CHAPTER I.

EXTEMPORE SPEECH

HOW TO

ACQUIRE AND PRACTICE IT.

BY

REV. WILLIAM PITTENGER,

_Instructor in the National School of Elocution and Oratory_.

PHILADELPHIA:

NATIONAL SCHOOL OF ELOCUTION AND ORATORY,

1416 and 1418 Chestnut Street.

1883.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883, by the

NATIONAL SCHOOL OF ELOCUTION AND ORATORY,

in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

FRANKLIN PRINTING HOUSE,

321 Chestnut Street,

PHIL’A.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

PREFACE.

The following pages are the result of considerable observation and

experience. Fifteen years ago the writer published a small volume

entitled “Oratory; Sacred and Secular,” in which the same general views

were set forth, though more slightly and crudely expressed. In this work

the recognized defects of that earlier effort are supplied; and it is

believed that all persons who have natural adaptation to public speech

will here find all necessary directions to guide them by the shortest

and surest road to success.

It is not necessary or even expedient that a book which teaches the mode

of eloquence should itself be eloquent. We may watch, admire, and

describe the flight of an eagle while standing on the firm ground quite

as well as if flying in the air beside him. No effort, therefore, has

been made to imitate those grand bursts of feeling or lofty flights of

imagination in which the popular orator may indulge; but we have sought

to give such directions about practical details as may be useful to the

highest genius, while the broad path toward that kind of excellence most

in harmony with the speaker’s own faculties is clearly marked out.

The writer is firmly convinced that more than nine-tenths of those who

have any fair degree of ability to speak in public will succeed best in

the mode laid down in the following pages; that is, by thorough

preparation and arrangement of thought, combined with spontaneous

selection of words in the moment of discourse.

Reasons will be given for considering this the most natural, logical,

impassioned, and effective mode of discourse; indeed, the superior

excellence of extempore speech is now generally conceded and will

require little argument; but it is more important to encourage the

beginner by showing him just how to acquire and practice fluent,

accurate, and impressive off-hand speech in public, with as little

embarrassment or fear as if every word were written out and in plain

sight. This is the especial object of the following pages.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

PART I.

PRELIMINARY CONSIDERATIONS:

PAGE

CHAPTER I. Can Eloquence be Taught? 9

CHAPTER II. The Four Methods of Public Speech—Their Advantages

and Disadvantages 15

CHAPTER III. Lessons from the Experience of Eminent Orators 31

CHAPTER IV. An Embryo Speech, with Models of very Simple Plans 44

CHAPTER V. Initial Fear, and How to Overcome it 60

CHAPTER VI. Utility of Debating Societies 65

PART II.

PREPARATION OF THE SPEAKER:

CHAPTER I. Unfortunates who never can Extemporize 73

CHAPTER II. Thought and Emotion 87

CHAPTER III. Language 101

CHAPTER IV. Imagination 109

CHAPTER V. Voice and Gesture 114

CHAPTER VI. Confidence 125

CHAPTER VII. Peculiarities belonging to the Various Fields of

Oratory 135

PART III.

PLAN AND DELIVERY OF THE SPEECH:

CHAPTER I. The Pen and the Tongue 145

CHAPTER II. Subject and Object 148

CHAPTER III. Thought-gathering 159

CHAPTER IV. Constructing a Plan 166

CHAPTER V. How Shall the Written Plan be Used? 177

CHAPTER VI. The First Moment of Speech 187

CHAPTER VII. The Introduction 196

CHAPTER VIII. Progress of the Speech 207

CHAPTER IX. Three Plans of Great Addresses 217

CHAPTER X. Illustrations, Pathos, Humor 243

CHAPTER XI. The Orator’s Logic 248

CHAPTER XII. After the Speech 262

PART I.

PRELIMINARY CONSIDERATIONS.

CHAPTER I.

CAN ELOQUENCE BE TAUGHT?

There is a widespread opinion that all study of the mode of oratory is

unmanly, and leads to the substitution of artifice and adornment for

simplicity and power. “Let a man have something important to say,” it is

argued, “and he need not waste his time in trying to find how to say

it.” So general is this sentiment, that a ministerial acquaintance of

the writer’s was recently very careful to conceal from his congregation

the fact that he was taking a series of lessons in elocution, lest his

influence should be diminished.

We may admit that the popular prejudice against the study of eloquence

is not without a mixture of reason. It is possible to foster a spurious

kind of oratory, which shall be far inferior to the rudest genuine

speech. But on the other hand, it is safe to maintain that every

rational power man possesses can be strengthened by judicious

cultivation, without in the least impairing its quality. There is no

trick in true oratory—no secret magic by which a weak-minded man can

become the leader of others stronger and wiser than himself. The great

prizes of eloquence cannot be placed in the hands of the ignorant or

slothful. But so surely as a raw apprentice can be transformed into a

skillful workman, any person possessed of ordinary faculties, who will

pay the price in labor, can be made master of the art of ready and

forcible public utterance.

The methods of oratorical cultivation presented in this volume are not

based upon mere theory. They have been tested in hundreds of instances,

and their results are beyond question. A carpenter will assert with

perfect assurance, “I guarantee to take an ordinary young man, who will

place himself in my hands for a reasonable time, and turn him out a

thorough mechanic, master of every part of his trade.” The effects of

training are as marvelous and as certain in the fields of eloquence.

But this training must necessarily combine practice with theory. To

study about great orators and observe their works is not sufficient.

Here again, we may take a lesson from the mode in which an apprentice is

trained. The master architect does not take his young men to gaze upon

finished buildings, and expect them, from mere admiration and

architectural fervor, to construct similar works. He would soon find

that not one in a hundred had the “mechanical genius” for such an easy

triumph. But he takes them into the shop, where work is in progress,

places before them some simple task, and from that leads them on, step

by step, to more difficult achievements. They learn how to make the

separate parts of a house, and afterward how to fit those parts into a

complete work. Under this rational mode of instruction the great

majority master the whole business placed before them, and the failures

are rare exceptions. If similar success does not attend oratorical

students, the explanation must be sought, not in the nature of oratory,

but in wrong methods of training. Merely reading Cicero and Demosthenes,

even in their original tongues, declaiming choice selections, or

listening to great orators, will not make any one eloquent, unless

indeed he possesses that rare natural genius which rises above all rules

and sweeps away every obstacle.

But it must be remembered that there are many degrees of eloquence. The

popular conception is somewhat unjust in refusing recognition to those

who possess this power in only a fair degree. It is not possible by any

mode of training to produce many orators of the very highest type. Such

will ever be rare for the same reason that there are but few great

poets, generals, or statesmen. But proper education in the art of speech

should enable a man to give full, free, and adequate expression to

whatever thoughts and feelings he may possess. It may go further, and

make him more fruitful in thought, and more intense in feeling, than he

could have been in the absence of such education, and he may thus become

fairly entitled to the rewards of eloquence without, however, reaching

the level of the few great world-orators. The distinction between a good

degree of practical, working eloquence, which may be successfully taught

to the mass of students, and the very highest development of the same

faculty, should always be kept in mind. Even the mightiest genius may be

regulated, strengthened, and directed by culture; while moderate talents

may, by similar culture, reach a very serviceable degree of efficiency

and power.

While these considerations appear almost self-evident, they are not

unnecessary. On listening to a true orator—one who, without hesitation,

pours forth a stream of well-chosen words, and develops a difficult

subject in a clear and masterly manner—we are apt to receive an

impression like that made by the operation of a law of nature, or an

unerring animal instinct. Does the orator acquire eloquence as the bee

learns to construct honey cells? There is, no doubt, a foundation for

eloquence in natural ability, but the analogy is far more close with the

human builder, who sees mentally the image of the house he wishes to

construct, fits the various timbers and other materials into their

places, and works intelligently until his conception is realized. To

Jack Cade and his fellows the mysteries of reading and writing “came by

nature;” but experience has shown that this much of nature can be

developed in the great majority of American children. In the moderate

and reasonable meaning of the term, eloquence can be made almost as

general as the elements of a common-school education. The child that

masters the art of reading, really makes a greater conquest over

difficulties, than the average well-educated youth needs to add to the

stores he already possesses, in order to attain a good degree of

oratorical power. There are, indeed, a few indispensable requisites

which will be enumerated in another chapter; but the want of these

debars a small minority only, and their absence is easily recognized.

For all others the path of success lies open. Patient practice in the

use of the pen as a servant but not as a master, the study of good

models, and the laborious mastery in detail of the separate elements of

oratory, will not fail of abundant fruit.

There are two classes of works with which this treatise should not be

confounded. It aims to occupy an almost vacant place between manuals of

elocution on the one hand, and works of technical instruction in the

various oratorical professions, on the other. Both of these classes of

books are very useful, and teach indirectly many of the elements of true

eloquence. Elocution deals with voice and gesture, which are prime

elements in oratory; and although it is popularly supposed to be

applicable only to reading and recitation, it is equally serviceable in

off-hand speech. Works of the second class give rules for preaching,

debating, pleading at the bar, teaching, and all other professions which

involve public speech. They show how various kinds of discourses may be

constructed, but have few practical directions about the mode of

delivery, or that grand and noble work—the development of the oratorical

power itself.

This book is written from the standpoint of the student who wishes to

wield the golden sceptre of eloquence and is willing to put forth all

reasonable efforts to that end. It will aim to guide him into the right

path; show him what helps are available, and what discipline is

necessary; encourage him in overcoming difficulties, and stimulate him

to seek the very highest excellence within the compass of his faculties.

CHAPTER II.

THE FOUR METHODS OF PUBLIC SPEECH—THEIR ADVANTAGES AND DISADVANTAGES.

“What shall I do?” exclaims the young student who expects soon to face

public audiences. “Shall I write out what I have to say, polish it as

highly as possible, and then utter this finished product? Or must I take

the risk of being able to say nothing at all, in hope of gaining the

ease and naturalness of spontaneous speech?”

It must be admitted that the first course indicated above has many

advantages, and seems in harmony with the marked tendency of

civilization toward division of labor. It is hard to perform several

different operations at the same moment. Look how heavily the extempore

speaker is burdened. He must think of his subject; arrange his ideas,

sentences, and words; remember quotations; originate proper tones and

gestures; and keep his attention closely fixed upon his audience. All

this he must do with the utmost promptness and regularity, or incur a

fearful penalty—that of embarrassment and failure. Few men have the

courage to stand long before an audience, waiting for a missing word or

idea. To avoid this danger the mind of an extempore speaker must be

accustomed to work with the rapidity and precision of a printing-press;

otherwise, the appalling danger of failure and ridicule will constantly

stare him in the face. It is not wonderful that such perils have made

many speakers perpetual slaves of the pen.

But it may be noted that the public reader has an equal number of things

to do at the same moment. He must look on the manuscript and recognize

the words—a complicated process, which practice has made easy, but which

does greatly distract attention. The whole discourse must be brought

into mind as really as if extemporized with the difference that now,

instead of arising from within, it is brought back from without—a much

more difficult achievement. Tones and gestures are also increasingly

difficult. The reader will usually wish to give some attention to the

audience, which, with manuscript before him, will be far from easy.

After he has done his best his hearers will think, “This man is reading,

not speaking—giving us what he thought yesterday or last week, not what

he is thinking now.” Possibly this will not diminish their pleasure, but

the sentiment needs to be recognized.

The resource of memorizing the discourse after it has been prepared

relieves the eye and lessens the physical distraction, but it throws an

additional and very heavy burden upon the mind, and introduces new

embarrassments peculiar to itself.

The advice enforced in these pages will be: “Extemporize; take the risk;

fail, if necessary” though precautions will be given making failure well

nigh impossible; “but in all cases when you speak to the people with the

object of convincing or persuading, let it be seen that you speak

directly the thoughts and feelings of that very moment.”

The two extremes of verbal communication between men are letters, books,

or essays, on the one side, and desultory talk on the other. In the one,

the pen is everything; in the other, it is not employed at all. Neither

mode of address constitutes oratory, but the whole field of this art

lies between them.

There are four principal methods of discourse distinguished in reference

to the mode of delivery, which we may name as follows:

1. Reading.

2. Recitation.

3. Extemporizing.

4. The composite method.

Of these, the first two have the great advantage of allowing the speaker

as much time as may be necessary for the arrangement of the speech down

to the minutest detail. Words may be selected with the nicest care, and

if the first effort is not satisfactory the speech may be written again

and again, until the writer’s full power has been utilized. After

delivery, the manuscript is at once available for publication or

preservation. The first method gives the orator something to lean upon.

Should he become embarrassed, he can fix his attention closely upon his

writing until he recovers. Should his attention be distracted, and the

thread of discourse be broken, it can be taken up again at any point.

In recitation more declamatory fervor is possible than in reading.

Gesticulation is less restrained. The speaker need not be confined

within the narrow limits of a circle, the centre of which is his

manuscript, and the radius the distance at which he can read it.

As an offset, there is the effort, in some cases very considerable, of

memorizing; the variable power of memory in different states of health;

and the possibility of altogether forgetting the prepared words. It must

also be admitted that few men can declaim well. Some have mastered the

difficult art, and have won laurels in this way; but their number,

especially in the modern world, is comparatively small.

Extemporizing does not exclude the most exhaustive study of a subject.

It is easier, indeed, to write upon a subject only partially understood,

than to address an audience directly upon the same topic. Neither does

this method exclude the most careful pre-arrangement of the thoughts

enunciated. The trained speaker will find it comparatively easy to make

a plan at a moment’s notice which will serve as a basis for discourse;

but he will usually be provided with a plan long before he begins to

speak. He will aim to understand his subject, make the best arrangement

of it in his power, select what is most fitting for his purpose, and

then, face to face with his audience, will give them, in a manly way,

the outflowing of his mind and heart. It is in this sense alone that the

word “extempore” will be used in this volume. We maintain that, so far

from being the refuge of ignorance and sloth, extempore speech is often

the vehicle of the widest culture and the most extensive knowledge.

The increased attention paid to extempore speech within a few years

indicates a hopeful improvement of taste among professional men. The

majority of the people have always preferred it. They do not greatly

desire of pulpit, platform, or bar, the verbal elaboration favored by

written speech; but fervent manner, earnest conviction, and directness

are highly prized. Readers and reciters imitate, as far as they can, the

manner of spontaneous speech. It is well to remember that this tribute

of imitation is never paid by the superior to the inferior.

One argument in favor of extempore delivery has never received due

consideration: it is far more healthful than other forms of address. In

the case of men who speak only at long intervals, this consideration may

not be weighty; but to others, it involves years of added usefulness, or

even life itself.

This superior healthfulness has often been observed, but what is its

source? The answer will go far to show why true extempore speech is more

persuasive and emotional than any other variety. In chemistry, a law of

affinity has long been recognized, according to which substances just

set free from combination have greater energy, and are more ready to

form new combinations, than ever afterward. In the same way, voice and

gesture readily respond to _nascent_ emotion; that is, to emotion

aroused for the first time. Every speaker who utters the thought of the

moment, if not fettered by bad habits, or paralyzed by fear, will

exhibit a perpetual change of position, a variety of muscular movement,

and a play of expression which he can never afterward reproduce. The

pitch, rate, and force of the voice are controlled in the same effective

and almost automatic manner. An ordinary extemporizer, when thoroughly

aroused, will employ as great a variety of tones and gestures as a

highly trained elocutionist in his most elaborate recitations. Nothing

is asserted as to the skill of the combinations, the melody of the

voice, or the grace of the action; though even in these the advantage is

not always on the side of the elocutionist. But in distributing the

effort among all the organs, and in giving that alternate rest and

action upon which health and strength depend, the elocutionist may

strive in vain to equal the model set him by a good extempore speech. In

Western and seaside camp-meetings, speakers who have never spent an hour

in vocal drill will often address thousands of people in the open air

with an energy of voice and manner that would, if employed over a

manuscript by any other than the most accomplished elocutionist,

speedily bring all efforts and the speaker himself to an end. But he

easily endures the strain because there is that continual change which

is the equivalent of rest. Notice some thoroughly excited speaker,

trained only in the school of experience—possibly a mere demagogue or

popular agitator—at his work. A word shot forth almost as piercing as a

steam whistle is followed by a sentence far down the scale, and when

emotion demands the same high key again, the organs in that position are

fresh for a new ear-piercing effort. There is equal variation in the

rate of speech. The whole body joins in the expression of emotion,

without the slightest conscious effort, impelled only by the aroused

nervous energy which seeks that mode of discharge. When the effort ends,

the man is weary, indeed; but with a weariness distributed over the

whole body, and without a trace of that exhaustion of brain, throat, or

the upper part of the lungs, which has sent many manuscript

speakers—clergymen, especially—to untimely graves.

