When into the woods he came.
Out of the woods my Master went,
And he was well content.
Out of the woods my Master came,
Content with death and shame.
When death and shame would woo him last,
From under the trees they drew him—last;
’Twas on a tree they slew him—last,
When out of the woods he came.
One of the aphorisms of my youth was, “Poeta nascitur, orator fit.” That the poet is “born,” and ever bears upon himself the marks of his divine enduement, I do not doubt; but that the orator “becomes” or happens so by chance or labor, I must strongly deny. A certain fluency of speech, a certain gloss of oratory, may possibly be achieved by dint of elocutionary drill and practice. If one is minded, like orators of an elegant postprandial type, to stand before a mirror and practice the tricks of gesture and speech, he may hope to attain applause from those whose blood is kept well cooled by the ices of the banquet room. I have described it fittingly as “postprandial” oratory, for the reason that it is most appreciated when the stomach and not the brain is chiefly in operation.