Riel’s first speech to the jury can appear disconnected and unorganized. But viewed from the perspective of a rhetorical tradition with which we should expect him to be acquainted, it reflects the deliberate employment of rhetorical strategies, along with the kind of extemporaneous response to the exigencies of the trial that the rhetorical tradition taught. In this chapter, I explore some of the key rhetorical strategies apparent in Riel’s first speech and consider the intentions behind them. The resultant picture reveals a man less excitable by the situation and clearer in his sense of himself and what his speech can accomplish.
Louis Riel’s speech to the jury in 1885 fits into the historical genre of defence speeches, intentionally or otherwise. We might expect any such speech to include appeals to God and to duty, explanations of behaviour, and/or justifications that show how an individual has benefited those he or she served, yet it is difficult to show an intentional adherence to a pattern. On the other hand, such speeches, drawing from a range of rhetorical strategies available, can make more explicit allusion to their predecessors. And something of this will be suggested below.
I will look first at some of the shorter strategies employed before exploring a larger one in more detail. The first point I wish to draw attention to bears on the controversial question of Riel’s sanity, about which there is some debate. The sensible thing might be for a defendant to avoid all such mention of his state of mind, unless there is reason to think that posing insanity as a possibility might support one’s defence in some way. It is a clever device to draw attention to something by saying or indicating that you will not do so – that you will not say something since it is not worth mentioning. Socrates, in his trial speech, famously tells the jury that he will not bring his family before them in any sort of appeal. But in saying this, he does indeed bring forth his family – in the imaginations of the jury members, where they might have much greater effect than if they were physically brought into the court. There is something of this device – what rhetoricians call the praeteritio – in the way Riel handles the question of his sanity. He does not explicitly bring it to the jury’s attention by saying he will not mention it, but there is an indirectness to the way he treats it that plays a similar role in allowing it to be considered on his terms and without inviting the criticism that he is placing attention on it. In one of the relevant parts of the speech, Riel says,
Today, when I saw the glorious General Middleton bearing testimony that he thought I was not insane, and when Captain Young proved that I am not insane, I felt that God was blessing me, and blotting away from my name the blot resting upon my reputation on account of having been in the lunatic asylum of my good friend Dr Roy. I have been in an asylum, but I thank the lawyers for the Crown who destroyed the testimony of my good friend Dr Roy, because I have always believed that I was put in the asylum without reason.1
Ambiguity is compounded here by his reference to the asylum. Drawing attention to the favourable testimony should be sufficient to deal with the question of his sanity. But by proceeding to mention his time in the asylum, he draws the jury’s attention back to the question, enhancing its plausibility. Still, he is using the testimony of others to point to a specific way of understanding his state of mind. This is not, of course, the same as not talking about something, but it has a similar effect.
More apparent, perhaps, is his strategy of turning the tables (or the peritrope), used in the later stages of the speech. The strategy involves turning back upon one’s accusers charges that have been brought against you. Consider the following passages:
British civilization which rules today the world, and the British constitution has defined such government as this is which rules the North-West Territories as irresponsible government, which plainly means that there is no responsibility, and by all the science which has been shown here yesterday you are compelled to admit if there is no responsibility, it is insane …
By the testimony laid before you during my trial witnesses on both sides made it certain that petition after petition had been sent to the Federal Government, and so irresponsible is that Government to the North-West that in the course of several years besides doing nothing to satisfy the people of this great land, it has even hardly been able to answer once or to give a single response. That fact would indicate an absolute lack of responsibility, and therefore insanity complicated with paralysis.2
In these remarks, Riel turns the charge of insanity back upon the government that accuses him, showing both that it is a contested concept and that, because of this, it can apply as much to an institution as to an individual. What matters, on this interpretation, is the quality of the actions of an agent. Irresponsible actions are not rational, and the absence of rationality indicates insanity. Thus Riel can proceed in the next paragraphs to refer to the actions of “an insane and irresponsible Government and its little one – the North-West Council” and to propose as part of his defence that he should be acquitted because he has been quarrelling with “an insane and irresponsible Government”: “You are perfectly justified in declaring that having my reason and sound mind, I have acted reasonably and in self-defence, while the Government, my accuser, being irresponsible, and consequently insane, cannot but have acted wrong, and if high treason there is, it must be on its side and not on my part.”3 This last passage brings out the import of this device: he should hardly be accused, and therefore condemned, when his accusers (or the body they serve) are guilty of the same.