What a difference there is between the preacher who languidly reads his

manuscript for twenty-five minutes to a hundred people, and closes the

mighty effort with aching head, quivering nerves, and exhausted throat,

and the typical camp-meeting orator! The latter works hard, addressing

thousands of people for an hour and a half or two hours; but as the

stamping foot, the tense arm, the nodding head, the fully expanded

lungs, and the swaying body have all taken part, the blood and nervous

energy have been sent in due proportion to every organ, and there is no

want of balance. The man can repeat the same performances the next day,

and continue it, as many itinerants have done, for months together.

Similar examples of endurance have often been given in heated political

canvasses by orators of the very highest eminence, as well as by others

unknown to fame. Difference of cultivation or of earnestness will not

suffice to explain the contrast between the two classes of speakers.

The chemical analogy is instructive, and goes far to account for the

observed differences. When thought passes out of the mist and shadow of

general conceptions into the definite form of words, it has immeasurably

greater power to arouse and agitate the mind in which this

transformation is made, than it can have when the same words are merely

recalled in memory or read from a sheet of paper. When the whole process

of expression takes place at once:—the mental glance over the subject;

the coinage of thoughts into words and sentences; the utterance of the

words as they rise to the lips; the selection of key, inflection,

emphasis, gesture:—the man must have a very cold nature, or his theme be

very dull, if, with a sympathizing audience before him, the tides of

emotion do not begin to swell. But notice how other modes of delivery

squander this wealth of emotion. The writer carefully elaborates his

language. He is perfectly calm, or if there is any excitement, it is

purely intellectual, and the quickened flow of blood is directed only to

the brain. When the ardor of composition subsides, and he reviews his

pages, the fire seems to have died out of them. While memorizing, or

making himself familiar enough with what he has written to read it with

effect, he may recall some of the first ardor, but only to have it again

subside. When at last he stands up to speak, his production is a

thrice-told tale. In but few cases will he feel the full inspiration of

his message. If he recites, the effort of memory distracts his

attention, and he is probably reading from a page of manuscript

presented by his mental vision. If he reads directly, he must take a

position to see his paper, and at least part of the time keep his eye

fixed upon it. The address is felt to come, notwithstanding all the

artifice he can employ, at least as much from the paper as from the man.

The most profound culture in reading and declamation only suffices to

bring back part of the emotion with which the genuine extemporizer

starts.

As bearing upon the subject of the healthfulness of extempore speech, a

reference to the writer’s own experience may not be improper. Severe and

exceptional hardship in the civil war led to a complete breakdown in

health. The hope of any kind of active work, or even of many months of

life, seemed very slight. The question was not so much how to speak

best, as how to speak at all. Fortunately, a long series of daily

lectures, involving no great intellectual effort, proved that mere

talking was not necessarily hurtful. Some elocutionary hints at the

right time were also of great value. When the pulpit was entered,

greater difficulty arose. A few trials of memorized preaching produced

alarming nervous exhaustion. Reading was equally deleterious to throat

and voice. One path alone seemed open; and entering upon that with

confidence, which eighteen years of experience has only deepened, the

writer found that extempore speech was, for him, probably the most

healthful of all forms of exercise. It is not likely that one-third of

this term of work would have been secured by any other kind of address.

Another important advantage is the saving of time afforded by this mode

of speech. The hours otherwise wasted in word-elaboration may be more

usefully employed in general studies. The field for an orator’s

improvement is boundless; but if obliged to fully write a large number

of discourses, he must either work very rapidly or very perseveringly to

enter far into that field. But if less preparation is given to

individual speeches, more time will be available for the improvement of

the speaker. Or if he uses the same length of preparation for each

discourse in the extempore mode, he can collect and classify a far

greater amount of material, and the mental element will thus gain far

more than the merely verbal loses.

Only the fourth or composite method of discourse remains for our

consideration. At first glance, it seems to combine the advantages of

all other methods, and for many minds it possesses great attraction. In

it the less important parts of the speech are given off-hand, while

passages of especial brilliancy or power are written fully, and either

read or recited. Added variety may be given by reading some of these,

and declaiming others from memory. A very brilliant and showy discourse

may thus be constructed. But the difficulties are also very great. Full

success requires a rare combination of desirable qualities. A good

verbal memory, the power of composing effective fragments, and of

declaiming or reading them well, are not often joined to all the

qualities that make a ready and impressive extemporizer. For this reason

it usually follows that in composite discourses one of the elements so

greatly predominates as to dwarf the others. A manuscript discourse in

which an extempore remark or two is interpolated must be classed with

written discourses. Neither does extemporizing lose its special

character, though some scattered quotations be read or repeated from

memory. To pick up a book, in the midst of a speech, and read a theme or

argument, or the statement of another’s position, does not make the

discourse composite in character, unless such reading be the principal

part of it. An eloquent speaker on one occasion occupied more than half

his time, and produced far more than half his effect, by reciting poems

of the author who was the nominal subject of his lecture. The

performance would have been more appropriately styled, “Recitations from

the poems of ——.” The few running comments introduced did not entitle it

to be classed as an original production, because they were obviously not

its governing motive.

How shall the advantages of extemporizing be secured, while avoiding its

dangers? No commendation can be given to those who simply _talk_ to an

audience, giving forth only what may happen to be in mind at the moment

of delivery. The most pedantic writing and lifeless reading would, as a

habit, be preferable to such recklessness. Unwritten speech does not

preclude the fullest preparation. The plans advocated in this volume

will enable a speaker to gather materials as widely, arrange them as

systematically, and hold them as firmly in hand, as if every word was

written; while at the same time he may have all the freedom and play of

thought, the rush of passion, and the energy of delivery that comes in

the happiest moment of outgushing words. But those who are unwilling to

labor may as well lay down the book. We do not profess to teach a

process of labor-saving, though much labor will be changed from

mechanical to intellectual, and after long experience the total saving

may be great. But in the first stages those who have been accustomed to

write in full will find that the change involves an increase, rather

than a diminution, of work.

On all ordinary occasions a good speech must result from a previous

ingathering of materials—the formation of a mental treasury in

connection with a special subject. The speaker works for days or weeks

in collecting from all sources and arranging in the happiest manner that

which his hearers are to receive in an hour with no other labor than

that of listening. The great advantage of writing is supposed to lie in

this preparation. To-day an orator may write everything he knows about a

subject; to-morrow, by means of reading, conversation, or further

thought, he may have more ideas to record; and he may thus continue to

widen and record his knowledge, until his time, or the subject itself,

is exhausted. Then he may revise, select what is most appropriate,

refine and polish his language, and finally come before an audience

confident that he holds in his hand the very best that he can give them.

But, alas! it is an essay, or treatise, rather than a speech! So far as

his materials are suitable for a speech, they can be gathered and used

as readily in an extempore discourse. The use of the pen as an

instrument of accumulation and record is not to be despised. But in its

final form, not a line of the most massive and complicated speech that

the mind of man can produce need be written. Enriched by garnered

thoughts—knowing where to begin and where to close—seeing a clear

outline of the whole subject in mental vision—the trained speaker may

possess every faculty, and use every resource of speech, in as serene

confidence as if every word was fixed in memory or on manuscript.

Those who have only one speech to deliver, and that for show rather than

service, will hardly credit these assertions. Graduating orations will

probably always be recited from memory. In such cases the matter is of

little value, while the form is everything. So well is this relation of

fitness understood, that in serious address it is a severe condemnation

to say, “He declaims just like a school-boy,” or “That is sophomoric.”

The line of appropriateness may be suggested as follows: When the sole

aim is to inform or please, or when an address is submitted for

criticism, those who have the needed ability may very well read or

recite. But when conviction or persuasion is sought, when public opinion

or conduct is to be influenced, the indescribable but most potent charm

of sincere, earnest, spontaneous words will ever prove most effective.

No leader of a great, popular movement ever trusted to manuscript

appeals, and but two or three of such leaders memorized their orations.

These methods may well be reserved for the oratory of ornament and show.

May a word of advice be hazarded to those who, in spite of all these

considerations, prefer to rely upon manuscript or memory? Be honest

about it! Those modes of delivery have advantages when their resources

are fully mastered. Do not seek credit for what you do not possess, but

stand firmly on your own ground and make the most of it. If you recite,

memorize perfectly and employ the most effective elocutionary devices.

Do not hesitate to study the manner of good actors, for your recitations

and theirs must have much in common. If you read, put the paper, not

where it will be best hidden, but where it will do you the most good,

and read as well as you can. Thoroughly good reading is far more

interesting and attractive than reading which is a bad imitation—there

are no good imitations—of spontaneous speech. Do not mark in your

manuscript “Here become pathetic;” or at another place, “Here show

surprise and indignation.” Reading is essentially quiet in its

character, appealing to intellect and gentle feeling rather than stormy

passion. You will thus realize all the success that is possible for you

in the method you have chosen, and escape such well-grounded sarcasm as

that of Sydney Smith, who thus describes a style of preaching common in

his day:

“Discourses have insensibly dwindled from speaking to reading, a

practice which is of itself sufficient to stifle every germ of

eloquence. It is only by the fresh feelings of the heart that mankind

can be very powerfully affected. What can be more ludicrous than an

orator delivering stale indignation, and fervor a week old; turning over

whole pages of violent passions, written out in goodly text; _reading_

the tropes and apostrophes into which he is hurried by the ardor of his

mind; and so affected at a preconcerted line and page that he is unable

to proceed any further?”

CHAPTER III.

LESSONS FROM THE EXPERIENCE OF EMINENT ORATORS.

Although unwritten speech is popular and has innumerable arguments in

its favor, many persons yet maintain that eloquence of the highest

character cannot be reached without trusting to the memory and the pen.

In vain we urge that it is more natural to find words at the moment of

utterance; that a better framework may be constructed by confining

preparation to it alone; that the hearer and speaker may thus be brought

into more perfect accord; that this, in short, is the method of nature,

which permits the solid part of the tree to stand through many winters,

while its graceful robe of foliage is freshly bestowed every spring.

With the emphasis of an axiom, opponents declare that the words of a

great orator _must_ be previously chosen, fitted, and polished.

A speech-writer is apt to have one argument drawn from his own

experience which outweighs all argument. His own most satisfactory

efforts are those in which nothing is left to the chance of the moment.

But even experience sometimes misleads. We may be bad judges of our own

performances. When extemporizing, the best utterances are often

immediately forgotten by the speaker, whose mind is crowded with other

“thick-coming fancies.” But in writing we may linger lovingly over each

sentence, and return to enjoy it as often as we wish. If anything is

imperfect, we can correct and improve down to the moment of speech. And

while in the act of reading or reciting we are in a much better position

to admire our own work, than when carried away by such an impassioned

torrent as to scarcely know whether we have been using words at all. If

our auditors declare their preference for the latter, we can find a

ready explanation in their want of taste and culture.

It is not denied that great effects may be produced by memorized words.

The popularity of the stage is sufficient proof of their power. Actors

often cause uncontrollable tears to flow. If a man can write powerfully,

and then recite well, he may greatly move an audience. Massillon,

Bossuet, and our own John B. Gough, have each achieved great popular

success in that manner. But while such men will be listened to with

eagerness and pleasure, they will be regarded as great performers rather

than as authorities and guides. They have placed themselves on a level

with those who deal in unreal things, and must be contented to remain

there. Doubtless, it is more noble to speak in the words that were once

appropriate to our feelings and sentiments, than to deal only in the

words of others; but the resemblance between quoting our own previously

prepared language and the language of other persons is felt more keenly

by the people than the difference between the two processes.

But even in momentary effect, declaimers of memorized words have been

surpassed by extemporizers, as numerous examples demonstrate; while in

power of thought and lasting influence the superiority of the latter is

so great as to make comparison almost impossible.

The great examples of Demosthenes and Cicero are often quoted to prove

that eloquence of the highest type must be written. Of these men it may

be said that Demosthenes had an assemblage of great qualities that,

backed by his tireless industry, would have made any method the road to

brilliant success. But he did not always recite, and he would not have

dreamed of using manuscript. Cicero was at least as great in literature

as in oratory, and his speeches are now read as literary models. Some of

them were never spoken at all. It may be allowed that he ordinarily

recited previous preparations, but some of his most brilliant passages

were purely extemporaneous. The outburst that overwhelmed Catiline upon

the unexpected appearance of the latter in the Roman Senate was coined

at white heat from the passion of the moment. Hortensius, the great

rival of Cicero—perhaps his superior as an advocate—spoke in spontaneous

words, as did many of the most eminent of the Roman orators, whose fame

now is less brilliant than Cicero’s, mainly because no effective means

then existed of preserving extempore speech. As an offset to the example

of Demosthenes, the great name of Pericles may be fairly adduced. He did

not write his addresses, and direct comparison is therefore impossible;

but his speech established a sway over the cultivated democracy of

Athens in the day of their highest glory more indisputable than

Demosthenes ever attained.

The case in regard to the ancient world may be thus summed up:

Manuscript reading was not considered oratory at all; all speeches were

either recited or extemporized; the latter have inevitably perished,

while some of the former have survived, and, becoming a part of

school-book literature, have conferred a disproportionate fame upon

their authors. An orator who was compelled to write his speech in order

to preserve it had a much greater inducement to write than exists since

the invention of shorthand reporting. Yet some speakers of the highest

eminence did not adopt that mode, and others did not confine themselves

to it.

In the modern world the weight of example is decisively on the side of

unwritten speech. A few instances are all that our space will allow us

to adduce.

Augustine, the great Christian writer and preacher, has not left us in

ignorance as to which mode of address he preferred. He enjoins the

“Christian Teacher” to make his hearers comprehend what he says—“to read

in the eyes and countenances of his auditors whether they understand him

or not, and to repeat the same thing, by giving it different terms,

until he perceives it is understood, an advantage those cannot have who,

by a servile dependence upon their memories, learn their sermons by

heart and repeat them as so many lessons. Let not the preacher,” he

continues, “become the servant of words; rather let words be servants to

the preacher.”

This advice will be equally applicable to others than preachers who may

possess a serious purpose. But the charity of Augustine allows of

reciting under certain circumstances. He well says: “Those who are

destitute of invention, but can speak well, provided they select

well-written discourses of another man, and commit them to memory for

the instruction of their hearers, will not do badly if they take that

course.” No doubt he intended that due credit should be given to the

real author.

Of Luther it was said that “his words were half battles.” No man ever

wielded greater power over the hearts of the people. He was an excellent

writer, and had great command of words. But he was too terribly in

earnest to write his discourses. From a vast fullness of knowledge he

spoke right out, and evoked tears or smiles at pleasure. His strong

emotions and indomitable will, being given full play, bore down

everything before him.

It may well be doubted whether the eloquence of Lord Chatham did not

surpass, in immediate effect, anything recorded of Demosthenes or

Cicero. His example, and that of his equally gifted son, thoroughly

refute those who deny that unwritten speech may convey impressions as

strong as any ever made by man upon his fellows. Some of his grandest

efforts were entirely impromptu, achieving overwhelming success under

circumstances which would have left the man of manuscript or of memory

utterly helpless.

Of William Pitt, the son of Lord Chatham, who was likewise an extempore

speaker in the best sense of the word, Macaulay says:

“At his first appearance in Parliament he showed himself superior to all

his contemporaries in power of language. He could pour out a long

succession of rounded and stately periods without ever pausing for a

word, without ever repeating a word, in a voice of silver clearness and

with a pronunciation so articulate that not a letter was slurred over.”

These two men were never excelled in debate. They had that great

advantage peculiar to good extempore speakers of being always ready.

Every advantage offered was seized at the most favorable moment. Time

wasted by others in writing and memorizing special orations they used in

accumulating such stores of general knowledge and in such wide culture

that they were always prepared. They came to great intellectual contests

with minds un-fagged by the labor of previous composition, and their

words were indescribably fresh and charming, because born at the moment

of utterance.

