he will use this authority only for the public good; and be ready to resign it when he can no longer enjoy it without flattery or dissimulation. In short, an orator cannot be fit to persuade people unless he be inflexibly upright; for, without this steady virtue, his talents and address would, like a mortal poison, infect and destroy the body politic. For this reason Cicero thought that virtue is the chief and most essential quality of an orator, and that he should be a person of such unspotted probity as to be a pattern to his fellow-citizens; without which he cannot even seem to be convinced himself of what he says; and, consequently, he cannot persuade others.

B.-I am sensible there is a great deal of weight in what you say; but, after all, may not a man fairly employ his talents to raise himself in the world?

A.-Let us look back always to the principles we laid down. We have agreed that eloquence, and the profession of an orator, should be devoted to the instruction of the people, and the reformation of their practice. Now, to do this with freedom and success, a man must be disinterested and must teach others to contemn death, and riches, and unmanly pleasure. He must infuse into their minds the love of moderation, frugality, a generous concern for the public good, and an inviolable regard to the laws and constitution: and the orator's zeal for all these must appear in his conduct, as well as in his discourses. But will he who strives to please others that he may make his fortune, and who therefore avoids disobliging anybody,—I say, will such an artful, selfish person inculcate unacceptable truths with boldness and authority? Or, if he should, will any one believe a man who does not seem to believe himself?

B. But supposing him to be in narrow circumstances, he does no harm, I hope, by endeavoring to improve them.

A. If he be pinched, let him try to mend his condition some other way. There are other professions that will easily set him above want. But if he be in such extreme distress as to depend on relief from the public, he is not yet fit to be an orator. Would you choose men that are indigent, and almost starving, to be judges in your commonwealth? Would you not be afraid that their wants might expose them to corruption, or betray them into some dishonorable compliance? Would you not rather choose persons of note and distinction, who are above necessity, and out of the reach of its temptations?

A. For the same reason, if you wanted orators, that is, public masters to instruct, reclaim, and form the minds and manners of the people, would you not choose such men as wanted nothing, and are far above little selfish aims? And if there were others who had proper talents for this superior office, but were clogged with their personal concerns, and narrow views of private interests, would you not excuse them from showing their eloquence till they were more easy and disengaged in their circumstances, and could speak in public without being suspected of any mean design?

B. It would be better. But does not the experience of our own age plainly show that an orator may make his fortune by preaching rigid virtue with great vehemence? Where can we find keener satires against the prevailing corruptions of the age, and severer moral characters than those which come from the pulpit? Yet people are not disturbed at them; nay, they are pleased with them, and the ingenious preacher gets preferment by them.

A. It is very true; but moral instructions have no weight nor influence, when they are neither supported by clear principles, nor good examples. Whom do you see converted by them? People are accustomed to hear such harangues, and are amused by them, as with so many fine scenes passing before their eyes. They hearken to such lectures just as they would read a satire, and they look on the

speaker as one that acts his part well. They believe his life more than his talk; and when they know him to be selfish, ambitious, vain, given up to sloth and luxury, and see that he parts with none of those enjoyments which he exhorts others to forsake, though, for the sake of custom and ceremony, they hear him declaim, they believe and act as he does. But what is worst of all, people are too apt to conclude that men of this profession do not believe what they teach- this disparages their function; and when others preach with a sincere zeal, people will scarcely believe this zeal to be sincere. From "Dialogues on Eloquence."

M

THE OBJECTS OF ELOQUENCE

EN talk in order to persuade; that is certain; and too often they speak likewise to please others. But while one endeavors to please, he has another view, which, though more distant, ought to be his chief aim. A man of probity has no other design in pleasing others than that he may the more effectually inspire them with the love of justice, and other virtues, by representing them as most amiable. He who seeks to advance his own interest, his reputation, or his fortune, strives to please, only that he may gain the affection and esteem of such as can gratify his ambition, or his avarice; so that this very design of pleasing is still but a different manner of persuasion that the orator aims at; for he pleases others to inveigle their affection, that he may thereby persuade them to what advances his interest.