The matter of Riel’s ethos, or character, how it is conveyed, and the role it plays in his defence deserves a full treatment of its own. But I address it here in less detail simply as a further rhetorical device used by the defendant. Aristotle lays considerable importance on ethos in his Rhetoric. Along with logos and pathos, it is one of three “proofs” by which an audience might be persuaded. Importantly, however, Aristotle stresses ways that ethos should be conveyed through the speech itself rather than by having a speaker draw on his or her prior reputation. “Character,” writes Aristotle, “is almost, so to speak, the most authoritative form of persuasion,” and there is persuasion through character when “the speech is spoken in such a way as to make the speaker worthy of credence; for we believe fair-minded people to a greater extent and more quickly on all subjects in general and especially where there is not exact knowledge but room for doubt.”4 In particular, Aristotle, in his ethical writings, is interested in how a speaker can convey qualities that are important, like practical wisdom, virtue, and goodwill. Of course, there are limitations to the account of ethos in the Rhetoric, and a situation like that faced by Riel brings these to the fore. He can hardly expect his jury to be unacquainted with his reputation (Aristotle seems to envisage situations where a speaker is largely unknown), so whatever he might attempt to accomplish in his speech, he faces this impediment, nor will it be easy for him to invest his character with aspects of practical wisdom or virtue and present himself as fair-minded. Yet at the same time we cannot ignore that judgments we make about character influence judgments we make about what people say. And to a certain degree, any speaker can strive to create a picture of character through speech that can challenge a view previously held. This Riel may be seen to do in the many paragraphs where he appeals to his duty, to the benefits he has provided, and to the sacrifices he has made in putting public interests before his own. He presents himself as an advocate of truth, a man of God, and a person who has respect for the police. In general, his speech is measured and not given to excited outbursts, suggesting a man of balance who is in control (“master of myself,” as he says),5 and he shows respect for the court, explicitly wishing not to give offence. In sum, the discourse he delivers exhibits some practical wisdom and a considerable measure of goodwill.
The larger strategy active in the speech that I want to address is that of allusion, an important strategy of rhetorical argumentation. Allusion is one way that commonalities between speaker and audience can be invoked. It seemed a commonplace of ancient trials for defendants (or second-hand observers of the trials) to make allusion to other trials of similar circumstances. We see both implicit and explicit parallels, for example, between Plato’s Apology of Socrates and Gorgias’s Palamedes and between Isocrates’s defence speech and Plato’s Apology. Understanding that there are commonplaces within genres like the defence speech allows us to see the nature and legitimacy of such parallels rather than accusing authors like Plato and Isocrates of what in the present day would be termed plagiarism.
Allusion, Chaim Perelman and Lucie Olbrechts-Tyteca tell us in their New Rhetoric, “depends on a relationship with something that is not the immediate object of discourse.”6 A key variety of this strategy of rhetorical argumentation is textual allusion, where an arguer uses intertextual references and imitations to evoke ideas in the minds of audience members and thereby encourage them to draw a specific conclusion. Such allusions can convey an indirect reference in passing without making explicit mention of something. So those who employ this strategy must be confident that the reference alluded to is sufficiently present in what I would call the cognitive environment – that is, the beliefs, knowledge, and background information – of an audience in order for the association to be grasped and the conclusion drawn. On strictly logical terms, textual allusion and imitation of this nature would seem to have no argumentative force. But when audience considerations are highlighted in a rhetorical treatment of argumentation, the power of the strategy becomes evident.
