The chief difficulty with making an appeal to moral principles is to set them forth in other than abstract terms, since they are the product of a set of feelings which lie too deep for easy phrasing in definite words. In most cases we know what is right long before we can explain why it is right; and a man who can put into clear words the moral forces that move his fellows is a prophet and leader of men. Moreover, it must be remembered when one is appealing to moral principles that upright men are not agreed about all of them, and there is even more doubt and disagreement when one comes to the practical application of the principles. We have seen in Chapter I what bitter division arose in our fathers' time over the right and the righteousness of slavery; and how in many states to-day good and God-fearing people are divided on the question of prohibition.

But even where the two sides to a question agree on the moral principle which is involved, it by no means follows that they will agree on its application in a particular case. Church members accept the principle that one must forgive sinners and help them to reform; but it is another thing when it comes to getting work for a man who has been in prison, or help for a woman who has left her husband. How far is the condoning of offenses consistent with maintaining the standards of society? And in what cases shall we apply the principle of forgiveness? In a business transaction how far can one push the Golden Rule? Life would be a simpler matter if moral principles were always easy to apply to concrete cases.

One must use the appeal to moral principles, therefore, soberly and with discretion. The good sense of readers will rebel if their moral sense is called on unnecessarily; and even when they cannot explain why they believe such an appeal unsound, yet their instincts will tell them that it is so. The creator whose right hand is always rising to heaven to call God to witness disgusts the right feeling of his audience. On the other hand, where moral principles are really concerned there should be no compromise. If in a political campaign the issue is between honesty and graft in the public service, or between an open discussion of all dealings which touch the public good, and private bargaining with party managers, the moral principles cannot be kept hidden. If a real moral principle is seriously involved in any question, the debate must rise to the level of that principle and let practical considerations go. And every citizen who has the advantage of having had more education than his fellows is thereby placed under obligation to hold the debate to this higher level.

58. The Appeal of Style. Finally, we have to consider the appeal to the emotions, which is the distinguishing essence of eloquence, and the attempts at it. In part this appeal is through the appeal to principles and associations which are close to the heart of the audience, in part through concrete and figurative language, in part through the indefinable thrill and music of style which lies beyond definition and instruction.

The appeal to venerated principle we have considered already, looked at from the side of morals rather than of emotions. But morality, so far as it is a coercive force in human conduct, is emotional; our moral standards lie beyond and above reason in that larger part of our nature that knows through feeling and intuition. All men have certain standards and principles whose names arouse strong and reverent emotions. Such standards are not all religious or moral in the stricter sense; some of them have their roots in systems of government. In a case at law, argued purely on a question of law, there does not seem much chance for the appeal to feeling; but Mr. Joseph H. Choate, in his argument on the constitutionality of the Income Tax of 1894, before the Supreme Court of the United States, made the following appeal to the principle of the sanctity of private property, and the words he used could not have failed to stir deep and strong feelings in the court.

No longer ago, if the Court please, than the day of the funeral procession of General Sherman in New York, it was my fortune to spend many hours with one of the ex-Presidents of the United States, who has since followed that great warrior to the bourne to which we were then bearing him. President Hayes expressed great solicitude as to the future fortunes of this people. In his retirement he had been watching the tendency of political and social purposes and events. He had observed how in recent years the possessors of political power had been learning to use it for the first time for the promotion of social and personal ends. He said to me, "You will probably live to see the day when in the case of the death of any man of large wealth the State will take for itself all above a certain prescribed limit of his fortune and divide it, or apply it to the equal use of all the people, so as to punish the rich man for his wealth, and to divide it among those who, whatever may have been their sins, at least have not committed that." I looked upon it as the wanderings of a dreaming man; and yet if I had known that within less than five short years afterwards I should be standing before this tribunal to contest the validity of an alleged act of Congress, of a so-called law, which was defended here by the authorized legal representatives of the Federal Government upon the plea that it was a tax levied only upon classes and extremely rich men, I should have given altogether a different heed and ear to the warnings of that distinguished statesman.[62]

Our emotions do not rise, however, anymore surely in the case of our veneration for the basal principles of religion and government than in that of more personal emotions. The appeal to the Constitution is worn somewhat threadbare by the politicians who call on it at every election, small or great, as is the appeal to the principles of the Pilgrim Fathers. It takes eloquence now to rouse our feelings about these principles. If you have a case important enough to justify appeal to such great principles and the skill in language to give your appeal vitality, you may really arouse your readers. But, on the whole, it is sound advice to say, Wait a few years before you call on them.

The second mode of appeal to the feelings of your audience, that through concrete and figurative language, is more within the reach of advocates who are still of college age. This is particularly true of the use of concrete language. It is a matter of common knowledge that men do not rouse themselves over abstract principles; they will grant their assent, often without really knowing what is implied by the general principle, and go away yawning. On the other hand, the man who talks about the real and actual things which you know is likely to keep your attention. This goes back to the truth that our emotions and feelings are primarily the reaction to the concrete things that happen to us. The spontaneous whistling and humming of tunes that indicate a cheerful heart rise naturally as a response to the sunlight in spring; the fear at the terror that flies in a nightmare is the instinctive and physical reaction to indigestion; we sorrow over the loss of our own friends, but not over the loss of some one else's. The stories that stir us are the stories that deal with actual, tangible realities in such terms that they make us feel that we are living the story ourselves. Stevenson has some wise words on this subject in his essay, "A Gossip on Romance." The doctrine holds true for the making of arguments.

Even where as in Burke's speech "On Conciliation with America," abstractness is not vagueness, the style would be more effective for the richer feeling that hangs over and around a concrete vocabulary. The great vividness of Macaulay's style, and its bold over so many readers, is largely due to his unfailing use of the specific word. If you will take the trouble to notice what arguments in the last few months have seemed to you especially persuasive, you will be surprised to find how definite and concrete the terms are that they use.

Accordingly, if you wish to keep the readers of your argument awake and attentive, use terms that touch their everyday experience. If you are arguing for the establishment of a commission form of government, give in dollars and cents the sum that it cost under the old system to pave the three hundred yards of A Street, between 12th and 13th streets. The late Mr. Godkin of the New York Evening Post, in his lifelong campaign against corrupt government, to bring home to his readers the actual state of their city government and the character of the men who ran it, used their nicknames; "Long John" Corrigan, for example (if there had been such a personage); and "Bath-house John Somebody" has been a feature of campaigns in Chicago. The value of such names when skillfully used is that by their associations and connotation they do stir feeling. Likewise if you are arguing before an audience of graduates for a change from a group system to a free elective system in your college, you would use the names of courses with which they would be familiar and the names of professors under whom they had studied. If you were arguing for the introduction of manual training into a school, you would make taxpayers take an interest in the matter if you gave them the exact numbers of pupils from that school who have gone directly into mills or other work of the kind, and if you describe vividly just what is meant by manual training. If your description is in general terms they may grant you your principle, and then out of mere inertia and a vague feeling against change vote the other way.

A rough test for concreteness is your vocabulary: if your words are mostly Anglo-Saxon you will usually be talking about concrete things; if it is Latinate and polysyllabic it is probably abstract and general. Most of the things and actions of everyday life, the individual things like "walls" and "puppies," "summer" and "boys," "buying" and "selling," "praying" and "singing," have names belonging to the Anglo-Saxon part of the language; and though there are many exceptions, like "tables," and "telephones," and "professors," yet the more your vocabulary consists of the non-Latinate words, the more likely it is to be concrete, and therefore to keep your readers' attention and feelings alive. Use the simple terms of everyday life, therefore, rather than the learned words which would serve you if you were generalizing from many cases. Stick to the single case before you and to the interests of the particular people you are trying to win over. To touch their feelings remember that you must talk about the things they have feelings about.

The use of similes and metaphors and other figurative language raises a difficult question. On the whole, perhaps the best advice about using them is, Don't unless you have to. In other words, where a figure of speech is a necessity of expression, where you cannot make your thought clear and impart to it the warmth of feeling with which it is clothed in your own mind except by a touch of imaginative color, then use a figure of speech, if one flashes itself on your mind. If you add it deliberately as adornment of your speech, it will strike a false note; if you laboriously invent it the effort will show. Unless your thought and your eagerness for your subject flow naturally and inevitably into an image, it is better to stick to plain speech, for any suggestion of insincerity is fatal to the persuasiveness of an argument.