B. You cannot but own, then, that men often speak to please. The most ancient orators had this view. Cicero's orations plainly show that he labored hard for reputation, and who will not believe the same of Isocrates, and Demosthenes too? All the panegyrists were more solicitous for their own honor than for the fame of their heroes; and they extolled a prince's glory to the skies, chiefly because they hoped to be admired for their ingenious manner of praising him. This ambition seems to have been always reckoned commendable, both among the Greeks and the Romans; and such emulation brought eloquence to its perfection; it inspired men with noble thoughts and generous sentiments, by which the ancient republics were made to flourish. The advantageous light in which eloquence appeared in great assemblies, and the ascendant it gave the orator over the people, made it to be admired, and helped to spread polite learning. I cannot see, indeed, why such an emulation should be blamed even among Christian orators, provided they did not show an indecent affectation in their discourses, nor in the least enervate the precepts of the Gospel. We ought not to censure what animates young people, and forms our greatest preachers.

A. You have here put several things together, which, if you please, sir, we will consider separately; and observe some method in inquiring what we ought to conclude from them. But let us above all things avoid a wrangling humor; and examine the subject with calmness and temper, like persons who are afraid of nothing so much as of error; and let us place the true point of honor in a candid acknowledgment of our mistakes, whenever we perceive them.

B. That is the exact state of my mind, or at least I judge it to be so; and I entreat you to tell me when you find me transgressing this equitable rule.

A.-We will not as yet talk of what relates to preachers, for that point may be more seasonably considered afterwards. Let us begin with those orators whose examples you vouched. By mentioning Demosthenes and Isocrates together, you

disparage the former; for the latter was a lifeless declaimer, that busied himself in Polishing his thoughts, and giving a harmonious cadence to his periods. He had a very low and vulgar notion of eloquence; and placed almost the whole of it in a nice disposal of his words. A man who employed ten or (as others say) fifteen years in smoothing the periods of a panegyric, which was a discourse concerning the necessities of Greece, could give but a very small and slow relief to the republic, against the enterprises of the Persian king. Demosthenes spoke against Philip in a quite different manner. You may read the comparison that Dionysius Halicarnassius has made of these two orators, and see there the chief faults he observed in Isocrates, whose discourses are vainly gay and florid, and his periods adjusted with incredible pains merely to please the ear; while, on the contrary, Demosthenes moves, warms, and captivates the heart. He was too sensibly touched with the interest of his country to mind the little glittering fancies that amused Isocrates. Every oration of Demosthenes is a close chain of reasoning that represents the generous notions of a soul who disdains any thought that is not great. His discourses gradually increase in force by greater light and new reasons; which are always illustrated by bold figures and lively images. One cannot but see that he has the good of the republic entirely at heart, and that nature itself speaks in all his transports; for his artful address is so masterly that it never appears. Nothing ever equaled the force and vehemence of his discourses. Have you never read the remarks that Longinus made on them in his treatise of the Sublime?

B. No: is not that the treatise that Mr. Boileau translated? Do you think it fine?

A.-I am not afraid to tell you that I think it surpasses Aristotle's "Rhetoric»; which, though it be a very solid tract, is yet clogged with many dry precepts that are rather curious than fit for practice; so that it is more proper to point out the rules of art to such as are already eloquent, than to give us a just taste of rhetoric and to form true orators. But Longinus, in his discourse of the Sublime, intersperses among his precepts many fine examples from the greatest authors to illustrate them. He treats of the Sublime in a lofty manner, as his translator has judiciously observed. He warms our fancy, and exalts our mind; he forms our taste, and teaches us to distinguish what is either fine or faulty in the most famous ancient writers. From "Dialogues on Eloquence.»

TH

THE WHOLE ART OF ELOQUENCE

HE whole art of eloquence consists in enforcing the clearest proofs of any truth, with such powerful motives as may affect the hearers, and employ their passions to just and worthy ends, to raise their indignation at ingratitude, their horror against cruelty, their compassion for the miserable, their love of virtue; and to direct every other passion to its proper objects. This is what Plato calls affecting the minds of an audience, and moving their bowels. Do you understand me, sir?

B.- Very plainly; and I see too that eloquence is not a trifling invention to amuse and dazzle people with pompous language, but that it is a very serious art, and serviceable to morality.

A. It is both a serious and a difficult art. For which reason Tully said he had heard several persons declaim in an elegant, engaging manner; but that there were but very few complete orators, who knew how to seize and captivate the heart.

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.