PARAPHRASING
Paraphrasing is the reproduction of the sense of a passage, a
composition or a speech, in other than the terms used by the original
writer or speaker. It is the holding on to the original structure and
thought, but a clothing of them in entirely new language. It is an
amplification of an idea, a redressing of it; the use of new terms or
different language for the presentation of an old thought; as,
What would have been the consequences, sir, if we had been
conquered? Were we not fighting against that majesty? Would
the justice of our opposition have been considered? The
most horrid forfeitures, confiscations, and attainders
would have been pronounced against us.
In paraphrasing this extract from a speech by Patrick Henry we should
keep in mind his thought only and pay no attention to the language he
used in expressing the thought. We should borrow his idea, but we
should clothe it in language of our own; as,
Let me ask you, sir, what would have resulted from our
having been conquered by Great Britain? It was the exercise
of power by that nation that we combated. Would she, had
our struggle for liberty failed, have considered that we
fought for what we believed to be right? No, sir, history
would have but repeated itself. Our patriots would have
died on the gallows, their children would have been
deprived of their inheritance, and no cruelty would have
been too great for the conquering nation to have inflicted
upon her rebellious colonies.
_What good is to be derived from paraphrasing?_
It trains the mind through the exercising of the power of mental
concentration that is necessary in order to hold on to the thought;
it helps to form the habit of constructing a framework; it aids in
making a speaker arrange his thoughts consecutively; it improves the
speaker's style, and it enlarges his vocabulary.
On a first attempt it will seem almost impossible for many to
paraphrase. They are apt to think the original matter so well
constructed, and the thought so perfectly expressed, as to render any
other arrangement of it ridiculous and practically out of the
question. They cannot bring to mind words common to themselves with
which to clothe the ideas of another. In trying to remember the words
of the original writer or speaker they lose the thought and are
unable to proceed. To all such, the author says: continue in the
work; cease to think of words at all, keep the framework in mind, lay
hold of the thought, and words to convey the thought will leap
forward to do the work. They may not, at first, be the best possible
words, but words that will answer the purpose of carrying the thought
to the mind of the listener will flow freely, and with study and
practice the vocabulary will become larger and more effective.
Paraphrasing helps to develop the imaginative quality by cultivating
the power of producing mental images, seeing with the mind's eye, as
it were. If a speaker will hold on to his picture or his theme, he
will have no trouble in drawing the one or developing the other. In
presenting a picture, the speaker must keep the entire scene in his
mind when describing it in detail; and when developing a theme, it
must be in the speaker's mental vision in its entirety while he
develops it step by step, point by point; as,
God called man in dreams into the vestibule of heaven,
saying, "Come up higher, and I will show thee the glory of
My house"; and to His angels who stood about His throne, He
said, "take him, strip him of his robes of flesh; cleanse
his affections; put a new breath into his nostrils; but
touch not his human heart--the heart that fears, and hopes,
and trembles." A moment, and it was done, and the man stood
ready for his unknown voyage. Under the guidance of a
mighty angel, with sounds of flying pinions, they sped away
from the battlements of heaven. Some time, on the mighty
angel's wings, they fled through Saharas of darkness,
wildernesses of death. At length, from a distance not
counted, save in the arithmetic of heaven, light beamed
upon them--a sleepy flame, as seen through a hazy cloud.
They sped on, in their terrible speed, to meet the light;
the light with lesser speed came to meet them. In a moment
the blazing of suns around them--a moment, the wheeling of
planets; then came long eternities of twilight; then again,
on the right hand and the left, appeared more
constellations. At last, the man sank down, crying, "Angel,
I can go no further; let me lie down in the grave, and hide
myself from the infinitude of the universe, for end there
is none." "End is there none?" demanded the angel. And,
from the glittering stars that shown around, there came a
choral shout, "End there is none!" "End is there none?"
demanded the angel again, "And it is this that awes thy
soul?" I answer, "End there is none to the universe of God!
Lo, also, there is no beginning!"