The traditions of the almost supernatural eloquence of Patrick Henry are

dear to the heart of every American school-boy. While few specimens of

his eloquence survive, it is sure that he exerted wonderful power in

speech, and that he contributed not a little to the establishment of the

American Republic. He never wrote a word either before or after

delivery, and his mightiest efforts were made in situations where the

use of the pen would have been impossible. The Virginia Resolutions,

which mark a vital point in the history of the Revolutionary struggle,

were written by him on the blank leaf of a law book while a discussion

was in progress. In the whole of the terrible debate which followed he

was ever ready, speaking repeatedly and mastering every opponent. He was

a great thinker, but a meager writer. History and human character were

his favorite studies, and these contributed to fit his wonderful natural

genius for coming triumph.

Among the great English preachers of the past century two were

especially great as measured by the degree of popular influence they

wielded. We do not wish to convey Wesley and Whitefield in any other

light than as effective orators. They each did an amount of speaking

that a manuscript reader would have found impossible, even if the latter

had been hindered by no other consideration. At the beginning Whitefield

did memorize most of his sermons. Even afterward he treated the same

subject so frequently when addressing different audiences that the

words, tones, and gestures, as well as the outline of thought, became

quite familiar. Yet his own testimony is decisive as to the fact that he

was not a memoriter preacher in the narrow sense of the term. He says

that when he came to preach he had often, in his own apprehension, “not

a word to say to God or man.” Think of a person who has a fully

memorized speech, which he is conning over in his mind, making such a

declaration, and afterward thanking God for having given him words and

wisdom! Whitefield’s published sermons show few traces of the pen, but

bear every mark of impassioned utterance. He spoke every day, until

speaking became part of his very life. Think what a command of language,

and of all the resources of speech, he must thus have acquired!

Wesley wrote many sermons, and on a very few occasions read them. He

used the pen almost as much as the voice, but he wrote sermons, books,

and letters for others to read, not as material for his own public

reading. He was less impassioned and overwhelming than Whitefield but

his sermons were not less effective. They were noted for the quality of

exactness of statement. In the most easy and fluent manner he said

precisely what he wanted to say. He was never compelled to retract an

unguarded expression into which he had been hurried by the ardor of the

moment. Yet his power over his hearers was not diminished by this

carefulness. Scenes of physical excitement, such as attended the

preaching of Whitefield, were even more marked under his own calm words.

We will refer to another deceased preacher, who presents the strange

peculiarity of being an extempore speaker whose great fame has been

acquired since his eloquent voice became silent in death, and now rests

upon his written sermons. Frederick W. Robertson labored in a

comparatively narrow field and finished his career in youth, but he was

truly eloquent. His example proves that extempore speech may be the

vehicle of the most profound thought and be crowned with all the graces

of style. These qualities have given his sermons greater popularity in

high scientific, literary, and philosophical circles, than those of any

preacher of the present day. How could such extempore sermons be

preserved? A few were taken down by a short-hand reporter, and although

Robertson refused to allow their publication in his lifetime, thus

leaving them without the benefit of his corrections, they are almost

faultless in form and expression. Others were written out by his own

hand after delivery, but these are more or less fragmentary. Had it been

necessary for him to write and memorize each sermon, he could never have

pursued those thorough studies, described in his letters, from which he

derived so much of his power.

The great trio of American political orators belonging to the generation

which has just gone from the stage—Clay, Webster, and Calhoun—were

extempore speakers; Clay and Calhoun always, and Webster usually,

speaking in that manner. The latter, however, was fond of elaborating

some striking thought in his mind to the last degree of word-finish, and

then bringing it forth in the rush of spontaneous utterance. This did

not make his speech composite in the mode of delivery, for these

prepared gems were short fragments, employed only for ornamental

purposes. Competitors of these great men who were obliged to rely upon

manuscript or memory stood no chance of success in the fiery debates

through which they passed.

From hundreds of living extemporizers we will call attention to but

three, and these of the highest eminence. They are all distinguished

writers and do not rely on the extempore method of discourse because of

inability to succeed in other methods. These men are Henry Ward Beecher,

Charles H. Spurgeon, and William E. Gladstone. The amount and quality of

work of all kinds they have accomplished would have been impossible for

speech-readers or reciters. Beecher sometimes reads a sermon or a

lecture, but though he reads well, the effect is small as compared with

the fire and consummate eloquence of his extempore addresses. Spurgeon

has drawn together and maintains probably the largest congregation that

ever regularly attended the ministry of one man, and he is purely

extemporaneous. Both these men are subjected to the additional test of

having their sermons written from their lips and widely published, thus

showing that their popularity has other elements besides the personal

presence and magnetism of the speakers.

The wonderful power of Gladstone has been displayed unceasingly for half

a century. While eager critics, hostile as well as friendly, in

Parliament or at the hustings, are waiting to catch every word from his

lips, he does not find it necessary to control his utterances through

the use of the pen. Day after day, in the midst of heated canvasses, he

discusses a wide range of complicated questions, and neither friend nor

foe ever suggests that he could do better if his words were written out

and memorized. Even in such addresses as include the details of finance

and abound in statistics he uses but a few disconnected figures traced

on a slip of paper. Some years ago, when his modes of speech were less

known than now, the writer asked him to give a statement of his method

of preparation, and any advice he might feel disposed to convey to young

students of oratory. The following courteous and deeply interesting

letter was received in reply, and with its weighty words we may

appropriately close this chapter:

HAWARDEN, NORTH WALES, }

October 12th, 1867.}

SIR:—Though I fear it is beyond my power to comply in any useful

manner with your request, I am unwilling to seem insensible to your

wishes.

I venture to remark, first, that your countrymen, so far as a very

limited intercourse and experience can enable me to judge, stand

very little in need of instruction or advice as to public speaking

from this side of the water. And further, again speaking of my own

experience, I think that the public men of England are beyond all

others engrossed by the multitude of cares and subjects of thought

belonging to the government of a highly diversified empire, and

therefore are probably less than others qualified either to impart

to others the best methods of preparing public discourses or to

consider and adopt them for themselves.

Suppose, however, I was to make the attempt, I should certainly

found myself mainly on a double basis, compounded as follows: First,

of a wide and thorough general education, which I think gives a

suppleness and readiness as well as firmness of tissue to the mind

not easily to be had without this form of discipline. Second, of the

habit of constant and searching reflection on the _subject_ of any

proposed discourse. Such reflection will naturally clothe itself in

words, and of the phrases it supplies many will spontaneously rise

to the lips. I will not say that no other forms of preparation can

be useful, but I know little of them, and it is on those, beyond all

doubt, that I should advise the young principally to rely.

I remain, sir, your most obedient servant,

W. E. GLADSTONE.

CHAPTER IV.

AN EMBRYO SPEECH, WITH MODELS OF VERY SIMPLE PLANS.

The first extemporaneous speeches attempted should be of the simplest

character. Too high an ideal formed at the outset may be very harmful by

causing needless discouragement. To speak freely in any manner, however

rude, until confidence and the power of making every faculty available

are acquired, should be the first great object. Many persons are slaves

of bad habits through life because they began wrong. Nothing harms an

orator more than cultivating his critical taste far beyond his power of

ready utterance. There is no necessary relation between the development

of the two things. To become a fine word-critic and master of an

excellent written style does not imply the power to strike off finely

finished sentences at the speed of the tongue; but it does tend to

render the speaker dissatisfied with anything below the level of his

written performances, and thus checks his fluency. To master the

difficult art of written composition first, and strive afterward to gain

a similar proficiency in spoken words, is a complete reversal of the

natural method, and in all but a few gifted minds puts a premium on

failure. An unlettered rustic may speak with perfect ease, because he is

not conscious of the numberless verbal blunders he falls into; but if it

were possible, by some process of spiritual infusion, to put him in

possession of a fine, critical taste, he would be instantly smitten

dumb.

The true method is to cultivate the faculty of extemporization side by

side with critical judgment. In case that is done, ease and confidence

will not be for a moment disturbed. It thus appears that while an

extempore speaker can never know too much, it is quite possible for his

knowledge and cultivation to advance in the wrong order. The pen will be

of perpetual use to the speaker; but his command of it must not increase

so rapidly in proportion as to make him ashamed of his tongue.

From this reasoning it follows that the best time to lay the foundation

of excellence in speech is very early in life. Speeches made then are

necessarily flimsy and rudimentary, but they are not the less valuable

on that account. They are to be estimated not for their own worth, but

for their results upon the mind producing them. The school-boy’s first

“composition” has always been a mark for cheap witticism; but the boy

himself regards it with justifiable pride, as the first step in the

noble work of putting thought on paper. The same pains and patience

applied to the art of public talking as to written composition will

produce equal fruit. A few directions intended to aid in overcoming some

of the initial difficulties of speech, which may serve as suggestions to

teachers as well as helps to solitary students, are here appended. They

are purposely made of almost ludicrous crudeness, but will not, it is

trusted, be less serviceable on that account; for it is not so important

to aid the mature speaker in giving the last fine strokes of genius to a

masterly oration, as it is to stimulate and guide beginners in their

first stammering utterances.

The simplest oration or formal address that can be constructed has three

distinct parts. With these we will begin the great work of division and

arrangement. They may be named as follows:

1. THE INTRODUCTION.

2. THE DISCUSSION.

3. THE CONCLUSION.

On this framework a speech-plan can be constructed simple enough for any

child. And it is at the same time true that even a child, with such a

plan, might speak appropriately who would otherwise not be able to begin

at all.

We will consider these three parts in their order.

The introduction is at once important and embarrassing. First words are

nearly always heard attentively, and they do much to determine the

degree of attention that will be bestowed on the remainder of the

speech. The young speaker should select something as an introduction

upon which his mind can fasten, instead of dwelling upon the frightful

generality of the naked theme. Neither is it hard to construct a good

introduction if a few plain directions are heeded, which will be more

fully given in a succeeding chapter. All persons feel the need of some

kind of a formal opening, and therefore often begin with an apology—the

very worst form of an introduction, because it is not interesting in

itself and does not lead up to the subject.

In rudimentary speech, which we are now considering, the introduction

should be simple, and, above everything else, easy for the speaker to

comprehend and remember. If there is anything in the whole world which

he is sure he can talk about for a few moments, and which can be made to

have a moderate degree of connection with his subject, let that be

chosen for an opening. If it is also vivid and striking in itself, and

familiar to the audience, so much the better; but this quality should

not be insisted upon in these first attempts.

When the introductory topic is selected it should be turned over in the

mind until the speaker knows just what he is going to say about it. This

process will have a wonderfully quieting effect upon his nerves. He has

fairly mastered something, and knows that at all events he can begin his

speech. It is well to make a note of this introduction in a few simple

words which will strongly fasten themselves in the memory. No effort

toward elaboration should be made, for that would naturally lead to a

memorized introduction, and either require the whole speech to be

written, or produce a painful and difficult transition.

The discussion deals directly with the subject or central idea of the

discourse. Here a clear statement of at least one thought which the

speaker can fully grasp should be made. The pen (or pencil) may be used

in preparation without impropriety. If but one idea is thought of, let

that be written in the fewest and strongest words at the student’s

command. While doing this it is likely that another and related thought

will spring into mind which can be treated in the same manner. With

diligent students there may even be a danger of getting down too many

seed-thoughts. But that contingency is provided for in the chapters on

the fully developed plan, and needs no further notice at this time.

When this central division is completely wrought out, two other points

claim attention. How shall the transition be made from the introduction

to the discussion? A little reflection will show how to glide from one

to the other, and that process should be conned over, without writing,

until it is well understood. It is wonderful how many outlines of ideas

the memory will retain without feeling burdened; and this power of

retention grows enormously through exercise.

After this, the mode of gliding from the discussion to the conclusion

may be treated in the same manner, and with equal profit. The conclusion

itself is scarcely less material than the introduction; but there is

much less range of choice in the manner of closing than in that of

beginning. The subject is before the audience, and any wide departure

from it seems like the beginning of a new speech—something not usually

well received. There is this distinction between the relative value of

introduction and conclusion: a good introduction adds most to a

speaker’s ease, confidence, and power during the moment of speech; but a

good conclusion leaves the deepest permanent impression upon the

audience. It is usually remembered longer than any other part of the

address.

When a discourse has been prepared in this simple manner it has

virtually five parts—three written and two held in memory. From such an

outline it is far more easy to make an address than from the bare

announcement of a theme. It is true that all these parts may be formed

and held in mind without ever making a pen-stroke. A practiced orator

will do this, in a moment, when unexpectedly called upon; or he may only

forecast the introduction and trust to finding the plan as fast as it is

needed. But in this he is no model for imitation by beginners. Even

powerful orators sometimes spoil the whole effect of a good address by

an unfortunate mode of closing. They may forget to close in time—a

grievous fault!—or may finish with some weak thought or extravagant

proposition, by which the whole speech is mainly judged and all its good

points neutralized. The construction of even as simple a plan as here

indicated would have more than double the effect of many speeches made

by great men.

A few simple and rude plans are annexed. No merit is sought for in any

one of them beyond making plain the method recommended.

PLANS OF SPEECHES.

EXAMPLE FIRST.

SUBJECT.—CHINESE EMIGRATION TO AMERICA.

INTRODUCTION.—The number of emigrants to our country and the

nations they represent.

[A totally different and more effective introduction might be the

description of a group of Chinese as seen by the speaker.]

DISCUSSION.—The nature, amount, and present effect of Chinese

emigration.

[It is possible for the speaker in his introduction to foreshadow

the position he expects to maintain in his speech; or he may make a

colorless introduction and reserve his opinion for the discussion.

The material under this head is unlimited. It is only necessary from

the oratorical standpoint that the speaker should determine what

course to take, and then carefully think out in advance or read—for

history and statistics cannot be improvised—all about that which he

intends to use. When he can tell it all over easily to himself he

may reasonably feel assured of his ability to tell it to others. The

various arguments should be weighed and the best selected. That

which most naturally connects with the introduction should be firmly

fixed in the mind as the first, that it may form the bridge from the

one part to the other.]

CONCLUSION.—Results of policy advocated, either predicted,

described, or shown to be probable. Mode of remedying evils

that might be apprehended from that policy.

[In the conclusion the speaker may take upon himself the character

of a prophet, poet, or logician. He may predict results and let the

statement make its own impression. He may put all emphasis upon a

vivid painting of the future colored by the views he advocates; or

he may sum up his reasons, deduce consequences, and weigh

alternatives. The choice between these different modes may be made

instinctively, or it may require considerable mental effort, but

when made, the best mode of transition will be very easily found.]

In all this process, which in the case of undisciplined speakers may

extend over many days of hard work, the pen may be used freely, making

copious notes of facts and arguments. After enough has been accumulated

and put in such shape that the speaker can easily look over the entire

field, he is ready for another process—that of simplifying his plan.

Rough and copious notes brought with him to the platform would only be a

source of embarrassment. But the germ of his ideas, which are now

familiar, can be put into very small compass. Perhaps the following

would recall everything in the preceding outline:

THE CHINESE QUESTION.

1. EXPERIENCE.

2. ARGUMENTS.

3. RESULTS.

But it is clear that a skeleton containing only three words need not be

kept in view. The whole outline of the speech will therefore be in the

mind. If numerous figures or citations from authorities are employed,

they may be classified and read from books or notes, as needed. Such

reading in no way detracts from the extemporaneous character of the

address, though if too numerous they tend to damp oratorical fire and

break the unity of discourse. One who has had no personal experience, or

who has not carefully observed the methods of other speakers, can

scarcely imagine how much a simple outline, such as here suggested,

accomplishes in removing the confusion, fear, and hesitation which

characterize beginners.

Another specimen, not of controversial character, is subjoined.

EXAMPLE SECOND.| SUBJECT.—THE OCEAN.

INTRODUCTION.—The vastness of the ocean. No one person has seen more

than a small part of it. Power evidenced by storm and shipwrecks.

DISCUSSION.—Five great divisions of the ocean. Use in nature,

watering and tempering the land; in commerce, as a highway; in

history, by dividing and uniting nations; its mystery, etc.

CONCLUSION.—Proof of the Creator’s power and wisdom found in the

ocean.

