ence.

of the listener in retaining that speech. A well articulated discourse is the one that best fixes the attention and that consequently pierces deepest the recollection of an audiThe various divisions of his speech are the nails with which the speaker fastens his leading thoughts into the minds of those that hear. They serve to give weight, dignity, force, velocity to his thought and style, and consequently the listeners are more deeply and lastingly moved than could otherwise be the case.

SUMMARY

Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter. It is this: in every way a thorough outline is a great advantage. Indeed, it is not too much to say that upon it depends the prosperity of the speech. It promotes clearness, helps in the composition, aids the memory of both speaker and hearer, secures unity of treatment, gives comprehensiveness to the discussion, and promotes permanence of impression. It is well named the "skeleton." A skeleton is not in itself a "thing of beauty," but it is that which gives beauty and flexibility, strength and life to the whole structure. It is the skeleton that enables the speech to struggle and toil, to dance and run.

Now the question arises, to what extent the skeleton should appear in the finished work. Enough has already been said to suggest the rational answer. The young

writer and speaker is ordinarily too fearful of making his production mechanical by announcing the divisions of his discourse. Doubtless this dread is unwarranted. We

may set it down as a principle that a discussion which seems to a speaker unnecessarily rigid and formal will ordinarily impress the hearer as only carefully and helpfully constructed. The speaker is familiar with the plan and its development; the hearer meets the skeleton for the first time in the spoken address, clothed with flesh and blood. Consequently the hearer is not unduly impressed with the bones of the discourse; he is, rather, conscious of its symmetry and strength.

It is a law of the mind that whatever has been found helpful to the speaker, in exploring his way through the discourse, will be found equally helpful to the listener in following the same track of thought. Is it not rational to conclude, therefore, that the wise speaker will state, as he proceeds, the main divisions of his plan so clearly that the audience will be keenly alive to the progress he is making and to the corners he turns? Such statements have well been called both mileposts and finger posts on the way-they show how far the speaker has come and point out the road he intends to follow. Without them, the line of thought, especially if it be at all profound or intricate, may be as obscure as a journey through an African wilderness. The hearer is in danger of losing his way and becoming utterly lost in the wilds of an erratic logic.

The degree to which the plan should appear in the finished discourse will depend partly upon the subject and the audience. Some propositions are so familiar, or have been so clearly presented by a previous speaker

or by the occasion itself, and some audiences are so intelligent, that there will be no great difficulty in following the speech; but in even such a rare combination of favoring circumstances, it will usually be an advantage to have the principal points of discussion announced clearly and sharply. Hearers always have a feeling of satisfaction in knowing substantially what is before them.

It will be noticed that emphasis is laid upon the importance of stating the main divisions of the speech, as that speech is pronounced. It may be assumed that the orator will use many details of outline, in preparing his speech, that he will not point out in the delivery as parts of the skeleton.

ON

CHAPTER V

THE CHOICE OF A THEME

NE of the most perplexing problems for the inexperienced speaker is to make a wise choice of a theme. The young orator sees before him an occasion when he will be expected to make a speech. It may be a commencement oration, or a class-day speech, or a student's oration in a contest or as a class exercise, or an address on education, or a speech on some political or social occasion, or a sermon, or a memorial address, or a reunion speech, or a convention harangue, or an address on any one of a thousand occasions, that is desired.

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The first question that he naturally asks himself is, What shall I speak about?" This question may be substantially answered for him by the occasion itself, or he may be left free to choose, within such limits as are dictated by the canons of good taste. In any case the question is one of supreme importance. Success or failure will depend largely upon the answer it receives. Of course every speech maker must, in the last analysis, be the one to decide what he shall take as the precise topic of his discourse. If he have a particle of the oratorical instinct, he knows better than any other his own tastes and powers, the themes that stir him most pro

foundly, the topics with which he is most familiar. Consequently no one can dictate to him the choice of a theme, if he is to do his best. But, while no specific directions can be given as to this matter in any particular case, certain general principles may be laid down, which may always be wisely observed by him who would be a successful speaker.

1. Perhaps the first qualification that a theme should possess is that it should be practical- that is, capable of calling for action, a course of action, or a positive decision of the will. It should not be a subject "in the air," or in the upper ether of an erratic imagination; it should stand with its feet upon the solid ground of substantial thought or concrete fact or sincere conviction. It should have something to do with real life as men have to meet and solve the questions of life from day to day. This does not mean that it has necessarily to deal with material things alone; but with opinions, with ideals, with aspirations, with all those questions that go to make up great character and great civilization. The possible range of topics is as broad as human interests: but they must be more than the speculations of dreamers on mere abstractions. Those medieval ecclesiastics who disputed as to how many angels could stand at once on the point of a needle, or who argued fiercely as to whether a man that inadvertently swallowed a prematurely cooked spring chicken while eating an egg on Friday had violated a law of the church which forbids meat on that day, were hard pressed for a subject. Had they assailed, instead,