Our democratic institutions, while they contribute much to the formation of excellent orators, depress the standard which measures good debaters. The speeches of most of our Congressmen illustrate this. Randolph said much truth, when he replied that the speeches which members addressed to posterity, would fail to reach their address. The "stump" style of speaking greatly prevails in Congress, especially in the House. This leads us to consider again the art of debating. It is twofold, the Conversational and the Declamatory. Abstractly we can scarcely award the superiority to either. Circumstances, national traits, the refinements of education, the nature of subjects, and the character of the occasions, determine the proper style. The Conversational style, which prevails in the British House of Lords, for obvious reasons does not obtain in the American Senate. Prevailing in an assembly, composed of equals by birth and fortune, it adopts the calmness and dignity of elevated conversation. It presupposes a body of men, but slightly swayed by the forces of passion and prejudice, where truth needs to borrow no vehement oratory, or rhetorical subterfuge, and where that deference which exists among cautious and deliberating statesmen, checks the outbursts of enthusiasm and applause which prevail in more ordinary debates. It is the most difficult style of oratory, inasmuch as it stirs no passion, and aims to excite no vivid emotion. The best exemplification of this style in America, may perhaps be found in Edward Everett and Wendell Phillips, in their ordinary elocution. The Declamatory style prevails in America. The majority of our orators and debaters address themselves to democratic assemblies, not always the most enlightened, to juries proverbially deficient in acuteness, to legislators whose laws bear qualified testimony to their intelligence. Energy of action is a stronger argument than vigor of thought. Much depends upon elocution and rhetorical art. "Hits" are the very life of it. Our Republic, though so young, has produced many distinguished speakers of this class. Few orators have ever lived endowed with greater declamatory powers than Patrick Henry, S. S. Prentiss, and Henry Clay. We have thus distinguished between two styles of oratory and debate, because it is not critically studied in our Societies. There is, assuredly, in the mind of every man, great moral principles, latent perhaps, and covered up by the rubbish of false education, destructive influences and worse ignorance, yet planted firmly there, with an inherent power over his actions, which not all the evils of ignorance and vice can wholly obliterate. These are the principles of Truth, Jus tice, Benevolence. Yet they are ever trammeled by the forces of Error, Prejudice and Passion. These varied and opposing principles are the orator's key-notes. By appeals to the deeper principles of right and justice, by calling in all the aid of intense feeling and patriotic enthusiasm, does the true Debater magnify his office, not only by extending the sway of these principles in his own breast, but also by strengthening the bands that hold the moral Universe together. Before us are facilities for acquiring the greatest perfection in the art of debating. It is treachery to ourselves, and recreancy to the solemn promises which bind us to our respective Societies, to neglect these opportunities. W. N. A. OH! how oft the heart recalleth, as it gropes among the years, Little dreamed we in the future, that was pictured fancy bright, Oh! but soon we felt some meaning in the hopes so unfulfilled, Sad it was, that first subduing, sad to sit by Youth's first graves, Yes, to wait, though life-blood precious stains the ground on which westand, Though we've toiled from morn till evening, and from eve till morn again, More complete He'd make our service, and the sacrifice more great, Oh, we'll fold the sacred lessons close upon our throbbing life, Trust the good that's deeply working through the spirit's toil and strife, "Work and wait"-our souls relying wholly on the arm Divine, "All things well the Father doeth," storms may lower, or sun may shine; We can walk with calm and patience o'er the dark, mysterious ways, Ever from our hearts ascending incense, prayer and grateful praise ; So we'll journey till the angels beckon from the pearly gate, And amid the Hallelujahs, enter in, 66 no more to wait." The Evil Genius. A LEGEND OF YALE. THE Skeptic may doubt or deny the ghostly stories of the past, but their very existence, after so long an interval, is at least presumptive evidence of their birth. We all, however incredulous, look back with awe to those times when the spirits of the departed walked the earth, and, though seldom seen, communed with the living. There, too, is certain belief mingled with our wonder, for such tales touch a responsive chord in our nature. Man must believe in supernatural agencies; convinced of the future existence of the spirit, he is, nevertheless, at a total loss in determining its nature. With its departure from the body terminates his knowledge of it; and all beyond is mystery. What is it! Where has it gone? Can it revisit earth? Such questions none can answer, but all must propound to themselves. Superstition is too universal, too natural a feeling to be totally disregarded. But there exists a very common opinion that these days have