SOME HINTS ON PUBLIC SPEAKING. W HEN old George Stephenson, the engineer, was on one of his visits at Drayton, Sir Robert Peel's place, says a writer in the "Law Journal," an animated discussion took place between the old engineer and Dr. Buckland, on one of his favorite theories as to the formation of coal. But the result was that Dr. Buckland, a much greater master of tongue fence than Mr. Stephenson, completely silenced him. Next morning, before breakfast, when he was walking in the grounds, Sir William Follett, the eminent lawyer, came up and asked him what he was thinking about. "Why, Sir William, I am thinking over that argument I had with Buckland last night. I know I am right, and that if I had only the command of words which he has, I'd have beaten him." "Let me know all about it," said Sir William, “and I'll see what I can do for you." The two sat down in an arbor, and the astute lawyer made himself thoroughly acquainted with the points of the case, entering into it with all the zeal of an advocate about to plead the dearest interests of his client. After he had mastered the subject, Sir William rose up, rubbing his hands with glee, and said: "Now I am ready for him." Sir Robert Peel was made acquainted with the plan, and adroitly introduced the subject of the controversy after dinner. The result was that in the argument which followed, the man of science was overcome by the man of law, and Sir William Follett had at all points the mastery over Dr. Buckland. "What do you say, Mr. Stephenson?" asked Sir Robert, laughing. "Why," said he, "I will only say this, that of all the powers above and under the earth, there seems to me to be no power so great as the gift of gab." The "gift of gab," or the art of speaking, must always have an interest for lawyers as professional advocates. It is not merely for a knowledge of law that a client pays his lawyer. He pays him for his power of putting his case persuasively, for his courage, his address, his conduct of the case, — in a word, for his advocacy. When Stephenson called it the "gift of gab," he was using a popular phrase, but one which has an element of truth. It is a gift. The orator the supreme orator is born, not made. So John Bright thought, so many others have thought; but those who have read the life of Demosthenes, or Cicero, or Curran, or Lord Brougham, and noted the infinite pains which they bestowed on the cultivation of their natural gifts and the curing of their natural defects, will see that there is as much, if not more, in art than in nature. We all know the stories of Demosthenes haranguing the wild sea waves, to familiarize himself with the stormy Ecclesia, of his putting pebbles in his mouth to cure his stammering; but it is not so well known that his first attempt to speak was a complete failure, that he shut himself up for two or three months together in a subterranean chamber in order to practice declamation, that he wrote out Thucydides eight times to form his style, that he studied all the best rhetorical treatises, that he recited, under the direction of an actor, long passages from Sophocles and Euripides, that he ran uphill daily to strengthen his lungs and his voice. "Sic itur ad astra." Unquestionably, all these things, the whole art of rhetoric, is far too much neglected by modern speakers; indeed, it is not too much to say that neither in England nor America are there any orators extant as the ancients understood an orator, or even as Pitt or Canning, or Brougham understood the word. The Americans, however, without being orators, are good speakers, better, at least, in many points than Englishmen; less clumsy, less confused. They may not be superior in invention or in diction, but they possess, as their critic, Mr. James Bryce, admits, more fluency, more readiness, more self-possession. Any American can reel off a creditable, often an eloquent speech at a minute's notice, to the astonishment and envy of an Englishman. They have more quickness, too, in catching the temper and tendencies of an audience, more weight, animation and grace in delivery, and, crowning all this, more humor. Any rules for speaking, the result of American experience, are therefore well worthy of consideration. Here are some: 1. The speaker must be in earnest. . He must have something to say, of course; but that is not all. He must have, in Carlyle's phrase, a "message to deliver," must believe, or seem to believe, every word he utters. This is what Aristotle calls on Tioris, the power of convincing, and it is as true of the lawyer advocate as of the preacher, the statesman, or the prophet. The lawyer must believe in his own case, however bad it may be. This is where sometimes a good lawyer, because he is a good lawyer, fails as an advocate: he cannot argue against his convictions. Rule 2 is this: Never carry a scrap of paper before an audience. Nothing destroys so much the " magnetic contact" which ought to subsist between a speaker and his audience, as reading or reference to papers. Spontaneity is the essence of successful speaking. The late Bishop of Lichfield's advice to his curates on preaching was: "Write your sermon, read it over three times, throw it into the fire, and preach what you remember of it," a very good recipe for a speech as well as a sermon. Scarlett, the greatest