This is a story taken from the German and used by O. M. Mitchell in
his address "The Immensity of the Creation," and it made a striking
illustration. It will be an easy matter to paraphrase this vivid
portraiture if the student will keep in mind the idea of the angel
and the man flying through space as the scene shifts. There is a
continuous change in the surroundings as the angel and man continue
to fly through space, but the mind of the speaker should accompany
them and see all the changes that occur without losing sight of the
angel and the man, as they are the picture, the surroundings being
merely the accessories or details, and while these are being
described the angel and the man must still be in view. The angel and
the man must be seen standing at the portals of heaven, they must be
seen speeding from the battlements of that glorious place. The scene
now shifts to a desert of darkness, but still the angel and the man
are within the mental vision of the speaker. Now a ray of light,
breaking through a misty cloud, showers its brightness upon them. The
scene has again changed, but the picture of the angel and the man
remains. The light grows in brightness and immensity, other details
enter into the picture--the suns, the planets, and the twilight--but
still the angel and the man are there. Again the scenery is shifted,
the man sinks down in weariness, the chorus of angel voices is heard
as the multitude of stars open their portals to let out the heavenly
shout, "End there is none," but still the picture is there--the
picture of the angel and the man.
In developing a theme, the same principle prevails. It is for this
reason that it is wise to have in a speech but one proposition to
expound, one subject to discuss, one object to accomplish. By
dragging in many points, instead of developing the one, the speaker
is apt to ramble, the listener to become confused, and the speech to
fail. By this it is meant that there must be one grand central idea
or point around which all others must revolve. This principal idea,
proposition, or point must be like the hub of a wheel--it may have
any number of spokes, but they must all radiate from the hub. It is
like the picture of the angel and the man flying through space--the
scene changes, but the angel and the man are always present to the
imaginative eye of the speaker--and it is for this reason he is able
to describe so vividly his picture or develop his theme to make them
apparent even to the mind of the unimaginative listener.
Let us consider the developing of a theme in place of the drawing of
a picture. For this purpose we will take an extract from a speech of
that clear reasoned and eminent theologian, William Ellery Channing:
The grand idea of humanity, of the importance of man as
man, is spreading silently, but surely. Even the most
abject portions of society are visited by some dreams of a
better condition for which they were designed. The grand
doctrine, that every human being should have the means of
self-culture, of progress in knowledge and virtue, of
health, comfort, and happiness, of exercising the powers
and affections of a man--this is slowly taking its place as
the highest social truth. That the world was made for all,
and not for a few; that society is to care for all, that no
human being shall perish but through his own fault; that
the great end of government is to spread a shield over the
rights of all--these propositions are growing into axioms,
and the spirit of them is coming forth in all the
departments of life.
How beautifully Dr. Channing holds on to his theme through the entire
passage. He starts by telling us what the grand idea of humanity is,
and then he proceeds to expound it. The first laying down of the
proposition is, that "the importance of man as man" (this is the
grand idea of humanity) is becoming universal. He then amplifies the
idea by stating that even the lowest specimens of humanity are
awakening to a realization of it. He then develops what this idea
consists of--the right of all men to education, proper housing, and
sufficient food, in short, the right to live as human beings--and
asserts that it has become the most important of the social truths.
He then enumerates what at one time were considered debatable
opinions but are now recognized as undeniable facts. Notice how,
while he brings in many statements, they all radiate from the one
proposition that "the importance of man as man is spreading silently,
but surely," and never once does he permit you to lose sight of the
theme, because he continuously has it before his mental eye. No
matter what he says, "the importance of man as man" is uppermost,
just as was the picture of the angel and the man, and if the student
in paraphrasing the passage will keep that one point in mind, he
should have no serious difficulty in presenting it in a new garb
clearly to the minds of others. A carrying out of this principle will
enable an extempore speaker to form his matter with perfect ease, and
this is one reason why paraphrasing is beneficial to the student of
public speaking. It is a valuable stepping stone that should be used
by all in attempting to attain proficiency in the art of expressing
thought by means of the spoken word.
Any material that comes to hand may be used for the purpose of
paraphrasing provided it be properly constructed and expressed in
good language. These are two important points to remember in choosing
selections for paraphrasing, as students are sure to be influenced by
the construction and diction of the matter they employ for this
purpose.
The following extracts furnish splendid matter for paraphrasing.
EDUCATION
HORACE MANN
From her earliest history, the policy of this country has
been to develop the minds of all her people, and to imbue
them with the principles of duty. To do this work most
effectually, she has begun with the young. If she would
continue to mount higher and higher toward the summit of
prosperity, she must continue the means by which her
present elevation has been gained. In doing this, she will
not only exercise the noblest prerogative of government,
but will coöperate with the Almighty in one of His
sublimest works.