_The Same Plan Condensed._

SUBJECT.—THE OCEAN.

1. VASTNESS AND POWER.

2. PARTS, USE, AND MYSTERY.

3. EVIDENCE.

DEAN SWIFT’S SERMON.

This eccentric clergyman once preached a sermon shorter than its own

text, yet having all the three parts of which we have spoken. The text

was Prov. xix, 20: “He that pitieth the poor lendeth to the Lord; and

that which he hath given will He pay him again.”

The sermon was:

“Brethren, you hear the condition; if you like the security, down

with the dust.”

The collection is said to have been munificent.

In this short sermon the text with the word “Brethren” constitutes the

introduction; the phrase, “you hear the condition,” is a good transition

to the discussion contained in the next member, “if you like the

security,” which assumes the truth of the text, makes its general

declarations present and personal, and prepares the way for the forcible

and practical, if not very elegant, conclusion, “down with the dust.”

Among the many speeches found in Shakespeare, the existence of these

three essential parts may easily be noted. The funeral speeches over the

dead body of Julius Cæsar afford an excellent example. The merit of the

orations of Brutus and Antony are very unequal, but both are

instructive. We will analyze them in turn.

Brutus speaks first. He shows his want of appreciation of the true

nature of persuasive eloquence by declaring that this will be an

advantage. His introduction is also too long and elaborate for the work

he has in hand. The central thought with which he opens is in substance,

“I am worthy of your closest attention.” This cannot be considered a

fortunate beginning, and it would have been fatal for any one less

highly esteemed by the people than “the well-beloved Brutus.” He says:

BRUTUS’ SPEECH.

“Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my cause, and be silent

that you may hear; believe me for mine honor, and have respect to

mine honor that you may believe; censure me in your wisdom and awake

your senses that you may the better judge.”

This introduction is a master-piece of Shakespeare’s art, because it

pictures so well the character of Brutus in his dignity and blind

self-confidence; but for Brutus it is unfortunate, because it puts him

on the defensive and makes the people his judges. He must now plead

well, or they will condemn him.

In the discussion the thought simply is, “I was Cæsar’s friend, and

therefore you may well believe that I would not have killed him if he

had not deserved death because of his ambition.” This is the whole

argument, and it is weak because it does not prove the ambition of

Cæsar, or show that ambition on Cæsar’s part was a crime which Brutus

had a right to punish with death. The antithetic sentences lack both

logic and passion. As they touch neither head nor heart, they can have

but slight and momentary effect. Notice the discussion as an example of

fine words which do not serve their purpose.

“If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Cæsar’s, to

him I say that Brutus’ love to Cæsar was no less than his. If, then,

that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer:

Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you

rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves, than that Cæsar were

dead, to live all freemen? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he

was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him; but

as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears for his love, joy

for his fortune, honor for his valor, and death for his ambition.

Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him

have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman? If

any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will

not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I

pause for a reply.”

As several citizens cry out, “None, Brutus, none,” he passes to the

conclusion, which is as weak as the discussion.

“Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Cæsar, than you

shall do to Brutus. As I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I

have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to

need my death.”

He has gained nothing by the whole speech, save the knowledge that none

of the citizens present care at that time to impeach him for his crime;

but their minds were open to other influences. Shakespeare thus shows

how an able man might use all his powers in the perfection of oratorical

and rhetorical forms, without producing a great or effective speech.

Antony now comes forward. Behold the contrast!

ANTONY’S SPEECH.

The introduction is like and unlike that of Brutus. The same three

titles are used; the same call for attention. But there is no

repetition, no egotism, no elaboration. The introduction is short,

calling attention to his ostensible purpose, and prepares for a

beautiful transition to the discussion.

INTRODUCTION.

“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.

I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.”

There is not a superfluous word. But how can Antony glide into those

praises of Cæsar, which he has disclaimed, but which are necessary to

his purpose? The next sentence solves the question:

“The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their bones;

So let it be with Cæsar.”

This leads most naturally to the thought of the discussion, which is, No

event of Cæsar’s life shows guilty ambition; but many do reveal love to

the people and care for the general welfare. He should, therefore, be

mourned, and—the next word is not supplied by the orator, but forced

from the hearts of the people—_avenged_! We quote a few only of the

well-known words:

THE DISCUSSION.

“The noble Brutus

Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious;

If it were so, it were a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.

Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,

(For Brutus is an honorable man,

So are they all, all honorable men,)

Come I to speak in Cæsar’s funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me;

But Brutus says he was ambitious,

And Brutus is an honorable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,

Whose ransom did the general coffers fill.

Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor hath cried Cæsar hath wept.

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,

And Brutus is an honorable man.

You all did see, that, on the Lupercal,

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,

Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?”

The strongest argument against belief in guilty ambition on the part of

Cæsar and in favor of punishing his murderers is reserved by the subtle

Antony for the last, and then he manages to have the people demand it of

him. He proceeds very naturally and effectively from the rent robe and

the bleeding body to the will of Cæsar. This instrument gave the Romans

each a large donation in money, and bestowed upon them collectively “his

walks, his private arbors, and new-planted orchards” as a public park.

The argument was irresistible, and needed no elaboration. If his death

was avenged as a murder, the will would be valid; otherwise, it would be

set aside, and his estate confiscated by the conspirators. The people,

thus fired by the strongest motives of gratitude and interest themselves

supply the conclusion, and Brutus had to fly for his life.

The whole speech is worth study as an exhibition of almost perfect

eloquence. Shakespeare meant to draw in Brutus the picture of a scholar

coming before the people with fine words, and producing little more than

a literary effect. In Antony he pictures the true orator in the

plentitude of his power, to whom words are but servants in accomplishing

his purpose of persuading and inflaming the people. The one speech reads

as if it might have been written out in the closet and memorized; the

other gushes from the heart of the speaker as he watches the sea of

upturned faces, adapting his words with exquisite skill to suit and

swell the passions written there.

CHAPTER V.

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.

CHAPTER VI.

UTILITY OF DEBATING SOCIETIES.

Comparatively little attention is paid to the direct cultivation of

extemporaneous oratory in schools and colleges. Indirectly, much help is

given by teaching many things which go to furnish the orator with ideas

and words, but the combination of these into that noble effort of human

genius—a speech—is left to individual research or to accident. A few

schools of oratory have been founded which give a large and probably

disproportionate share of attention to elocution in the form of stage or

dramatic reading; but even the best of these are as yet but entering

upon their real work of cultivating thoroughly the power of persuasive

public speech. When each college shall have a chair of extempore speech,

and each academy shall give as much attention to unpremeditated

utterances in conversation and public address as is now bestowed upon

Greek or Latin, the oratory of pulpit, bar, platform, and legislature

will be of a vastly higher type.

Some newspaper critics have deprecated teaching the art of speech on the

ground that there is already too much public talking. This view, if

seriously entertained, is very narrow and misleading. Not more, but

better speech—an increase of quality, rather than quantity—would result

from cultivation, and improved methods. And it may also be argued that

if a great part of the work of life is found in convincing, instructing,

and persuading our fellows, an abundance of speech is absolutely

required. As freedom and mental activity increase, the only practicable

modes of leading and governing men, which rest upon persuasive speech,

will be more urgently demanded. In a state where the will of one man is

law, political speech has little place; and in a Church where

independent thought is heresy and the mass of the people accept

unquestioningly the precise form of faith in which they were born,

preaching will have a very narrow field. But in our own country it is

our boast that we determine every subject by free discussion; and it is

clear that a man who can take no part in the oral battles that are

continually waged about him is placed at a great disadvantage.

But the literary societies generally connected with schools do afford

very valuable help in acquiring the art of oratory. Not only their

formal exercises, but their discussion of points of order and procedure,

and the management of the business and government of such societies,

call out talking talent. Debating societies or lyceums give the same

kind of facilities to speakers outside of educational halls. A spirited

debate on some topic not above the comprehension of the debaters affords

one of the best possible means of acquiring the prime faculties of

assurance and fluency. In such debates the question is chosen, the sides

assigned, and ample time given for that kind of preparation which can

only be effectually made in the general study of the subject. There is

no great temptation to write a speech for a coming debate, as its formal

sentences would fit poorly into the line of argument, the course of

which cannot be foreseen, even if their substance should not be

anticipated by a speaker on the same side. But the more general

knowledge of the subject in its entire range that can be acquired the

better, so long as it does not overwhelm the speaker. The opening speech

may indeed be planned in advance with some definiteness, but all others

will be colored and modified by the situation into which the debate has

been drawn. Each participant is under a strong stimulus to do his best,

sure, if successful, of warm approval by his colleagues and sweet

triumph over his opponents. After the opening speech each contestant

will have the time his predecessor is speaking for arranging arguments

and preparing an answer. The stimulus of contradiction rouses every

faculty to the highest energy. Each argument is scrutinized for the

purpose of discovering its weak point, and nothing will pass on trust.

It may as well be acknowledged that the gladiatorial spirit, though in a

modified form, is still rife in the civilized world. The “joy of

conflict” may be tasted as well in the sharp encounters of an earnest

debate upon some topic of absorbing interest as on the battle-field. A

society which furnishes its members continual opportunity for speech,

under such conditions cannot fail to be a powerful educator in the

direction of extemporaneous speech. In such encounters, the freedom that

belongs to this kind of address is most highly appreciated, and the

mistaken considerations of dignity and propriety which so often take all

life and heart from speech can have little weight. Debates have indeed

been occasionally carried on by means of essays in place of speeches,

but such encounters have been tame and listless affairs, and have soon

given place to the real article. Among the American statesmen who have

taken their first lessons in the art which paved their way to greatness

in country debating societies may be reckoned Henry Clay, Abraham

Lincoln, James A. Garfield, and many others only less eminent.

Enough inducements, we trust, have been set forth to lead every student

of speech to find or make an opportunity for availing himself of this

capital means of cultivation. Let him enter upon the work of debating,

earnestly resolving (after the first few efforts) to do the very best in

his power. Let him arrange his material carefully, select a striking

mode of opening each address, and strive to close in such a manner as to

leave the best effect on the minds of his hearers. As he debates for

improvement rather than for immediate victory, he will, of course,

despise all tricks and seek to win fairly, or—what is just as important

a lesson—he will learn to accept defeat gracefully.

The skeletons of two speeches on opposite sides of the same question are

here presented for the purpose of showing how a simple plan will hold to

the proper place all the thoughts and arguments that may be accumulated.

The same form of outline is used as in the preceding chapter.

QUESTION.

_Would the annexation of Cuba to the United States be beneficial?_

AFFIRMATIVE ARGUMENT.

INTRODUCTION.—How small and hemmed in by powerful countries the

United States would have been if no annexations had ever been

made. To annex Cuba would be no _new_ policy.

DISCUSSION. _Argument First._—Favorable location of Cuba and

commercial value to the United States.

_Argument Second._—The great riches and beauty of the Island, which

make it very desirable.

_Argument Third._—Advantages to the people of Cuba themselves, in

belonging to a great and free nation.

CONCLUSION.—All previous annexations had to encounter strong

opposition when first proposed, but are now acknowledged to have

been good policy. So, if Cuba is brought under our flag,

opposition will die out and all parties be glad of the result.

NEGATIVE ARGUMENT.

INTRODUCTION.—Plausible but inconclusive nature of the argument

advanced on the other side. Previous annexations may not have been

good, though opposition ceased when it could avail nothing. Even

if all former annexations were beneficial this might not be, as

all attending circumstances are so widely different.

DISCUSSION. _Argument First._—The nation has already as much

territory as can be well governed. An increase would lead to grave

dangers.

_Argument Second._—The people of Cuba are different in language,

race, and religion from the majority of the people of the United

States; have different customs, and are unacquainted with the

working of our institutions. They could not therefore be

transformed easily into good citizens.

CONCLUSION.—Dreadful wars and calamities have arisen in all ages and

all parts of the world from greediness in absorbing

territory—“earth hunger,” as the Germans call it. To annex Cuba

would involve present and future danger.

PART II.

PREPARATION OF THE SPEAKER.

CHAPTER I.

UNFORTUNATES WHO NEVER CAN EXTEMPORIZE.

Persons are met every day who declare their belief in extempore

speech—for others—but who are fully persuaded that the possibility of

ever becoming effective speakers has been placed by nature forever

beyond their own reach. In some cases this persuasion is well founded.

There are people who cannot by any possible effort learn to speak well

without manuscript or memorized words. But too much must not be made of

this acknowledgment. The number of these unfortunates is smaller than is

usually believed. It is also noticeable that persons of undoubted talent

are often most ready to despair of their own future as speakers, while

others, whose defects are patent to all their neighbors, have no fears

whatever.

The object of this chapter is to point out the character of the few

insuperable disqualifications for extempore speech, and supply rational

tests by which their presence in any given case may be determined. This

is a task of no small difficulty and delicacy; yet it is necessary. To

encourage any person to strive for that which is forever placed out of

his reach is cruel—almost criminal. It is equally wrong to discourage

those who only need persevering effort in order to achieve full success.

With regard to the faculty of eloquence, mankind may be divided into

three classes. Persons in the first class have the oratorical

temperament so fully developed that they will speak well and fully

succeed in whatever mode they may adopt, or, indeed, without consciously

adopting any method at all. They have such a union of the power of

expression and of the impulse toward it, that they speak as naturally

and as surely as the nightingale sings. The existence of extraordinary

native genius must be acknowledged as a fact in every department of

human effort. But it by no means follows that these wonderfully gifted

beings will rise to the highest eminence in their own spheres. They

certainly will not unless they add diligent effort and careful

cultivation to their natural powers. Some of the greatest orators have

not belonged to this class, but to that next described. They would never

have been heard of—would probably never have addressed an audience at

all—if they had not forced their way upward against adverse criticism,

and often against their own feeling and judgment, impelled only by a

sense of duty or by enthusiastic loyalty to some great cause.

The second class is far larger than either of the others. The majority

of people have not so great talents for speech as to drive them of

necessity into the oratorical field. Neither are they absolutely

incapable of true speech. If they will labor for success in oratory, as

a photographer or a sculptor labors to master his art, they will gain

it; otherwise, they will always be slow and embarrassed in utterance and

be glad to find refuge in manuscript or in complete silence. It is often

amusing to note a person of this class who has never learned how to be

eloquent, but who is full of ideas that seek expression, using another

person who is a mere talking machine as a mouthpiece! There is nothing

wrong in such a division of labor, but the latter secures all the glory,

although he runs considerable risk, as his stock of borrowed information

cannot be replenished at will. The writer knew two young men, members of

a certain literary society, who sustained this relation to each other.

They usually sat together, and while a debate was in progress the wiser

of the two would whisper the other what line of argument to follow and

what illustrations to employ, and at the proper time the latter would

spring to his feet with the utmost confidence, and blaze forth in

borrowed eloquence. In time, however, the silent man tired of his part

and took the pains to learn the art of speech for himself. A great

profusion of language is not the first need of an orator. Quite as often

as otherwise it proves a hindrance and a snare. The members of this

large class have every encouragement to work diligently, and are sure of

ultimate reward.

But the remaining class can no more learn to speak well, than a blind

man can learn to paint, or a dumb man to sing. How shall such persons be

made acquainted with their condition, and thus save themselves years of

painful and fruitless toil? Mathematical accuracy of determination is

not practicable, but any person of candor and ordinary judgment may

apply a few simple tests which will not allow wide room for error.

A dumb man cannot be an orator. The physical impediment is here absolute

and recognized by all. But mere slowness and defects of speech, though

hurtful, are not necessarily fatal. Stammering may in almost every case

be cured, and many stammerers have made good speakers. A weak voice is

also a misfortune; but it may be greatly strengthened, and by

cultivation and judicious husbanding become equal to every purpose. A

feeble voice will accomplish much more in extemporizing than in reading

a manuscript. Some most eloquent men have reached their stations in

spite of vocal defects. John Randolph, Robert Hall, and Bishop Simpson

are cases in point. After all the examples that have been afforded of

the power of cultivating the voice, supplemented by the effects of using

it in a natural manner, no man who can carry on an ordinary parlor

conversation need say, “My voice is so weak that I can never be a public

speaker.” He may require training in the ways pointed out hereafter; but

with proper effort he can reasonably expect a good degree of success.