The value of the figure of speech is chiefly in giving expression to feelings which cannot be set forth in abstract words, the whole of whose meaning can be defined: in the connotation of words—that indefinable part of their meaning which consists in their associations, implications, and general emotional coloring—lies their power to clothe thought with the rich color of feeling which is the life. At the same time, they serve as a fillip to the attention. There are not very many people who can long keep the mind fixed on a purely abstract line of thought, and none can do it without some effort. Professor William James is a notable example of a writer whose thought flowed spontaneously into necessary figures of speech:

When one turns to the magnificent edifice of the physical sciences, and sees how it was reared; what thousands of disinterested moral lives of men lie buried in its mere foundations; what patience and postponement, what choking down of preference, what submission to the icy laws of outer fact are wrought into its very stones and mortar; how absolutely impersonal it stands in its vast augustness,—then how besotted and contemptible seems every little sentimentalist who comes blowing his voluntary smoke wreaths, and pretending to decide things out of his private dream.[63]

One cannot go to sleep over a style like that, for besides the obvious sincerity and rush of warm feeling, the vividness of the figures is like that of poetry. On the either hand, one must remember that it is given to few men to attain the unstudied eloquence of Professor James.

Fables and anecdotes serve much the same purpose, but more especially throw into memorable form the principle which they are intended to set forth. There are a good many truths which are either so complex or so subtle that they defy phrasing in compact form, yet their truth we all know by intuition. If for such a truth you can find a compact illustration, you can leave it much more firmly fixed in your readers' minds than by any amount of systematic exposition. Lincoln in his Springfield speech, for example, threw into striking form the feeling which was so common in the North, that each step forward in the advance of slavery so fitted into all earlier ones that something like a concerted plan must be assumed:

We cannot absolutely know that all these exact adaptations are, the result of preconcert. But when we see a lot of framed timbers, different portions of which we know have been gotten cut at different times and places and by different workmen,—Stephen, Franklin, Roger, and James, for instance,—and we see these timbers joined together, and see they exactly make the frame of a house or a mill, all the tenons and mortises exactly fitting, and all the lengths and proportions of the different pieces exactly adapted to their respective places, and not a piece too many or too few, not omitting even scaffolding,—or, if a single piece be lacking, we see the place in the frame exactly fitted and prepared yet to bring such piece in,—in such a case we find it impossible not to believe that Stephen and Franklin and Roger and James all understood one another from the beginning, and all worked upon a common plan or draft drawn up before the first blow was struck.

On the other hand, there is the danger of being florid or of playing the clown if you tell too many stories. Whether your style will seem florid or not depends a good deal on the part of the country you are writing for. There is no doubt that the taste of the South and of a good deal of the West is for a style more varied and highly colored than suits the soberer taste of the East. But whatever part of the country you are writing for, just so soon as your style seems to those special readers overloaded with ornament it will seem insincere. In the same way, if you stop too often to tell a story or to make your readers laugh, you will produce the impression of trifling with your subject. In both these respects be careful not to draw the attention of your readers away from the subject to your style.

The ultimate and least analyzable appeal of style is through that thrill of the voice which in written style appears as rhythm and harmony. Certain men are gifted with the capacity of so modulating their voices and throwing virtue into their tones that whoever hears them feels an indefinable thrill. So in writing: where sounds follow sounds in harmonious sequence, and the beat of the accent approaches regularity without falling into it, language takes on the expressiveness of music. It is well known that music expresses a range of feeling that lies beyond the powers of words: who can explain, for example, the thrill roused in him by a good brass band, or the indefinable melancholy and gloom created by the minor harmonies of one of the great funeral marches, or, in another direction, the impulse that sets him to whistling or singing on a bright morning in summer? There are many such kinds of feeling, real and potent parts of our consciousness; and if we can bring them to expression at all, we must do so through the rhythm and other sensuous qualities of the style which are pure sensation.

How is that to be done? The answer is difficult, and like that concerning the use of figurative language: do not try for it too deliberately. If without your thinking of it you find yourself becoming more earnest in speech, and more impressed with the seriousness of the issue you are arguing, your voice will show it naturally. So when you are writing: your earnestness will show, if you have had the training and have the natural gift for expression in words, in a lengthening and more strongly marked rhythm, in an intangibly richer coloring of sound. In speech the rhythm is apt to be shown in what is called parallel structure, the repetition of the same form of sentence, and in rhetorical questions. In writing, these forms more easily tend to seem either excited or artificial. Sustained periodic structure, too, can be carried by the speaking voice, when it would lag if written. Every one recognizes this incommunicable thrill of eloquence in great speakers and writers, but it is so much a gift of nature that it is not wise consciously to cultivate it.

59. Fairness and Sincerity. In the long run, however, nothing makes an argument appeal more to readers than an air of fairness and sincerity. If it is evident in an argument of fact that you are seeking to establish the truth, or in an argument of policy that your single aim is the greatest good of all concerned, your audience will listen to you with favorable ears. If on the other hand you seem to be chiefly concerned with the vanity of a personal victory, or to be thinking of selfish advantages, they will listen to you coolly and with jealous scrutiny of your points.

Accordingly, in making your preliminary survey to prepare the statement of the facts that are agreed on by both sides, go as far as you can in yielding points. If the question is worth arguing at all you will still have your hands full to get through it within your space. In particular waive all trivial points: nothing is more wearisome to readers than to plow through detailed arguments over points that no one cares about in the end. And meet the other side at least halfway in agreeing on the facts that do not need to be argued out. You will prejudice your audience if you make concessions in a grudging spirit. Likewise, wherever you have, to meet arguments put forward by the other side, state them with scrupulous fairness; if your audience has any reason to suppose that you are twisting the assertions of the other side to your own advantage, you have shaken their confidence in you, and thereby weakened the persuasive force of your argument. Use sarcasm with caution, and beware of any seeming of triumph. Sarcasm easily becomes cheap, and an air of triumph may look like petty smartness.

In short, in writing your argument, assume throughout the attitude of one who is seeking earnestly to bring the disagreement between the two sides to an end. If you are dealing with a question of fact, your sole duty is to establish the truth. If you are dealing with a question of policy, you know when you begin that whichever way the decision goes, one side will suffer some disadvantage; but aim to lessen that disadvantage, and to discover a way that will bring the greatest gain to the greatest number. An obvious spirit of conciliation is a large asset in persuasion.

With the conciliation make clear your sincerity. A chief difficulty with making arguments written in school and college persuasive is that they so often deal with subjects in which it is obvious that the writer's own feelings are not greatly concerned. This difficulty will disappear when you get out into the world, and make arguments in earnest. A great part of Lincoln's success as an advocate is said to have been due to the fact that he always tried to compose his cases and to make peace between the litigants, and that he never took a case in which he did not believe. If you leave on your audience the impression that you are sincere and in earnest, you have taken a long step towards winning over their feelings.

On the whole, then, when one is considering the question of persuasion, the figure of speech of a battle is not very apt. It is all very well when you are laying out your brief to speak, of deploying your various points, of directing an attack on your opponent's weakest point, of bringing up reserve material in rebuttal; but if the figure gets you into the way of thinking that you must always demolish your opponent, and treat him as an enemy, it is doing harm. If you will take the trouble to follow the controversies which are going on in your own city and state over public affairs, you will soon see that in most of them the two sides break even, so far as intelligence and public-spiritedness go. In every transaction there are two sides; and the president of a street railroad may be as honest and as disinterested in seeking to get the best of the bargain for his road as the representatives of the city are in trying to get the best of it for the public. There is no use going into a question of this sort with the assumption that you are on a higher moral plane than the other side. In some cases where a moral issue is involved there is only one view of what is right; if honesty is in the balance, there can be no other side. But, as we have seen, there are moral questions in which one must use his utmost strength for the right as he sees the right, and yet know all the time that equally honest men are fighting just as hard on the other side. No American who remembers the case of General Robert E. Lee can forget this puzzling truth. Therefore, unless there can be no doubt of the dishonesty of your opponent, turn your energies against his cause and not against him; and hold that the proper end of argument is not so much to win victories as to bring as many people as possible to agreement.

