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The Nemesis of public speaking — the thing which makes it seem almost worthless in the long run — is the impossibility of making it tell for anything after its moment is past.
A book remains always in existence,--littera scripta manet,--and long after it seems forgotten it may be disinterred from the dust of libraries, and be judged as freshly as if written yesterday.
The popular orator soon disappears from memory, and there is perhaps substituted in his place some solid thinker like Burke, who made speeches, indeed, but was called the Dinner Bell, because the members of Parliament scattered themselves instead of listening when he rose.
Possibly this briefer tenure of fame is nature's compensation for the more thrilling excitement of the orator's life as compared with the author's. The poet's eye may be in never so fine a frenzy rolling, but he enjoys himself alone; he can never wholly trust his own judgment, nor even that of his admiring family.
A perceptible interval must