It sinks in slumber with all Nature round.
But, hark! what is that shout, so quick and high?
And seems to echo distant as the sky?

'Tis the startling, wild alarm of "Fire!

fire! fire!" And "Fire! fire! fire!" caught by the second crier, Resounding through the streets and avenues, 'Till every watch the warning cry renews. The signal-bell sends out its fierce alarm, And hundreds answer in discordant chime, And, hurrying to and fro, the fireman's tread Is heard upon those stones that were so dead. Now through the streets with courser speed they fly, Propelling on their heavy enginery,

Accompanied with sturdy shout, and cry

Of "Hoi! hoi! hoi!" and the trumpet's hoarser bray,
As if the brave, who drag along those cars,
Long to cope in conflagrating wars;

The distant flames directs their course alone,
To save the stranger's property and home.
Himself!-they rush to elemental strife,
Regardless of that hideous foe of life,

And constant streams of gushing fountains flow
Upon that conflagrating scene of woe.
But still those flames are rushing wildly on,

And all their efforts blast! What's to be done?
And as they see the noble pile must go,

A horrid shriek falls on the crowd below,

From yonder attic window high-reply

A thousand tongues, "A woman! she must die!"

And, oh my God! upon her arms a child!

When from the crowd, with movements quick and wild,

A shuddering, maniacal wretch exclaims,

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My wife! my child! oh, save them from the flames!'

But silently the fireman glances there:

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The tallest ladder to the side with care!

The tottering tower is reared, and, scaling high,
A fireman through the wreathing smoke descry.

"He's reached the window!-breaks into the room!

A moment's stay decides their final doom!"

The smoth'ring smoke and flames are pouring out,
And hide him from our view!-too late, no doubt!
But, see! a gust those rolling volumes tear!
Behold, as if suspended in the air,

The sturdy fireman, calm, serene, and mild,
Upon his arm the mother and her child!

And, lowering down, with caution sure and slow.
"The walls are reeling!" shout the crowd below.
He heeds it not, but clutches still his prize;

A husband's groans

-a 'wildered father's sighsAlone he hears; and boldly bears his load, Unharmed, to earth, from that inflamed abode.

But 'tis too much-exertion was too strong-
He sinks prostrated in the exulting throng.

Those warping walls are swaying to their fall,
And all but one have heard the warning call,
And fled. The heart who bore that child and wife,
From yonder flaming hight, benumbed of life,
Is sleeping calmly by his lattice tower,
Perhaps, in dream, with Lizzy, for an hour.
But, quick as thought, his noble brethren fly,
(He risked for others, life, for him they'll die,)
To the rescue of their fellow-they are there,
And raise him in their arms with brothers' care;
But 'tis too late, the walls are giving way.
And they are crushed beneath that burning clay.
The Fireman's courage, valor, strength, must save
His friend or stranger from a burning grave;
Save others first, himself the last to serve-
The golden rule, from which he can not swerve.

D. T. S.

NATURE AND PHILOSOPHY.

THE following poem may appear too frivolous for oratorical representation, but let it be remembered, that even comedy requires study to be represented "to nature; and this story contains many comical points, which must awaken no little mirth, when accurately presented in recitation. The peculiar style of verse in which it is written, requires the greatest caution, to avoid a monotonous singsong, which, if indulged, destroys every beauty it contains.

Poor Friar Philip lost his wife,

The charm and comfort of his life;
He mourned her not, like modern men,
For ladies were worth having then.
The world was altered in his view,
All things put on a yellow hue;
Even ladies, once his chief delight,
Were now offensive to his sight;
In short, he pined and looked so ill,
The doctor hoped to get a bill.
At last he made a vow to fly,
And hide himself from every eye,
Take up his lodging in a wood,
To turn a hermit and grow good.
He had a child now, you must know,
About a twelve-month old, or so;
Him Philip took up in his arms,
To snatch him from all female charms,
Intending he should never know,

There were such things as girls below:
But lead an honest hermit's life,

"For," said he, "he might lose his wife."
The place he chose for his retreat
Was once a lion's country seat.
Far in a wild romantic wood,
The hermit's little cottage stood;
Hid by the trees from human view,
The sun, himself, could scarce get through.
A little garden tilled with care,
Supplies them with their daily fare:
Fresh water cresses from the spring,
Turnips and greens, or some such thing,
Hermits don't care much what they eat,
And appetite can make it sweet.
'Twas here our little hermit grew,-
Adapting, like a cheerful sage,
His lessons to the pupil's age.

