is choke-full; their philosophy never having taught them that a great pressure of wind on a comparatively empty vessel will produce an equally vigorous issue.

9. The career of Mr. Fox goes to establish the maxim that the orator is made―orator fit. Though Mr. Fox stood on a proud pre-eminence, it was only by long and hard struggle that he reached that eminence. Burke, speaking of him after their unhappy difference, says: "I knew him when he was nineteen (at which age he entered Parliament), since which time he has risen by slow degrees to be the most brilliant and accomplished debater the world ever saw." It was by slow degrees, trying, tasking practice, speaking at every opportunity, and this persisted in. "During five whole sessions," he says, "I spoke every night but one, and I only regret that I did not speak on that night too." It is not to be supposed that one who was always speaking could always speak well; but, well or ill, there would be some benefit to himself; a growth in facility, and even power, of speaking.

10. But while persistent practice will nurture the orator's facility, it requires the conflicts and taskings of antagonism to bring out the highest powers, the truly gigantic exertions in this line. This is shown in the case of Fox and Pitt. Had these great performers been on the same side, together they would not have possessed nor approached the measure of strength which each, alone, possessed in opposition to the other. As it was they were kept on the stretch of effort; now and then were strained to the very highest tension of endeavor; and they grew colossal under the stress. They found no match but in each other. They replied on great questions to none but each other. On one occasion Erskine made a speech immediately after one by Fox. Pitt at first announced his intention of replying to both, but afterward said: "I shall make no mention of what was said by the honorable gentleman who spoke last; he did no more than regularly repcat what was said by the member who preceded him, and as regularly weaken all he repeated."

11. In observing different speakers there is nothing we

become convinced of sooner than this, that it behooves every man to be himself— to act and speak like himself. No one can with impunity allow himself to be moulded into the shape and bearing and to shine with the finish and polish of somebody else. Doubtless it would have seemed to many a good thing to have had Mr. Fox smoothed, schooled, adjusted, and presented before us a handsome speaker. But the process would have been a shearing of the Samson. We may criticize such a man as Fox-his style and manner; but greatly change him, and you spoil him. Where, indeed, such powers and aptitudes as his exist, there especially should education come in to improve and perfect them. Had Fox been an educated orator, had he cut off excrescences, and cherished and carried forward his excellences, he might have surpassed all English speakers, and stood next to, if not on a full equality with, the great Athenian. He might have been educated with no abatement of that racy naturalness which gave him such power. But take away from this man what you call his faults-his awkwardness, his uncouthness, his heaving, his rolling- and you take away some of the essentials of his strength; because these were his characteristically, intensely his, in his blood and bones. and marrow and soul. There was never a truer remark than that which came from John Randolph in his latter-day ravings, "a natural fool is preferable to a learned one; that is, faulty things which belong to the man, and which would be intolerable as caught by another, are sometimes amongst the elements of his greatness. We have this same thing illustrated in the late Dr. Chalmers, who has been called the most eloquent of modern preachers. Perhaps he was the most eloquent. Most certainly, the man who could empty the coffee-houses, and even the counting-rooms, of Glasgow into the Trow Church for two of the best and busiest hours of Thursday forenoon, and this on successive weeks, to hear from him a religious discourse, must have been pre-eminently an eloquent man. Still a critic according to the books might fall upon him, and eat at him till he had well-nigh

eaten him up,—so faulty in everything; his style rugged and unruly, refusing the gait of other people, and playing gigantic pranks, ever and anon towering and swelling into an unmanageable, not to say outrageous, magnificence; his voice pouring out a torrent of the harshest provincialism; his hands, one employed in grasping and holding on upon his manuscript, which he servilely read, the other going up and down with a sort of spasmodic jerk, as though the lightning of the soul were relieving itself through the muscles of that member. That was it; the lightning of his soul, pervading the massiveness of the thought and the clumsiness of the manner, which in Chalmers and in Fox redeemed everything else. This vehemence of the soul is the life of all true eloquence. All the leading orators, while they differ even oppositely on other points, have this. Where this is, other things may be wanting, or be awry, but the speaker will demonstrate to the minds and the hearts before him that he is not wanting.

