My fugitive years, are all hasting away, With a turf at my breast,, and a stone at my head, It is necessary that both the cesura and demi-cesura should be distinctly marked in the reading of poetry, if a person would read it with due grace and effect; yet how few are there who even know that there is any such thing! By making the cesura fall on different places in a line, the irksomeness of uniformity in pauses is avoided. Were we always to meet with a pause after the same foot in a line, the continual repetition would grow tiresome, and make poetry worse than prose. A little attention will show us, that, by means of a full and a demi-cesura, by using sometimes only one in a line, and sometimes two and three, and by placing them after different feet and parts of feet, a great variety can be effected in sound and melody. Another source of variety in our versification is the use of both long and accented syllables. It has already been seen that both these syllables have, in our language, an equal quantity in the structure of metrical feet. By this means, much more life, energy, and variety can be infused into English verse than can be done in those languages which are destitute of this sort of accent. Here follow some examples of lines containing none but pure long syllables, and pure accented ones, and of lines in which both are intermixed. NOTE. In the accented syllables, the vowels are marked with an accent over the succeeding consonant. Syllables with the vowel long. And truth proposed to rēas'ners wise as thēy. The monarch thŭs'; the rev'rend Něs'tor then'. 3315518 Alternate. The muse forgót, and thōu be loved' no mōre. Two accented and three long. By foreign hands' thy dying eyes were closed. Lines of the first description, having all long or all accented syllables in their feet, are rarely met with. The two kinds are usually blended in the same verse in different proportions. Quite a common fault in the reading of poetry is this,—when a word ends in a consonant, and the next one begins with a vowel, to detach the consonant from the word to which it belongs and join it to the next, as though it formed the commencement of the succeeding syllable. The following lines, Loud as his thunder shout his praise, And sound it lofty as his throne, are frequently read thus, Lou das his thunder shout his praise, as if "Of our Again, "Let clouds, and winds, and waves agree,' "Let cloud, sand wind, sand wave sagree." Again, inferior clay," as if "O fou rinferior clay," or rather, as pronounced, "O vou rinferior clay." This fault likewise occurs in reading prose, but not, perhaps, as frequently. It is one which should be cautiously avoided, as it may be by the continual habit of distinct articulation, and the clear and full enunciation of the final consonant of every word and syllable. PART IV. LESSONS FOR EXERCISE. LESSON I. THE LITTLE ORPHAN GIRL. ON a dark, cold night', in the middle of November', as Mr. Hardy was travelling in a stage-coach from London to Norwich', he was roused from a sound sleep, at the end of a stage, by the coachman's opening the door of the carriage, and begging leave to look for a parcel which was in the box under Mr. Hardy's seat. The opening of the door admitted a violent gust of wind and rain', which was very unpleasant to the feelings of the sleeping passengers', and roused them to a consciousness of the situation of those who were on the outside of the vehicle. 'I hope, coachman', you have a good thick coat on, to guard you against the cold and wet'," said Mr. Hardy. "I have a very good one, sir," replied the man`; "but I have lent it to a poor little girl that we have on the top; for my heart bled for her', poor thing', she had so little clothing to keep her warm." "A child exposed on the outside of the coach on such a night as this!" exclaimed Mr. Hardy'; "I am sure it would be very wrong in us to let her stay there. Do let us have her in immediately'; it is quite shocking to think of her being in such a situation." "Oh no," cried a gentleman opposité; "we can do nothing with her; it is quite out of the question. The coach is already full', and she will be so wet' that we might as well be on the outside ourselvés as sìt near her. Besides, she is a poor child', in charge of the master of a workhousé, and one does not know what she may have about her." 66 Why, as to that, sir'," replied the coachman', "I believe she is as clean as any child needs to bé, though she is rather delicate looking', poor thing^. But she is a fîne little creàturé, and deserves better fare than she is likely to get where she is going." "Let her come in, at any raté," said Mr. Hardy; "for, poor or rich, she is equally sensible of cold; and no one, I am suré, who has a child of his own', can bear the idea of her being so exposed; and as to her being wet^, I will wrap her in my plaid', and