To epithets allots emphatic state, While principals, ungrac'd, like lackeys wait. And stands alone in indeclinables. Conjunction, preposition, adverb join To stamp new vigor on the nervous line; In monosyllables his thunders roll, HE, SHE, IT, and, we, ye, THEY, fright the soul." Emphasis is often destroyed by an injudicious attempt to read melodiously. In reading verse, this fault sometimes arises from a false notion of the necessity of preserving an alternate succession of unaccented and accented syllables; a kind of uniformity which the poet probably did not intend; and which, if he had, would certainly, at least in a poem of considerable length, become insufferably tiresome. In reading prose, this fondness for melody is, perhaps, more commonly the effect of indolence, or affectation, than of real taste; but to whatever cause it may be ascribed, it is certainly unfavorable to true oratory. Agreeable inflections and easy variations of the voice, as far as they arise from, or are consistent with, just speaking, may deserve attention; but to substitute one unmeaning tune in the room of all the proprieties and graces of elocution, and then to applaud this manner under the appellation of musical speaking, implies a perversion of judgment which can admit of no defense. If public speaking must be musical, let the words be set to music in recitative, that these melodious speakers may no longer lie open to the sarcasm: «Do you read or sing? if you sing, you sing very ill.” It is much to be wondered at, that a kind of reading which has so little merit considered as music, and none at all considered as speaking, should be so studiously practiced, and so much admired. Can a method of reading, which is so entirely different from the usual manner of conversation, be natural or right? Or is it possible, that all the varieties of sentiment which a public speaker has occasion to introduce, should be properly expressed in one melodious tone and cadence, employed alike on all occasions, and for all purposes? PAUSES ACQUIRE A JUST VARIETY OF PAUSE AND INFLECTION are not only necessary in order to enable the speaker to take breath without inconvenience, and hereby preserve the command of his voice, but in order to give 'the hearer a distinct perception of the construction and meaning of each sentence, and a clear understanding of the whole. An uninterrupted rapidity of utterance is one of the worst faults in elocution. A speaker who has this fault may be compared to an alarm bell, which, when once put in motion, clatters on till the weight that moves it is run down. Without pauses the spirit of what is delivered must be lost, and the sense must appear confused, and may even be misrepresented in a manner most absurd and contradictory. There have been reciters who have made Douglas say to Lord Randolph: "We fought and conquer'd ere a sword was drawn.» In executing this part of the office of a speaker, it will by no means be sufficient to attend to the points used in printing; for these are far from marking all the pauses which ought to be made in speaking. A mechanical attention to these resting places has, perhaps, been one cause of monotony, by leading the reader to a uniform cadence at every full period. The primary use of points is to assist the reader in discerning the grammatical construction; and it is only indirectly that they regulate his pronunciation. In reading, it may often be proper to make a pause where the printer has made none. Nay, it is very allowable, for the sake of pointing out the sense more strongly, preparing the audience for what is to follow, or enabling the speaker to alter the tone or height of the voice, sometimes to make a very considerable pause where the grammatical construction requires none at all. In doing this, however, it is necessary that upon the word immediately preceding the pause the voice be suspended in such a manner as to intimate to the hearer that the sense is not completed. The power of suspending the voice at pleasure is one of the most useful attainments in the art of speaking; it enables the speaker to pause as long as he chooses, and still keep the hearer in expectation of what is to follow. In order to perceive the manner in which this effect is produced, it is necessary to consider pauses as connected with those inflections of the voice which precede them. These are of two kinds: one of which conveys the idea of continuation; the other, that of completion; the former may be called the suspending, the latter the closing, pause. Thus in the sentence,- "Money, like manure, does no good till it is spread," the first and second pauses give the hearer an expectation of something further to complete the sense; the third pause denotes that the sense is completed. There are, indeed, cases in which, though the sense is not completed, the voice takes the closing rather than the suspending pause. Thus, where a series of particulars are enumerated, the closing pause is, for the sake of variety, admitted in the course of the enumeration; but in this case the last word or clause of the series takes the suspending pause, to intimate to the hearer the connection of the whole series with what follows. For example: "Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.' On the contrary, interrogative sentences are terminated by the suspending pause, as in the following example: "Hold you the watch tonight? — We do, my lord.—Arm'd, say you?— Arm'd, my lord.-From top to toe?