EXERCISES

1. Compare the length of the introductory part of the argument of the specimens at the end of this book; point out reasons for the difference in length, if you find any.

2. Find two arguments, not in this book, in which the main points at issue are numbered.

3. Find an argument, not in this book, in which a history of the case is part of the introduction.

4. Find an argument, not in this book, in which the definitions of terms occupy some space.

5. In the argument on which you are working, what terms need definition? How much space should the definitions occupy in the completed argument? Why?

6. In the argument on which you are working, how much of the material in the introduction to the brief shall you use in the argument itself? Does the audience you have in mind affect the decision?

7. How do you intend to distribute your space between the main issues you will argue out?

8. How much will explanation enter into your argument?

9. Find an argument, not in this book, in which the explanation chiefly makes the convincing power.

10. In which of the arguments in this book does explanation play the smallest part?

11. Examine five consecutive paragraphs in Huxley's argument on evolution, or The Outlook argument on the Workman's Compensation Act, from the point of view of good explanation.

12. Find two examples of arguments, not in this book, whose chief appeal is to the feelings.

13. Find an argument, not in this book, which is a good illustration of the power of tact.

14. Name an argument which you have read within a few months which made a special impression on you by its clearness.

15. Find an argument in the daily papers, on local or academic affairs, which makes effective appeal to the practical interests of its audience. Analyze this appeal.

16. Name three subjects of local and immediate interest on which you could write an argument in which you would appeal chiefly to the practical interests of your readers.

17. Name two current political questions which turn on the practical interests of the country at large.

18. Name two public questions now under discussion into which moral issues enter. Do both sides on these questions accept the same view of the bearing of the moral issues?

19. Find an argument, not in this book, in which the eloquence of the style is a distinct part of the persuasive power.

20. What do you think of the persuasive power of Burke's speech "On Conciliation with America"? of its convincing power?

21. Find an argument, not in this book, in which the concreteness of the language adds to the persuasive power.

22. Find two examples, not in this book, of apt and effective figures of speech in an argument.

23. Find an example of an apt anecdote or fable used in an argument.

24. In Lincoln's address at Cooper Institute, what do you think of his attitude towards the South as respects fairness?

25. In the argument on which you are at work, what chance would there be of inducing agreement between the two sides?



CHAPTER V

DEBATING

60. The Nature of Debate. The essential difference between debate and written argument lies not so much in the natural difference between all spoken and written discourse as in the fact that in a debate of any kind there is the chance for an immediate answer to an opponent. Quickness of wit to see the weak points on the other side, readiness in attacking them, and resource in defending one's own points make the debater, as distinguished from the man who, if he be given plenty of time, can make a formidable and weighty argument in writing. The best debating is heard in deliberative bodies which are not too large, and where the rules are not too elaborate. Perhaps the best in the world is in the British House of Commons, for there the room is not so large that hearing is difficult, and skill in thrust and parry has been valued and practiced for generations.

The military figure for argument is more apposite in debate than anywhere else, for in the taking of the vote there is an actual victory and defeat, very different in nature from the barren decision of judges in intercollegiate and interscholastic contests. It is undoubtedly rare that a particular debate in any legislative body actually changes the result; but in the long run the debates in such bodies do mold public opinion, and within the body amalgamate or break up party ties. The resource and the ready knowledge of the subject under debate necessary to hold one's own in such running contests of wit Is an almost essential characteristic of a party leader. It is on these two qualities that I shall chiefly dwell in this chapter.

61. Subjects for Debate. Debate almost always deals with questions of policy. In trials before a jury there is something approaching a debate over questions of fact; but the rules of evidence are so special, and within their range so strict, that even though the arguments are spoken, they can have little of the free give and take which makes the life and the interest of a real debate. Accordingly I shall draw my illustrations here from questions of policy, and so far as is possible from the sort of question that students are likely to turn their attention to. The later years of school and the whole of the college course are often the molding years for a man's views on all sorts of public questions. It has been said that a man's views rarely change after he is twenty-five years old; and though one must not take such a dictum too literally, yet unquestionably it has truth. At any rate it is certain that a student, whether in high school or college, if he is to do his duty as a citizen, must begin to think out many of the questions which are being decided in Congress, in state legislatures, and in smaller, more local bodies. At the same time, in every school and college questions are constantly under discussion of a nature to provide good practice in debate. Some of these questions must be decided by school committee, principal, faculty, or trustees, and most of them call for some looking up of facts. They would provide admirable material for the development of judgment and resource in debating, and in some cases a debate on them might have effect on the actual decision.

The choice of subject is even more important for debating than for written argument. In a written argument if you have a question which has two defensible sides, it does not make much difference whether one is easier to defend than the other: in a debate such a difference might destroy the usefulness of the subject. Though to some older minds the abolition of football is a debatable question, before an audience of undergraduates who had to vote on the merits of the question the subject would be useless, since the side which had to urge the abolition would here have an almost impossible task. So in a debate on the "closed shop," in most workingmen's clubs the negative would be able to accomplish little, for the other side would be intrenched in the prejudices and prepossessions of the audience. In political bodies unevenness of sides is of common occurrence, for a minority must always defend its doctrines, no matter how overwhelming the vote is certain to be. In the formal debates of school and college, on the other hand, where the conditions must be more or less artificial, the first condition is to choose a question which will give the two sides an even chance.

A fair test of this evenness of sides is to see whether the public which is concerned with the question is evenly divided: if about the same number of men who are acquainted with the subject and are recognized as fair-minded take opposite sides, the question is probably a good subject for debate. Even this test, however, may be deceptive, since believing a policy to be sound and being able to show that it is so are very different matters. The reasons for introducing the honor system into a certain school or college are probably easier to state and to support than the reasons against introducing it; yet the latter may be unquestionably weighty.

In general, arguments which rest on large and more or less abstract principles are at a disadvantage as against arguments based on some immediate and pressing evil or on some obvious expediency. Arguments for or against a protective tariff on general principles of political economy are harder to make interesting and, therefore, cogent to the average audience than are those based on direct practical gains or losses. This difference in the ease with which the two sides of a question can be argued must be taken into account in the choice of a subject.

In the second place, the subject should be so phrased that it will inevitably produce a "head-on" collision between the two sides. If such a proposition as "The present city government should be changed" were chosen for a debate, one side might argue it as a question of the party or of the men who happened to be in control at the time, and the other as a question of the form of government. So on the question of self-government for a college or school, unless the type of self-government were carefully defined, the two sides might argue through the debate and not come in sight of each other. What was said in Chapter II about framing the proposition for an argument applies with even more force to finding the proposition for a debate; for here if they do not meet on an irreconcilable difference, there is little use in their coming together.

In the third place, it is desirable that the proposition should be so framed as to throw the burden of proof on the affirmative. Unless the side which opens the debate has something definite to propose, the debate must open more or less lamely, for it is hard to attack or oppose something which is going to be set forth after you have finished talking. Here, however, as in the case of written arguments, it must be remembered that burden of proof is a vague and slippery term; "he who asserts must prove" is a maxim that in debate applies to the larger issues only, and the average audience will give themselves little trouble about the finer applications of it. If you are proposing a change in present conditions, and the present conditions are not very bad, they will expect you to show why there should be a change, and to make clear that the change you propose will work an improvement. It is only when conditions have become intolerable that an audience thinks first of the remedy. In the ordinary school or college, for example, there is little reason in current conditions for introducing the honor system in examinations: in such a case the burden of proof on the affirmative would be obvious, If, however, as occasionally happens, there has been an epidemic of dishonesty in written work, then the authorities of the school and the parents would want to know why there should not be a change. But it would both bore and confuse an audience to explain to them at length the theory of the shifting of the burden of proof; and the chances are that they would say, "Why doesn't he prove his point, and not spend his time beating about the bush?"