take her on my knee^, so that no one can feel any inconvenience from it." This silenced the gentleman's objections; and the rest of the company agreeing to it, the coachman was desired to bring the child in, which he gladly did`; and the dry plaid being rolled about her, Mr. Hardy took her on his kneé, and putting his arm around her waist', clasped her, with benevolence and self-satisfaction', to his breast. "I am afraid you are very cold, my poor little girl'," said he. "I was very cold indeéd till the coachman was so good to me as to let me have his coàt," replied shé, in a very sweet and cheerful voice; but you have made me warmer still'," she added; and, as she spoké, she laid her head against the breast of her benevolent friend', and was asleep in a few minutes. "The coachman showed a great deal of concern for hér,” said one of the passengers; "I could hardly have expected so much feeling in the driver of a stage-coach." "I believe there is much more humanity among the lower classes of people than is generally supposed," replied Mr. Har`dy; "for we seldom meet with one who is deaf to the appeals of childhood' or helplessness." His companion was too sleepy to dispute the point', and the whole party soon sunk into the same state of torpor' from which this little incident had roused them', and from which they were only occasionally disturbed by the changing of horses', or the coachmen's applications for their usual feé, till the full dawn of day induced them to shake off their drowsiness. When Mr. Hardy awoké, he found that his little companion was still in a sound sleep', and he thought, with satisfaction, of the comfortable rest which he had procured for her', with only a very little inconvenience to himself. He was glad, too, that he had interested himself for her' before he sàw her'; for, had he seen the prepossessing face which he then beheld', he might have suspected that his interference had been prompted by her beauty' as much as occasioned by her distress. She appeared to be about five years old', of a fair complexion', and regular features; but Mr. Hardy was particularly interested with her sensible and expressive countenancé, which indicated extreme sweetness of disposition. "What a pity," thought he, as he looked at her', "that so promising a little creature should be confined to the charity of a poòr-housé, and there reared in vice and ignorance!" As these thoughts passed across his mind', the little girl awoke', and looked around her', as if at a loss to know where she was; but at the next moment', seeming to recollect herself', and looking in Mr. Hardy's facé, she returned his kindness by a smile of satisfaction. "Have you had a good sleep', my dear?" asked he, kindly. "Yes, sir, I have been sleeping very soundly', and I thought I was at home." "Where is your home^?" asked Mr. Hardy. "I call where my aunt Jane used to livé "And where did your aunt Jane livé ?" 66 my home." I do not know what they called the place; but it was at the end of a long lané, and there was a pretty garden before the house. It was such a nice placé, I am sure you would like it' if you saw it.” "Do you not know the name of the placé ?" 66 No, sir', I do not know what they call it', only' that it was aunt Jane's housé, and it was near the large town they call Ipswich', where my father lived', and where there were a great many ships and a large river.” Surprised at the easy and proper manner in which this little girl', who bore marks of nothing but the greatest poverty', expréssed herself', Mr. Hardy's curiosity was greatly excited', and, feeling much interested respecting her', he asked her name. "My aunt Janè used to call me Fanny Edwin'," replied she; "but my new mother told me I must say my name is Peggy Short', but I do not like that name." 66 Why did she tell you to call yourself by that' name?" asked Mr. Hardy. "I cannot tell, sir', for she used to call me Fanny herself till she took me to the large town that we came to yesterday'; and then she called me Peggy', and said I must call myself" so.” "Where is your aunt Jane now? And your new mother', as you call her', where is she gone^?” 66 My aunt Jane^, sir', went away a long time since`; she said she was forced to go to a lady who was ill', that had been very kind to her'; but she would come back to me soôn, and then I should live with her agàin, and that I must love her till she came back; and I have loved her all this time very dearly, but she has never come again." As the child said this^ her little heart swelled', and her eyes filled with tears. 'Where did you go when she left you?" inquired Mr. Hardy. "I went to live with my father'; for I had a new^ mother, my aunt Jane said', who would take care of me. But my father went away in a ship', and my new mother said he was drowned in the sea^, and would never come back again; and 4* |