INITIAL FEAR AND HOW TO OVERCOME IT.
However numerous and varied may be the classes of those who contemplate
extempore speech, they are all confronted by one common difficulty.
Whether a boy makes his maiden effort, or a man of wide thought and ripe
culture attempts for the first time to dispense with the manuscript in
which he has trusted through years of successful public speech, the fear
of failing looms up before each of them in a manner equally formidable.
The writer well remembers his first boyish venture into this arena of
peril. A debate in a village shoemaker’s shop furnished the occasion.
Two or three “speakers” were ranged on a side, and the question was that
time-honored controversy of country lyceums—the comparative magnitude of
the wrongs suffered by the Indians and the Negroes at the hands of the
American Government. Which side the writer was on, or what arguments
were used, has long since been forgotten, but the palpitating heart, the
terrible suspense, as one after another of the preceding speakers made
his remarks and brought the terrible moment of facing the audience
nearer, can never cease to be remembered. When at last called out by the
voice of the presiding officer, I found my way to the end of a rude
bench or counter that ran partly across the room, leaned upon it, _shut
my eyes_, and began to talk. How hoarse and hollow the sound that
followed! All that was uttered was instantly forgotten by the speaker,
for one terrible thought dominated every other—a speech was being made!
My head whirled, every nerve tingled, and a confused, roaring sound
filled my ears, while I most heartily repented of allowing myself to be
persuaded into such a frightful position. A great dread stared at me
from the end of each sentence—that of finding nothing more to say and
being obliged to sit down amid the ridicule of neighbors and
school-fellows. When at length the agony was over, and opening my eyes,
I dropped into a seat, a striking revulsion of feeling occurred. This
rose to the height of joy and triumph when I learned that “the speech”
had actually been ten minutes long. It was a grand achievement!
In all sober earnest, I estimate that this first effort was probably the
most profitable of my life, because it was a beginning in the right
direction. Weeks of preparation preceded the momentous effort, and in
some kind of a way the result had been poured upon the audience. From
that time the writer was numbered among the village debaters and shared
in the advantages of the village Lyceum—a capital means of improvement.
Had the first extemporaneous effort been made later in life, the
shrinking and terror, would probably have been even greater.
While no way has been discovered of altogether preventing the initial
fear that attends extemporaneous speech by the unpracticed orator, yet
it may be greatly lessened and more rapid and perfect control of it
obtained by heeding a few simple suggestions. Some serviceable
expedients have already been pointed out, and will here only be referred
to. As simple a plan as that described in the last chapter, with
lengthened meditation on each part, will give the mind of the speaker
something to do aside from dwelling upon his own danger. He should also
prepare far more matter than can possibly be used—so much that in the
simplest and baldest statement it will fill a respectable period of
time. He need not be careful as to how he speaks, or in how many forms
he repeats the same idea. Originality, also, may safely be neglected.
The object is not to talk especially well, or to utter that which has
never been uttered before, but only to keep on talking until
self-possession and the mastery of every faculty have been fully
restored. This preparation of great quantities of material with no care
as to the graces of delivery may expose the speaker in time to another
peril—that of being tedious and wearisome; but this is not the source of
the initial fear with which we are now dealing, and when it becomes a
real evil there are effectual means of guarding against it.
A further direction is that the mode of introduction be very firmly
fixed in the mind. This wonderfully calms the speaker. He knows that he
can begin even if he never gets any further; and by the time the
introduction is passed, if the man possesses any natural aptitude for
speech, his mind will in all ordinary cases have recovered its
equilibrium, and be ready to devise and direct everything that follows.
The plan and the full notes which have been made should also be kept
within easy reach, or even in the hand—not with the intention of using
them, for that is the very thing to be avoided, but that the speaker, by
knowing that they can be referred to in an emergency, may be guarded
against “stage fright.” He may also exercise self-control by not looking
at them unless absolutely driven to it.
The object of first efforts—even for the orator who is great in other
modes of delivery—is not to make a great or admired speech, but only to
get through the ordeal without disgrace or failure. Quality must be
sought later. To get any reasonable quantity of speech at first, to
satisfy yourself that you can both think and talk when on your feet, is
achievement enough.
One caution may be offered to the man possessing a good written style
which the boy will not need. Do not make your preparation so minutely or
verbally that the very words linger in your memory. If you do, one of
two things will probably happen: either you will recite a memorized
speech, which, however fine in itself, will contribute nothing to the
object of learning to speak extemporaneously, or the fine fragments of
remembered diction that flood in your mind will be so out of harmony
with the words spontaneously evolved as to produce a continual series of
jars and discords noticeable to every one, and to none more painfully
than to yourself. The writer once listened to a speech of this mixed
character, in which the orator would soar for a time on the wings of
most excellent words, and then drop down to his ordinary and very meagre
vocabulary. So frequent and unexpected were these transitions that the
orator’s progress suggested nothing so much as traveling over one of
those western corduroy roads, where the wheels of the carriage first
rise with a great effort on top of a log, and then plunge into
fathomless depths of mud! Rather than such jolting, it is better that
the experimental speeches should never rise above the level of mere
talk, and thus maintain a uniform progress. In due time all qualified
persons can lift their extemporaneous words as high as the utmost reach
of the pen. But first must be gained the power of standing unprotected
by a paper wall, face to face with an audience and employing every
faculty as calmly and efficiently as in the study. Practice in talking
to the people will make this possible and easy, but nothing else will.