trees. Suddenly he arrested his steps; an idea struck him,--one of those
old, whimsical, grotesque ideas which often when we are alone come across
us, even in our quietest or most anxious moods. Was his infirmity really
incurable? Elocution masters had said certainly not; but they had done
him no good. Yet had not the greatest orator the world ever knew a
defect in utterance? He, too, Demosthenes, had, no doubt, paid fees to
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 in jest, half in earnest, the scholar picked up a handful of
pebbles, wiped them from sand and mould, inserted them between his teeth
cautiously, and, looking round to assure himself that none were by, began
an extempore discourse. So interested did he become in that classical
experiment, that he might have tortured the air and astonished the
magpies (three of whom from a neighbouring thicket listened perfectly
spell-bound) for more than half an hour, when seized with shame at the
ludicrous impotence of his exertions, with despair that so wretched a
barrier should stand between his mind and its expression, he flung away
the pebbles, and sinking on the ground, he fairly wept, wept like a
baffled child.

The fact was, that Morley had really the temperament of an orator;
he had the orator's gifts in warmth of passion, rush of thought, logical