departed; that now great facts alone govern the universe, and the guardian spirits of the Good and the demoniacal influence of the Bad, have been banished from among men. The idea is erroneous; to-day, and in our very midst, these influences are as potent as ever. Departed Spirits now, as then, permeate space, overlooking and, in some degree, controlling the destinies of men. Such an explanation is rendered necessary by modern skepticism, as an excuse for recounting a few mysterious facts. Among the applicants for admission to the Class of 17-, gathered in the College Chapel for examination, was one who attracted universal attention. A sad, melancholy expression rested on his face, seldom relieved by any manifestation of emotion. Among others he was admitted, and from that day was with, but not of, them. As time progressed and Class bonds were strengthened, he remained without the pale. He never spoke unless addressed, and then briefly; he roomed alone, walked alone, lived alone. No one knew him, no one wished to; amid social, congenial spirits he existed-a misanthrope. He was naturally dis liked; it was a superstitious age, and he became the Jonah of his Class; all evils and misfortunes, public and private, were attributed to him. The feeling against him increased with time, until many serious charges were alleged, and grave suspicions were whispered about. Strange stories were told how he had been seen at night to leave his room and wander toward West Rock, a place of which little was known, much was presumed. A few bold spirits attempted to explore it and discover his place of resort. They returned with terrible stories, and proclaimed it a fit abode of Ghosts. Thus spread a report that he visited that lone spot to commune with Demons. Each one added some confirmation to the rumor. He had been seen at night walking with some one, he had been heard in his room at midnight conversing with some one, though no one went in or out. The suspicion became certainty, and he was proclaimed a wizzard. At this juncture a desperate midnight expedition against the College bell was discovered, and the conspirators expelled. The plan had been carefully laid, and every precaution been taken; it was certain that they had been betrayed, but by whom? A secret self-constituted Lynch Court of twelve began an investigation. Suspicion immediately fell on the gloomy misanthrope; unfortunately his room was next to the one in which the plans were laid, and, upon examination, a loose brick was found in the walls of his coal closet. The evidence was deemed conclusive, and he was condemned as a spy. At midnight he was seized, dragged to the pump, and though protesting his innocence, received the allotted punishment. Every indignity was heaped upon him, and many injuries. inflicted. When they desisted he rose and faced them; his countenance was terrible; that meek expression of melancholy had disappeared, his nostrils expanded, and his eye flashed fire. In a voice almost supernatural, he exclaimed, "A curse on you all; from this hour I am the Evil Genius of Yale. My life shall be spent in devising injuries for you and your race; my Spirit shall haunt the College forever, and work out my plans. My revenge shall be sweet." With these words he retreated toward West Rock and never returned. But few knew the truth; a fruitless investigation was held, and in time. all was forgotten. One by one those twelve Judges lost health and spirits; not one of them ever graduated. Seventy years passed by and an old man, worn down by age, arrived at New Haven. Eagerly he viewed every locality; he spoke to none, he was avoided by all. There was a malignant expression on his face that told even the most casual observer of evil passions. He was noticed by all and elicited many remarks of wonder. North College had just been built, and his favorite resort was its attic, where he sat by day and slept by night. Pitied as well as feared by all, he was not molested, and in a few days disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. A few days ago, prompted by curiosity, (or perhaps some more potent influence,) I wandered to that attic. Great beams running in every direction, the tapering roof, and its size all conduce to give it the appearance of some haunted castle of old. A mouse, running to his hole, attracted my attention, and while carelessly examining the place of its exit, by chance I discovered a small roll of paper nicely folded and hidden in a crevice. Age was manifest, for Time had stamped upon it his yellow seal. The writing being almost illegible, I placed it in my pocket for future examination. That night, while musing by my fire and recalling one by one the events of the day, I thought of the paper and drew it forth, expecting to find a Greek exercise, or, perchance, the more precious relic of a Latin excuse. Far different were the contents that met my astonished gaze. The writing was much obscured by age; some was entirely worn out, and the remainder was with considerable difficulty deciphered. What I succeeded in reading was as follows: 66 Curses, aye, bitter curses, be upon the Students of Yale, whose predecessors worked great injury to the innocent. I will be their Evil Genius forever, yea, I will ever haunt the College. I have sworn a terrible oath and will fulfill it. I have cursed, and will accomplish it. Terrible destruction shall overtake |