Finally, the proposition should, if possible, give to the negative as well as to the affirmative some constructive argument. If one side occupies itself wholly with showing the weakness of the arguments on the other side, you get nowhere on the merits of the question; for all that has been shown in the debate, the proposition put forward by the affirmative may be sound, and the only weakness lie in its defenders. Moreover, where the negative side finds no constructive argument on the merits of the question, or elects to confine itself to destructive, arguments, it must beware of the fallacy "of objections"; that is, of assuming that when it has brought forward some objections to the proposition it has settled the matter. As I have so often pointed out in this treatise, no question is worth arguing unless it has two sides; and that is merely saying, in another way, that to both sides there are reasonable objections. Where a negative side confines itself to destructive arguments it must make clear that the objections it presents are really destructive, or at any rate are clearly more grave than those which can be brought against leaving things as they are. And if they confine themselves to destroying the arguments brought forward by the affirmative in this particular debate, they must make clear that these arguments are the strongest that can be brought forward on that side.

On all questions as to construction of terms and burden of proof, it should be understood beforehand that the judges of a formal debate will heavily penalize anything like pettifogging or quibbling. The two sides should do their best to come to a "head-on" issue; and any attempt at standing on precise definition, or sharp practice in leading the other side away from the main question, should be held to be not playing the game. Where the judges are drawn from men of experience in affairs, as is usually the case, they will estimate such boyish smartnesses at their true value.

62. Technical Forms. The formal debates of school and college have certain forms and conventions which are partly based on parliamentary procedure, partly have been worked out to make these debates more interesting and better as practice; and there are certain preliminary arrangements that improve debating both as intellectual training and as fun. I shall speak first of the forms and conventions.

In debates in school and college it is usual to have two or three on a side, and for good reasons. In the first place, the labor of working up the subject is shared, and it is better fun working with some one else. Then, in the debate itself there is more variety. In class debates there are usually two speakers on each side, with provision of time for several four- or five-minute speeches from the floor before the closing speeches in rebuttal.[64] If there are as many speakers as this a two-hour period must be allowed. This allotment of time will naturally be adapted to special conditions; as, for example, where it is desirable that there shall be more speakers from the floor, or where it is desired to give the whole time to the regular debaters. In important intercollegiate debates there are usually three speakers, each of whom has ten minutes for his main speech and five minutes for rebuttal. This arrangement varies greatly, however, in different places, and not infrequently there is only one speech in rebuttal. The affirmative is usually given the last speech, on the theory that it is a disadvantage to have to open the debate. Obviously, however, in practice the reverse may often be true, since a skillful speech in opening may largely determine the course of the debate; and for this reason many debating societies and colleges allow the closing speech to the negative. It is wise not to look on any of these rules as inviolable.[65]

The distribution of the points between the speakers on a side should be made beforehand, but always with the understanding that the exigencies of the debate may upset the arrangement. We shall see presently the advantage there is in having each member of a "team" prepared to defend all the points on his side. The only speech for which a fixed program can be made beforehand is the first speech on the affirmative: obviously this must at any rate expound the main facts which the audience must know in order to understand the speeches that follow. After that each speaker should be prepared either to answer directly what has just been said or to explain why he postpones the answer. At the same time, unless his hand has been forced, he must make the point or points which have been committed to him in the preliminary plan of campaign. Each speaker after the first generally takes a minute or two to sum up the position as his side sees it; and the final speaker on each side ought to save time to recapitulate and drive home the main points that his side has made and the chief objections to the arguments on the other side. Beyond these suggestions, which should not be allowed to harden into invariable rules, much must be left to the swift judgment of the debaters. It is a good test of skill in debating to know just when to stick to such rules, and when to break away from them.

A debater uses certain forms which have long been established in parliamentary law. To begin with, he never uses the name of his opponent: if he has to refer to him he refers indirectly in some such form as "the last speaker," "the first speaker for the affirmative," "the gentlemen from Wisconsin," "our opponents," "my colleague who has just spoken." This is an inviolable rule of all debating bodies, whether a class in school or college or one of the Houses of Congress.

In a formal debate the subject is stated by the presiding officer, who is usually not one of the judges, and he also introduces each of the speakers in the order agreed on beforehand.

In class debates the subject is usually given out by the instructor, who may assign the speakers, or may call for volunteers, or may let each member of the class take his turn in regular rotation. This distribution will usually work itself out to suit the class and the circumstances. In interscholastic and intercollegiate debates the subject is generally chosen by letting one side offer a number of subjects from which the other selects one. Sometimes the team which does not have the choice of subject has the choice of sides after the other team has picked the subject. In a triangular debate two or three subjects are proposed by each team, and then one is selected by preferential voting of all the contestants, first choice counting three points, second two, and third one. In such a contest each institution has two teams, one of which supports the affirmative, and the other the negative; and the three debates take place on the same day or evening.

In class debates the two sides should unite in preparing an agreed statement of facts, which shall contain so much of the history of the case as is pertinent, facts and issues which it is agreed shall be waived, and a statement of the main issues. Furthermore, it is highly desirable that the sides should submit to each other outline briefs covering the main points of their case. With such preparations there is little probability that there can be any failure to meet. The same preparations would be useful in interscholastic and intercollegiate debates, wherever they are practicable. Anything which leads to a thorough discussion of identical points and to the consequent illumination of the question makes these entertainments more valuable.

For intercollegiate and interscholastic debates it is wise to have some sort of instructions for the judges, which should be agreed on beforehand. These instructions must make clear that the decision is to turn not on the merits of the question, as in real life, but on the merits of the debaters. Among those merits the substance should count much more than the form. Of the points that count in judging the substance of the debate the instructions may note keenness of analysis, power of exposition, thoroughness of preparation, judgment in the selection of evidence, readiness and effectiveness in rebuttal, and grasp of the subject as a whole. For form the instructions may mention bearing, ease and appropriateness of gesture, quality and expressiveness of voice, enunciation and pronunciation, and general effectiveness of delivery. Sometimes these points are drawn up with percentages to suggest their proportionate weight; but it is doubtful whether so exact a calculation can ever be of practical value. In most cases the judges will decide from a much less articulate sense of which side has the advantage.[66]

63. Preparations for Debating. Since the chief value of debating, as distinguished from written arguments, is in cultivating readiness and flexibility of wit, the speaking should be as far as possible extemporaneous. This does not imply that the speaking should be without preparation: on the contrary, the preparation for good debating is more arduous than for a written argument, for when you are on your feet on the platform you cannot run to your books or to your notes to refresh your memory or to find new material. The ideal debater is the man who so carries the whole subject in his mind that the facts flow to his mind as he talks, and fit into the plan of his argument without a break. To the rare men who remember everything they read, such readiness is natural, but to far the largest number of speakers it comes only through hard study of the material. Daniel Webster declared that the material for his famous Reply to Hayne had been in his desk for months. In so far as debating consists in the recitation of set speeches written out and committed to memory beforehand, it throws away most of what makes debating valuable, and tends to become elocution. We shall consider here, therefore, ways in which speakers can make themselves so familiar with the subject to be debated that they can confidently cut loose from their notes.

In the first place, each debater on a team should prepare himself on the whole subject, not only on the whole of his own side, but also on the whole of the other side. It is usual to divide up the chief points that a team is to make among its different members; but in the sudden turns to which every debate is liable such assignment may easily become impossible. If the other side presents new material or makes a point in such a way as manifestly to impress the audience, the next speaker may have to throw over the point assigned to him and give himself immediately to refuting the arguments just made. Then his points must be left to his colleagues, and they must be able to use them to effect. Likewise a team should know the strong points on the other side as well as on its own, and come to the platform primed with arguments to meet them. In intercollegiate contests, to insure this fore-knowledge of the other side the speakers as part of their preparation meet men from their own college who argue out the other side in detail and at length. In a triangular contest each team from a college has the advantage of having worked up the subject in actual debate against the other. The more thoroughly you have worked up both sides of the question, the less likely are you to be taken by surprise by some argument which you do not know how to meet.