- My lord, from head to foot." Except that where an interrogative pronoun or adverb begins a sentence it is usually ended with the closing pause, as: "Why should that name be sounded more than yours?" and that, where two questions are united in one sentence, and connected by the conjunction or, the first takes the suspending, the second the closing, pause, as: "Would you have been Cæsar, or Brutus ?> It may, notwithstanding, be received as a general rule, that the suspending pause is used where the sense is incomplete, and the closing where it is finished. The closing pause must not be confounded with that fall of the voice, or cadence, with which many readers uniformly finish a sentence. Nothing can be more destructive of all propriety and energy than this habit. The tones and heights at the close of a sentence ought to be diversified according to the general nature of the discourse, and the particular construction and meaning of the sentence. In plain narrative, and especially in argumentation, the least attention to the manner in which we relate a story, or maintain an argument in conversation, will show that it is more frequently proper to raise the voice than to fall it at the end of a sentence. Some sentences are so constructed that the last words require a stronger emphasis than any of the preceding; while others admit of being closed with a soft and gentle sound. Where there is nothing in the sense which requires the last sound to be elevated or emphatical, an easy fall, sufficient to show that the sense is finished, will be proper. And in pathetic pieces, especially those of the plaintive, tender, or solemn kind, the tone of the passion will often require a still greater cadence of the voice. But before a speaker can be able to fall his voice with propriety and judgment at the close of a sentence, he must be able to keep it from falling, and to raise it with all the variation which the sense requires. The best method of correcting a uniform cadence is frequently to read select sentences in which the style is pointed, and frequent antitheses are introduced, and argumentative pieces, or such as abound with interrogatives. ACCOMPANY THE EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS WHICH YOUR WORDS EXPRESS BY CORRESPONDENT TONES, LOOKS, AND GESTURES THERE 'HERE is unquestionably a language of emotions and passions, as well as a lan guage of ideas. Words are the arbitrary signs by which our conceptions and judgments are communicated, and for this end they are commonly sufficient; but we find them very inadequate to the purpose of expressing our feelings. If any one need a proof of this, let him read some dramatic speech expressive of strong passion (for example, Shakespeare's speech of Hamlet to the Ghost) in the same unimpassioned manner in which he would read an ordinary article of intelligence. Even in the silent reading, where the subject interests the passions, everyone who is not destitute of feeling, while he understands the meaning of the words, conceives the expression that would accompany them, if it were spoken. The language of passion is uniformly taught by nature, and is everywhere intelligible. It consists in the use of tones, looks, and gestures. When anger, fear, joy, grief, love, or any other passion is raised within us, we naturally discover it by the manner in which we utter our words, by the features of the face, and by other well-known signs. The eyes and countenance, as well as the voice, are capable of endless variety of expression, suited to every possible diversity of feeling, and with these the general air and gesture naturally accord. The use of this language is not confined to the more vehement passions. Upon every subject and occasion on which we speak, some kind of feeling accompanies the words; and this feeling, whatever it be, has its proper expression. No one It is an essential part of elocution to imitate this language of nature. can deserve the appellation of a good speaker, much less of a complete orator, who does not, to a distinct articulation, a ready command of voice, and just pronunciation, accent, and emphasis, add the various expressions of emotions and passions. But in this part of his office precept can afford him little assistance. To describe in words the particular expression which belongs to each emotion and passion, is, perhaps, wholly impracticable. All attempts to enable men to become orators, by teaching them, in written rules, the manner in which the voice, countenance, and hands are to be employed in expressing the passions, must, from the nature of the thing, be exceedingly imperfect, and consequently ineffectual. Upon this head I shall, therefore, only lay down the following general precept: Observe the manner in which the several passions and feelings are expressed in real life, and when you attempt to express any passion, inspire yourself with that secondary kind of feeling which imagination is able to excite, and follow your feelings with no other restraint than "this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature." JEAN SIFFREIN MAURY (1746-1817) EAN SIFFREIN MAURY, Cardinal and Archbishop of Paris, was the author of an essay on "Pulpit Eloquence" (Essai sur l'Eloquence de la Chaire), and of a work on the "Principles of Eloquence >>> (Principes de l'Eloquence), which were, and still are accepted, in France as standard works on the subject of oratory. He was born at Valréas, June 26th, 1746, and educated at Avignon. As a result of the publication of his essay on eloquence and also of a celebrated sermon delivered before the Academy, he was elected to the Academy in 1785. Entering politics soon afterwards, he became an active champion of the church and