'; hut the general counsels', and the plots', and marshaling' of affairs, come' best from those that are learned'. To spend too much time' in studies is sloth'; to use them too much for ornament', is affectation’; to make judgement wholly' by their' rules, is the humour' of a scholar'. They perfect' nature', and are perfected' by experience'; for natural' abilities' are like natural plants', that need pruning by study'; and studies themselves' do give forth directions' too much at large', except they be bounded' in' by experience'. Crafty' men contemn'studies, simple' inen admire' them, and wise' men use' them: for they teach not their own' use, but that is a wisdom without' them, and above' them, won' by observation'. Read'-not to contradict'and refute', not to believe and take for granted’, nor to find talk' and discourse'but to weigh' and consider'. Some' books are to be tasted"; others', to be swallowed'; and some' few', to be chewed' and digested': that is, some' books are to be read only in parts'; others', to be read'—but not curiously'; and some' few', to be read wholly', and with diligence and attention'. Some books also may be read by deputy', and extracts of them made by others'; but that should be only in the less important arguments, and the meaner' sort of books; else distilled' books are like common distilled waters'-flashy' things. Reading maketh a full' man; conference', a ready' man; and writing', an exact' man. And, therefore, if a man write' little, he had need have a present' wit'; if he confer' little, he had need have a good' memory'; and if he read' little, he had need have much'cunning' to seem' to know that he doth not.'

Bacon.

On the Love of Life. Age, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases our desire of living. Those dangers which, in the vigour of youth, we had learned to despise, assume new terrors as we grow old. Our caution increasing as our years increase, fear becomes at last the prevailing passion of the mind; and the small remainder of life is taken up in useless efforts to keep off our end, or provide for a continued existence.

Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which even the wise are liable! If I should judge of that part of life which lies before me by that which I have already seen, the prospect is hideous. Experience tells me, that my past enjoyments have brought no real felicity; and sensation assures me, that those I have felt are stronger than those which are yet to come. Yet experience and sensation in vain persuade: hope, more powerful than either, dresses out the distant prospect in fancied beauty; some happiness, in long perspective, still beckons me to pursue; and, like a losing gamester, every new disappointment increases

my
ardour to continue the

game.
Whence, then, is this increased love of life, which

grows upon us with our years? Whence comes it, that we thus make greater efforts to preserve our existence, at a period when it becomes scarce worth the keeping? Is it that Nature, attentive to the preservation of mankind, increases our wishes to live, while she lessens our enjoyments; and, as she robs the senses of every pleasure, equips Imagination in the spoils ? Life would be insupportable to an old man, who, loaded with infirmities, feared death no more than when in the vigour of manhood; the numberless calamities of decaying nature, and the consciousness or

surviving every pleasure, would at once induce him, with his own hand, to terminate the scene of misery: but happily the contempt of death forsakes him at a time when it could only be prejudicial; and life acquires an imaginary value, in proportion as its real value is no more.

Our attachment to every object around us increases, in general, from the length of our acquaintance with it. * I would not choose,” says a French philosopher, " to see an old post pulled up, with which I had been long acquainted.” Å mind long habituated to a certain set of objects, insensibly becomes fond of seeing them; visits them from habit, and parts from them with reluctance. From hence proceeds the avarice of the old in every kind of possession—They love the world, and all that it produces; they love life, and all its advantages; not because it gives them pleasure, but because they have known it long.

Goldsmith.

On Grieving for the Dead. We sympathize even with the dead; and, overlooking what is of real importance in their situation,—that awful futurity which awaits thein,—we are chiefly affected by those circumstances which strike our senses, but can have no influence upon their happiness. It is miserabie, we think, to be deprived of the light of the sun; to be shut out from life and conversation; to be laid in the cold grave, a prey to corruption and the reptiles of the earth; to be no more thought of in this world, but to be obliterated, in a little time, from the affections, and almost from the memory, of their dearest friends and relations. Surely, we imagine, we can never feel too much for those who have suffered so dreadful a calamity. The tribute of our fellow-feeling seems doubly due to them now, when they are in danger of being forgot by every body; and, by the vain honours which we pay to their memory, we endeavour, for our own misery, artificially to keep alive our melancholy remembrance of their misfortune. That our sympathy can afford them no consolation, seems to be an addition to their calamity; and to think that all we can do is unavailing, and that, what alleviates all other distresses—the regret, the love, and the lamentations of friends—can yield no comfort to them, serves only to

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