At five years old he showed him flowers,
Taught him their various names and powers:
Then talked of lions, wolves, and bears,
Things children hear with all their ears;
Taught him to blow upon a reed,
To say his prayers, and get the creed.
At ten he lectured him on herbs,
(Better than learning nouns and verbs.)
The names and qualities of trees,
Manners and customs of the bees;
Then talked of oysters full of pearls,
But not a word about the girls.
At fifteen years he turned his eyes,
To view the wonders of the skies,
Called all the stars by proper names,
As you would call on John or James:
And showed him all the things above,
But not a whisper about love.
And now his sixteenth year was nigh,
And yet he had not learned to sigh;
Had sleep and appetite to spare:
He could not tell the name of care;
And all-because he did not know,
There were such things as girls below.
But now a tempest raged around;
The hermit's little nest was drowned:
Good-bye, then, to poor Philip's crop;
It did not leave a turnip-top.
Poor Philip grieved, and his son too;
They prayed: they knew not what to do:
If they were hermits, they must live,
And wolves have not much alms to give.
Now, in his native town he knew
He had disciples, rich ones, too,

Who would not let him beg in vain,
But set the hermit up again.

But what to do with his young son,
Pray! tell me what would you have done?

Take him to town? he was afraid:

For what if he should see a maid?

In love, as sure as he had eyes,

Then, any quantity of sighs.

Leave him at home? the wolves! the bears!

Poor Philip had a father's fears,—

In short, he knew not what to do,
But thought at last to take him, too.
And so, with truly pious care,
He makes a good long-winded prayer;
Intended as a sort of charm,

To keep his darling lad from harm;
That is, from pretty ladies' wiles,
Especially their eyes and smiles.
Then brushed his coat of silver-gray,
And then you see them on their way.
It was a town, they all agree,
Where there was everything to see;
As paintings, statues, and so on,
All that men loved to look upon.
Our little lad, you may suppose,

Had never seen so many shows.

He stands, with open mouth and eyes,

Like one just fallen from the skies,

Pointing at everything he sees:

What's this? what's that? oh here! what's these?" At last, he sees a charming thing,

That men call angels when they sing

Young ladies when they speak in prose,
Sweet things, as every body knows.
Transported, ravished at the sight,
He feels a strange, but sweet delight.

"What's this? what's this? O heavens!" he cries,
"That looks so sweetly with its eyes?

O shall I catch it? is it tame?

What is it, father? what's its name?"
Poor Philip knew not what to say,
But tried to turn his eyes away:
He crossed himself, and made a vow;
'Tis as I feared, all's over now.
Then, "Prithee, have thy wits let loose?
It is a bird men call a GOOSE."
"A goose! O pretty, pretty thing!
And will it sing, too? will it sing?
O come, come quickly, let us run;
That's a good father, catch me one!
We'll take it with us to our cell;
Indeed! indeed! I'll treat it well!

ORATORY.

IT is not my intention, here, to represent and illustrate some unknown theory in the art of elocution, oratory, or eloquence. The reader is, undoubtedly, well aware how numerous the authors are, who have given such a multiplicity of rules upon this important branch of a business education. So general are they that, should I endeavor to promulgate a new theory for oratorical delivery which would be worthy of honor to the author, I should, I fear, find it as difficult to explore ground which had not already been surveyed, as to lift myself in a cauldron against the laws of gravitation; and, I deem it useless for me to recapitulate those theories and rules which have already been placed at your hands. If the reader considers them valuable, he can peruse them at his leisure. I am quite positive it would be of little interest for me to introduce them here.

But I will define what I consider to be understood by Oratorical Delivery; and, in so doing, I will endeavor to give you that analyses which will point the reader nearest to nature. I must still respect that old direction, "he natural." I would not be understood to discard any instruction for modulation and action which coincides with nature; but it is well to reflect how much of the various theories which have lately been presented to us with so much enthusiasm, coincide with that old direction, be natural."

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By Oratorical Delivery, I would be understood, that art by which the speaker is enabled to present to his hearers his own sentiments, or even the sentiments of others, in such manner that his intonations and actions truly portray the sentiments which it is his object to promulgate; and have the power to make his hearers feel those emotions which he represents.

This appears to me to be a natural definition; and it will always be my aim, at least, to deliver whatever I wish to express to others, in accordance with nature. Then it is, that modulation has its proper intonation, and action proves more than a mere dumb show. Oratory is always beautiful and powerful, when it is the outbursting of the heart. This assertion is accurately illustrated by the overwhelming power which those short harangues occasioned which we find scattered throughout the history of every country and age often changing the fate of nations, as well as individuals. Peter the Hermit, whose pious exhortations first awakened the crusading spirit in southern Europe, stands an everlasting example of the