the king against the Revolution. On the fall of the Bourbon monarchy he was obliged to flee from Paris. Being considered a martyr by the opponents of the Revolution, he was made bishop of Montefiascone, in Italy, and he remained in that city until driven out by the French in 1796. On his return to Paris, under Napoleon, he was made an archbishop, and again received into the Academy, only to be expelled on the restoration of the Bourbons. Driven into exile once more, he went to Rome, where he died May 11th, 1817. I THE ORATOR AND HIS AUDIENCE T IS absolutely necessary for the orator to keep one man in view amidst the multitude that surround him; and, while composing, to address himself to that one man whose mistakes he laments, and whose foibles he discovers. This man is to him as the genius of Socrates, standing continually at his side, and by turns interrogating him, or answering his questions. This is he whom the orator ought never to lose sight of in writing, till he obtain a conquest over his prepossessions. The arguments which will be sufficiently persuasive to overcome his opposition, will equally control a large assembly. The orator will derive still further advantages from a numerous concourse of people, where all the impressions made at the time will convey the finest triumphs of the art, by forming a species of action and reaction between the auditory and the speaker. It is in this sense that Cicero is right in saying, "That no man can be eloquent without a multitude to hear him.” The auditor came to hear a discourse; the orator attacks him, accuses him, makes him abashed; addresses him at one time as his confidant, at another as his mediator or his judge. See with what address he unveils his most concealed passions; with what penetration he shows him his most intimate thoughts; with what energy he annihilates his best-framed excuses! The culprit repents. Profound attention, consternation, confusion, remorse, all announce that the orator has pene trated, in his retired meditations, into the recesses of the heart. Then, provided no ill-timed sally of wit follow to blunt the strokes of Christian eloquence, there may be in the church two thousand auditors, yet there will be but one thought, but one opinion; and all those individuals united, form that ideal man whom the orator had in view while composing his discourse. But, you may ask, where is this ideal man, composed of so many different traits, to be found, unless we describe some chimerical being? Where shall we find a phantom like this, singular but not outré, in which every individual may recognize himself, although it resembles not any one? Where shall we find him? In your own heart. Often retire there. Survey all its recesses. There you will trace both the pleas for those passions which you will have to combat, and the source of those false reasonings which you must point out. To be eloquent we must enter within ourselves. The first productions of a young orator are generally too far fetched. His mind, always on the stretch, is making continual efforts, without his ever venturing to commit himself to the simplicity of nature, until experience teaches him that, to arrive at the sublime, it is, in fact, less necessary to elevate his imagination, than to be deeply impressed with his subject. If you have studied the sacred books; if you have observed men; if you have attended to writers on morals, who serve you instead of historians; if you have become familiar with the language of orators, make trial of your eloquence upon yourself, become, so to speak, the auditor of your own discourses; and thus, by anticipating the effect which they ought to produce, you will easily delineate true characters; you will perceive that, notwithstanding the shades of difference which distinguish them, all men bear an interior resemblance to one another, and that their vices have a uniformity, because they always proceed either from weakness or interest. In a word, your descriptions will not be indeterminate; and the more thoroughly you shall have examined what passes within your own breast, with more ability will you unfold the hearts of others. I' THE SEVERITY OF PULPIT ELOQUENCE T is unquestionably to be wished that he who devotes himself to the arduous labor which preaching requires, should be wholly ambitious to render himself useful to the cause of religion. To such, reputation can never be a sufficient recompense. But if motives so pure have not sufficient sway in your breast, calculate, at least, the advantages of self-love, and you may perceive how inseparably connected these are with the success of your ministry. Is it on your own account that you preach? Is it for you that religion assembles her votaries in a temple? You ought never to indulge so presumptuous a thought. However, I only consider you as an orator. Tell me, then, what is this you call eloquence? Is it the wretched trade of imitating that criminal, mentioned by a poet in his satires, who "balanced his crimes before his judges with antithesis ?» Is it the puerile secret of forming jejune quibbles? of rounding periods? of tormenting one's self by tedious studies, in order to reduce sacred instruction into a vain amusement ? Is this, then, the idea which you have conceived of that divine art which disdains frivolous ornaments, which sways the most numerous assemblies, and which bestows on a single man the most personal and majestic of all sovereignties? Are you in quest of glory? You fly from it. Wit alone is never sublime; and it is only by the vehemence of the passions that you can become eloquent. |