If Riel invokes any predecessor through allusion, it is the figure of Socrates – another outspoken character who was ill-suited, it seems, for the times in which he found himself and was a victim of a justice system that conflicted with his own conception of what was just. Let us recall some of the salient features of Plato’s Apology of Socrates. (As I mentioned above, we could also recover parallel features from Gorgias’s trial speech of Palamedes, but we do not need to reach that far since it is the Platonic material with which Riel was more likely familiar.)
Socrates enters the unfamiliar environment of the law court stressing his inability to defend himself well with words. He addresses the charges and rumours that have been brought against him, speaking first to the longstanding negative reputation that he seems to have acquired and then to the specific current charges of believing in false gods and corrupting the youth. He argues that he would not have corrupted the youth in part because he would then have put himself in the company of those who might harm him. And he invites his accusers to bring forward witnesses to this corruption (even the relatives of the “corrupted” youth). He argues that Meletus (his chief accuser) is contradicting himself when he charges Socrates with believing in false gods because he also claims that Socrates does not believe in gods (“You cannot be believed, Meletus, even, I think, by yourself”).7 He then defends his own occupation and life in general, arguing that he has always done his duty and stood by what was just. He has shown this through his deeds, opposing the wrongful dictates of both the democracy and the oligarchy. He also speaks to his role (divinely appointed) as benefactor to the city. Then, having still been convicted by the jury in spite of all this, he proposes a penalty suitable to a benefactor such as himself. And after having been condemned to death, he addresses the jury, pointing to the negative reputation the city will now acquire for an unjust judgment.
The first set of parallels from Riel’s speech is implicit. He begins his remarks with a similar warning that he cannot speak well. In his case, it is his alleged inability to speak English well and the excitement of the occasion that may put his mind “out of its ordinary condition.”8 As with Socrates, it is hard to see this as a real concern. Both speak well and are able to make their cases. But a point they have in common is that each is speaking in an unfamiliar mode: Socrates is not used to giving long speeches, having acquired his fame through the short dialectical exchanges of questions and answers; and Riel is not used to speaking in English. Each is out of his natural element and must adapt to a different manner of communication.9
The missions of each man can be considered divine. Socrates lays the origin of his practice at the feet of the oracle and judges he has the authority of the god to conduct himself as he does. Riel notes that it is the Crown’s judgment that he is “naturally inclined to think of God at the beginning” of his actions.10 This is a judgment he does not contest, but he worries that it will be seen as a symptom of his insanity. This is a point he will repeat: “I believed for years I had a mission, and when I speak of a mission you will understand me not as trying to play the role of insane before the grand jury so as to have a verdict of acquittal upon that ground.”11 And again: “I say that I have been blessed by God, and I hope that you will not take that as a presumptuous assertion.”12 These and his other appeals to God (at least six in this first speech) contribute, perhaps, to his ethos, but they also lay claim to an authority outside that of the court’s authority. In this, he parallels Socrates’s position. In each case, it is an ambivalent defence: for Riel it may support the concern for his sanity, and for Socrates it would seem to fuel the charge that he observes a new religious perspective. Riel, in fact, closes by placing his speech under God’s protection, another statement that might be seen to undermine the authority of the court. There again, we should not find it unusual for speakers to make such appeals when addressing an audience who regard gods or God as important. But to invest themselves with an authority derived from that source might be at best unwise.