The writer here speaks from experience. His voice was so feeble that

reading a single paragraph aloud at school was difficult; and when

afterward the study of law was contemplated, many friends dissuaded on

the ground that lack of voice forbade all hope of success at the bar.

But special drill and the healthful practice of extemporaneous speech

have wrought such an improvement that now no great effort is required to

make several thousand persons in the open air hear every word of a long

address.

Some persons are ready to assign their own timidity as an excuse for

never attempting public speech. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred

this is no real disqualification. If the timidity, indeed, be so great

that the person _will not_ risk speech, that decides the question

against him, but in such a case he should say, “I will not,” rather than

“I cannot.” Fear is more under the government of the will than we are

apt to imagine. Even when excessive, the right kind of drill will go far

toward overcoming it. Great cowards often make good soldiers when so

well disciplined that they know just what to do, and from the force of

habit cannot neglect it, although their attention may be wholly absorbed

in something else. But it is idle to disguise that the extempore speaker

will always run some risk of failure. Probably no great orator ever

escaped a mortifying, if not disastrous, overthrow at some period of his

career. Sheridan and Lord Beaconsfield each began their great

achievements in the English House of Commons by a complete breakdown.

But they also had the courage to try again and to keep trying until

success came. Mere natural shrinking from such trials is no

disqualification, if when the mind is fully made up as to the best

course there is sufficient courage and will-power to go forward. Indeed,

a certain degree of fear belongs to the oratorical temperament. A man

who can at the first trial calmly face an expectant audience, probably

lacks some of the sensitiveness which is one of the qualifications of

the powerful and effective speaker. The only real disqualification,

therefore, in the direction of timidity, is such a degree of fear as

will make the speaker turn away from all the prizes of oratory,

unwilling to encounter the hardship and the struggle by which they may

be won.

But is the position of the reader or declaimer better in this particular

than that of the true speaker? How difficult it is to read well before

an audience! Even elocutionists who devote years of practice to a narrow

range of selections find their efforts very unequal. They can never be

sure of reaching the full measure of former successes. To read one’s own

composition, and to feel responsible for the words and the matter, as

well as for the delivery, greatly intensifies the fear of falling below

reasonable expectations. The writer has observed many manuscript

readers, and can testify that they are usually as much embarrassed when

the hour of trial arrives as off-hand speakers. In the latter mode of

delivery the voice is so much more free and varied, and the mind is apt

to be removed so much more from self, that the balance of advantages in

the matter of embarrassment seems to be decidedly in favor of

extemporizing.

The perils of the reciter are still more formidable. The reader seldom

grows so much embarrassed as to be unable to see the words before him.

If he loses his place he can begin somewhere else, and stumble on in

some kind of way. But verbal memory, when weighted with the burden of a

whole discourse and clouded by embarrassment, easily give way

altogether. A slight physical ailment may produce the same result. When

memory thus fails, scarcely any escape is possible to one accustomed to

depend upon it. Many speakers will recollect occasions on which they

were unable to recall short memorized passages, but could easily supply

extemporized words and thus follow the line of discourse previously

marked out without any mortifying confession of failure. It will

therefore be a gain to one who aspires to public speech of any kind to

settle it finally that no other mode of utterance can diminish those

risks which so terrify the extempore speaker.

A third disqualification is the want of ordinary mental power. Great

mental endowments may not be necessary. In the ordinary meaning of the

word, the orator need not be a genius. His education may be very

defective, his range of information narrow, and his general powers of

mind not above the average. But if he is to stand before his fellows as

a guide and instructor—a position assumed to some degree by every

speaker—he should not be inferior in a marked degree to his hearers, at

least in those things which relate to the subjects he discusses. A

mediocre man who has had special training in some one direction, and

adds native vigor of mind, may be a very instructive and entertaining

speaker in his own field. But if through mental weakness he talks so

foolishly on any topic that his want of wisdom is apparent to all his

hearers, he might better close his lips; and if his mental faculties are

so defective or badly balanced that he cannot master the ordinary

subjects upon which he will be required to speak if he speaks at all, he

should abandon all thought of oratory.

This disqualification is the most difficult for a man to determine in

himself. A weak voice, overmastering fear, infirm health, can all be

recognized with an approach to certainty; but who can be bold enough to

settle the question whether his mind is sufficiently strong to

profitably address his fellows? A few general suggestions presented in

the form of questions are all that will be useful in making this

decision. Do you find it possible to study a subject until all sides of

it are clearly visible in their mutual relations? Do the subjects with

which you are most familiarly acquainted still seem shadowy and confused

in your own mind? When you try to tell a friend about any passing event,

do you use words so bunglingly as to give him no clear conception of the

matter? A speaker must be able to hold a subject firmly in his mind, and

to make such a presentation of it to others that they also may

understand it.

Yet in answering these questions let it be remembered that many persons,

exceedingly self-distrustful, have put forth their efforts all the more

diligently on that account, and have thus achieved brilliant success.

The rule is a safe one, that a man whose mind furnishes him with

important ideas, and with the desire to communicate them, may speak

successfully. Mental powers may be greatly improved and strengthened,

and no one who does not stand far down the scale in natural endowment,

or is willing to use the means at his disposal diligently, need hesitate

to make an attempt which can scarcely fail to be full of profit, even

when it does not command perfect success. We will not now enter upon a

consideration of the modes by which the general strength of the mind may

be augmented and its stores increased, for oratory busies itself with

the method of communication rather than with the illimitable field of

general cultivation.

Any mortal disease, or such physical infirmity as prevents the exercise

of bodily and mental powers, will be found to interfere as materially

with oratory as with other forms of labor. For a man who is far advanced

in consumption to begin a course of preparatory training with a view to

becoming an orator, would be an evident waste of effort. If he has

anything to say which the world ought to know, he should speak it out at

once in the best form that his present ability allows, or commit the

task to others. This seems so self-evident that it should be understood

without statement; but the opposite idea has attained some degree of

currency. It is sometimes said of an individual, “Poor fellow, his

health is so broken that he can never make a living by any hard work; it

would be well for him to turn his attention to some easy profession,

where he would have nothing to do but speak.” There is one form of truth

concealed in this hurtful error. Natural speech does furnish healthful

exercise for the vocal organs, which in their turn are closely connected

with the most vital parts of the human body. In some cases serious

disease has been cured by the habit of public speech. But these cases

are exceptional, and do not in the least invalidate the principle here

laid down, which is, that disease, so far as it enfeebles the body,

operates as a direct disqualification for effective speech; and if the

disease be severe and permanent the disqualification is total. It must

also be remembered that some forms of disease are rendered worse by the

effort and excitement inseparable from public address. Physicians

usually forbid the healthful exercise of surf-bathing to persons

afflicted with heart disease. But the intellectual waves of a heated

discussion buffet no less fiercely than the ocean surf, and to be met

successfully requires a steady arm and a strong heart. Even in the

calmest and most passionless discourse it is scarcely possible to avoid

having the pulse quickened, and all the elements of mental and physical

endurance severely tested. The star of a most eloquent man suddenly

faded a few years ago while he was still in middle life, because he

became too feeble to put forth oratorical force. He continued to speak

for a few years, but scores only listened to him where hundreds and

thousands had hung spell-bound on his utterances before his physical

strength declined.

But it is cheering to remember that especially in youth ill-health may

often be entirely removed. The great majority of young people need only

the careful observance of healthy conditions in order to make their

bodies efficient instruments for the expression of all the fires of

eloquence that may be enkindled in their souls.

One of the principal marks by which man is distinguished from the lower

animals is the invention and use of articulate language. By it, the

dress for our ideas is formed, and it is scarcely possible even to

meditate without mentally using words. During all our waking moments,

even the most idle, a stream of language is running ceaselessly through

our minds. The more completely the form of language is spontaneously

assumed by the thought-current, the easier it becomes to open the lips

and let it gush forth in words. With most persons unspoken meditations

are very fragmentary and obscure—mere snatches begun and broken off by

passing impulses or impressions. An extemporaneous speaker must be able

to control his thoughts and hold them to a predetermined path; and if he

also accustoms himself to force them into a full dress of language, the

habit will greatly lessen conscious effort in the moment of speech. But

however this is, the power of wielding the resources of his mother

tongue is absolutely essential to the orator. A great and incurable

deficiency in this respect is fatal. There are examples of almost

wordless men, who, though suffering no deprivation of any of the

physical organs of speech, have yet been so deficient in language-power

that they could not employ it as the medium of ordinary communication.

Such a man—an Illinois farmer—well known to the writer, could not find

words to make an ordinary statement without long and embarrassing

pauses. The names of his nearest neighbors were usually forgotten, so

that he required continual prompting in conversation. He was not below

the average of his neighbors either in education or intelligence, but

was simply almost without the faculty of language. This deficiency in a

less marked degree is not uncommon. No amount of training would ever

have converted this farmer into an orator. Had he attempted to discuss

the most familiar topic his beggarly array of words would have been more

forlorn than Falstaff’s recruits. Another example that may be cited was

in one sense still more instructive—a preacher whose goodness was

acknowledged by all who knew him, a man of solid acquirements and of

great diligence and energy. But his long and embarrassed pauses,

together with his struggles to get words of some kind to express his

meaning, constituted a trial to his hearers so great that no

congregation would long endure his ministry.

It is possible that such persons would gain some relief by writing and

reading their discourses. Probably they could not memorize at all. Their

reading, however, would most likely be marked by many of the same

defects as their spoken utterances.

Many of the persons who accuse themselves of a lack of words mistake the

nature of their difficulty. It is easy to bring the matter to a decisive

test. If you are really very deficient in the faculty of language, you

cannot tell an ordinary story, with the details of which you are

perfectly acquainted, in a prompt and intelligent manner. Try the

experiment. Read over two or three times a newspaper account of a wreck,

a murder, or some other common occurrence; then lay down the paper and

in your own way tell your friend what has happened. If you can do this

easily, you need never complain of the lack of words. Equal familiarity

with any other subject will produce the same results. Neither the

preacher nor the farmer referred to could have successfully passed this

test. The preacher would have told the story badly, and in an incredibly

long space of time; the farmer would not have told it at all.

We have now considered the most serious disqualifications for the

orator’s vocation. Many things which are constantly assigned by

candidates as the reasons for confining themselves to the use of

manuscript in public address have not been included, for most of these,

as will appear in a subsequent chapter, are susceptible of easy remedy.

Here we have only mentioned those which cannot be cured. If a man

concludes, after due trial and consultation, that these defects, or any

part of them, prevail in his own case, it will be prudent for him to

select some other life-work to which he is better adapted than he can

ever hope to be for public speaking.

We sum up the following disqualifications for oratory: incurable defects

of voice, extreme timidity, feebleness of mind, certain forms of bodily

disease, and great deficiency in the faculty of language.

CHAPTER II.

THOUGHT AND EMOTION.

Two kinds of preparation contribute to the production of eloquence. One

is the preparation of the speaker, the other of the speech. The first is

fully as important as the second. In ordinary cases both are

indispensable. Some “born orators” speak well without appearing to pay

any attention to the improvement of their faculties. Others are

occasionally eloquent on a topic without special preparation. Yet these

cases when closely examined will be found apparent rather than real

exceptions to the rule above stated. The man who seems never to have

cultivated the power of speech, and is yet able to blaze into fervid

eloquence at will, has usually concealed his preparation or carried it

on in such uncommon methods that they have not been recognized as

preparations. On the other hand, a man who speaks well without a

moment’s warning can do so only when the subject is thoroughly familiar

to him. A ready and self-possessed speaker may grasp thoughts which have

been long maturing in his mind, and give them forth to an audience in

obedience to an unexpected summons, but if he is called upon when he

knows nothing whatever of his subject, failure is inevitable, though he

may possibly veil it more or less in a stream of platitudes. Ask a man

at a moment’s warning to give an astronomical lecture. If he is

perfectly familiar with the subject in general, and is also a practical

orator, he may succeed well without preparing a special speech. But if

he is ignorant of Astronomy, what kind of an address can he make? If he

is the most eloquent man in the nation that faculty will avail him

nothing, for he cannot extemporize the names of the planets, the laws

which govern their motions, or any of the facts out of which his lecture

must be woven. Precisely the same necessity of adequate information

exists in every other field of intelligence. The ignorant man cannot

possibly tell that which he does not know, although he may make a great

show of knowledge out of small material; but even to do that with

certainty requires careful premeditation and arrangement.

In this and following chapters we wish to treat of the kind of

cultivation which makes a man ready to speak. The field is here very

wide and some general considerations must be introduced, but we hope

also to give valuable practical directions, especially to those who are

yet at the beginning of their career.

In considering man as a speaker, we may classify his faculties into two

broad divisions; those which furnish the _materials_ of communication

with his fellows; and those which furnish the _means_ of such

communication. The first class gives rise to thoughts and emotions in

man’s own breast; the second enables him to arouse similar thoughts and

emotions in the breasts of others. Our course, therefore, will be to

consider, first, thought and emotion, and afterward those powers of body

and mind by which we express, that is, _press out_ from ourselves toward

the receptive faculties of our fellow beings.

_Thought_, in the broad sense here given, embraces the knowledge of all

facts, and all the reasoning that may be based upon those facts.

_Emotion_ is the mental feeling or response to knowledge, and comprises

love, hate, joy, fear, sorrow, and hope. These two elements are the

broad basis of all eloquence. Keen, profound, far-reaching thought—in

other words, thought raised to its highest terms—and quick, sensitive,

powerful emotion, are necessary to the highest eloquence. Compared with

them, mere verbal fluency is less than dust in the balance. But such a

combination—the highest degree of both thought and emotion—is rare, and

many degrees less than the highest of either is available for genuine

eloquence. To increase either or both, if it can be done without any

corresponding sacrifice, is to increase eloquence in precisely the same

proportion.

Education in the popular sense is the cultivation of thought with the

added faculty of language. But we prefer to consider the latter power

separately as one among the means of communicating thought.

How, then, shall thought-power be increased? There is no royal road.

Every one of the faculties by which knowledge is accumulated and

arranged or digested into new forms grows stronger by being employed

upon its own appropriate objects. Exercise is then the means by which

the material of knowledge is gathered, and all faculties strengthened

for future gathering. Each fact gained adds to the treasury of thought.

A broad and liberal education is of exceeding advantage. This may or may

not be of the schools. Indeed, they too often substitute a knowledge of

words for a knowledge of things. That fault is very serious to the

orator, for the only way by which even language can be effectively

taught, is by giving terms to objects, the nature of which has been

previously learned.

But many persons need to speak who cannot obtain an education in the

usual sense of the words—that is, college or seminary training. Must

they keep their lips forever closed on that account? By no means.

A thousand examples, some of them the most eminent speakers the world

has produced, encourage them to hope. Let such persons learn all they

can. Wide, well-selected, and systematic reading will do wonders in

supplying the necessary thought-material. Every book of history,

biography, travels, popular science, which is carefully read, and its

contents fixed in the mind, will be available for the purposes of

oratory. Here a word of advice may be offered, which, if heeded, will be

worth many months of technical education at the best colleges in the

land; it is this: have always at hand some work that in its own sphere

possesses real and permanent merit, and read it daily until completed.

If notes are made of its contents, and the book itself kept on hand for

reference, so much the better. If some friend can be found who will hear

you relate in your own words what you have read, this also will be of

great value. Many persons, especially in our own country, spend time

enough in reading the minute details of the daily papers to make them

thoroughly acquainted in ten years with forty volumes of the most useful

books in the world. Think of it! This number may include nearly all the

literary masterpieces. Which mode of spending the time will produce the

best results? One newspaper read daily would amount to more than three

hundred in a year, and allowing each paper to be equal to ten ordinary

book pages, the result would be three thousand pages annually, or six

volumes of five hundred pages each. In ten years this would reach

_sixty_ volumes! This number, comprising the world’s best books in

history, poetry, science, and general literature, might be read slowly,

with meditation and diligent note-taking, by the most busy man who was

willing to employ his leisure in that way. Libraries and books are now

brought within the reach of all, and the mass of what man knows can be

learned in outline by any student who thirsts for knowledge. While thus

engaged the student is on the direct road toward oratorical efficiency,

though such knowledge will not in itself constitute eloquence. It is but

one of its elements. Neither will the speaker have to wait until any

definite quantity of reading has been accomplished before it becomes

serviceable to him. All that he learns will be immediately available,

and, with proper effort, the facility of speech and the material for

speaking will keep pace with each other.

