The essay is written to be read, the oration to be heard; the essay is to please, to entertain, perhaps to instruct, sometimes to convince; the oration is to arouse the feelings, to carry conviction, to stir the public to action. It is a formal production, addressed directly to its hearers; it is in form or meaning in the second person. Even when descriptive or eulogistic, it is a direct address. The orator says, “These are my opinions and my reasons for so thinking. Will you not accept my view and act accordingly?”
The oration naturally divides itself into three sections. There is an introduction, in which the speaker clears the way, opens the question and lays down the principles he proposes to advocate, or indicates the course of his argument. The body follows. Here the principles are elucidated, the arguments advanced and properly established or the descriptions elaborated and finished. The last section is the conclusion, which may consist of a brief review or summary of the inferences drawn, or of a plea for belief and for action in accordance with the principles of the speaker.
Before the art of printing was invented, public opinion was molded almost entirely by public speaking, and for a great many years afterward the orator was the greatest of leaders. By the magic of his eloquence he changed the views of men and inspired them to deeds of valor. The fiery orations of a Demosthenes, of a Cicero; the thrilling words of a Peter the Hermit or a Savonarola; the unanswerable arguments of a Burke or a Webster, have more than once turned the course of history.
But when the newspaper first found its way into the hands of thinking men the power of the orator felt the influence of its silent opponent and began to wane. Today, it is not often that multitudes are swayed by a single voice. The debates and stump-speeches of a political campaign change but few votes. The preacher no longer depends wholly upon the convincing power of his rhetoric to make his converts. The representatives of a people in a parliament or a congress speak that their words may be heard through the newspapers by their constituents more than with the expectation that their speech will carry a measure through the House they are addressing.
Yet we will listen with pleasure to a fervid speaker whose earnestness of manner carries the conviction of his sincerity, and even against our will we are moved by elegant sentences and pleasing tones. The orator will continue to be a power, though in a different way. Conditions have changed, and the ponderous periods and elaborate figures that characterized the orators of classic epochs are giving place to the plain, lucid diction and the simple, true-hearted tones of the modern speaker.
The drama is objective, the author keeping himself out of sight as much as possible. His characters appear, speak their parts and vanish with no explanatory words from him except the occasional stage direction limited to the fewest possible words. There is no description, except when the actors give an account of something that does not occur upon the stage. There is little of narration, except to explain what does not appear upon the scene or to give clearness to the action. Argument is not infrequent, though it is usually in the form of a moving appeal to the emotions rather than to the reason. The play often leads to exposition, and many dramas are written with the evident intent of teaching a deep and forceful lesson.
The drama shows man in action and develops his character before the reader, but it is by acts and speech and not by direct description from the author. It deals with all human interests and frequently supernatural manifestations are introduced and become important factors in the plot, particularly when they are believed in by the people who appear in the drama. But in general it is a study of life and character.
Primarily the drama is to be heard, not read, and consequently its style is usually clear and its meaning easily apprehended, but the complexity of its incidents and the intricacies of its plot make it difficult to follow. The rapidity of its action, the necessity of gathering the meaning from a single hearing, and the intensity of feeling aroused would all unite to confuse the hearer were it not for the skill of the actor and the appropriateness of the stage settings. By the aid of these, understanding is in most cases not difficult. The changing scenery, the dress of the actors, their movements, the tones of their voices, and the expression of their faces all aid the hearer. But the interpretation then becomes that of the actor, so that the listener is once removed from the author. Moreover, to the actor everything is subservient to dramatic effect, and the study of an Othello descends into an effort to excite an audience rather than to portray correctly the shifting passions of the jealous Moor. The poet’s creation is adapted to the actor’s use by the omission of scenes, changes of scenes, and additions of scenes, by such verbal alterations and phrasal transpositions that one does not see Shakespeare’s Shylock demanding his pound of flesh but watches Irving’s Shylock whetting his savage knife; Hamlet is lost in Booth, and Juliet weeps in the tears of Mary Anderson.
But the pleasure a person derives from listening to their thrilling utterances is as distinct from that which comes to the appreciative reader as the pleasures of the palate differ from those of the eye. To the reader everything is his own. He carries his own theater with him. The scenery he must himself construct and he may alter it at will; the costumes and personal appearance of the characters are the creations of his own mind; his thunder has no metallic sound and his lightning always flashes. He may bring his favorites back with many an encore and may show his disapproval with hisses that would drown the gallery. He may linger over the passages he loves and find new encouragement in his defeats and ever fresh joys for his hours of gloom. He is never hurried: the lights never go out, the curtain is never rung down.