of verdict winners, never prepared his speeches. He thought out his ideas, and trusted to the inspiration of the moment for the language. Had he merely fired off speeches at the jury, he would never have got on those good terms with them which led to his being called a "thirteenth juryman." An eminent judge told a friend that he once lost a case on which he felt very sure, though his successful antagonist was a man not to be compared with him as a lawyer. When asked the reason, he said: "It was very curious; I had all the law and all the evidence, but that fellow Hale got so intimate with the jury that he won the case." It is all very well to say this, "I never carry a scrap of paper before an audience"; but what is a speaker who has not got a good memory to do a speaker who has not the copiousness and ordered intellect of a Pitt or a Gladstone? A preacher who had relied on his own resources in this way, once got into the pulpit, but when he found himself face to face with his congregation, his ideas vanished, his mind was a blank. He tapped his forehead, but in vain; his ideas would not come. "My friends," he said, "I pity you; you have lost a fine sermon," and he descended the pulpit steps. But all have not this equanimity. A speech, on the other hand, learnt by heart may be a splendid tour de force, but as a speech it must be defective. It dazzles, but does not persuade. Macaulay's brilliant and highly finished orations are an instance. They fell flat in the House of Commons, as Greville tells, when a light, dashing, vivacious, impromptu speech was applauded to the echo. If, then, you must have, as most must, some mechanical aids, plan out- this is the third rule — a series of a few points as simple and orderly as possible, using catchwords which will suggest the leading thought. method prompts the memory without overburthening it. It was Mr. Bright's method. The fourth rule is, Plan beforehand for one good fact, and one good illustration or anecdote for each point. This brightens a speech, and gives body to it. But the best-laid plans are liable to be disconcerted, and we This can sympathize with the dismay of the guest of the evening at an American banquet as he heard his chosen anecdotes retailed, one after another, by preceding speakers. Rule 5 is, Speak in a natural voice, in a conversational way. This may be good advice for an after-dinner speech, or the discussion of a bill in committee of the House, rhetorical rhapsodies are then out of place, but it cannot be accepted as a general rule for speaking. It will never do for the highest efforts. The voice is everything in the orator, and to attain elevation in oratory, to touch the deeper strings of feeling, the voice must be nicely modulated; it must vary, as Aristotle points out, with the theme of the speaker; it must rise and fall, sink or swell, vibrating in unison with the orator's moods. Garrick said he would. give £100 to say "Oh!" as Whitfield did, and one who heard Newman preach at Oxford could never forget the tone in which he ford could never forget the tone in which he uttered the word "irreparable." The voice is the soul of oratory. But for the genteel comedy of life a natural voice, an easy, conversational tone, is no doubt the best. These rules are good, but they omit one. rule which Aristotle places in the forefront in speaking. It is to have the goodwill of your audience. We know how the nisi prius advocate is accustomed to get this by administering judicious flattery to the jury, but this has to be done adroitly now, not in the Buzfuz vein, or it only disgusts. A jest is, perhaps, the best thing for putting a speaker on good terms with his audience. This was Sheridan's way. He was once asked how it was he got on so well in the House. "I soon found out," he replied, "that nine out of the ten were fools, but all loved a joke, and I determined to give them what they liked." The consequence was a glow of pleasurable anticipation, seldom disappointed, whenever Sheridan rose to speak. "A good speech," said O'Connell, "is a good thing, but the verdict is the thing." It is well for the forensic orator to remember this. Scarlett, perhaps, knew better than thi anyone how verdicts are won, and Scarlett said, as a result of his experience, that the most useful duty of an advocate was the examination of witnesses. THE LITERARY ASSOCIATIONS OF THE TEMPLE. FEW sociation with great men and EW things can lend a charm like that | Chaucer's description of the "serjeant of law great events; and no associations appeal Though Hampstead Heath is, and always has been, the abode of many distinguished literary men, "The Temple," lying between Fleet Street and the Embankment, is almost as closely associated with literature, teeming as it does with the memories of many great names. Brilliantly they cluster round it, the memory of one coming so fast on the association with another that at length they seem like stars lost in each other's brightness. It has little magnificence of architecture, and though most noted for its connection with the English law, much of its interest and fame is entwined with that of English literature. The buildings, dismal and murky-looking with London fog and smoke, the worn flagstones, the rickety staircases, the sundials, the fountain, and the old-fashioned pumps, have