But personal observation of life and nature are just as necessary as

reading. The world of books is very extensive, but it yields its

treasures only to persons who bring to its study some independent

knowledge of their own. We cannot hope to add much to the world’s stock

of knowledge by what we see with our own eyes, but what we do see and

hear will interpret for us what we learn from the far wider world of

books. Gibbon tells us that his militia service, though of no great

advantage in itself, was afterward very useful to the historian of the

Roman Empire. What we behold of the landscape around us lays the

foundation for understanding what poets and travelers tell us of other

landscapes we may never see. Book knowledge wall become real and vivid

just in proportion as it is brought into comparison with the observation

of our own senses. To the orator, this is far more important than to the

ordinary student, for it adds greatly to the royal faculty of

imagination. A description from the lips of a speaker who beholds at the

moment a mental picture, accurate as a photograph, and bright with

color, will be very different from another description built up only of

words, however well chosen and melodious the latter may be. A little

dabbling in natural science, a few experiments tried, an occasional peep

through telescope or microscope at the worlds they open, and all other

means of bringing knowledge under the scrutiny of our own senses, will

greatly contribute to the power of the orator.

The reasoning faculties must also be trained by exercise upon their own

objects. The knowledge which has been gathered from personal observation

or from the testimony of others in books will furnish material, but will

not enable us to reason. Logic and mathematics have considerable utility

as guides, but they cannot supply the want of continuous application of

the processes of argument and deduction. No man becomes a reasoner from

merely learning the mode in which the reason operates. Of two persons,

one of whom understands every mood of the syllogism and the source of

every fallacy, while the other has no technical knowledge of logic, but

has been engaged in careful reasoning, discussion, and argument, all his

life, it may easily happen that the latter will be the better reasoner

of the two—just as a man might learn from the books all the rules of the

game of croquet, and yet be beaten by another who continually handled

the mallet, but had never read a single rule. Practice makes perfect.

Essay writing, constructing arguments, tracing effects back to their

causes, making careful comparison of all things that can be compared, in

short, bringing our judgment to bear upon all facts, forming our own

opinions of every event, and being always ready to give a reason to

those who ask,—these modes of exercise will make the faculty of reason

grow continually stronger. It is not pretended that these or any other

modes of cultivation can make all minds equal, but they will improve any

one—the lowest as surely as the most active—though the interval after

both have been thus exercised will remain as great as before.

Extempore speech itself, when practiced upon carefully arranged plans or

models as recommended hereafter, is one of the most powerful modes of

cultivating the logical faculty. To construct plans, so that all

thoughts accumulated upon a given subject may be unfolded in a natural

and orderly manner, cannot fail to exercise the reasoning faculties, and

impart corresponding strength to them.

But how shall emotion be cultivated? The wisest speech, if deep feeling

neither throbs in the words nor is manifested in delivery, cannot be

eloquent. The orator can only speak forth from an aroused and excited

nature. There is a kind of intellectual excitation kindled by the

presentation of truth which is sufficiently effective when instruction

is the only object. But to persuade and move men—the usual aim of the

orator—requires passion. No pretense will avail the extempore speaker.

He will infallibly be detected if counterfeiting, and to succeed in

exhibiting feeling he must really feel. There are but two things which

can arouse feeling—care for a cause or for persons. Many a man is

eloquent when “riding his hobby,” though at no other time. He has

thought so much upon that special subject, and has so thoroughly

identified himself with it, that everything relating to it becomes

invested with personal interest. Any cause which can thus be made

personal will be apt to arouse feeling. It would be wise, therefore, for

an orator to identify himself as closely as possible with all manner of

good causes which come within his reach. Then such well-springs of

emotion will gush out easily and frequently.

This mode of excitation is largely intellectual in its character. The

next to be described has more to do with the affections. The clergyman

wants to secure the welfare of his congregation, and the better he is

acquainted with them individually the stronger will be this wish. The

lawyer is but a poor attorney if he does not so identify himself with

his client as to feel more than a professional interest in the latter’s

success. The politician needs no exhortation to rouse his enthusiasm for

his party and his chief. All these are instances of that care for

persons which adds so greatly to the powers of effective speech. The

plain inference, therefore, is that the speaker will gain largely by

identifying himself as closely as possible with the interests of men,

and by cultivating love for them. A cynical or indifferent spirit makes

a fearful discount from the possibilities of eloquence. Only the

greatest qualities in other directions can prevent it from proving

fatal.

The power and sensitiveness of emotions founded upon intimate knowledge

and partnership of interest go far to explain the wonderful eloquence of

the old Greeks. Their country was the native land of eloquence. This

arose not so much from the character of that gifted race as from the

fact that each speaker personally knew his audience and had an intimate,

material interest in the affairs he discussed. They regarded their

opponents as terribly bad men. Their own lives and the lives of many of

their friends were not unfrequently involved in the questions they

discussed. The States were so small, and the personal element so

important, that strongly aroused feeling became inevitable. The

discussion of war or peace before an audience who knew that if they

voted war their town might be besieged by the enemy within a fortnight,

was sure to be eagerly listened to. No platitudes would be tolerated.

The orators spoke before their neighbors, some of them friendly, others

bitter enemies who were seeking in each word they uttered an occasion

for their ruin. Much of the wonderful power of Demosthenes arose from

the deep solicitude felt by himself and excited in his hearers as they

watched the swiftly coming ruin of their common country.

It is also a law of human nature that we feel deeply for that which has

cost us great labor. The collector of old china or of entomological

specimens learns to greatly value the ugly dishes and bugs he gathers,

though others may despise them. The more of real work we do in the

world, the deeper the hold our hearts take upon it. This is one of the

secrets of the power of goodness as an element of oratory. It was long

ago declared that a good man, other things being equal, will be a better

speaker than a bad man. His affections are called forth by a greater

variety of objects. Yet hate can make a man eloquent as well as love,

and some of the most eloquent orations ever uttered partook largely of

this baleful inspiration. But the occasions on which noble feelings may

rise into eloquence are far more numerous and important.

Why should not a man train himself to take a deep interest in all that

is brought familiarly to his notice? This wide range of sympathy is one

of the marks which distinguishes a great from a small mind. It has been

said that “lunar politics” can have no possible interests for the

inhabitants of this globe. But who can be sure of this, if there be such

a thing as “lunar politics”? The wider our knowledge the more we

recognize the possibility of interests which we had not before dreamed

of. If there are inhabitants on the moon, and if we have an immortal

existence, it is far from impossible that we might some time be brought

into the closest connection with them. No man can tell the bearing of a

new fact upon human welfare, more than he can write the history of a

new-born babe. At any rate, every fact is a part of the great system of

truth which lies all about us, and which is adapted to the needs of our

intellect. Let it also be remembered that all men are kindred, and that

we should make common cause with them. When this comes to be the

habitual attitude of the mind, not as a mere sentiment, but as a strong

and steady impulse, impassioned speech on any great theme affecting the

interests of nations or individual men will be easy.

Emotion cannot be feigned, neither can it be directly roused by an

effort of the will. We cannot say, “Now I will be in a furious passion,”

or, “Now I will be inflamed with wrath against this great wrong,” for

the mere sake of speaking better upon the subject in hand. But we can

gaze upon a great wrong, and meditate upon the evil it involves, until

the tides of indignant emotion arise in our breast. Many a well-prepared

speech has failed of effect, because the orator was so anxious about the

form of his address and his own popularity as to lose interest in the

subject itself. Sometimes speeches read or recited fail from an opposite

cause. The interest has once been aroused, and having burned during the

protracted period of composition, it cools and cannot be recalled. No

energy, declamation, or elegance of diction can redeem this capital

defect.

To tell a man in general terms how he may widen his sympathies and enter

into the closest bonds with his fellows is difficult. It is much easier

to tell him what not to do. The hermits of the desert took exactly the

wrong course. They lost the power of eloquence except upon some theme

which could be wedded to their solitary musings. Peter the Hermit was

roused to fury by the tales of wrongs to pilgrims in the Holy

City—almost the only thing that could have made him eloquent. But on

that one topic he spoke like a man inspired and was able to call all

Europe to arms. Whatever separates from the common interests of humanity

must diminish the power or at least the range of genuine emotion. To

know a great many men, to understand their business affairs, to enter

into their joy and fear, to watch the feelings that rise and fall in

their hearts, is sure to deepen our own feelings by unconscious

imitation and sympathy. Each new friend is an added power of noblest

emotion—a new point at which the world takes hold of our hearts. How

many persons are eloquent for a cause only! On the other hand, some men

care nothing for general principles, but will throw their whole soul

into a conflict for friends.

That man is well furnished for eloquence who knows a great deal, who can

mentally combine, arrange, and reason correctly upon what he knows, who

feels a personal interest in every fact with which his memory is stored,

and every principle which can be deduced from those facts, and who has

so great an interest in his fellows that all deeds which affect them

awaken the same response in his heart as if done to himself. He will

then possess all the necessary treasures of thought, and will himself be

warmed by the fires of emotion. The only remaining problem will be to

find the manner of communicating his thought and emotion in undiminished

force to others through the medium of speech.

The mode of cultivating the powers necessary to this end will next

engage our attention.

CHAPTER III.

LANGUAGE.

The preceding chapter dealt with those faculties which provide the

materials of speech, and in one sense was scarcely appropriate to a

treatise designed to show the best modes of communicating knowledge. Yet

it was difficult to approach the subject intelligibly in any other way.

So much has been said about the natural power of oratory that it was

necessary to define its character and to show how it might be

supplemented by cultivation. But it is more directly our task to point

out the mode of improving the communicative faculties.

First in importance among these stands language. Without its assistance

thought could not be consecutively imparted. Some vague and intangible

conceptions might arise within our own minds, but even these could not

be given to other minds without the medium of words. The power of

language is distinct from general intellectual ability. It by no means

follows that a man who possesses important thoughts and deep emotions

will be able to communicate them well; but a very moderate endowment of

the word-faculty may be so cultivated as to fulfill every requirement.

Diligent practice in the methods advised below will enable the great

majority of men to express their thoughts with fullness and accuracy.

There are certain laws in every language made binding by custom, which

cannot be transgressed without exposing the offender to the severe

penalty of ridicule and contempt. These laws form the basis of grammar,

and must be thoroughly learned. If a man has been under the influence of

good models from childhood, correctness will be a matter almost of

instinct; but the reverse of this is frequently the case. Even then

there is but little difficulty experienced by any one who will take the

necessary pains, in learning to write in accordance with the rules of

speech, and when this power has been attained there is a standard formed

by which to judge our spoken words. But it is not enough for the

extempore speaker to be able to reduce his sentences to correctness by

recasting, pruning, or adding to them. They should be required to

present themselves at first in correct form and in rounded completeness.

He has no time to think of right or wrong constructions, and the only

safe way, therefore, is to make the right so habitual that the wrong

will not once be thought of. In other words, we must not only be able to

express ourselves correctly by tongue and pen, but the very current of

unspoken words that flows in our brains must be shaped in full

conformity to the laws of language. When we exercise the power of

continuous grammatical _thinking_, there will be no difficulty in

avoiding the ridiculous blunders which are supposed to be inseparable

from extempore speech.

Correctness in pronunciation is also of importance. Usage has given each

word its authorized sound, which no person can frequently mistake

without rendering himself liable to the easiest and most damaging of all

criticisms. Bad pronunciation produces another and extremely hurtful

effect upon extempore speech. The mental effort necessary to

discriminate between two modes of pronouncing a word, neither of which

is known to be right, diverts the mind from the subject and produces

embarrassment and hesitation. Accuracy in the use of words, which is a

charm in spoken no less than written language, may also be impaired from

the same cause; for if two terms that may be used for the same idea are

thought of, only one of which can be pronounced with certainty, that one

will be preferred, even if the other be the more suitable. The

extemporizer ought to be so familiar with the sound of all common words

that none but the right pronunciation and accent will ever enter his

mind.

_Fluency_ and _accuracy_ in the use of words are two qualities that have

often been confounded, though perfectly distinct. To the speaker they

are of equal importance, while the writer has far more need of the

latter. All words have their own peculiar shades of meaning. They have

been builded up into their present shape through long ages. By strange

turns and with many a curious history have they glided into the

significations they now bear; and each one is imbedded in the minds of

the people as the representative of certain definite ideas. Words are

delicate paints that, to the untutored eye, may seem of one color, but

each has its own place in the picture painted by the hand of genius, and

can be supplanted by no other. Many methods have been suggested for

learning these fine shades of meaning. The study of Greek and Latin has

been urged as the best and almost the only way: such study may be very

useful for discipline, and will give much elementary knowledge of the

laws of language: but the man who knows no other tongue than his own

need not consider himself debarred from the very highest place as a

master of words. The careful study of a good etymological dictionary

will, in time, give him about all the valuable information bearing upon

this subject that he could obtain from the study of many languages. In

general reading, let him mark every word he does not perfectly

understand, and from the dictionary find its origin, the meaning of its

roots, and its varied significations at the present day. This will make

the word as familiar as an old acquaintance, and when he meets it again

he will notice if the author uses it correctly. The student may not be

able to examine every word in the language, but by this mode he will be

led to think of the meaning of each one he sees; and from this silent

practice he will learn the beauty and power of English as fully as if he

sought it through the literatures of Greece and Rome. If this habit is

long continued it will cause words to be used correctly in thinking as

well as in speaking. To read a dictionary consecutively and carefully

(ignoring the old story about its frequent change of subject) will also

be found very profitable.

Translating from any language, ancient or modern, will have just the

same tendency to teach accurate expression as careful original

composition. In either case the improvement comes from the search for

words that exactly convey certain ideas, and it matters not what the

source of the ideas may be. The use of a good thesaurus, or storehouse

of words, may also be serviceable by showing in one view all the words

that relate to any subject.

But none of these methods will greatly increase _fluency_. There is a

practical difference between merely knowing a term and that easy use of

it which only habit can give. Elihu Burritt, with his knowledge of fifty

languages, has often been surpassed in fluency, force, and variety of

expression by an unlettered farmer, because the few words the latter

knew were always ready. There is no way to increase this easy and fluent

use of language without much practice in utterance. Where and how can

such practice be obtained?

Conversation affords an excellent means for this kind of improvement. We

do not mean the running fire of question and answer, glancing so rapidly

back and forth as to allow no time for premeditating or explaining

anything, but real and rational talk—an exchange of thoughts and ideas

clearly and intelligibly expressed. The man who engages much in this

kind of conversation can scarcely fail to become an adept in the art of

expressing his thoughts in appropriate language. Talk much; express your

ideas in the best manner possible; if difficult at first, persevere, and

it will become easier. Thus you will learn eloquence in the best and

most pleasing school. The common conversational style—that in which man

deals directly with his fellow man—is the germ of true oratory. It may

be amplified and systematized; but talking bears to eloquence the same

relation that the soil does to the tree that springs out of its bosom.

But the best thoughts of men and the noblest expressions are seldom

found floating on the sea of common talk. To drink the deepest

inspiration, our minds must often come in loving communion with the wise

and mighty of all ages. In the masterpieces of literature we will find

“thought knit close to thought,” and, what is still more to our present

purpose, words so applied as to breathe and live. These passages should

be read until their spirit sinks into our hearts and their melody rings

like a blissful song in our ears. To memorize many such passages will be

a profitable employment. The words of which such masterpieces are

composed, with the meanings they bear in their several places, will thus

be fixed in our minds ready to drop on our tongues when needed. This

conning of beautiful passages is not now recommended for the purpose of

quotation, although they may often be used in that manner to good

advantage, but simply to print the individual words with their

signification more deeply in memory.

This may be effected, also, by memorizing selections from our own best

writings. What is thus used should be highly polished, and yet preserve,

as far as possible, the natural form of expression. Carried to a

moderate extent, this exercise tends to elevate the character of our

extemporaneous efforts by erecting a standard that is our own, and

therefore suited to our tastes and capacities; but if made habitual, it

will induce a reliance upon the memory rather than on the power of

spontaneous production, and thus destroy the faculty it was designed to

cultivate.