64. On the Platform. When it comes to the actual debate experience shows that speeches committed to memory are almost always ineffective as compared with extemporaneous speaking. Even when your confidence is not disturbed by a slippery memory there is an impalpable touch of the artificial about the prepared speech which impairs its vitality. On the other hand, especially with the first speeches on each side, you cannot get to your feet and trust entirely to the inspiration of the moment; you must have something thought out. One of the most notable lecturers in Harvard University prepares his lectures in a way which is an excellent model for debaters. He writes out beforehand a complete analytical and tabulated plan of his lecture, similar to the briefs which have been recommended here in Chapter II, with each of the main principles of his lecture, and with the subdivisions and illustrations inserted. Then he leaves this outline at home and talks from a full and well-ordered mind. Some such plan is the best possible one for the main speeches in a debate. Often the plan can be most easily prepared by writing out the argument in full; and this expansion of the argument has the added advantage of providing you with much of your phrasing. But it is better not to commit the complete argument to memory: the brief of it, if thoroughly digested and so studied as to come readily to mind, is enough. Then practice, practice, practice, will give the ease and fluency that you need.

The rebuttal should always be extemporaneous. Even if you have foreseen the strongest points made by your opponent and prepared yourself to meet them, you cannot foresee just the way he will make the points. Nothing is more awkward in a debate than to begin with a few obviously extemporaneous remarks, and then to let loose a little speech which has been kept, as it were, in cold storage, and which just misses fitting the speech to which it should be an answer. It is better to make the rebuttal a little less sweeping than it might be and have it fall pat on the speech which it is attacking. Ready and spontaneous skill in rebuttal is the final excellence of debating. At the same time the skill should be so natural that wit and good humor may have their chance. If from the beginning you practice making your speeches in rebuttal offhand, you will constantly gain in confidence when you are called on to speak.

Whether to take notes on to the platform or not is a somewhat disputed question. If you can speak without them and hold without stumbling to the main course of your argument, so much the better. On the other hand, most lawyers have their briefs when they are arguing on points of law, and some sort of rough notes when they are arguing before a jury; and when unassumingly and naturally used, notes are hardly observed by an audience. Only, if you do have notes, do not try to conceal them: hold them so that the audience will know what they are, and will not wonder what you are doing when you peer into the palm of your hand.

If you have passages to quote from a book or other document, have the book on the table beside you; its appearance will add substance to your point, and the audience will have ocular proof that you are quoting exactly.

For purposes of rebuttal it is usual to have material on cards arranged under the principal subdivisions of the subject, so that they can readily be found. These cards can be kept in the small wooden or pasteboard boxes that are sold for the purpose at college stationers. If the cards have the proper kind of headings, you can easily look them over while your opponent is speaking and pull out the few that bear on the point you are to meet. Examples of these cards have been given in Chapter II. The important thing for their use in a debate is to have the headings so clear and pertinent that you can instantly find the particular card you want. Naturally you will have made yourself thoroughly familiar with them beforehand.

When you have to use statistics, simplify them so that your hearers can take them in without effort. Large numbers should be given in round figures, except where some special emphasis or perhaps some semihumorous effect is to be gained by giving them in full. Quotations from books or speeches must of necessity be short: where you have only ten minutes yourself you cannot give five minutes to the words of another man.

Keep your audience in good humor; if you can occasion ally relieve the solemnity of the occasion by making them laugh, they will like you the better for it, and think none the worse of your argument. On the other hand, remember that such diversion is incidental, and that your main business is to deal seriously with a serious question. The uneasy self-consciousness that keeps a man always trying to be funny is nowhere more out of place than in a debate.

65. Voice and Position. The matter of delivery is highly important, and here no man can trust to the light of nature. Any voice can be made to carry further and to be more expressive, and the poorest and thinnest voice can be improved. Every student who has a dream of being a public speaker should take lessons in elocution or in singing or in both. The expressiveness as well as the carrying power and the endurance of a voice depend on a knowledge of how to use the muscles of the chest, throat, and face; and trainers of the voice have worked out methods for the proper use of all these sets of muscles. A man who throws his breath from the top of his chest and does not use the great bellows that reach down to his diaphragm can get little carrying power. So with the throat: if it is stiff and pinched the tones will be high and forced, and listening to them will tire the audience nearly as much as making them will tire the speaker. Finally, the expressiveness of a voice, the thrill that unconsciously but powerfully stirs hearers, is largely a matter of the resonance that comes from the spaces above the mouth and behind the nose. A humorous singing teacher once declared that the soul resides in the bridge of the nose; and the saying is not so paradoxical as it sounds. Lessons in the use of all these parts, and faithful practice in the exercises which go with them, are essential for any man who wishes to make a mark in public speaking.

With the use of the voice, though less essential, goes the position and bearing on the platform. It is not necessary to insist that the more natural this is, the better. If you can wholly forget yourself and think only of your points, the chances are that your attitudes and position will take care of themselves. Only, before thus forgetting yourself, form the habit of talking without putting your hands in your pockets. You ought to need your hands to talk with, if not as much as a Frenchman or an Italian, yet enough to emphasize your points naturally. The mere physical stimulus to the eye of an audience in following your movements will help to keep their attention awake. Every one who has tried lecturing to a large class knows how much easier it is to hold them if he stands up and moves a little from time to time. Learn to stand easily and naturally, with your chest well expanded, and your weight comfortably balanced on your feet. If it comes natural to you, move about the stage slightly from time to time; but be careful not to look each time you move as if a string had been pulled. In attitude and gesture the only profitable council is, Be natural.

For all these matters of preparation, both of what you are going to say, the use of your voice, and your attitude and action on the platform, be prepared for hard practice with competent criticism. It is a good plan to practice talking from your outlines with your watch open, until you can bring your speech to an end in exactly the time allowed you. The gain in confidence when you go to the debate will in itself be worth the time. Again, practice speaking before a glass to make sure that you have no tricks of scowling or of making faces when you talk, and to get used to standing up straight and holding yourself well. What you see for yourself of your own ways will help you more than the advice of a critic.

But in all your preparation think beyond the special debate you are preparing for. What you are or should be aiming at is habit—the instinctive, spontaneous execution of rules which you have forgotten. When the habit is established you can let all these questions of voice, of attitude, of gesture, drop from your mind, and give your whole attention to the ideas you are developing, and the language in which you shall clothe them. Then the tones of your voice will respond to the earnestness of your feeling, and your gestures will be the spontaneous response to the emphasis of your thought. You will not be a perfect debater until all these matters are regulated from the unconscious depths of your mind.

In your attitude towards the debaters on the other side be scrupulously fair and friendly. In class debates the matter is finished when the debate is over; and what you are after is skill, and not beating some one. In interscholastic and intercollegiate debates victory is the end; but even there, after the debate you will often go out to supper with your opponents. Therefore demolish their arguments, but do not smash their makers.

If the first speech falls to you, set forth the facts in such a way that not only your opponents will have no corrections or protests to make, but that they will be wholly willing to make a start from your foundation. Yield all trivial points: it is a waste of your time and proof of an undeveloped sense of proportion to haggle over points that in the end nobody cares about. You have won a point if you can make the audience and the judges feel that you are anxious to allow everything possible to the other side.

If your opponent trips on some small point of fact or reasoning, don't heckle him; let it pass, or, at the most, point it out with some kindly touch of humor. If his facts or his reasoning are wrong on important points, that is your opportunity, and you must make the most of it. Even then, however, stick to the argument, and keep away from any appearance of being personal.

66. The Morals of Debating. There is a moral or ethical side to practice in debating which one cannot ignore. It is dangerous to get into the habit of arguing lightly for things in which one does not believe; and students may be forced into doing this if great care is not taken in the choice of subjects and sides. The remedy lies in using, so far as they can be kept interesting, questions in which there is no moral element; but still better in assigning sides to correspond with the actual views and preferences of the debaters. Where a question of principle is involved no one should ever argue against his beliefs. The better class of lawyers are scrupulous about this: they will not accept a brief which they believe to be in a cause which ought not to win. If you have clearly made up your mind on a question of public policy, you are in a false position if you argue, even for practice, against what you believe to be the right.

