What Will He Do With It, Book 5.

"Much corn lies under the

ronage of fashion, the great piece of water really looked natural, companionable, refreshing: you began to breathe; to unbutton your waistcoat, loosen your neckeloth, quote Chaucer, if you could recollect him, or Cowper, or Shakspeare, or Thomson's "Seasons;" in short, any scraps of verse that came into your head,-as your feet grew joyously entangled with fern; as the trees grouped forest-like before

elocution masters, the best in Athens, where elocution masters must have studied their art ad unguem, and the defect had baffled them. But did Demosthenes despair? No, he resolved to cure himself,-how? Was it not one of his methods to fill his mouth with pebbles, and practise, manfully to the roaring sea? George Morley had never tried the effect of pebbles. Was there any virtue in them? Why not try? No sea there, it is true; but a sea was only useful as representing the noise of a stormy democratic audience. To represent a peaceful congregation that still sheet of water would do as well. Pebbles there were in plenty just by that gravelly cove, near which a young pike lay sunning his green back. Half

ogical arrangement; there was in him the genius of a great preacher. He felt it,-he knew it; and in that despair which only genius kn

I undertake to cure yo

him, in a light fustian jacket, a blue apron, and with rushes in his hands, which h

icket yonder, sir; pardon me,

d at the man with a vague impression t

"what of?-the folly of trying to sp

ood speaker. Your voice is naturally fine. I repeat, I can cu

u-who and wh

your custom." "Surely this is no

borrow a resting-place on your father'

se, horned ears, marched gravely towards the water, sniffed at the scholar, slightly wagged his tail, and buried himsel

ud in the scholar's memory; but with recognition ca

irl?" he asked, lo

hen we last met. Provi

d himself he owed the grief for Sophy's abduction. He divined n

just now, I called to mind that when we met before, you said your calling should be the Church, were it not for your difficulty in utterance; and I said to myself, 'No bad thing those peb

"through his nose? I n

peak without lungs; that

smoke, I

ertain

me to think, time to breathe. The moment you begin to stammer, stop, fill the lungs thus, then try again! It i

ch for his betrayal of Waife to Mrs. Crane in the absorbing interest of the hope

e a whiff from my pipe; that's right.

iend to you that man ever h

ant a friend: I don't deserve one. You'll be a friend to my little girl inst

service to me. Free this wretched tongue from its stammer, and thought and zeal will not sta

tongue. That was not the moment to confess; it might destroy all Waife's

But have you a bo

ways

ek, I ho

Chatham recommended those sermons to h

and now for it. Listen to me; one sentenc

their ears again, and, as t