ABSTRACT
A debating society 1 is at first somewhat of a disappointment. You do not often find the youthful Demosthenes chewing his pebbles in the same room with you; 2 or, even if you do, you will probably think the performance little to be admired. As a general rule, the members speak shamefully ill. The subjects of debate are heavy; and so are the fines. The Ballot Question—oldest of dialectic nightmares—is often found astride of a somnolent sederunt. The Greeks and Romans, too, are reserved as sort of general utility men, to do all the dirty work of illustration; and they fill as many functions as the famous water-fall scene at the Princess i, 3 which I found doing duty on one evening as a gorge in Peru, a haunt of German robbers, and a peaceful vale in the Scottish borders. There is a sad absence of striking argument or real lively discussion. Indeed you feel a growing contempt for your fellow members; and it is not until you rise yourself to hawk and hesitate and sit shamefully down again, amid eleemosynary applause, that you begin to find your level and value others rightly. Even then, even when failure has damped your critical ardour, you will see many things to be laughed at in the deportment of your rivals.