The formal debates of school and college are of necessity barren of practical result; yet even here your discussions have a potent effect in molding your opinions. It is a habit of mankind to start idly talking on a subject, and as idly taking sides; then, when the talk grows warmer, in the natural desire to carry a point to talk themselves into belief. This is a human, though not a very reasonable way of framing your views on public questions; and it does not make either for consistency or for usefulness as a voter. It is not good to back one's self into opinions of what makes for the common weal.

Furthermore, debate is something very different from dispute: to talk round and round a subject, contradicting blindly and asserting without bringing forward facts, has its place in our life with our friends, so long as it is good-natured; but it does not bring illumination. The essence of debate, whether in a classroom, in a city council, or in Congress, should be to throw light into dark corners, and to disentangle the view that most makes for the general good. For us in America noblesse oblige applies to every educated man. The graduate of a high school, and, even more, the graduate of a college, has taken exceptional benefits from the community. This obligation he can in part repay by helping all citizens to a better understanding of the issues on which the progress of the nation turns.

Finally, debating should share the zest that comes of any good game that means hard work and an honorable struggle with opponents one respects and likes. It is preeminently a social occupation. The House of Commons has long been noted as the best club in England; and this sense of fellowship, of continuing friendship and intimacy, gives a charm to English parliamentary life which is hardly possible with the unwieldy numbers and huge hall of our own House of Representatives, but does spring out of the smaller and continuing membership of the Senate. A class in debating should have the sense of comradeship which comes of hard work together and the trying out of one's own powers against one's equals and betters, and from the memory of hard-fought contests; and intercollegiate and interscholastic contests should be carried on in the same spirit of zest in the hard work, of a sane desire to win, and of comradeship with worthy opponents.

EXERCISES

1. Name three questions in national affairs which have been debated within a month, on which you could profitably debate; three in state affairs; three in local affairs.

2. Name two subjects affecting your school or college which are under debate at the present time.

3. Name two subjects on which you could write an argument, but which would not be profitable for debate. Explain the reason.

4. Name two good subjects for a debate drawn from athletics; two from some current academic question; two from local or municipal affairs.

5. Find a proposition in which the two sides to a debate might in good faith pass each other without meeting. Make it over so that the issue would be unavoidable.

6. Frame a proposition in which the burden of proof would not be on the affirmative. Make it over so that the burden of proof would fall on the affirmative.

7. Draw up a scheme for a debate on one of the propositions in Exercise 4, with a tentative assignment of points to three debaters on a side.

8. Draw up a set of instructions to judges for an intercollegiate or interscholastic debate, so framed as to produce a decision on the points which seem to you the most important.

9. Prepare yourself for a five-minute extemporaneous speech on a subject on which you have written an argument.

10. Name three questions on which you could not, without violence to your convictions, argue on more than one side.



APPENDIX I

EXAMPLES OF ARGUMENT

THE THREE HYPOTHESES RESPECTING THE HISTORY OF NATURE[67]

THOMAS H. HUXLEY

This is the first of three lectures which make a continuous argument, which were delivered in New York. September 18, 20, and 22, 1876. It should therefore be regarded as the introductory part of the argument; and as a matter of fact it does not get to Huxley's positive proof, but is occupied with disposing of the other theories. This refutation finished, Huxley was then at liberty to go ahead with the affirmative argument, as he indicates in the last paragraph of the lecture.

The argument is a notable piece of reasoning on a scientific subject, in terms which make it intelligible to all educated men. When Huxley spoke, the heat which had been kindled by the first announcement of the theory of evolution in Darwin's "Origin of Species" was still blazing; and there were many church people who held that the theory was subversive of religion, without giving themselves the trouble to understand it. This timid frame of mind explains Hurley's mode of approach to the subject.

We live in and form part of a system of things of immense diversity and perplexity, which we call Nature; and it is a matter of the deepest interest to all of us that we should form just conceptions of the constitution of that system and of its past history. With relation to this universe, man is, in extent, little more than a mathematical point: in duration but a fleeting shadow: he is a mere reed shaken in the winds of force. But, as Pascal long ago remarked, although a mere reed, he is a thinking reed; and in virtue of that wonderful capacity of thought, he has the power of framing for himself a symbolic conception of the universe, which, although doubtless highly imperfect and inadequate as a picture of the great whole, is yet sufficient to serve him as a chart for the guidance of his practical affairs. It has taken long ages of toilsome and often fruitless labor to enable man to look steadily at the shifting scenes of the phantasmagoria of Nature, to notice what is fixed among her fluctuations, and what is regular among her apparent irregularities; and it is only comparatively lately, within the last few centuries, that the conception of a universal order and of a definite course of things, which we term the course of Nature, has emerged.

But, once originated, the conception of the constancy of the order of Nature has become the dominant idea of modern thought. To any person who is familiar with the facts upon which that conception is based, and is competent to estimate their significance, it has ceased to be conceivable that chance should have any place in the universe, or that events should depend upon any but the natural sequence of cause and effect. We have come to look upon the present as the child of the past and as the parent of the future; and, as we have excluded chance from a place in the universe, so we ignore, even as a possibility, the notion of any interference with the order of Nature. Whatever may be men's speculative doctrines, it is quite certain that every intelligent person guides his life and risks his fortune upon the belief that the order of Nature is constant, and that the chain of natural causation is never broken.

In fact, no belief which we entertain has so complete a logical basis as that to which I have just referred. It tacitly underlies every process of reasoning; it is the foundation of every act of the will. It is based upon the broadest induction, and it is verified by the most constant, regular, and universal of deductive processes. But we must recollect that any human belief, however broad its basis, however defensible it may seem, is, after all, only a probable belief, and that our widest and safest generalizations are simply statements of the highest, degree of probability. Though we are quite clear about the constancy of the order of Nature, at the present time, and in the present state of things, it by no means necessarily follows that we are justified in expanding this generalization into the infinite past, and in denying, absolutely, that there may have been a time when Nature did not follow a fixed order, when the relations of cause and effect were not definite, and when extranatural agencies interfered with the general course of Nature. Cautious men will allow that a universe so different from that which we know may have existed; just as a very candid thinker may admit that a world in which two and two do not make four, and in which two straight lines do inclose a space, may exist. But the same caution which forces the admission of such possibilities demands a great deal of evidence before it recognizes them to be anything more substantial. And when it is asserted that, so many thousand years ago, events occurred in a manner utterly foreign to and inconsistent with the existing laws of Nature, men, who without being particularly cautious, are simply honest thinkers, unwilling to deceive themselves or delude others, ask for trustworthy evidence of the fact. Did things so happen or did they not? This is a historical question, and one the answer to which must be sought in the same way as the solution of any other historical problem.

* * * * *

So far as I know, there are only three hypotheses which ever have been entertained, or which well can be entertained, respecting the past history of Nature. I will, in the first place, state the hypotheses, and then I will consider what evidence bearing upon them is in our possession, and by what light of criticism that evidence is to be interpreted.

Upon the first hypothesis, the assumption is, that phenomena of Nature similar to those exhibited by the present world have always existed; in other words, that the universe has existed from all eternity in what may be broadly termed its present condition.

The second hypothesis is, that the present state of things has had only a limited duration; and that, at some period in the past, a condition of the world, essentially similar to that winch we now know, came into existence, without any precedent condition from which it could have naturally proceeded. The assumption that successive stales of Nature have arisen, each without any relation of natural causation to an antecedent state, is a mere modification of this second hypothesis.

The third hypothesis also assumes that the present state of things has had but a limited duration; but it Supposes that this state has been evolved by a natural process from an antecedent state, and that from another, and so on; and, on this hypothesis, the attempt to assign any limit to the series of past changes is, usually, given up.

