concision bordering on obscurity. Audibility of tone was cultivated at the expense of all other vocal qualities. In course of time, however, it was rediscovered, that, though a trope is not an argument, it may be efficiently employed to illustrate an argument, or even be used as an elegant substitute for one."
"What was the effect upon the press?" inquired I, greatly interested.
"Upon the press,—that is, the press militant,—the effect produced was analogous to that of electric power upon the factory system,—not so much extinction as organic change. By means of the phonograph, the orator was, to a great extent, restored to the position once occupied by a great speaker in Greece or Rome. Instead of addressing his real audience by means of the imperfect medium of type, he knew that every word, every tone, accent, and inflection of his voice, would fall, exactly as uttered, upon the ears of listening millions,—might possibly thrill the ears and fire the souls of a distant posterity. The greatest speeches were no longer delivered in public. In the seclusion of his closet, standing or walking, untrammelled by the presence of a critical audience, the orator could indulge in the wildest gesticulation, or assume any position likely to aid in the enunciation of his ideas. The phonograph recorded his words, which were presently borne on the wings of lightning to every part of the world."
"You speak of oratory in the past tense," said I.
"Is it no longer cultivated?"
"Most great questions have been so thoroughly discussed, if not settled," replied Utis, "that oratory, as
