He had no
intention of allowing my memory to grow flabby from lack of use. I
often repeat a verse he asked me to commit to memory:
In reading authors, when you find
Bright passages that strike your mind,
And which perhaps you may have reason
To think on at another season;
Be not contented with the sight,
But jot them down in black and white;
Such respect is wisely shown
As makes another's thought your own.
Every day at the supper table I had to repeat some poetry or prose and
on Sunday a hymn, some of which were rather depressing to a young
person, as:
Life is but a winter's day;
A journey to the tomb.
And the vivid description of "Dies Irae":
When shrivelling like a parched scroll
The flaming heavens together roll
And louder yet and yet more dread
Swells the high Trump that wakes the dead.
Great attention was given to my lessons in elocution from the best
instructors then known, and I had the privilege of studying with
William Russell, one of the first exponents of that art. I can still
hear his advice: "Full on the vowels; dwell on the consonants,
especially at the close of sentences; keep voice strong for the close
of an important sentence or paragraph.
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