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-or no

3rd Cit. You shall have leave.
4th Cit. A ring- -stand round.

Antony. If you have TEARS- -prepare to shed them now-
You—ALL-do know this mantle- I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it on-
'Twas on a summer evening- -in his tent
That day he overcame the Nervii-
LOOK! in this place ran Cassius' DAGGER through-
See- -what a rent the envious Casca made-
Through THIS -the well-beloved BRUTUS stabbed
And—as he plucked his CURSED steel away-
Mark- -how the BLOOD of Cæsar followed it
As rushing out of doors to be assured
If BRUTUS so unkindly knocked-
For BRUTUS -as you know—was Cæsar's ANGEL-
Judge ! O you GODS—how DEARLY Cæsar loved him-
This was the most unkindest cut of ALL
For-when the noble Cæsar saw HIM stab-
Ingratitude -more strong than traitor's arms
Quite vanquished him- -then burst his MIGHTY heart
And- -in his mantle muffling up his face
Even at the base of Pompey's statue-
That all the while ran BLOOD

-great

-CÆSAR -FELL-
0_what a FALL was there- my countrymen
Then I -and youand all of us fell down-
Whilst bloody TREASON flourished over us-
Oh—now you weep-

-and I perceive you feel
The dint of PITY- these are gracious drops-
KIND souls- -what--weep you when you but behold
Our Cæsar's vesture wounded ?- -Look you HERE—-
HERE is HIMSELF marred

as you see

with TRAITORS 2nd Cit. We will be revenged1st Cit. Oh piteous spectacle ! 2nd Cit. Oh noble Cæsar ! 4th Cit. Oh traitors—VILLAINS!

about--seek-burn-fire-kill-slay-let not a traitor

live. Ant. Stay-COUNTRYMEN.

REVENGE

Р

1st Cit. Peace there- -hear the noble Antony 2nd Cit. We'll hear him-we'll follow him-we'll die with

him.Ant. Good friends- -SWEET friends let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of MUTINYThey that have done this deed are honourableWhat PRIVATE griefs they have alas !-I know notThat made them do it-they are wise and honourableAnd will no doubt—with reasons answer youI come not-friends to steal away your heartsI am no orator- -as BRUTUS isBut as you know me all--a plain-blunt manThat love my friend and that they know full wellThat gave me public leave to speak of himFor I have neither wit

nor words

-nor worth-
Action- -nor utterance- -nor the power of speech
To stir men's blood- -I only speak right on-
I tell you that which you yourselves do KNOW
Show you sweet Cæsar's WOUNDS

-poor --poor--dumb
MOUTHS
And bid THEM speak for me- But were I Brutus
And Brutus ANTONY- there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits- -and put a tongue
In every wound of CÆSAR that should make
The STONES of ROME to rise and MUTINY,

LETTER XLVI.

SOCIAL ORATORY.

I COME now to that which, until you have tried it, appears the easiest of all forms of oratory, but which is in truth the most difficult of all, and to which I

propose to give the significant name of Social Oratory, meaning by that the speech-makings that are addressed to small parties assembled not for business, but for festive or other social purposes, so large a proportion of which is demanded at one kind of gathering, said to be so peculiarly English, that the title of “Dinner-table Oratory" might have been given to it with almost equal propriety.

Doubtless you will exclaim, “A speech after dinnera toast proposed —thanks returned-surely anybody who can say anything can do that!” You need not try it to be satisfied that it is very much more difficult than you have thought it to be. Sit at any table where toasts are given and responded to, and seeing what a mess four out of five of the speakers make of it, you will begin to suspect that it is not quite so easy an accomplishment. Vacuity of thought and confusion of

some

Yet you

upon “to

words are the prevalent characteristics; some break
down altogether; some stammer through a maze of dis-
connected words ; are fluent, but it is fluent
nonsense ; some cannot extricate themselves for a mo-
ment from the conventional commonplaces. But among
them, perhaps, are two or three, rari nantes in gurgite
vasto, who say good things, perhaps even new things, in
apt language and with a pleasant manner.
will find often that the persons who have so pleased
you are by no means distinguished for genius or even
for general ability, having intellects rather below the
average, and intelligence by no means capacious.
Should

you
be called

propose a toast,” or to return thanks for having been yourself proposed, you will probably make a discovery. You were tolerably fluent and talked sensibly enough at the Union in Oxford, at the Forensic Society in London, and at occasional public meetings; but you feel very foolish now, and look as foolish as you feel. You could talk pretty well when you had a subject to talk about. You have not learned the art of talking about nothing, and the accomplishment of saying something when you have nothing to say.

This is the secret of Social Oratory, and explains its difficulties, its failures, and its successes. It can scarcely be called an art, for it seems to be a special faculty with which a few are gifted, but which is denied to the many. Of course, like all

powers of mind or body, it is capable of cultivation, but, like the gift of poetry or music, it must be given by nature, and if the germ is not there, it cannot be implanted.

Another peculiarity of this form of oratory is, that the larger the intellect, the more refined the taste, the loftier the intelligence, the more its difficulty in afterdinner speaking. The reason is its consciousness and sensitiveness. Its perception of the ridiculous contrast between the bigness of the language and the littleness of the subject, its sense of the hollowness of the praises and professions, paralyses its powers; it can find nothing to say that is at once new and true, and its pride revolts from indulgence in the conventionalities which the parrot voices around him repeat again and again, with apparent unconsciousness of their threadbare wearisome

ness.

Social Oratory, then, is the art of saying a great deal about nothing, and saying it in a pleasant manner. It is not designed for any other purpose than to please for the moment. It partakes of the character of all social intercourse, which is to be as agreeable to one another as possible, and to keep all that is disagreeable out of sight and hearing. The standing-up talk of the dinnertable should be only the sitting-down talk of the drawing-room, somewhat amplified, judiciously strung together, and flavoured with a few flatteries not permitted to be addressed to a man in a tête-à-tête, but which you are allowed, and indeed expected, to pour forth without limit of quantity or quality when you are speaking of him to others in his presence.

Can it be, you ask, that such exaggerated epithets as are lavished upon a man whose health is proposed at a dinner-table can be gratifying to him ? Do not his common sense and good taste revolt, as much as do yours, from laudations so undeserved that they have the appearance of ironical insults ? You have not yet learned the measure of human vanity. All men open to flattery, more or less, but of most men the capacity for it is boundless. The most modest of us is

are

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