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                <requestUrn>urn:cts:latinLit:phi1002.phi001.perseus-eng2:10.5.23-10.7.5</requestUrn>
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                <passage>
                    <TEI xmlns="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><text xml:lang="eng"><body><div n="urn:cts:latinLit:phi1002.phi001.perseus-eng2" type="translation" xml:lang="eng"><div n="10" type="textpart" subtype="book"><div n="5" type="textpart" subtype="chapter"><div n="23" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> The thorough treatment of one theme will be more profitable than the
                            sketchy and superficial treatment of a number of subjects. For the
                            latter practice has the result that nothing is put in its proper place
                            and that the opening of the declamation exceeds all reasonable bounds,
                            since the young orator crams all the flowers of eloquence which belong
                            to all the different portions of the theme into that portion which he
                            has to deliver, and fearing to lose what should naturally come later,
                            introduces wild confusion into the earlier portions of his speech. </p></div></div><div n="6" type="textpart" subtype="chapter"><div n="1" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> Having dealt with writing, the next point which claims our attention is
                            premeditation, which itself derives force from the practice of writing
                            and forms an intermediate stage between the labours of the pen and the
                            more precarious fortunes of improvisation; indeed I am not sure that it
                            is not more frequently of use than either. For there are places and
                            occasions where writing is impossible, while both are available in
                            abundance for premeditation. For <pb n="v10-12 p.129"/> but a few hours'
                            thought will suffice to cover all the points even of cases of
                            importance; if we wake at night, the very darkness will assist us, while
                            even in the midst of legal proceedings our mind will find some vacant
                            space for meditation, and will refuse to remain inactive. </p></div><div n="2" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> Again, this practice will not merely secure the proper arrangement of
                            our matter without any recourse to writing, which in itself is no small
                            achievement, but will also set the words which we are going to use in
                            their proper order, and bring the general texture of our speech to such
                            a stage of completion that nothing further is required beyond the
                            finishing touches. And as a rule the memory is more retentive of
                            thoughts when the attention has not been relaxed by the fancied security
                            which results from committing them to writing. But the concentration
                            which this requires cannot be attained in a moment or even quickly. </p></div><div n="3" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> For, in the first place, we must write much before we can form that
                            ideal of style which must always be present to our minds even when
                            engaged in premeditation. Secondly, we must gradually acquire the habit
                            of thought: to begin with, we shall content ourselves with covering but
                            a few details, which our minds are capable of reproducing with accuracy;
                            then by advances so gradual that our labour is not sensibly increased we
                            must develop our powers and confirm them by frequent practice, a task in
                            which the most important part is played by the memory. </p></div><div n="4" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> For this reason I must postpone some of my remarks to the portion of
                            this work reserved for the treatment of that topic. <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"> XI. ii. 1 <hi rend="italic">sqq.</hi>
                        </note> At length, however, our powers will have
                            developed so far that the man who is not hampered by lack of natural
                            ability will by dint of <pb n="v10-12 p.131"/> persistent study be
                            enabled, when it comes to speaking, to rely no less on what he has
                            thought out than what he has written out and learnt by heart. At any
                            rate, Cicero records that Metrodorus of Scepsis, <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"> A philosopher of the Academic school,
                                contemporary with Cicero, <hi rend="italic">cp. de Or.</hi> ii. 360.
                            </note> Empylus of Rhodes, <note anchored="true" place="unspecified">Empylus is not mentioned elsewhere.</note> and our own Hortensius
                                <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"><hi rend="italic">Cp.
                                    Brut.</hi> 301. </note> were able to reproduce what they had
                            thought out word for word when it came to actual pleading. </p></div><div n="5" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> If, however, some brilliant improvisation should occur to us while
                            speaking, we must not cling superstitiously to our premeditated scheme.
                            For premeditation is not so accurate as to leave no room for happy
                            inspiration: even when writing we often insert thoughts which occur to
                            us on the spur of the moment. Consequently this form of preparation must
                            be conceived on such lines that we shall find no difficulty either in
                            departing from it or returning to it at will. </p></div><div n="6" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> For, although it is essential to bring with us into court a supply of
                            eloquence which has been prepared in advance in the study and on which
                            we can confidently rely, there is no greater folly than the rejection of
                            the gifts of the moment. Therefore our premeditation should be such that
                            fortune may never be able to fool us, but may, on the contrary, be able
                            to assist us. This end will be obtained by developing the power of
                            memory so that our conceptions may flow from us without fear of
                            disaster, and that we may be enabled to look ahead without anxious
                            backward glances or the feeling that we are absolutely dependent on what
                            we can call to mind. Otherwise I prefer the rashness of improvisation to
                            the coherence given by premeditation. </p></div><div n="7" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> For such backward glances place us at a disadvantage, because our search
                            for our premeditated ideas makes us miss others, and we draw <pb n="v10-12 p.133"/> our matter from our memory rather than from the
                            subject on which we are speaking. And even if we are to rely on our
                            memory and our subject alike, there are more things that may be
                            discovered than ever yet have been. </p></div></div><div n="7" type="textpart" subtype="chapter"><div n="1" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> But the crown of all our study and the highest reward of our long
                            labours is the power of improvisation. The man who fails to acquire this
                            had better, in my opinion, abandon the task of advocacy and devote his
                            powers of writing to other branches of literature. For it is scarcely
                            decent for an honourable man to promise assistance to the public at
                            large which he may be unable to provide in the most serious emergencies,
                            or to attempt to enter a harbour which his ship cannot hope to make save
                            when sailing before a gentle breeze. </p></div><div n="2" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> For there are countless occasions when the sudden necessity may be
                            imposed upon him of speaking without preparation before the magistrates
                            or in a trial which comes on unexpectedly. And if any such sudden
                            emergency befalls, I will not say any innocent citizen, but some one of
                            the orator's friends or connexions, is he to stand tongue-tied and, in
                            answer to those who seek salvation in his eloquence and are doomed,
                            unless they secure assistance, to ask for delay of proceedings and time
                            for silent and secluded study, till such moment as he can piece together
                            the words that fail him, commit them to memory and prepare his voice and
                            lungs for the effort? </p></div><div n="3" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> What theory of the duties of an orator is there which permits him to
                            ignore such sudden issues? What will happen when he has to reply to his
                            opponent? For often the expected arguments to which we have written a
                            reply fail us and the whole aspect of the case undergoes <pb n="v10-12 p.135"/> a sudden change; consequently the variation to
                            which cases are liable makes it as necessary for us to change our
                            methods as it is for a pilot to change his course before the oncoming
                            storm. </p></div><div n="4" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> Again, what use is much writing, assiduous reading and long years of
                            study, if the difficulty is to remain as great as it was in the
                            beginning? The man who is always faced with the same labour can only
                            confess that his past labour has been spent in vain. I do not ask him to
                            prefer to speak extempore, but merely that lie should be able to do so.
                            And this capacity is best acquired by the following method. </p></div><div n="5" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> In the first place, we must note the direction which the argument is
                            likely to take, since we cannot run our race unless we know the goal and
                            the course. It is not enough to know what are the parts <note anchored="true" place="unspecified">See III. ix. 1.</note> into
                            which forensic pleadings are divided or the principles determining the
                            order of the various questions, important though these points are. We
                            must realise what should come first, second, and so on, in the several
                            parts; for these points are so closely linked together by the very
                            nature of things that they cannot be separated, nor their order changed,
                            without giving rise to confusion. </p></div></div></div></div></body></text></TEI>
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