C. I am not surprised at that; for I see but very few who aim at it: nay, I freely own that Cicero himself, who lays down this rule, seems oftentimes to forget it. What do you think of those rhetorical flowers with which he embellished his harangues? They might amuse the fancy, but could not touch the heart.

A. We must distinguish, sir, betwixt Tully's orations. Those he composed in his youth (when he chiefly aimed at establishing his character) have ofttimes the gay defect you speak of. He was then full of ambition, and far more concerned for his own fame than for the justice of his cause. And this will always be the case when people employ one to plead for them, who regards their business no further than as it gives him an opportunity of distinguishing himself, and of shining in his profession. Thus we find that among the Romans their pleading at the bar was ofttimes nothing else but a pompous declamation. After all, we must own that Tully's youthful and most elaborate orations show a great deal of his moving and persuasive art. But to form a just notion of it, we must observe the harangues he made in his more advanced age for the necessities of the republic. For then the experience he had in the weightiest affairs, the love of liberty, and the fear of those calamities that hung over his head, made him display the utmost efforts of his eloquence. When he endeavored to support and revive expiring liberty, and to animate the commonwealth against Antony his enemy, you do not see him use points of wit and quaint antithesis; he is then truly eloquent. Everything seems artless, as it ought to be when one is vehement. With a negligent air he delivers the most natural and affecting sentiments, and says everything that can move and animate the passions.

C.-You have often spoken of witty conceits and quaint turns. Pray, what do you mean by these expressions? For I can scarce distinguish those witty turns from the other ornaments of discourse. In my opinion, all the embellishments of speech flow from wit and a vigorous fancy.

A. But Tully thinks there are many expressions that owe all their beauty and ornament to their force and propriety; and to the nature of the subject they are applied to.

C.—I do not exactly understand these terms: be pleased to show me in a familiar way how I may readily distinguish betwixt a flash of wit, or (quaint turn,) and a solid ornament, or noble, delicate thought.

A.- Reading and observation will teach you best; there are a hundred different sorts of witty conceits.

C.-But pray, sir, tell me at least some general mark by which I may know them: is it affectation?

A.- Not every kind of affectation, but a fond desire to please, and show one's wit. C. This gives me some little light; but I want still some distinguishing marks to direct my judgment.

A. I will give you one then, which perhaps will satisfy you. We have seen that eloquence consists not only in giving clear, convincing proofs, but likewise in the art of moving the passions. Now, in order to move them, we must be able to paint them well with their various objects and effects. So that I think the whole art of oratory may be reduced to proving, painting, and raising the passions. Now all those pretty, sparkling, quaint thoughts, that do not tend to one of these ends, are only witty conceits.

C. What do you mean by painting? I never heard that term applied to rhetoric. A. To paint is not only to describe things, but to represent the circumstances of them in such a lively, sensible manner, that the hearer shall fancy he almost sees them with his eyes. For instance, if a dry historian were to give an account of Dido's death, he would only say she was overwhelmed with sorrow after the departure

of Æneas; and that she grew weary of her life, so went up to the top of her palace, and lying down on her funeral pile, stabbed herself. Now these words would inform you of the fact; but you do not see it. When you read the story in Virgil, he sets it before your eyes. When he represents all the circumstances of Dido's despair, describes her wild rage, and death already staring in her aspect; when he makes her speak at the sight of the picture and sword that Æneas left, your imagination transports you to Carthage, where you see the Trojan fleet leaving the shore, and the queen quite inconsolable. You enter into all her passions, and into the sentiments of the supposed spectators. It is not Virgil you then hear; you are too attentive to the last words of unhappy Dido to think of him. The poet disappears, and we see only what he describes; and hear those only whom he makes to speak. Such is the force of a natural imitation, and of painting in language. Hence it comes that the painters and the poets are so nearly related; the one paints for the eyes, and the other for the ears; but both of them ought to convey the liveliest pictures to people's imagination. I have taken an example from a poet to give you a livelier image of what I mean by painting in eloquence, for poets paint in a stronger manner than orators. Indeed, the main thing in which poetry differs from eloquence is, that the poet paints with enthusiasm and gives bolder touches than the orator. But prose allows of painting in a moderate degree; for, without lively descriptions, it is impossible to warm the hearer's fancy, or to stir his passions. A plain narrative does not move people; we must not only inform them of facts, but strike their senses by a lively, moving representation of the manner and circumstances of the facts we relate.