An appeal to duty is an important aspect of Socrates’s defence and is connected with his claims that his actions have been beneficial to the state and have involved sacrifices on his part. We find all these points active in Riel’s speech. Early on, he notes that he had directed his attention to help the Indians, the half-breeds, and the whites to the best of his ability. And this translates into the petitions of the next paragraph, in the pressing of which he concludes, “I have done my duty. I believe I have done my duty.”13 There is a compulsion underlying this belief, a compulsion that forces action in spite of the risks it involves. “[W]hat I have done,” he says, “and risked, and to which I have exposed myself, rested certainly on the conviction, I had to do, was called upon to do something for my country.”14 That duty, clearly connected to the mission already noted, issues in what he calls “practical results,”15 a series of benefits to specific groups and to society. He has been a big influence and, through the grace of God, the founder of Manitoba. He admits he has been outspoken and that sometimes his accusations have been forceful and caused offence. But the “one who has the courage to speak out in that way, instead of being an outrageous man, becomes in fact a benefactor to those men themselves, and to society.”16 As such a benefactor, he has been “acknowledged as a leader of good in this great country”17 and even, more pretentiously, perhaps, as “the prophet of the new world.”18 An extreme claim, indeed, but I set it here against the similar claims to a prophetic voice made by Socrates and the predictions he makes about those who will follow him and act like gadflies on the state.
Such beneficial behaviour has not come without costs to Riel himself. He has put public interests ahead of his own, he claims, and his actions on the part of Manitoba and the people of the North-West involved fifteen years of suffering on his part. He reiterates this at the end of the speech: “For fifteen years I have been neglecting myself,”19 citing as evidence his neglect of clothing and that his wife and children had to go without. And he concludes with the observation that although he worked to improve the condition of the people of the Saskatchewan Valley at the risk of his life, he “never had any pay.”20 Socrates also takes pains to insist that he took no fee for what he did and as a result went without many things. For both men, the duty and the force of the mission outweigh any thought of reward.
The claims of self-neglect for the benefit of those being served and the disclaimer regarding payment for such services emphasize that the actions performed were done foremost out of a sense of duty, grounded in the belief in a mission of divine origin. In these matters, Riel stands out as a Socratic figure. In one final respect, the sense of allusion is more striking still. At one point in his defence, Riel speaks of the guidance – and in this instance, consolation – he receives from a “spirit”: “Last night while I was taking exercise the spirit who guides and assists me and consoles me, told me that to-morrow somebody will come … if the spirit that directs me is the spirit of truth it is today that I expect help.”21 The nature of this guidance is unclear, but we might compare it to the famous inner voice associated with Socrates. This voice frequently spoke to him, even on small matters, if what he was going to do was wrong. “But now,” he tells the jury, “this thing which might be thought, and is generally considered, the greatest of evils has come upon me; but the divine sign did not oppose me either when I left my home in the morning, or when I came here to the court, or at any point of my speech when I was going to say anything.”22 In the case of Socrates, this voice is essentially negative: it restrains him, telling him what not to do and never what to do. But it is no less obscure than Riel’s “spirit” and continues to confound the commentators as to its nature and meaning. In both cases, the “spiritual manifestation,” as we might call it, serves as a guide for action and, importantly, as a source of confidence. Socrates is confident that the course he is on is a correct one because if it were not, he believes, he would have been checked in that course. He calls this a “convincing proof” because otherwise “the accustomed sign would surely have opposed me if I had not been going to meet with something good.”23 Riel likewise believes that the events of the day after the spirit speaks to him (events involving the assistance promised to him) confirm the truthfulness of the “spirit” and thus, implicitly, the correctness of his mission and its divine origin. It is this confidence that sustains him in the courtroom.