all a share in the glory of our literature. It was about 1327 or 1328 that the Temple buildings came into the hands of a body of lawyers from Thavies' Inn, Holborn. They took it on a lease from the Knights Hospitallers of St. John at a rent of £10 a year. That century gave two great names to our literature, Gower and Chaucer, and both of these the Temple claims as members. Had one no other information, one would have concluded from the reading of From the time of Chaucer till the reign of Elizabeth, English literature can present us with few great names, and the records of the Temple are equally barren. Thomas Sackville, Earl of Dorset, the lofty, melancholy, and moral author of the "Mirror of Magistrates," became a member about the beginning of Elizabeth's reign. He was the founder of the Dorset family, and as Walpole called him, "the patriarch of a race of genius and wit." He was an intimate friend of Spenser, who has dedicated a sonnet to him, and he is further connected with literature by the fact that the "Scholemaster" of Roger Ascham was written for his children. The Temple, too, has its share in the Elizabethan dramatists, as it can number among its members Massinger, Ford, and Beaumont. Of the personal life of Massinger we know very little; but from old editions of his works we learn that some of his plays were composed for the society of the Inner Temple, of which he was a member, and that they were performed in the hall of that Inn. His tragi-comedy, "The Picture," was dedicated "To my honoured and select friends of the Honourable Society of the Inner Temple." His contemporary, Ford, the great painter of unhappy love, was also a member of the Inner Temple. He does not appear to have depended on his literary work for his livelihood, but rather to have followed diligently the employment of the law. Beaumont, who collaborated with Fletcher in those works which vie with Shakespeare's in tragic and romantic eloquence, belonged to the Middle Temple. Both were of high social status, Beaumont being the son of a famous judge and Fletcher the son of a bishop. These three are the contributions of the Temple to an age of great dramatists. Though Evelyn the diarist was a member of the Middle Temple, and lived at 5 Essex Court, the other great diarist of those days, Samuel Pepys, cannot be claimed. Both, however, mention the Temple in their writings. In 1642, Evelyn tells us, he was chosen comptroller of the Christmas revels at the Middle. He was then twenty-two years of age. Many years later he writes: bent to see the revels at the Middle Temple, an old but riotous custom, which hath relation neither to virtue nor to policy." Pepys tells us of an amusing incident which happened in 1669. "My lord mayor being invited this day to dinner at the Reader's Feast at the Temple, and endeavoring to carry his sword up, the students did pull it down, and force him to go and stay all day in a private councillor's chambers, until the reader himself could get the young gentlemen to dinner. And then my lord mayor did retreat out of the Temple with his sword up. This did make great heat among the students, and my lord mayor did send to the king, and also I hear that the drums did. beat for the train bands; but all is over, only I hear the students have resolved to try the charter of the city." "Honest Tom Southerne," the first to hold up to execration the slave trade, and the author of "The Fatal Marriage," was entered as a student of the Middle Temple in 1678. He soon deserted the law for the profession of arms, and is said to have been present at the battle of Sedgemoor. Congreve, the comrade of Swift at Kilkenny school, became a member of the Middle Temple when he came to London, but, like Southerne and Rowe, soon forsook law for literature, and became the darling of society. Rowe, the author of " Jane Shore" and "The Fair Penitent," entered the Temple in 1691. The study of law, however, had little attraction. for one of such good presence and lively manners; and on his father's death in 1692 he betook himself to society and literature, and enriched our vocabulary with his "gallant, gay Lothario." Fielding, the novelist, had some experience of the world before he joined the Middle Temple in 1737, aged thirty at a time when he seemed to have to choose between being a hackney coachman and the career of a hackney writer. The record of his entry is as follows: "I Novris. 1737. Henricus Fielding de East Stout in Com. Dorset, Ar., filius et hæres apparens Brig. Genlis: Edmundi Fielding admissus est in Societatem Medii Templi Lond. specialiter et obligatur cum," etc. He is said to have studied vigorously, and often to have left a tavern late at night to abstract the abstruse works of authors in civil law. While a student he gave his aid in editing a periodical called "The Champion" and it is probably of this that Thackeray was thinking when he writes of Fielding, "with inked. ruffles and a wet towel round his head, dashing off articles at midnight, while the printer's boy is asleep in the passage." After his call he regularly attended the Wiltshire sessions; but he did not succeed, though he appears to have made many friends among the lawyers, as the list of subscribers to his "Miscellanies" shows. Perhaps it was this connection with law which gave him some |