C.—I never reflected on this before. But seeing what you call painting is essential to oratory, does it not follow that there can be no true eloquence without a due mixture of poetry?

A. You are right: only we must exclude versification; that is, a strict regard to the quantity of syllables, and the order of words in which the poet is obliged to express his thoughts, according to the measure or verse he writes in. Versification, indeed, if it be in rhyme, is what injudicious people reckon to be the whole of poetry. Some fancy themselves to be poets, because they have spoken or writ in measured words; but there are many who make verses without poetry, and others are very poetical without making verses. If, therefore, we set versifying aside, poetry in other respects is only a lively fiction that paints nature. And if one has not this genius for painting, he will never be able to imprint things on the hearer's mind; but his discourse will be flat, languid and wearisome. Ever since the fall of Adam, men's thoughts have been so low and groveling, that they are unattentive to moral truths, and can scarce conceive anything but what affects their senses. In this consists the degeneracy of human nature. People soon grow weary of contemplation; intellectual ideas do not strike their imagination, so that we must use sensible and familiar images to support their attention, and convey abstracted truths to their minds. Hence it came that soon after the fall the religion of all the Ancients consisted of poetry and idolatry; which were always joined together in their various schemes of superstition. But let us not wander too far-you see plainly that poetry, I mean the lively painting of things, is, as it were, the very soul of eloquence.

C. But if true orators be poets, I should think that poets are orators too,- for poetry is very proper to persuade.

A. Yes; they have the very same end. All the difference betwixt them consists in what I have told you. Orators are not possessed with that enthusiasm which fires the poet's breast, and renders him more lively, more sublime, and bolder in expression. You remember the passage I quoted from Cicero.

C.- Which? is it not

A.-That an orator ought to have the style almost of a poet; that almost points out the difference between them.

C.-I understand you. But you do not come to the point you proposed to explain to us.

A.- Which?

C.-The rule for distinguishing betwixt witty turns and solid ornaments. A. You will soon comprehend that. For of what use in discourse can any ornament be that does not tend either to prove, to paint, or to affect?

C. It may serve to please.

A. We must distinguish here between such ornaments as only please and those that both please and persuade. That which serves to please in order to persuade is good and solid; thus we are pleased with strong and clear arguments. The just and natural emotions of an orator have much grace and beauty in them; and his exact and lively painting charms us. So that all the necessary parts of eloquence are apt to please, but yet pleasing is not their true aim. The question is, whether we shall approve such thoughts and expressions as may perhaps give an amusing delight; but, in other respects, are altogether useless: and these I call quaint turns, and points of wit. You must remember now that I allow all those graces of style, and delicate thoughts that tend to persuasion; I only reject those vain, affected ornaments that the self-conceited author uses, to paint his own character, and amuse others with his wit, instead of filling their minds entirely with his subject. In fine, I think we ought to condemn not only all jingle and playing with words, as a thing extremely mean and boyish, but even all witty conceits and fanciful turns; I mean such thoughts as only flash and glitter upon the fancy, but contain nothing that is solid and conducive to persuasion.

From "Dialogues on Eloquence.»

ELOCUTION, GESTURE, AND DELIVERY

ou approve then of many different gestures, and various inflections of the voice?

A. It is that variety which gives so much grace and force to the action of an orator; and made Demosthenes far excel all others. The more easy and familiar that the voice and action appear, when the speaker only narrates, explains, or instructs, the more apt he will be to surprise and move the audience in those parts of his discourse, where he grows suddenly vehement, and enforces lofty, affecting sentiments by a suitable energy of voice and action. This due pronunciation is a kind of music, whose beauty consists in the variety of proper tones and inflections of the voice, which ought to rise or fall with a just and easy cadence, according to the nature of the things we express. It gives a light as well as a grace to language, and is the very life and spirit of discourse.

B.

orators.

According to your notions of elocution, it is an art unknown to our greatest The preacher that you and I heard, about a fortnight ago, did not observe your rule, nor even seem to attempt it. Except the first thirty words of his sermon, he spake always in the same tone; and the only sign I could perceive of his being more vehement in some parts of his discourse than in others, was that when he seemed earnest he spoke faster than at other times.