There are, then, some fairly vivid parallels between the two cases, parallels that touch on the character and beliefs of the men involved, their justifications for the lives they have lived, and the specific ways that they make their respective defences and insist on a somewhat privileged position. Can we conclude from this that the allusions are deliberate on Riel’s part? That is a more difficult case to make, and, of course, the power of this as a strategy of argumentation assumes that it is intentional. If it is the case, however, that an acquaintance with the Apology of Plato can be shown to be part of Riel’s background or, less directly, of any educational program that he would have received, the case for deliberate allusion would appear plausible. In this regard, several historical matters are relevant, although none of them is definitive. We know that Louis Riel travelled to the East to receive advanced education, arriving in Montreal in July 1858. As a student at the Collège de Montréal, he would have received a classical education “based on the literature and philosophy of Greece, Rome and France.”24 The curriculum placed less emphasis on the sciences, concentrating instead on Latin, Greek, French, English, some mathematics, and, of course, philosophy. Beyond this, we learn, “Louis excelled in belleslettres and rhetoric.”25 Thus any reservations we may have about Riel’s familiarity with the relevant literature might be withdrawn. Plato’s Apology, then as now, is central to any education in Greek philosophy, and Riel would have been acquainted with both the figure of Socrates and his arguments. Moreover, his study of rhetoric would have exposed him to the power of effective speaking and the devices that might be employed to this end. As historian Jack Bumsted notes, “Riel was a shrewd and capable orator.”26
In the trial speeches of the ancient world, the words of the defence were often supported by the actions of the defendant. Or, rather, the actions were advanced in lieu of words. We might call this the “argument from action,” where the actions themselves serve as premises from which conclusions are to be drawn. In this way, Gorgias has Palamedes insist that words cannot bring “the truth of deeds clearly and certainly before their hearers”27 and that his jury should thus take note of actions rather than words.28 Socrates addresses his jury in a similar vein, offering as “powerful proofs” not “mere words” but what they “honour more – actions.”29 He then proceeds to describe two occasions when he opposed the wrongdoing of the state, once under the democrats and later under the oligarchs. Such a strategy might be the wise choice of any speaker who thinks he lacks a facility with words, as both the principal speakers considered here claim to do. But there is also vividness available to the descriptions of events that abstract proofs will lack. One can claim to be just in one’s actions, but showing this makes the argument a concrete one. It creates an experiential link between speaker and hearer, who is invited to weigh the merits of the actions performed alongside the justifications given for those actions. Riel’s speech constitutes such an argument from action. He believes, after all, that he has “acted reasonably and in self-defence.” But more specifically, and in relation to the point being made here, he will use actions as premise material from which he expects conclusions to be drawn. Let’s consider two instances of this. Charles Nolin, along with others, had spoken of Riel’s ambition. But in response to this charge, Riel notes that he was approached to take a place in the council but declined. This action indicates he was not anxious for position. He speaks of it to defend his character; it is part of the defence that he is not egotistical. Again, witnesses have testified that he did not respect the police. He contests this, insisting that he has always respected the officers of the police. And as proof of this, he offers the fact that he wrote to Major Lief Crozier that he had respect for him. Such events are matters of immediate historical record, available to the court for confirmation. As such, although they might be subject to other interpretations, they have a clarity and straightforwardness about them that is often lacking in verbal arguments. With the latter, a speaker might always be accused of cleverness in the use of words. But the public facts of a man’s life are open to all and to a certain degree speak for themselves.
We might consider the choice of these rhetorical strategies. On one level, they may be simply what Riel judges appropriate for the circumstance in which he finds himself, given his training in rhetoric. The trial speech lends itself naturally to certain language and devices, as well as to specific moves of justification – both of character and of actions. But strategies like allusion and the argument from action, if they are deliberate, aim at a more personal goal: to effect communion with the audience. This term – “communion” – is used by Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca for the establishment of commonalities or identifications with the audience.30 It involves meeting an audience on their terms, speaking in ways they understand, and drawing on experiences that they would be expected to have shared at some level. Riel is constrained by the nature of the event itself: he must address the charges brought against him, respond to the testimony of witnesses, and stay within the rules of the court. But he decides how he will do these things; the style of speech, the figures adopted, and the strategies used are under his inventive control. And the primary consideration in making these decisions is that of audience. Who is he addressing? What do they expect? How can he bring them to relate to him and thus understand the questions in his terms?
And yet, of course, on the face of things, the speech fails. In this, Riel keeps good company. For all his persuasiveness, Socrates fails to persuade his jury and suffers the consequences. If the allusion to Socrates is understood too strongly, then just as Riel would have his jury recall the similarities between these victims of injustice, so they might also recall the fate that Socrates met. Riel’s fate is no different; he also fails to persuade.