It is so needful to form clear and distinct notions of what is really meant by each of these hypotheses that I will ask you to imagine what, according to each, would have been visible to a spectator of the events which constitute the history of the earth. On the first hypothesis, however far back in time that spectator might be placed, he would see a world essentially, though perhaps not in all its details, similar to that which now exists. The animals which existed would be the ancestors of those which now live, and similar to them; the plants, in like manner, would be such as we know; and the mountains, plains, and waters would foreshadow the salient features of our present land and water. This view was held more or less distinctly, sometimes combined with the notion of recurrent cycles of change, in ancient times; and its influence has been felt down to the present day. It is worthy of remark that it is a hypothesis which is not inconsistent with the doctrine of Uniformitarianism, with which geologists are familiar. That doctrine was held by Hutton, and in his earlier days by Lyell. Hutton was struck by the demonstration of astronomers that the perturbations of the planetary bodies, however great they may be, yet sooner or later right themselves; and that the solar system possesses a self-adjusting power by which these aberrations are all brought back to a mean condition. Hutton imagined that the like might be true of terrestrial changes; although no one recognized more clearly than he the fact that the dry land is being constantly washed down by rain and rivers and deposited in the sea; and that thus, in a longer or shorter time, the inequalities of the earth's surface must be leveled, and its high lards brought down to the ocean. But, taking into account the internal forces of the earth, which, upheaving the sea bottom, give rise to new land, he thought that these operations of degradation and elevation might compensate each other: and that thus, for any assignable time, the general features of our planet might remain what they are. And inasmuch as, under these circumstances, there need be no limit to the propagation of animals and plants, it is clear that the consistent working out of the uniformitarian idea might load to the conception of the eternity of the world. Not that I mean to say that either Hutton or Lyell held this conception—assuredly not; they would have been the first to repudiate it. Nevertheless, the logical development of their arguments lends directly towards this hypothesis.

The second hypothesis supposes that the present order of things, at some no very remote time, had a sudden origin, and that the world, such as it now is, had chaos for its phenomenal antecedent. That is the doctrine which you will find stated most fully and clearly in the immortal poem of John Milton,—the English Divina Commedia,—"Paradise Lost." I believe it is largely to the influence of that remarkable work, combined with the daily teachings to which we have all listened in our childhood, that this hypothesis owes its general wide diffusion as one of the current beliefs of English-speaking people. If you turn to the seventh book of "Paradise Lost," you will find there stated the hypothesis to which I refer, which is briefly this: That this visible universe of ours came into existence at no great distance of time from the present; and that the parts of which it is composed made their appearance, in a certain, definite order, in the space of six natural days, in such a manner that, on the first of these days, light appeared; that, on the second, the firmament, or sky, separated the waters above, from the waters beneath the firmament; that, on the third day, the waters drew away from the dry land, and upon it a varied vegetable life, similar to that which now exists, made its appearance; that the fourth day was signalized by the apparition of the sun, the stars, the moon, and the planets; that, on the fifth day, aquatic animals originated within the waters; that, on the sixth day, the earth gave rise to our four-footed terrestrial creatures, and to all varieties of terrestrial animals except birds, which had appeared on the preceding day; and, finally, that man appeared upon the earth, and the emergence of the universe from chaos was finished. Milton tells us, without the least ambiguity, what a spectator of these marvelous occurrences would have witnessed. I doubt not that his poem is familiar to all of you, but I should like to recall one passage to your minds, in order that I may be justified in what I have said regarding the perfectly concrete, definite picture of the origin of the animal world which Milton draws. He says:

"The sixth, and of creation last, arose With evening harps and matin, when God said, 'Let tine earth bring forth soul living in her kind, Cattle and creeping things, and beast of the earth, Each in their kind!' The earth obeyed, and, straight Opening her fertile womb, teemed at a birth. Innumerous living creatures, perfect forms, Limbed and full-grown. Out of the ground uprose, As from his lair, the wild beast, where he wons In forest wild, in thicket, brake, or den: Among the trees in pairs they rose, they walked; The cattle in the fields and meadows green; Those rare and solitary; these in flocks Pasturing at once, and in broad herds upsprung. The grassy clods now calved; now half appears The tawny lion, pawing to get free His hinder parts—then springs, as broke from bonds, And rampant shakes his brinded mane; the ounce, The libbard, and the tiger, as the mole Rising, the crumbled earth above them threw In hillocks; the swift stag from underground Bore up his branching head; scarce from his mould Behemoth, biggest born of earth, upheaved His vastness; fleeced the flocks and bleating rose As plants; ambiguous between sea and land, The river-horse and scaly crocodile. At once came forth whatever creeps the ground, Insect or worm."

There is no doubt as to the meaning of this statement, nor as to what a man of Milton's genius expected would have been actually visible to an eyewitness of this mode of origination of living things.

The third hypothesis, or the hypothesis of evolution, supposes that, at any comparatively late period of past time, our imaginary spectator would meet with a state of things very similar to that which now obtains; but that the likeness of the past to the present would gradually become less and less, in proportion to the remoteness of his period of observation from the present day: that the existing distribution of mountains and plains, of rivers and seas, would show itself to be the product of a slow process of natural change operating upon more and more widely different antecedent conditions of the mineral framework of the earth; until, at length, in place of that framework, he would behold only a vast nebulous mass, representing the constituents of the sun and of the planetary bodies. Preceding the forms of life which now exist, our observer would see animals and plants not identical with them, but like them: increasing their differences with their antiquity, and at the same time becoming simpler and simpler; until, finally, the world of life would present nothing but that undifferentiated protoplasmic matter which, so far as our present knowledge goes, is the common foundation of all vital activity.

The hypothesis of evolution supposes that in all this vast progression there would be no breach of continuity, no point at which we could say "This is a natural process," and "This is not a natural process"; but that the whole might be compared to that wonderful process of development which may be seen going on every day under our eyes, in virtue of which there arises, out of the semifluid, comparatively homogeneous substance which we call an egg, the complicated organization of one of the higher animals. That, in a few words, is what is meant by the hypothesis of evolution.

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I have already suggested that in dealing with these three hypotheses, in endeavoring to form a judgment as to which of them is the more worthy of belief, or whether none is worthy of belief—in which case our condition of mind should be that suspension of judgment which is so difficult to all but trained intellects,—we should be indifferent to all a priori considerations. The question is a question of historical fact. The universe has come into existence somehow or other, and the problem is, whether it came into existence in one fashion, or whether it came into existence in another; and, as an essential preliminary to further discussion, permit me to say two or three words as to the nature and the kinds of historical evidence.

The evidence as to the occurrence of any event in past time may be ranged under two heads, which, for convenience' sake, I will speak of as testimonial evidence and as circumstantial evidence. By testimonial evidence I mean human testimony; and by circumstantial evidence I mean evidence which is not human testimony. Let me illustrate by a familiar example what I understand by these two kinds of evidence, and what is to be said respecting their value.

Suppose that a man tells you that he saw a person strike another and kill him; that is testimonial evidence of the fact of murder. But it is possible to have circumstantial evidence of the fact of murder; that is to say, you may find a man dying with a wound upon his head having exactly the form and character of the wound which is made by an ax, and, with due care in taking surrounding circumstances into account, you may conclude with the utmost certainty that the man has been murdered; that his death is the consequence of a blow inflicted by another man with that implement. We are very much in the habit of considering circumstantial evidence as of less value than testimonial evidence, and it may be that, where the circumstances are not perfectly clear and intelligible, it is a dangerous and unsafe kind of evidence; but it must not be forgotten that, in many cases, circumstantial evidence is quite as conclusive as testimonial evidence, and that, not unfrequently, it is a great deal weightier than testimonial evidence. For example, take the case to which I referred just now. The circumstantial evidence may be better and more convincing than the testimonial evidence; for it may be impossible, under the conditions that I have defined, to suppose that the man met his death from any cause but the violent blow of an ax wielded by another man. The circumstantial evidence in favor of a murder having been committed, in that case, is as complete and as convincing as evidence can be. It is evidence which is open to no doubt and to no falsification. But the testimony of a witness is open to multitudinous doubts. He may have been mistaken. He may have been actuated by malice. It has constantly happened that even an accurate man has declared that a thing has happened in this, that, or the other way, when a careful analysis of the circumstantial evidence has shown that it did not happen in that way, but in some other way.