The Greek rhetorician, Longinus, quotes from the Mosaic
account of the creation what he calls the sublimest passage
ever uttered: "God said, 'Let there be light,' and there
was light!" From the centre of black immensity effulgence
burst forth. Above, beneath, on every side, its radiance
streamed out, silent, yet making each spot in the vast
concave brighter than the line which the lightning pencils
upon the midnight cloud. Darkness fled as the swift beams
spread onward and outward, in an unending circumfusion of
splendor. Onward and outward still they move to this day,
glorifying, through wider and wider regions of space, the
infinite Author from whose power and beneficence they
sprang. But not only in the beginning, when God created the
heavens and the earth, did he say, "Let there be light!"
Whenever a human soul is born into the world, its Creator
stands over it, and again pronounces the same sublime
words, "Let there be light."
Magnificent, indeed, was the material creation, when,
suddenly blazing forth in mid-space, the new-born sun
dispelled the darkness of the ancient night. But infinitely
more magnificent is it when the human soul rays forth its
subtler and swifter beams; when the light of the senses
irradiates all outward things, revealing the beauty of
their colors and the exquisite symmetry of their
proportions and forms; when the light of reason penetrates
to their invisible properties and laws, and displays all
those hidden relations that make up all the sciences; when
the light of conscience illuminates the moral world,
separating truth from error, and virtue from vice. The
light of the newly kindled sun, indeed, was glorious. It
struck upon all the planets, and waked into existence their
myriad capacities of life and joy. As it rebounded from
them, and showed their vast orbs all wheeling, circle
beyond circle in their stupendous courses, the sons of God
shouted for joy. The light sped onward, beyond Sirius,
beyond the pole-star, beyond Orion and the Pleiades, and is
still spreading onward into the abysses of space. But the
light of the human soul flies swifter than the light of the
sun, and outshines its meridian blaze. It can embrace not
only the sun of our system, but all suns and galaxies of
suns; ay! the soul is capable of knowing and enjoying Him
who created the suns themselves; and when these starry
lusters that now glorify the firmament shall wax dim, and
fade away like a wasted taper, the light of the soul shall
still remain, nor time, nor cloud, nor any power but its
own perversity, shall ever quench its brightness. Again I
would say, that whenever a human soul is born into the
world, God stands over it and pronounces the same sublime
fiat, "Let there be light!" and may the time soon come,
when all human governments shall coöperate with the Divine
government in carrying this benediction and baptism into
fulfilment!
DIGGING FOR THE THOUGHT
JOHN RUSKIN
When you come to a good book, you must ask yourself, "Am I
inclined to work as an Australian miner would? Are my
pickaxes and shovels in good order, and am I in good trim
myself--and my sleeves well up to the elbows, and my breath
good, and my temper?" And, keeping the figure a little
longer, even at the cost of tiresomeness, for it is a
thoroughly useful one, the metal you are in search of being
the author's mind or meaning, his words are as the rock
which you have to crush and smelt in order to get at it.
And your pickaxes are your own care, wit, and learning;
your smelting-furnace is your own thoughtful soul. Do not
hope to get at any good author's meaning without those
tools and that fire. Often you will need sharpest, finest
chiselling, and patientest fusing before you can gather one
grain of the metal.
And, therefore, first of all, I tell you earnestly and
authoritatively (I know I am right in this), you must get
into the habit of looking intensely at words, and assuring
yourself of their meaning, syllable by syllable--nay,
letter by letter. For, though it is only by reason of the
opposition of letters in the function of signs to sounds
that the study of books is called "literature", that a man
versed in it is called, by the consent of nations, a man of
letters, instead of a man of books or of words, you may yet
connect with that accidental nomenclature this real
fact--that you might read all the books in the British
Museum (if you could live long enough) and remain an
utterly illiterate, uneducated person; but that if you read
ten pages of a good book, letter by letter, that is to say,
with real accuracy, you are forevermore in some measure an
educated person. The entire difference between education
and non-education (as regards the merely intellectual part
of it) consists in this accuracy. A well-educated gentleman
may not know many languages, may not be able to speak any
but his own, may have read very few books; but whatever
language he knows, he knows precisely; whatever word he
pronounces, he pronounces rightly. Above all, he is learned
in the peerage of words, knows the words of true descent
and ancient blood, at a glance, from words of modern
_canaille_; remembers all their ancestry, their
inter-marriages, distant relationship, and the extent to
which they were admitted, and offices they held among the
national _noblesse_ of words at any time and in any
country. But an uneducated person may know, by memory, many
languages, and talk them all, and yet truly know not a word
of any--not a word even of his own. An ordinarily clever
and sensible seaman will be able to make his way ashore at
most ports; yet he has only to speak a sentence of any
language to be known for an illiterate person. So also the
accent, or turn of expression of a single sentence, will at
once mark a scholar. And this is so strongly felt, so
conclusively admitted, by educated persons, that a false
accent or a mistaken syllable is enough, in the parliament
of any civilized nation, to assign to a man a certain
degree of inferior standing forever.
