Their abhorrence of the vice of oratory was not the growth of any sudden revolution, or the unreasoning prejudice often originating amongst a long-established nation in some great personal hatred or fear now buried in oblivion. It was the result of ages of the most patient scientific investigation. And it found its way into practice so slowly that the steps up to the final one are scarcely noticeable on the pages of their history. It had an inborn prejudice in favour of oratory to combat, all the deeper that it could not explain itself or its origin. The reputation of some of the ablest and most influential sections of the community was based upon the art. The orators of the nation had acquired a fame almost greater than that of the soldiers. They had been its leaders and founders; they had developed and mastered its politics; they had moulded the people at certain crises in their history into a unity. Their art had been enrolled for ages amongst the noblest they had. It was the only civilised force which could move great masses to enthusiasm, or fuse their varied purposes and thoughts together to form a single ideal and aim. It was the only means their statesmen had had for accomplishing their schemes, the only stepping-stones by which their lawyers and preachers and politicians could rise to fame. It seemed for ages a hopeless task to unseat it from its place in their civilisation, or eradicate the prejudice in its favour from the people’s minds. The wisest Limanorans had watched its evil influence through many ages; although they had often themselves to make use of it for their purposes of reform and although some of the best men had been successful in its employment, yet they were certain that it sapped the finer sense of truth. So easily could the orator persuade a crowd to accept all he said as true and noble that he came to think there was little difference between the true and the false, the noble and the ignoble; his own aim was all that was of significance, and it was, however selfish or mean, just as good as anybody else’s aim. He needed as little to persuade himself of the justice of an evil cause, provided it was his own, as to persuade an assembly. He had but to isolate certain facts and phases, and what were antagonistic to them fell into shadow; the unjust course began to appear just, and those who opposed it were the enemies of justice and of the orator. It mattered not what side he took, if only it stirred his interest; he could rouse thousands to enthusiasm for it by touching their emotions and awakening the passions that were connected with their own self-interest. This power of moving great masses to whatever tune he pleased gave the orator a sense of omnipotence; after a stirring speech he felt like a Jove who held in his hand the destinies of the world. Happily for the welfare of the state, the tongue-doughty was hopelessly incapable when he turned to