Rhetorical speech is employed in situations of uncertainty, and any number of things can prevent its success. Riel’s closing wish is for God to make it effective, and he believes this is possible because it “is proposed to good men, to good people, and to good ladies also.”31 But effectiveness is not the only measure for rhetorical speech because some audiences may be predisposed never to accept what is put to them and in that sense would be unmovable, no matter how “good” the arguments may be. And as W.M. Parish observes in his study of speeches, “Rhetoric, strictly speaking, is not concerned with the effect of a speech, but with its quality, and its quality can be determined quite apart from its effect.”32 The strategies Riel employs are appropriate for the occasion, and he employs them well in the sense that they are used correctly. They are designed to make the strongest case in the circumstances, and in that sense they serve him well and he does himself credit. He “speaks well.”
There is a further feature of this rhetor’s speech worth noting. I observed at the outset that Riel’s speech could appear disconnected and unorganized. There is the sense among many that a trial speech should be well prepared in advance. But early orators attacked the idea of the prepared speech, and the rhetorical tradition also favours spontaneous, extempore speeches that address the exigencies of the occasion. That is, a speaker must not only have marshalled the arguments and strategies he will use in his defence; he must also be prepared to respond to what others say, to what happens in the courtroom, to the restlessness or attentiveness of the audience, and so forth. A good speaker is able to leave his prepared texts and work with the materials that the occasion presents. Riel had perhaps a 300-word text from which he extrapolated. For the rest, he spoke extemporaneously, after the best traditions of the past. He thus found a middle ground between the prepared and the spontaneous. If his speech appears disorganized, it is because we judge it from standards that it was never intended to meet. And in doing so, we fail to see its merits and power. In many respects, it was a makeshift speech in a makeshift courtroom, and the defendant did a masterful job of using the materials available to him – from the events of his life, the testimonies of others, and the exigencies of the courtroom – to construct a speech that rightfully stands among the best of the genre.
I am grateful to audience members of the Riel’s Defence conference at the University of Windsor, October 2010, whose discussion and comments led to a number of improvements of this chapter.
1 Desmond Morton, ed., The Queen v Louis Riel: Canada’s Greatest State Trial (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1974), 316.
2 Ibid., 323–4.
3 Ibid., 324.
4 Aristotle, On Rhetoric, trans. G. Kennedy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 1.2.4.
5 Morton, ed., Queen v Louis Riel, 322.
6 Chaim Perelman and Lucie Olbrechts-Tyteca, The New Rhetoric: A Treatise on Argumentation, ed. John Wilkinson and Purcell Weaver (Notre Dame, in: University of Notre Dame Press, 1969), 170.
7 Plato, The Apology, trans. H.N. Fowler (Cambridge, ma: Harvard University Press, 1914), 26e.
8 Morton, ed., Queen v Louis Riel, 311.
9 Unlike the Socrates of the Apology, Riel reminds his audience at the end of the speech of his “imperfect way of speaking.” See ibid., 325.
10 Ibid., 311.
11 Ibid., 314.
12 Ibid., 315.
13 Ibid., 312.
14 Ibid., 314.
15 Ibid., 313.
16 Ibid., 319.
17 Ibid., 311.
18 Ibid., 322.
19 Ibid., 324.
20 Ibid.
21 Ibid., 320.
22 Plato, Apology, 40a–b.
23 Ibid., 40c.
24 Maggie Siggins, Riel: A Life of Revolution (Toronto: HarperCollins, 1994), 50.
25 Ibid., 53.
26 J.M. Bumsted, Louis Riel v. Canada: The Making of a Rebel (Winnipeg: Great Plains, 2001), 292.
27 Hermann Diels and Walther Kranz, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker (Berlin: Weidmannsche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1952), 11a, 35.
28 Ibid., 11a, 34.
29 Plato, Apology, 32a.
30 Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca, New Rhetoric, 51–6.
31 Morton, ed., Queen v Louis Riel, 325.
32 W.M. Parish, “The Study of Speeches,” in Readings in Rhetorical Criticism, 2nd ed., ed. C.R. Burgchardt (State College, pa: Strata, 2000), 39.