HISTORICAL READING
ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
It is no doubt true that we are surrounded by advisers who
shall tell us that all study of the past is barren except
in so far as it enables us to determine the laws by which
the evolution of human societies is governed. How far such
an investigation has been up to the present time fruitful
in results I will not inquire. That it will ever enable us
to trace with accuracy the course which states and nations
are destined to pursue in the future, or to account in
detail for their history in the past, I do not indeed
believe.
We are borne along like travelers on some unexplored
stream. We may know enough of the general configuration of
the globe to be sure that we are making our way towards the
ocean. We may know enough by experience or theory of the
laws regulating the flow of liquids, to conjecture how the
river will behave under the varying influences to which it
may be subject. More than this we cannot know. It will
depend largely upon causes which, in relation to any laws
which we are ever likely to discover, may properly be
called accidental, whether we are destined sluggishly to
drift among fever-stricken swamps, to hurry down perilous
rapids, or to glide gently through fair scenes of peaceful
cultivation.
But leaving on one side ambitious sociological
speculations, and even those more modest but hitherto more
successful investigations into the causes which have in
particular cases been principally operative in producing
great political changes, there are still two modes in which
we can derive what I may call "spectacular" enjoyment from
the study of history.
There is first the pleasure which arises from the
contemplation of some great historic drama, or some broad
and well-marked phase of social development. The story of
the rise, greatness, and decay of a nation is like some
vast epic which contains as subsidiary episodes the varied
stories of the rise, greatness, and decay of creeds, of
parties and of statesmen. The imagination is moved by the
slow unrolling of this great picture of human mutability,
as it is moved by the contrasted permanence of the abiding
stars. The ceaseless conflicts, the strange echoes of long
forgotten controversies, the confusion of purpose, the
successes which lay deep the seeds of future evils, the
failures that ultimately divert the otherwise inevitable
danger, the heroism which struggles to the last for a cause
foredoomed to defeat, the wickedness which sides with
right, and the wisdom which huzzahs at the triumph of
folly--fate, meanwhile, through all this turmoil and
perplexity, working silently toward the predestined
end--all these form together a subject the contemplation of
which need surely never weary.
But there is yet another and very different species of
enjoyment to be derived from the records of the past, which
requires a somewhat different method of study in order that
it may be fully tasted. Instead of contemplating, as it
were, from a distance, the larger aspects of the human
drama, we may elect to move in familiar fellowship amid the
scenes and actors of special periods.
We may add to the interest we derive from the contemplation
of contemporary politics a similar interest derived from a
not less minute and probably more accurate knowledge of
some comparatively brief passage in the political history
of the past. We may extend the social circle in which we
move--a circle perhaps narrowed and restricted through
circumstances beyond our control--by making intimate
acquaintances, perhaps even close friends, among a society
long departed, but which, when we have once learnt the
trick of it, it rests with us to revive.
It is this kind of historical reading which is usually
branded as frivolous and useless, and persons who indulge
in it often delude themselves into thinking that the real
motive of their investigation into bygone scenes and
ancient scandals is philosophic interest in an important
historical episode, whereas in truth it is not the
philosophy which glorifies the details, but the details
which make tolerable the philosophy.
Consider, for example, the use of the French Revolution.
The period from the taking of the Bastille to the fall of
Robespierre is of about the same length as very commonly
intervenes between two of our general elections. On these
comparatively few months libraries have been written. The
incidents of every week are matters of familiar knowledge.
The character and the biography of every actor in the drama
has been made the subject of minute study; and by common
admission there is no more fascinating page in the history
of the world.
But the interest is not what is commonly called
philosophic, it is personal. Because the Revolution is the
dominant fact in modern history, therefore people suppose
that the doings of this or that provincial lawyer, tossed
into temporary eminence and eternal infamy by some freak of
the revolutionary wave, or the atrocities committed by this
or that mob, half-drunk with blood, rhetoric, and alcohol,
are of transcendent importance.
In truth, their interest is great, but their importance is
small. What we are concerned to know as students of the
philosophy of history is, not the character of each turn
and eddy in the great social cataract, but the manner in
which the currents of the upper stream drew surely in
toward the final plunge, and slowly collected themselves
after the catastrophe, again to pursue, at a different
level, their renewed and comparatively tranquil course.
