The longest speech yet pronounced in the council was delivered by the Cardinal Archbishop of Dublin, who spoke for an hour and forty-two minutes. Its length was the more remarkable, as Cardinal Cullen trusted to his memory, and illustrated his discourse by an abundance of facts and figures.
It is well known that all the bishops not only have the same faith, but speak the same language in council; and, with the exception of the orientals, and members of religious orders, they wear the same episcopal garb. Yet it is worthy of remark that, in spite of this uniformity in dress and language and outward mien, scarcely has a prelate opened his mouth from the pulpit when his nationality is at once discovered. He utters his shibboleth, which reveals him to his brethren as soon as Ephraim was betrayed to Galaad.
You will hear a bishop whisper to his neighbor, That speaker belongs to the Spanish family of nations. He hails either from the mother country or from one of her ancient colonies of South America, or Mexico, or Cuba. How does he know? He forms his judgment not merely from the little green tuft you see on the crown of the speaker's birettum or cap, but chiefly from his pronunciation. He will detect the Spaniard at once by his guttural sound of qui, and his lisping placet, besides many other peculiarities of utterance.
The Spaniards and their South American and Mexican cousins, though models of episcopal gravity, have not acquired the reputation in the council of being generally the best models of elocution. Their delivery is said to be sometimes indistinct, and their pronunciation so peculiar that, like the rose in the wilderness, they waste the odor of their wisdom on the desert air. Gems of thought fall, indeed, in profusion from their lips, but they escape occasionally in the too rapid current of words.
There are several bishops of Spanish origin, however, who have distinguished themselves alike by distinctness of utterance and by a remarkable fluency. Among others, I might mention the Bishop of Guamango, in Peru, and the Bishops of Havana, and S. Concezione, in Chili.
The next speaker is evidently an Italian. You know it from the musical sentences, which flow from his lips in such a smooth and measured strain that he almost appears to be reciting a select piece of Virgilian poetry. He might seem, were not his classical style so natural to him, to be aiming at making a good impression not only on your mind and heart, but also on your ear. Whenever the letter c is followed by e or i, he gives it the soft sound of ch, as in our English word cheerful; and he is careful to soften down every word which would sound harsh or grating. Sometimes, indeed, a prelate of another country will adopt for the nonce the Roman style of pronunciation; but nobody is deceived. Jacob's voice is recognized, though he tries to clothe his words in the form of his brother's.
It is almost impossible for an Italian bishop to make a speech without a formal introduction and peroration, either because of his respect for his hearers or for the great classical masters. He may protest he will be brief, but that word has a relative meaning. But it must be admitted that, for delicacy and refinement of thought, for fecundity of ideas, and clearness of exposition, some of the Italians have seldom been surpassed.
The prelate now before you, as you can tell at once, belongs to the Teutonic family. He is an Austrian, or Prussian, or Bavarian, or perhaps a Hungarian. The German pronounces g hard before e or i, contrary to the usual practice of Latin speakers. He makes sch soft before the same vowels, pronouncing, for instance, the word schema as if it were spelled without a c. Hence the gravity of the English-speaking bishops is occasionally relaxed, on hearing schematis sound as if it were written shame it is.
The German is more tame in delivery than either the Italian or the Spaniard. His colder climate tends to subdue his gestures, as well as to moderate his sensibility. He is not so fond of dealing in compliments as the Italian speakers, but goes at once in medias res. He is generally short and precise, and more inclined to appeal to your head than to your heart. At the same time, religious and logical, the sublime superstructure of his faith is built upon the solid foundation of common sense.
If a French prelate were not known by his rabat, he would be easily distinguished by his utterance of Latin. He has a strong tendency to shorten the infinitive in the second conjugation, and to lay a particular stress on the last syllable. There is indeed no bishop in the council who is so readily recognized by his voice as the Frenchman. Every one can say to him what the Jews said to St. Peter: "Surely thou art one of them, for thy speech doth discover thee." But, like Peter, he has no reason to be ashamed of the discovery; for his speech is not less pleasant than peculiar. He is no exception to the cultivated taste of his countrymen. He is generally well understood, because he speaks distinctly, and listened to with pleasure, because to solid learning he unites an animated and a nervous style.