Certainly there are occasions--among them, the opening of Congress, the

presentation of a sore question before a deliberative body, or a historical

commemoration--when it may seem not alone to the "orator" but to all those

interested that the chief thing is to express certain thoughts in precise

language--in language that _must_ not be either misunderstood or misquoted. At

such times oratory is unhappily elbowed to a back bench, the manuscript is

solemnly withdrawn from the capacious inner pocket of the new frock coat, and

everyone settles himself resignedly, with only a feeble flicker of hope that the

so-called speech may not be as long as it is thick. The words may be golden, but

the hearers' (?) eyes are prone to be leaden, and in about one instance out of a

hundred does the perpetrator really deliver an impressive address. His excuse is

his apology--he is not to be blamed, as a rule, for some one decreed that it

would be dangerous to cut loose from manuscript moorings and take his audience

with him on a really delightful sail.

 

One great trouble on such "great occasions" is that the essayist--for such he

is--has been chosen not because of his speaking ability but because his

grandfather fought in a certain battle, or his constituents sent him to

Congress, or his gifts in some line of endeavor other than speaking have

distinguished him.

 

As well choose a surgeon from his ability to play golf. To be sure, it always

interests an audience to see a great man; because of his eminence they are

likely to listen to his words with respect, perhaps with interest, even when

droned from a manuscript. But how much more effective such a deliverance would