But no means of cultivating fluency in language can rival extempore

speech itself. The only difficulty is to find a sufficient number of

occasions to speak. Long intervals of preparation have great advantages

as far as the gathering of material for discourse is concerned; but they

have disadvantages, also, which can only be overcome by more diligent

effort in other directions.

Clear and definite ideas greatly increase the power of language. When a

thought is fully understood it falls into words as naturally as a summer

cloud, riven by the lightning, dissolves into rain. So easy is it to

express a series of ideas, completely mastered, that a successful

speaker once said, “It is a man’s own fault if he ever fails. Let him

prepare as he ought, and there is no danger.” The assertion was too

strong, for failure may come from other causes than a want of

preparation. Yet the continuance of careful drill, in connection with

frequent speaking and close preparation, will give very great ease and

certainty of expression. The “blind but eloquent” preacher, Milburn,

says that he gave four years of his life—the time spent as chaplain at

Washington—to acquire the power of speaking correctly and easily without

the previous use of the pen, and he declares that he considers the time

well spent. His style is diffuse, sparkling, rhetorical, the most

difficult to acquire, though not by any means the most valuable. An

earnest, nervous, and yet elegant style may be formed by those who have

the necessary qualifications in much shorter time.

CHAPTER IV.

IMAGINATION.

Nothing adds more to the brilliancy and effectiveness of oratory than

the royal faculty of imagination. This weird and glorious power deals

with truth as well as fiction and gives to its fortunate possessor the

creative, life-breathing spirit of poetry.

Listen to the description of natural scenery by a person of imagination,

and afterward by another destitute of that faculty! Each may be

perfectly accurate and refer to the same objects, even enumerating the

same particulars in the same order; but the one gives a catalogue, the

other a picture. In relating a story or enforcing an argument, the same

difference in the vividness of impression is apparent.

It is said of Henry Ward Beecher, who possesses a strong imagination,

that the people would listen with delighted attention if he only

described the mode in which a potato grew! He would see a thousand

beauties in its budding and blossoming, and paint the picture so vividly

as to command universal attention.

The Bible, which is the most popular of all books, is pre-eminently a

book of imagination. Nowhere is loftier or more beautiful imagery

employed, or wrought into more exquisite forms. A few short and simple

words paint pictures that the world looks upon with astonishment from

age to age. Paradise Lost, the most sublime imaginative poem in the

language of man, drew much of its inspiration from a few passages in

Genesis. Job and Isaiah are without rivals in the power of picturing by

means of words, sublime objects beyond the grasp of mortal vision.

While illustrations and comparisons flow principally from the reasoning

faculties, their beauty and sparkle come from imagination. Without its

influence these may explain and simplify, but they have no power to

interest the hearer or elevate the tenor of discourse.

How may imagination be cultivated? It is said that “Poets are born, not

made,” but the foundation of every other faculty also is in nature,

while all are useless, unless improved, and applied. Imagination will

increase in vigor and activity by proper use. Its function is to form

complete mental images from the detached materials furnished by the

senses. It gathers from all sources and mixes and mingles until a

picture is produced. The proper way to cultivate it lies in forming

abundance of just such pictures and in finishing them with all possible

care. Let the orator, on the canvas of the mind, paint in full size and

perfect coloring, every part of his speech which relates to material or

visible things. Illustrations also can usually be represented in

picturesque form. We do not now speak of outward representation, but of

viewing all objects in clear distinctness, through the eye of the mind.

It is not enough for the speaker, if he would reach the highest success,

to gather all the facts he wishes to use, to arrange them in the best

order, or even to premeditate the very form of words. Instead of the

latter process, he may more profitably strive to embrace all that can be

pictured in one mental view. If he can summon before him in the moment

of description the very scenes and events about which he is discoursing,

and behold them vividly as in a waking dream, it is probable that his

auditors will see them in the same manner. A large part of all

discourses may thus be made pictorial. In _Ivanhoe_, one of the

characters looks out through a castle window and describes to a wounded

knight within the events of the assault which was being made upon the

castle. Any person could describe the most stirring scene vividly and

well in the moment of witnessing it. A strong imagination enables a

speaker or poet to see those things he speaks of almost as accurately

and impressively as if passing before his bodily eyes, and often with

far more brightness of color. To make the effort to see what we write or

read will have a powerful effect in improving the imaginative faculty.

Reading and carefully pondering the works of those who have imagination

in high degree will also be helpful. The time devoted to the enjoyment

of great poems is not lost to the orator. They give richness and tone to

his mind, introduce him into scenes of ideal beauty, and furnish him

with many a striking thought and glowing image.

Most of the sciences give as full scope to imagination in its best

workings as poetry itself. Astronomy and geology are pre-eminent in this

particular. Everything about them is grand. They deal with immense

periods of time, vast magnitudes, and sublime histories. Each science

requires the formation of mental images and thus gives the advantages we

have already pointed out. It is possible for a scientific man to deal

exclusively with the shell rather than the substance of science, with

its technical names and definitions rather than its grand truths; but in

this case the fault is with himself rather than with his subject. The

dryness of scientific and even mathematical studies relates only to the

preliminary departments. A philosopher once said that success in science

and in poetry depended upon the same faculties. He was very nearly

right. The poet is a creator who forms new worlds of his own. The

greatest of their number thus describes the process by which imagination

performs its magic.

“The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;

And, as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen

Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name.

Such tricks hath strong imagination.”

Almost the same result must be reached in many departments of science,

with the aid of only a few scattered facts for a basis. The geologist

has some broken bones, withered leaves, and fragments of rock, from

which to reconstruct the primitive world. From the half-dozen facts

observed through his telescope, the astronomer pictures the physical

condition of distant planets. In every science the same need exists for

imagination in its highest, most truthful function, and the same

opportunity is, therefore, afforded for its cultivation.

An eminent elocutionist frequently urged his classes to employ all

pauses in mentally picturing the idea contained in the coming sentence.

He declared that by this means the expression of the voice was rendered

more rich and true. In uttering our own words this process is at once

more easy and more fruitful in varied advantages.

CHAPTER V.

VOICE AND GESTURE.

Voice and gesture form the immediate link between the speaker and his

audience. The value of good quality in both is sometimes over-estimated,

though it is always considerable. A good voice, well managed, gives

powerful and vivid expression to thought, but cannot supply the absence

of it. Neither is such a voice indispensable. Many instances of high

success against vocal disadvantages might be mentioned; but these only

prove that other excellencies may atone for a single defect. We can

never be indifferent to the charms of a good voice, that modulates with

every emotion and responds to the finest shades of feeling. It has much

of the pleasing quality of music.

But this harmony cannot be evoked by merely mechanical training. To

teach the pupil just what note on the musical scale he must strike to

express a particular emotion, how much of an inflection must be used to

express joy or sorrow, and how many notes down the scale mark a complete

suspension of sense, is absurd: speech can never be set to music.

But let it not be inferred from this that voice cultivation is useless.

The more perfect the instrument for the expression of thought can be

made, the better it will be fitted for its high office. An orator may

profitably spend a little time daily for years in training the voice,

for it is a faculty he must continually employ, and none is more

susceptible of improvement. The passion evoked in animated speech will

demand for its adequate expression almost every note and key within the

compass of the voice; and unless it has previously been trained into

strength on each of these, it will fail or grow weary. The proper kind

of preparation operates by exploring the range of the voice, testing its

capabilities, and improving each tone. This work is not imitative or

slavish. It is only like putting an instrument in tune before beginning

a musical performance.

To give full elocutionary instruction here would be aside from our

purpose; but a few useful modes of practice may be pointed out.

Good articulation is of prime importance. Nothing will contribute more

to secure this valuable quality than the separation of words into their

elements of sound and continued practice on each element as thus

isolated. Phonetic shorthand affords a good means for making such

analysis, or the same purpose may be accomplished by means of the marks

of pronunciation found in any dictionary. As we practice these elements

of sound we will discover the exact nature of any defect of articulation

we may suffer from, and can drill upon the sounds that are difficult

until they become easy. When we have thus learned to pronounce these few

elements—not much above forty in number—and can follow them into all

their combinations, we have mastered the alphabet of utterance. It will

also contribute greatly to strengthen the voice and make it pliable, if

we continue the same practice on these elements at different degrees of

elevation on the musical scale until we can utter each one in full,

round distinctness, at any pitch from the deepest bass to the shrillest

note ever used in speech. This will bring all varieties of modulation

within easy reach.

Practice on these elements is also a very effective mode of

strengthening weak voices. By pronouncing them one by one, with

gradually increasing force, the degree of loudness we can attain at any

pitch, will be greatly extended. The amount of improvement that may be

made would be incredible if it were not so often exemplified. Every

teacher of elocution can testify of students, the power of whose voices

has thus been multiplied many fold; and almost equal advantages may be

reaped in persevering private practice.

Following on the same line, we may learn to enunciate the elements, and

especially the short vowels, in a quick, sharp tone, more rapidly than

the ticking of a watch, and with the clearness of a bell. This will

enable the speaker to avoid drawling, and be very fast when desirable,

without falling into indistinctness. Then, by an opposite process, other

sounds, especially the long vowels, may be prolonged with every degree

of force from the faintest to the fullest. Perseverance in these two

exercises will so improve the voice that no hall will be too large for

its compass.

The differing extension of sounds, as well as their pitch and variations

in force, constitute the _perspective_ of speech and give it an

agreeable variety, like the mingling of light and shade in a

well-executed picture. The opposite of this, a dull, dead uniformity,

with each word uttered in the same key, with the same force, and at the

same degree of speed, becomes well-nigh unbearable; while perpetual

modulation, reflecting in each rise and fall, each storm and calm of

sound, the living thought within, is the perfection of nature, which the

best art can only copy.

All vocal exercises are of an essentially preparatory character. In the

moment of speech details may safely be left to the impulse of nature.

Supply the capability by previous discipline, and then allow passion to

clothe itself in the most natural forms. There is such a vital

connection between emotion and the tones of voice, that emphasis and

inflection will be as spontaneous, on the part of the disciplined

speaker, as breathing. Rules remembered in the act of speaking tend to

destroy all life and freshness of utterance.

When bad habits have been corrected, the voice made supple and strong,

confidence attained, and deep feeling evoked in the speaker’s breast,

there will be little need to care for the minutiæ of elocution. The

child that is burnt needs no instruction in the mode of crying out. Let

nature have her way, untrammeled by art, and all feelings will dominate

the voice and cause every hearer to recognize their nature and

participate in them. In this way we may not attain the brilliancy of

theatric clap-trap, but we will be able to give “the touch of nature

that makes the whole world kin.”

If carefully guarded, the faculty of imitation may be of great service

in the management of the voice. The sounds that express sympathy and

passion are heard everywhere, forming a medium of communication more

subtle and widespread than any language of earth. From the example of

great orators we may learn what true excellence is, and become able to

reproduce some, at least, of their effects. It would be hurtful to

confine our attention too long to one model, for true excellence is

many-sided, and if we continually view only one of its phases we are apt

to fall into slavish imitation—one of the greatest of all vices. By

having many examples to look upon, and using them only to elevate our

own ideal, we will escape this danger. The models before us will urge us

to greater exertions and the whole level of our attainments be raised.

There are abundant faults to mar the freedom and naturalness of

delivery, and the speaker who would be truly natural must watch

diligently for them and exterminate them without mercy. The sing-song

tone, the scream, the lisp, the guttural and tremulous tones, the

rhythmical emphasis which falls like a trip-hammer at measured

intervals, are specimens of common, bad habits that should be weeded out

as fast as they push through the soil; and if the speaker’s egotism is

too great to see them, or his taste not pure enough, some friend should

point them out. Even the advice of an enemy conveyed in the unpleasant

form of sarcasm and ridicule may be profitably used for the purpose of

reform and improvement.

Should a conversational tone be employed in speaking? This question has

often been asked, and much difference of opinion evoked, but it may be

satisfactorily answered. The language of conversation is the language of

nature in its most unfettered form, and it should, therefore, be the

_basis_ of all speech. The same variety and character of intonations

used in it should be employed in every variety of oratory. But

conversation itself varies widely with varying circumstances. The man

talking with a friend across a river will speak less rapidly but more

loudly than if he held that friend by the hand. In speaking to a number

at once, the orator must, in order to be heard, speak more forcibly and

distinctly than in addressing one only. With this explanation, it may be

laid down as a safe rule that a speech should _begin_ in a

conversational manner. But should it continue in the same way? A deep,

full tone—the orotund of the elocutionist—will make a stronger

impression than a shrill, feeble utterance. And as conversation becomes

earnest even between two persons, there is the tendency to stronger and

more impressive tones. This same tendency will be a sufficient guide in

speech. A trained man giving utterance to a well-prepared speech, upon a

theme which appeals to his own emotions, will adopt those oratorical

tones which form a proper medium for eloquence, without a single thought

given to that subject during the moment of delivery. Begin as a man who

is talking to a number of his friends upon an interesting subject; then,

as the interest deepens, let go all restraint. As passion rises like an

inflowing tide, the voice will be so fully possessed by it and so filled

out and strengthened as to produce all the effect of which its compass

is capable. It will deepen into the thunder roll when that is needed,

and at the right time will grow soft and pathetic.

But above almost every other error that the speaker can commit, beware

of thinking that you must be loud in order to be impressive. Nothing is

more disgusting than that interminable roar, beginning with a shout, and

continuing to split the speaker’s throat and the hearer’s ears all

through the discourse. This fault is not uncommon in the pulpit,

especially among those who desire a reputation for extraordinary fervor

and earnestness. But it is the worst kind of monotony. The loudness of

tone, that applied at the right place would be overpowering, loses all

power except to disgust and weary an audience. It expresses no more

thought or sentiment than the lashing of ocean waves conveys to the

storm-tossed mariner. Have something to say; keep the fires of passion

burning in your own soul; learn the real strength there is in the

reserve of power; and the cultivated voice will not fail in its only

legitimate office—that of making the clear and adequate impression of

your thoughts and emotions upon the souls of others.

Elocutionary manuals properly devote much space to the consideration of

gesture, for the eye should be addressed and pleased as well as the ear.

But we doubt whether the marking out of special gestures to be imitated

can do much good. A few broad principles like those formulated by the

celebrated French teacher, Delsarte, may be profitably studied and made

familiar by practice upon a few simple selections. After that the

principal use of training is to give confidence so that the speaker may

be in the full possession and instinctive use of all his powers. Fear

often freezes the speaker into ice-like rigidity; and hearers are apt to

feel the same deadly chill when listening to some one whose dominating

sentiment is the fear that he may do something ridiculous, or fail to

win their favor.

The secondary use of training in gesture is to discard awkward and

repulsive movements. Timidity and fear may be overcome by a firm

resolution, and the object is well worth the effort. Bad or ungraceful

actions are far better in the case of a beginner than no action at all.

The saying of Demosthenes, that the first, the second, and the third

need of an orator is “ACTION,” does not fully apply to the modern

speaker. He needs many things more urgently than action, even when that

word is taken in its widest sense. But action is important, and when

graceful and expressive, it does powerfully tend to arrest attention,

and even to help the processes of thought on the part of the speaker

himself. We have heard several eloquent men who scarcely moved during

the delivery of an address, but never without feeling that good

gesticulation would have been a great addition to their power. It is

unnatural to speak for any considerable period of time without moving.

None but a lazy, sick, or bashful man will do it. Let the laziness be

shaken off, the sickness cured, and the bashfulness reserved for a more

fitting occasion! A man who is too bashful and diffident to move hand,

head, or foot in the presence of an audience should in consistency

refuse to monopolize their time at all!

Practice will usually overcome this fault. When a man has stood a great

many times before an audience without receiving any serious injury, and

has a good purpose in thus claiming their attention, and something which

he thinks they ought to hear, he will forget his fears and allow his

mind to be engrossed, as that of a true speaker should be, with the

subject he has in hand. Then all his gestures will have at least the

grace of unconscious and spontaneous origination.