Now, if so much of the interest of the French Revolution
depends on our minute knowledge of each passing incident,
how much more necessary is such knowledge when we are
dealing with the quiet nooks and corners of history--when
we are seeking an introduction, let us say, into the
literary society of Johnson or the fashionable society of
Walpole! Society, dead or alive, can have no charm without
intimacy, and no intimacy without interest in trifles.
If we would feel at our ease in any company, if we wish to
find humour in its jokes and point in its repartees, we
must know something of the beliefs and prejudices of its
various members--their loves and their hates, their hopes
and their fears, their maladies, their marriages, and their
flirtations. If these things are beneath our notice, we
shall not be the less qualified to serve our queen and
country, but need make no attempt to extract pleasure out
of one of the most delightful departments of literature.
EULOGY OF GENERAL GRANT
DEAN FARRAR
Every true man derives his patent of nobleness direct from
God. Did not God choose David from the sheepfolds to make
him ruler of his people Israel? Was not the "Lord of life
and all the worlds" for thirty years a carpenter at
Nazareth? Do not such careers illustrate the prophecy of
Solomon, "Seest thou the man diligent in his business? he
shall stand before kings." When Abraham Lincoln sat, book
in hand, day after day, under the tree, moving around it as
the shadow moved, absorbed in mastering his task; when
James Garfield rang the bell of Hiram Institute, day after
day, on the very stroke of the hour, and swept the school
room as faithfully as he mastered the Greek lesson; when
Ulysses Grant, sent with his team to meet some men who were
to load the cart with logs, and finding no men there,
loaded the cart with his own boy strength--they showed in
conscientious duty and thoroughness the qualities which
were to raise them to rule the destinies of men.
But the youth was not destined to die in that deep valley
of obscurity and toil in which it is the lot--perhaps the
happy lot--of many of us to spend our little lives. The
hour came: the man was needed.
In 1861 there broke out the most terrible war of modern
days. Grant received a commission as colonel of volunteers,
and in four years the struggling toiler had risen to the
chief command of a vaster army than has ever been handled
by any mortal man. Who could have imagined that four years
could make that stupendous difference? But it is often so.
The great men needed for some tremendous crisis have often
stepped as it were through the door in the wall which no
one had noticed, and, unannounced, unheralded, without
prestige, have made their way silently and single-handed to
the front.
And there was no luck in it. He rose, it has been said, by
the upward gravitation of natural fitness. It was the work
of inflexible faithfulness, of indomitable resolution, of
sleepless energy, of iron purpose, of persistent tenacity.
In battle after battle, in siege after siege, whatever
Grant had to do he did it with his might. He undertook, as
General Sherman said, what no one else would have
adventured, till his very soldiers began to reflect some of
his own indomitable determination. With a patience which
nothing could tire, with a firmness which no obstacle could
daunt, with a military genius which embraced the vastest
plans, yet attended to the smallest minutiæ, he defeated
one after another every great general of the Confederates
except General Stonewall Jackson.
Grant had not only to defeat armies, but to "annihilate
resources"--to leave no choice but destruction or
submission. He saw that the brief ravage of the hurricane
is infinitely less ruinous than the interminable malignity
of the pestilence, and that in that colossal struggle
victory--swift, decisive, overwhelming, at all costs--was
the truest mercy. In silence, in determination, in
clearness of insight, he was your Washington and our
Wellington. He was like them also in this, that the word
"can't" did not exist in his soldier's dictionary, and that
all he achieved was accomplished without bluster and
without parade.
After the surrender at Appomattox the war of the Secession
was over. It was a mighty work, and Grant had done it
mightily. Surely the light of God, which manifests all
things in the slow history of their ripening, has shown
that for the future destinies of a mighty nation it was a
necessary and a blessed work. The Church hurls her most
indignant anathema at unrighteous war, but she never
refused to honor the faithful soldier who fights in the
cause of his country and his God. The gentlest and most
Christian of poets has used the tremendous words that--
God's most dreaded instrument,
In working out a pure intent,
Is man--arrayed for mutual slaughter;
Yea, carnage is his daughter.
We shudder even as we quote the words; but yet the cause
for which Grant fought--the unity of a great people, the
freedom of a whole race of mankind--was as great and noble
as that when at Lexington the embattled farmers fired the
shot which was heard round the world. The South has
accepted that desperate and bloody arbitrament. Two of the
Southern generals will bear General Grant's funeral pall.
The rancor and the fury of the past are buried in oblivion.
True friends have been made out of brave foemen, and the
pure glory and virtue of Lee and of Stonewall Jackson will
be part of the common national heritage with the fame of
Garfield and of Grant.