We may now consider the evidence in favor of or against the three hypotheses. Let me first direct your attention to what is to be said about the hypothesis of the eternity of the state of things in which we now live. What will first strike you is, that it is a hypothesis which, whether true or false, is not capable of verification by any evidence. For, in order to obtain either circumstantial or testimonial evidence sufficient to prove the eternity of duration of the present state of nature, you must have an eternity of witnesses or an infinity of circumstances, and neither of these is attainable. It is utterly impossible that such evidence should be carried beyond a certain point of time; and all that could be said, at most, would be, that so far as the evidence could be traced, there was nothing to contradict the hypothesis. But when you look, not to the testimonial evidence—which, considering the relative insignificance of the antiquity of human records, might not be good for much in this case—but to the circumstantial evidence, then you will find that this hypothesis is absolutely incompatible with such evidence as we have; which is of so plain and so simple a character that it is impossible in any way to escape from the conclusions which it forces upon us.

You are, doubtless, all aware that the outer substance of the earth, which alone is accessible to direct observation, is not of a homogeneous character, but that it is made up of a number of layers or strata, the titles of the principal groups of which are placed upon the accompanying diagram.[68] Each of these groups represents a number of beds of sand, of stone, of clay, of slate, and of various other materials.

On careful examination, it is found that the materials of which each of these layers of more or less hard rock are composed are, for the most part, of the same nature as those which are at present being formed under known conditions on the surface of the earth. For example, the chalk, which constitutes a great part of the Cretaceous formation in some parts of the world, is practically identical in its physical and chemical characters with a substance which is now being formed at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, and covers an enormous area; other beds of rock are comparable with the sands which art; being formed upon seashores, packed together, and so on. Thus, omitting rocks of igneous origin, it is demonstrable that all these beds of stone, of which a total of not less than seventy thousand feet is known, have been formed by natural agencies, either out of the waste and washing of the dry land, or else by the accumulation of the exuviae of plants and animals. Many of these strata are full of such exuviae—the so-called "fossils."

Remains of thousands of species of animals and plants, as perfectly recognizable as those of existing forms of life which you meet with in museums, or as the shells which you pick up upon the seabeach, have been embedded in the ancient sands, or muds, or limestones, just as they are being embedded now, in sandy, or clayey, or calcareous subaqueous deposits. They furnish us with a record, the general nature of which cannot be misinterpreted, of the kinds of things that have lived upon thy surface of the earth during the time that is registered by this great thickness of stratified rocks. But even a superficial study of these fossils shows us that the animals and plants which live at the present time have had only a temporary duration; for the remains of such modern forms of life are met with, for the most part, only in the uppermost or latest tertiaries, and their number rapidly diminishes in the lower deposits of that epoch. In the older tertiaries, the places of existing animals and plants are taken by other forms, as numerous and diversified as those which live now in the same localities, but more or less different from them; in the Mesozoic rocks, these are replaced by others yet more divergent from modern types; and in the Paleozoic formations the contrast is still more marked. Thus the circumstantial evidence absolutely negatives the conception of the eternity of the present condition of things. We can say with certainly that the present condition of things has existed for a comparatively short period; and that, so far as animal and vegetable nature are concerned, it has been preceded by a different condition. We can pursue this evidence until we reach the lowest of the stratified rocks, in which we lose the indications of life altogether. The hypothesis of the eternity of the present state of nature may therefore be put out of court.

We now come to what I will term Milton's hypothesis—the hypothesis that the present condition of things has endured for a comparatively short time; and, at the commencement of that time, came into existence within the course of six days. I doubt not that it may have excited some surprise in your minds that I should have spoken of this as Milton's hypothesis, rather than that I should have chosen the terms which are more customary, such as "the doctrine of creation," or the "Biblical doctrine," or "the doctrine of Moses," all of which denominations, as applied to the hypothesis to which I have just referred, are certainly much more familiar to you than the title of the Miltonic hypothesis. But I have had what I cannot but think are very weighty reasons for taking the course which T have pursued. In the first place, I have discarded the title of the doctrine of "creation," because my present business is not with the question why the objects which constitute Nature came into existence, but when they came into existence, and in what order. This is as strictly a historical question as the question when the Angles and the Jutes invaded England, and whether they preceded or followed the Romans. But the question about creation is a philosophical problem, and one which cannot be solved, or even approached, by the historical method. What we want to learn is, whether the facts, so far as they are known, afford evidence that things arose in the way described-by Milton, or whether they do not; and, when that question is settled, it will be time enough to inquire into the causes of their origination.

In the second place, I have not spoken of this doctrine as the Biblical doctrine, It is quite true that persons as diverse in their general views as Milton the Protestant and the celebrated Jesuit Father Suarez, each put upon the first chapter of Genesis the interpretation embodied in Milton's poem. It is quite true that this interpretation is that which has been instilled into every one of us in our childhood; but I do not for one moment venture to say that it can properly be called the Biblical doctrine. It is not my business, and does not lie within my competency, to say what the Hebrew text does, and what it does not signify; moreover, were I to affirm that this is the Biblical doctrine, I should be met by the authority of many eminent scholars, to say nothing of men of science, who, at various times, have absolutely denied that any such doctrine is to be found in Genesis. If we are to listen to many expositors of no mean authority, we must believe that what seems so clearly defined in Genesis—as if very great pains had been taken that there should be no possibility of mistake—is not the meaning of the text at all. The account is divided into periods that we may make just as long or short as convenience requires. We are also to understand that it is consistent with the original text to believe that the most complex plants and animals may have been evolved by natural processes, lasting for millions of years, out of structureless rudiments. A person who is not a Hebrew scholar can only stand aside and admire the marvelous flexibility of a language which admits of such diverse interpretations. But assuredly, in the face of such contradictions of authority upon matters respecting which he is incompetent to form any judgment, he will abstain, as I do, from giving any opinion.

In the third place, I have carefully abstained from speaking of this as the Mosaic doctrine, because we are now assured upon the authority of the highest critics, and even of dignitaries of the Church, that there is no evidence that Moses wrote the Book of Genesis, or knew anything about it. You will understand that I give no judgment—it would be an impertinence upon my part to volunteer even a suggestion—upon such a subject. But, that being the state of opinion among the scholars and the clergy, it is well for the unlearned in Hebrew lore, and for the laity, to avoid entangling themselves in such a vexed question. Happily, Milton leaves us no excuse for doubting what he means, and I shall therefore be safe in speaking of the opinion in question as the Miltonic hypothesis.

Now we have to test that hypothesis. For my part, I have no prejudice one way or the other. If there is evidence in favor of this view, I am burdened by no theoretical difficulties in the way of accepting it: but there must be evidence. Scientific men get an awkward habit—no, I won't call it that, for it is a valuable habit—of believing nothing unless there is evidence for it; and they have a way of looking upon belief which is not based upon evidence, not only as illogical, but as immoral. We will, if you please, test this view by the circumstantial evidence alone; for, from what I have said, you will understand that I do not propose to discuss the question of what testimonial evidence is to be adduced in favor of it. If those whose business it is to judge are not at one as to the authenticity of the only evidence of that kind which is offered, nor as to the facts to which it bears witness, the discussion of such evidence is superfluous.

But I may be permitted to regret this necessity of rejecting the testimonial evidence the less, because the examination of the circumstantial evidence leads to the conclusion, not only that it is incompetent to justify the hypothesis, but that, so far as it goes, it is contrary to the hypothesis.

The considerations upon which I base this conclusion are of the simplest possible character. The Miltonic hypothesis contains assertions of a very definite character relating to the succession of living forms. It is stated that plants, for example, made their appearance upon the third day, and not before. And you will understand that what the poet means by plants are such plants as now live, the ancestors, in the ordinary way of propagation of like by like, of the trees and shrubs which flourish in the present world. It must needs be so; for, if they were different, either the existing plants have been the result of a separate origination since that described by Milton, of which we have no record, nor any ground for supposition that such an occurrence has taken place; or else they have arisen by a process of evolution from the original stocks.

In the second place, it is clear that there was no animal life before the fifth day, and that, on the fifth day, aquatic animals and birds appeared. And. it is further clear that terrestrial living things, other than birds, made their appearance upon the sixth day, and not before. Hence, it follows that, if, in the large mass of circumstantial evidence as to what really has happened in the past history of the globe, we find indications of the existence of terrestrial animals, other than birds, at a certain period, it is perfectly certain that all that has taken place since that time must be referred to the sixth day.