A. To me, sir, his voice seemed to have two tones; though they were well adapted to his words. You observed justly enough that he did not follow the rules

of pronunciation; and I believe he did not perceive the need of them. His voice is naturally melodious; and though it be ill managed, it is, however, pleasing enough. But you see plainly that it does not make those strong, affecting impressions on the mind that it would produce, if it had such various inflections as are proper to express the speaker's sentiments. Such preachers are like fine clocks, that give a clear, full, soft, agreeable sound; but after all they are clocks only of no significancy; and having no variety of notes, they are incapable of harmony or eloquence. B. But were there not many graces in the rapidity of his discourse?

A. Yes; and I grant that in some affecting, lively passages one ought to speak faster than usual. But it is a great fault to speak with so much precipitation that one cannot stop himself, nor be distinctly understood. The voice and action bear some resemblance to verse. Sometimes we must use such a slow and grave measure as is fit to describe things of that character; and sometimes a short impetuous one, to express what is quick and ardent. To use always the same degree of action, and the same tone of voice, is like prescribing one remedy for all distempers. But we ought to excuse the uniformity of that preacher's voice and action. For, besides his possessing many excellent qualities, the fault we complain of is the natural effect of his style. We have already agreed that the modulation of the voice should be exactly suited to the words. Now his style is even, and uniform, without the least variety. On the one hand, it is not familiar, insinuating, and popular; and, on the other, it has nothing in it that is lively, figurative, and sublime; but it consists of a constant flow of words, that press one after the other; containing a close and well-connected chain of reasoning, on clear ideas. In a word, he is a man that talks good sense very correctly. Nay, we must acknowledge that he has done great service to the pulpit; he has rescued it from the servitude of vain declaimers, and filled it himself with much strength and dignity. He is very capable of convincing people; but I know few preachers who persuade and move them less than he doth. If you observe carefully, you will even find that his way of preaching is not very instructive, for besides his not having a familiar, engaging, pathetic manner of talking, (as I observed before,) his discourse does not in the least strike the imagination, but is addressed to the understanding only. It is a thread of reasoning that cannot be comprehended without the closest attention. And seeing there are but few hearers capable of such a constant application of mind, they retain little or nothing of his discourse. It is like a torrent that hurries along at once, and leaves its channel dry. In order to make a lasting impression on people's minds, we must support their attention, by moving their passions; for dry instructions can have but little influence. But the thing that I reckon least natural in this preacher is the continual motion he gives his arms, while there is nothing figurative nor moving in his words. The action used in ordinary conversation would suit his style best; or his impetuous gesture would require a style full of sallies and vehemence; and even then he behooved to manage his warmth better, and render it less uniform. In fine, I think he is a great man-but not an orator. A country preacher who can alarm his hearers, and draw tears from them, answers the end of eloquence better than he. B. But how shall we know the particular gestures and the inflections of voice that are agreeable to nature?

A. I told you before that the whole art of good orators consists in observing what nature does when unconstrained. You ought not to imitate those haranguers who choose always to declaim, but will never talk to their hearers. On the contrary, you should address yourself to an audience in such a modest, respectful, engaging manner, that each of them shall think you are speaking to him in particular. And this is the use and advantage of natural, familiar, insinuating tones of voice. They ought always to be grave and becoming; and even strong and pathetic when

the subject requires it. But you must not fancy that you can express the passions by the mere strength of voice, like those noisy speakers who by bawling and tossing themselves about, stun their hearers, instead of affecting them. If we would succeed in painting and raising the passions, we must know exactly what movements they inspire. For instance, observe what is the posture, and what the voice of one whose heart is pierced with sorrow, or surprised at the sight of an astonishing object; remark the natural action of the eyes; what the hands do; and what the whole body. On such occasions nature appears, and you need only follow it; if you must employ art, conceal it so well under an exact imitation that it may pass for nature itself. But to speak the truth, orators in such cases are like poets who write elegies or other passionate verses; they must feel the passion they describe, else they can never paint it well. The greatest art imaginable can never speak like true passion and undisguised nature. So that you will always be but an imperfect orator if you be not thoroughly moved with those sentiments that you paint, and would infuse into others.

From "Dialogues on Eloquence."