12. But when we come to moral defects it is a different matter. It has been a wonder to many that Fox brought so little to pass. Strange it will seem to most that that superlative intellect, often so sublimely waked and working; that sunlight-clearness and vehement strength of argument; that grandeur of plain and intuitive sense, that all those prodigious gifts and powers brought upon that great arena, where questions involving the fate of millions were canvassed, accomplished no more for himself, for his country, and the race. It was the moral defects, the shameful vices of the man, the dissipation and licentiousness, which turned all that consummate eloquence and statesmanship to comparative impotence. Admirable, almost preternatural, gifts all but thrown away. So in this case; so in every case. History reads her lesson loud and clear, having other examples, though few so notable as this. Let those coming upon the stage, and those now on the stage, accept the lesson. And let the lesson in this its immortal connection, and with this its imperishable record, go down to the last day of time.

In concurrence with, and in the phrase of, the ablest of modern essayists, "We wish the greatest genius on earth, whoever he may be, might write an inscription for this great statesman's monument to express in the most strenuous of all possible modes of thought and utterance, the truth and the warning that no person will ever be accepted to serve mankind in the highest departments of utility, without an eminence of virtue which can sustain him in the noble defiance, Which of you convicts me of sin.""

ARTICLE IV.

THE DERIVATION OF UNQUAM, USQUAM, AND USQUE.

BY PROF. LEMUEL S. POTWIN, WESTERN RESERVE COLLEGE, HUDSON, OHIO.

THE derivation of Unquam from unus and quam, given in Andrews' Latin Dictionary, and even in White and Riddle's, is probably satisfactory to no one. Such a use of unus is without example, and if admitted would only explain the form unquam, leaving the other form umquam inexplicable; while, as to the meaning of the word, neither unus nor quam contains the idea of time, which is fundamental to unquam.

In seeking for the origin of unquam, or umquam (from which the former comes by euphony), the first suggestion from its form would be that it comes from some interrogative or relative word, by the addition of quam. This suggestion, which, indeed, at the outset, amounts to evidence from analogy, arises from such familiar words as these: quis-quam, uti-quam, uti-que, ubi-que, undi-que. It is to be specially noted that in several words of this class the initial k sound has been lost, as is proved by the forms, ali-cubi, ali-cunde, unde-cunde. There can be no doubt, also, that uti arises from cuti. In the light of these examples then, um-quam appears to be a changed form of cum-quam, or quum-quam.

Let us turn now to the meaning of umquam. Quis-quam

means any one at all. How it comes to mean this is not essential to our present inquiry; but we may observe, in passing, how often an interrogative, by being closely connected with an enclitic or a prefix, becomes an indefinite, as in siquis, nequis, numquis, ecquis, aliquis, quispiam, quisque, and that quam passes readily from the idea of manner to that of amount and degree, as in quam multi, quamdiu. Thus quisquam would mean any-as-much-as, or just any, and in implied negative connection any at all. But whatever be the process, the result is that quisquam means any one at all, and is used in negative and exclusive sentences. Let us try this as our guide in interpreting umquam. Cum-quam would mean at any time at all, and would be used in negative and exclusive sentences. Such, precisely, is the meaning, and such is the use of umquam.

But, if this derivation is correct, why do we not find the form um? The answer is easy. First, we could not expect to have both cum and um, meaning the same thing, any more than cubi and ubi. Secondly, if two forms of cum were required, for a distribution of meaning, and either consonant should give way, it would be the weaker. Now every reader of Latin verse knows that m final is weak. Mr. Roby says, without special reference to poetry, "At the end of words it appears to have been scarcely audible" (Gram. p. 27), cum, then, if it were to be reduced to one consonant would be, not um, but que. In fact, we can see that the weakness of m has preserved the initial c—the um being too weak to stand alone for as soon as cum is strengthened by quam, its c falls away, and it follows in the path of ut, ubi, and unde.

But why, then, do we not have umque instead of cumque? Because cumque, by itself, is little used, and thus the c is rarely initial, although it is often preceded by a vowel, as in quicumque, ubicumque, undecumque, quocumque. In similar circumstances we find the c in alicubi, alicunde, necubi, necunde.

Every consideration, then, of both form and meaning