you are imitating, was that he spoke through his nose."
"Eh!" said the scholar, "through his nose? I never knew that?—and I—"
"And you are trying to speak without lungs; that is without air in them.
You don't smoke, I presume?"
"No; certainly not."
"You must learn; speak between each slow puff of your pipe. All you want is time,—time to quiet the nerves, time to think, time to breathe. The moment you begin to stammer, stop, fill the lungs thus, then try again! It is only a clever man who can learn to write,—that is, to compose; but any fool can be taught to speak. Courage!"
"If you really can teach me," cried the learned man, forgetting all self- reproach for his betrayal of Waife to Mrs. Crane in the absorbing interest of the hope that sprang up within him, "if you can teach me; if I can but con-con-con—conq—"
"Slowly, slowly, breath and time; take a whiff from my pipe; that's right. Yes, you can conquer the impediment."
"Then I will be the best friend to you that man ever had. There's my hand on it."
"I take it, but I ask leave to change the parties in the contract. I don't want a friend: I don't deserve one. You'll be a friend to my little girl instead; and if ever I ask you to help me in aught for her welfare and happiness—"
"I will help, heart and soul! slight indeed any service to her or to you compared with such service to me. Free this wretched tongue from its stammer, and thought and zeal will not stammer whenever you say, 'Keep your promise.' I am so glad your little girl is still with you."
Waife looked surprised, "Is still with me!—why not?" The scholar bit his tongue. That was not the moment to confess; it might destroy all Waife's confidence in. him. He would do so later. "When shall I begin my lesson?"
"Now, if you like. But have you a book in your pocket?"
"I always have."
"Not Greek, I hope, sir?"
"No, a volume of Barrow's Sermons. Lord Chatham recommended those sermons to his great son as a study for eloquence."
"Good! Will you lend me the volume, sir? and now for it. Listen to me; one sentence at a time; draw your breath when I do."
The three magpies pricked up their ears again, and, as they listened, marvelled much.
CHAPTER III
Could we know by what strange circumstances a man's genius became prepared for practical success, we should discover that the most serviceable items in his education were never entered in the bills which his father paid for it.
At the end of the very first lesson George Morley saw that all the elocution masters to whose skill he had been consigned were blunderers in comparison with the basketmaker.
Waife did not puzzle him with scientific theories. All that the great comedian required of him was to observe and to imitate. Observation, imitation, lo! the groundwork of all art! the primal elements of all genius! Not there, indeed to halt, but there ever to commence. What remains to carry on the intellect to mastery? Two steps,—to reflect, to reproduce. Observation, imitation, reflection, reproduction. In these stands a mind complete and consummate, fit to cope with all labour, achieve all success.
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