Of course, no one can tell a man what to do to become an orator.
The great orator has that wonderful thing called presence. He has
that strange something known as magnetism. He must have a flexible,
musical voice, capable of expressing the pathetic, the humorous,
the heroic. His body must move in unison with his thought. He
must be a reasoner, a logician. He must have a keen sense of humor
--of the laughable. He must have wit, sharp and quick. He must
have sympathy. His smiles should be the neighbors of his tears.
He must have imagination. He should give eagles to the air, and
painted moths should flutter in the sunlight.

While I cannot tell a man what to do to become an orator, I can
tell him a few things not to do. There should be no introduction
to an oration. The orator should commence with his subject. There
should be no prelude, no flourish, no apology, no explanation. He
should say nothing about himself. Like a sculptor, he stands by
his block of stone. Every stroke is for a purpose. As he works
the form begins to appear. When the statue is finished the workman
stops. Nothing is more difficult than a perfect close. Few poems,
few pieces of music, few novels end well. A good story, a great
speech, a perfect poem should end just at the proper point. The
bud, the blossom, the fruit. No delay. A great speech is a
crystallization in its logic, an efflorescence in its poetry.

I have not heard many speeches. Most of the great speakers in our
country were before my time. I heard Beecher, and he was an orator.
He had imagination, humor and intensity. His brain was as fertile
as the valleys of the tropics. He was too broad, too philosophic,
too poetic for the pulpit. Now and then, he broke the fetters of
his creed, escaped from his orthodox prison, and became sublime.

Theodore Parker was an orator. He preached great sermons. His
sermons on "Old Age" and "Webster," and his address on "Liberty"
were filled with great thoughts, marvelously expressed. When he
dealt with human events, with realities, with things he knew, he
was superb. When he spoke of freedom, of duty, of living to the
ideal, of mental integrity, he seemed inspired.

Webster I never heard. He had great qualities; force, dignity,
clearness, grandeur; but, after all, he worshiped the past. He
kept his back to the sunrise. There was no dawn in his brain. He
was not creative. He had no spirit of prophecy. He lighted