But when fear has been overcome so that the speaker is not afraid to use

his hands, he needs to enter upon a determined and comprehensive

campaign against bad habits. If anything is truly natural—that is, true

to the higher or universal nature—it will be beautiful; but early

examples are so often wrong and corrupting that it is hard to say what

nature is: Nature may be a bad nature—the reflection of all that is low

and sordid as well as that which is high and ennobling. That nature

which is in harmony with the sum of all things, which is the image of

the Creator’s perfectness, must be right and good; but we must not too

hastily conclude that any habits of our own have this high and

unquestionable source. Hardly a speaker lives who does not at some time

fall into unsightly or ridiculous habits. The difference between men in

this respect is that some steadily accumulate all the faults they ever

have contracted, until the result is most repulsive; while others, from

the warnings of friends or their own observation, discover their errors

and cast them off.

A mode by which the solitary student may become acquainted with his

faults, and from which he should not be driven by foolish ridicule, is

by declaiming in as natural and forcible a manner as possible before a

large mirror. Thus we may “see ourselves as others see us.” Repeated

practice in this manner will enable you to keep the necessary watch upon

your motions, without so much distracting attention as to make the

exercise before the glass no trustworthy specimen of ordinary habits. In

speaking, you hear your own voice and thus become sensible of audible

errors, but the glass is required to show improper movements that may

have been unconsciously contracted. It is not advised that each speech,

before delivery, should be practiced in front of the mirror. It is

doubtful if such practice would not cherish a self-consciousness worse

than all the errors it corrected. But the same objection would not apply

to occasional declamations made for the very purpose of self-criticism.

By these two processes—pressing out into action as freely as possible

under the impulse of deep feeling, and by lopping off everything that is

not graceful and effective—we may soon attain a good style of gesture.

When the habit of suiting the action to the word is once fully formed,

all anxiety on that subject may be dismissed. The best gesticulation is

entirely unconscious.

CHAPTER VI.

CONFIDENCE.

How may that boldness and confidence which is indispensable to an orator

best be acquired? On your success in this direction, hinges all other

kinds of improvement. So long as a nervous dread hangs about you, it

will make the practice of extemporaneous speech painful and repulsive,

paralyzing all your faculties in the moment of utterance.

You must acquire confidence in your own powers and be willing to trust

to their guidance.

But it is not necessary that you should exhibit or even feel this

confidence at the beginning of a speech, for it may then appear like

boastfulness or egotism. It is enough if you then have confidence in

your subject, and in the fullness of your preparation. You may then

without injury wish that some one, that you imagine more worthy, stood

in your place. But if this feeling continues all through the address,

failure is inevitable. Many a man begins while trembling in every limb,

especially if the occasion be of unusual character, but soon becomes

inspired with his theme and forgets all anxiety. If your fear be greater

and more persistent, keeping you in perpetual terror, it will destroy

all liberty and eloquence. When laboring under such an influence, you

lose self-possession, become confused, all interest evaporates from your

most carefully prepared thoughts, and you sit down at length, convinced

that you have failed. It is but little consolation to believe that you

had all the time in your brain the necessary power and material to

achieve splendid success, if you had but possessed the courage to use it

aright.

There is no remedy for fear more effectual than to do all our work under

the immediate inspiration of duty. This feeling is not the privilege of

the minister alone, but of each one who is conscious that he occupies

the place where he stands because it is his right to be there, because

he has some information to give, some cause to advocate, or some

important task to do. With such consciousness we can speak our best, and

finish with the satisfaction of having done our work as truly as if we

had performed duty placed upon us in any other department of labor. But

if we aim simply at making an exhibition of self and of showing our own

skill and eloquence, then the smiles and frowns of the audience becomes

a matter of overwhelming importance, and if we fail we are deeply

mortified and bewail our foolishness in exposing ourselves to such

needless risk.

The lack of proper confidence is the great reason for using manuscript

in the moment of speech. The speaker makes one effort to extemporize and

fails. This is not wonderful, for the path to success usually lies

through failure from the time that we master the wonderful art of

walking through many failures; but instead of copying the school-boy

motto, “try, try again,” and reaping wisdom and experience from past

efforts, he loses all hope—concludes that he is disqualified for that

kind of work, and thus sinks to mediocrity and tameness, when he might

have been brilliant in the fields of true oratory.

The exhibition of confidence and resolution by the speaker is a draft

drawn on the respect of an audience which is nearly always honored,

while the opposite qualities hide the possession of real talent. Hearers

readily pardon timidity at the beginning of an address, for then

attention is fixed upon the speaker himself, and his shrinking seems a

graceful exhibition of modesty. But when he has fully placed his subject

before them they associate him with it. If he is dignified and assured,

they listen in pleased attention and acknowledge the weight of his

words. These qualities are very different from bluster and bravado,

which injure the cause advocated and excite disgust toward the speaker.

The first appears to arise from a sense of the dignity of the subject;

the second, from an assumption of personal superiority—an opinion no

speaker has a right to entertain, for in the very act of addressing an

audience he constitutes them his judges.

An orator needs confidence in his own powers in order to avail himself

fully of the suggestions of the moment. Some of the best thoughts he

will ever think flash upon him while speaking, and are out of the line

of his preparation. There is no time to carefully weigh them. He must

reject them immediately or begin to follow, not knowing whither they

lead, and this in audible words, with the risk that he may be landed in

some absurdity. He cannot pause for a moment, as the least hesitation

breaks the spell he has woven around his hearers, while if he rejects

the offered idea he may lose a genuine inspiration. One searching glance

that will not allow time for his own feelings or those of his auditors

to cool, and then—decision to reject, or to follow the new track with

the same assurance as if the end were clearly in view—this is all that

is possible. It requires some boldness to pursue the latter course, and

yet every speaker knows that his highest efforts—efforts that have

seemed beyond his normal power, and which have done more in a minute to

gain the object for which he spoke than all the remainder of the

discourse—have been of this character.

It also requires a good degree of confidence to firmly begin a sentence,

even when the general idea is plain, without knowing just how it will

end. This difficulty is experienced sometimes even by the most fluent. A

man may learn to cast sentences very rapidly, but it will take a little

time to pass them through his mind, and when one is finished, the next

may not yet have fully condensed itself into words. To begin to utter a

partially constructed sentence, uncertain how it will end, and press on

without letting the people see any hesitation, demands no small

confidence in one’s power of commanding words and framing sentences. Yet

a bold and confident speaker need feel no uneasiness. He may prolong a

pause while he is thinking of a needed word, or throw in something

extraneous to fill up the time till the right term and construction are

found. Yet the perfect remedy for these dangers is to learn the

difficult art of standing before an audience with nothing to say and

making the pause as effective as any phase of speech. This can be done,

dangerous as it seems. It does require far more of courage to face an

audience when the mouth is empty than when we are talking; the mettle of

troops is never so severely tried as when their cartridge-boxes are

empty; but all the resources of eloquence are not at command until this

test can be calmly and successfully endured. An eminent speaker once

said to a friend after a very successful effort, “What part of the

address you have been praising most impressed you?” “It was not anything

you _said_,” was the reply, “but the thrilling _pause_ you made of

nearly half a minute after a bold assertion, as if you were challenging

any one to rise and deny what you had asserted.” “Oh! I remember,”

returned the other; “I could not get the next sentence fixed quite

right, and was fully determined not to say it at all unless it came into

the proper shape.”

This necessary confidence can be cultivated by striving to exercise it,

and by assuming its appearance where the reality is not. The raw recruit

is transformed into a veteran soldier by meeting and overcoming danger.

All the drill in the world will not supply the want of actual experience

on the battle-field. So the extempore speaker must make up his mind to

accept all the risk, and patiently endure all the failures and perils

that result. If he fully decides that the reward is worthy of the effort

he will be greatly aided in the attempt, as he will thus avoid the

wavering and shrinking and questioning that would otherwise distress him

and paralyze his powers. A failure will but lead to stronger and more

persistent effort, made with added experience. Success will be an

argument for future confidence, and thus any result will forward him on

his course.

In regard to the difficulty of framing sentences in the moment of

utterance, the experienced speaker will become so expert, having found

his way through so many difficulties of that kind, that the greatest

danger experienced will be that of carelessly allowing his words to flow

on without unity or polish. It does require a determined effort, not

merely to _express_ meaning, but to pack and _compress_ the greatest

possible amount into striking and crystalline words. Experience also

gives him such a knowledge of the working of his own thoughts that he

will be able to decide at the first suggestion what unbidden ideas

should be accepted and what ones should be rejected. If these new

thoughts, however far outside of his preparation, seem worthy, he will

give them instant expression; if not, he will dismiss them and continue

unchecked along his intended route.

It is hoped that the reading of this treatise will increase the

confidence of extempore speakers in two ways; first, by producing in the

mind of each one perfect conviction that for him the better way is to

adopt unwritten speech without reserve; and second, by pointing out a

mode of preparation which will give as good ground for confidence as a

fully written manuscript could possibly supply. To gain confidence which

is not warranted by the event would only provoke a hurtful reaction; but

confidence which is justified by experience grows ever stronger.

We have thus glanced at a few of the qualities which need to be

cultivated and strengthened for the purposes of public speech. The

survey does not cover the whole field of desirable qualities, for this

would be to give a treatise on general education. Perfect speech

requires every faculty of the mind to be brought to the highest state of

efficiency. There is no mental power which will not contribute to

success. The whole limits of possible education are comprised in the two

branches already mentioned as concerning the orator—those relating to

the _reception_ of knowledge and those to its _communication_. The

harmonious combination and perfect development of these two is the ideal

of excellence—an ideal so high that it can only be approached. All

knowledge is of use to the orator. He may not have occasion to employ it

in a particular speech, but it contributes to give certainty, breadth,

and scope to his views, and assures him that what he does put into his

speeches is the best that can be selected. If he is ignorant, he is

obliged to use for a discourse on any subject not that material which is

the best in itself, but simply the best that may happen to be known to

him, and he cannot be sure that something far more suitable is not

overlooked.

The communicating faculties are, if possible, still more important. A

great part of the value even of a diamond depends upon its polish and

setting, and the richest and wisest thoughts fail to reach the heart or

captivate the intellect unless they are cast into the proper form, and

given external beauty.

Let the speaker, then, have no fear of knowing too much. Neither need he

despair if he does not now know a great deal. He cannot be perfect at

once, but must build for future years. If he wishes a sudden and local

celebrity that will never widen, but will probably molder away even in

his own lifetime, he may possibly gain it in another way. Let him learn

a few of the externals of elocution, and then, with great care, or by

the free use of the materials of others, prepare a few finely worded

discourses, and recite or declaim them over and over again as often as

he can find a new audience. He may not gain as much applause as he

desires by this method, but it will be sufficiently evanescent. He will

not grow up to the measure of real greatness, but become daily more

dwarfed and stereotyped in intellect.

The following quotation contains a good example of the seductive but

misleading methods sometimes held up before the young orator: “They

talk,” said Tom Marshall to an intimate friend, “of my astonishing

bursts of eloquence, and doubtless imagine it is my genius bubbling

over. It is nothing of the sort. I’ll tell you how I do it: I select a

subject and study it from the ground up. When I have mastered it fully,

I write a speech on it. Then I take a walk and come back, and revise and

correct. In a few days I subject it to another pruning, and then recopy

it. Next I add the finishing touches, round it off with graceful

periods, and commit it to memory. Then I speak it in the fields, in my

father’s lawn, and before my mirror, until gesture and delivery are

perfect. It sometimes takes me six weeks or two months to get up a

speech. When I am prepared I come to town. I generally select a court

day, when there is sure to be a crowd. I am called on for a speech, and

am permitted to select my own subject. I speak my piece. It astonishes

the people, as I intended it should, and they go away marveling at my

power of oratory. They call it genius, but it is the hardest kind of

work.”

No objection is made to the quantity of work thus described, but might

not the same amount be expended in more profitable directions? A speech

thus prepared was a mere trick intended to astonish the people.

Sometimes the great Daniel Webster took equal pains in the verbal

expression of some worthy thought, which was afterward held in the grasp

of a powerful memory until a fitting place was found for it in some

masterly speech. The difference between the two processes is greater

than seems at first glance. Marshall’s plan was like a beautiful garment

thrown over a clothes dummy in a shop window; Webster’s, like the same

garment, worn for comfort and ornament by a living man.

It is better that the speaker should “intermeddle with all knowledge,”

and make the means of communicating his thoughts as perfect as possible.

Then out of the fullness of his treasure, let him talk to the people

with an adequate purpose in view, and if no sudden acclaim greets him,

he will be weighty and influential from the first, and each passing year

will add to his power.

CHAPTER VII.

PECULIARITIES BELONGING TO THE VARIOUS FIELDS OF ORATORY.

The laws which govern extemporaneous speech are so generally applicable

to all forms of address that only a few things which are peculiar to

each need be considered before pointing out the best modes of planning

and delivering a speech.

Probably a sermon differs from the common type of speech more than any

other form of address. Some of the distinctions usually made are purely

conventional, and not a few are more honored in the breach than in the

observance. A certain slowness and stiffness of manner is supposed to

characterize the pulpit, and also the selection of grave and solemn

tones. All these, so far as they tend to constitute ministers a class

apart from other men, with manners and modes of speech peculiar to

themselves, are a mere survival of ancient superstition. The preacher’s

tone and address should be just such as any other competent speaker

would employ in treating the same themes. Of course, when the preacher

makes a solemn appeal, voice and action should all correspond in

solemnity. But when he denounces sin, or holds vice up to ridicule,

there should be an equal correspondence. In some denominations, a

peculiar dress is given to the preacher as the garb of his office; and

it may be that a peculiar manner will be grateful to those who love all

things that have the flavor of antiquity. But all such mannerisms belong

to another realm than that of eloquence. From the orator’s standpoint

they can only be condemned. Let the preacher speak and act like any

other educated gentleman, under like circumstances, and his power over

his audiences will be the greater.

But the sermon possesses some real distinctions of importance. The

custom of taking a text furnishes a point of departure to the preacher

and greatly simplifies the work of introduction. The opening services in

the church—the prayers and the music—put his audience into a mood to

receive his words. They are calm and quiet when he begins to

speak—indeed, this may easily go too far. Another peculiarity is that he

has the whole field to himself: neither he nor his auditors expect a

word or gesture of dissent from any position he may assume: all the

criticisms of his hearers will be mental, or reserved to another

occasion. In this, his position is diametrically opposed to that of the

lawyer, and the politician, who expect all they say to be contradicted,

as a matter of course, and are apt to acquire the fault of uttering

self-evident truths in a combative manner, as if they expected the other

side to deny even that the whole is greater than any of its parts, or

that things each equal to another thing, are equal to each other. The

preacher, on the other hand, is liable to utter propositions, which to

many of his hearers are very doubtful, as if they were axioms.

The preacher should select a text which fairly covers the subject of his

discourse or contributes to advance the object he has in view. The text

should always be employed in its true sense. It partakes of the nature

of a quotation by which the speaker fortifies his position, and all

quotations should bear the meaning intended by their authors, as far as

that meaning can be ascertained. This is required by common fairness,

and the Bible is surely entitled to fair treatment as much as any other

book. Generally the text should be read and treated as a part of the

introduction, although some fine sermons have been constructed on the

opposite principle of beginning far from the text and so leading up to

it, that its perfect illustration or application only appears in the

conclusion. No fault can be found with this method if conscientiously

adopted and consistently carried out.

The great aim of preaching is persuasion, and this must largely

influence its whole character. It is from this cause that emotion—ever

the most valuable agent in persuasion—is so highly valued in the pulpit.

The hearers are to be persuaded, first to embrace a religious life, and

then to cultivate all those virtues and avoid all those evils incident

to such a life. It may be proper to devote some time and attention to

mere instruction, but that instruction derives all its value from its

bearing upon action: it should be given as the means of rendering

persuasion more effective. Warning, reproof, exhortation, consolation,

promise—the whole field of motives and inducements—is very wide; but the

great object is to make men better, and only incidentally to make them

wiser or happier.

This peculiar character of preaching renders adherence to extemporaneous

speech in the pulpit at once more important and more difficult than

anywhere else. The quiet of the church, its solemnity, the fact that the

preacher must speak at a given time and has thus the opportunity to

write, and that a good sermon dealing with truths always applicable may,

when once written, be read to many successive congregations, even after

an interval of years;—the fear of jarring upon the associations of the

church with any rude sentence or unpolished paragraph thrown off in the

hurry of speech:—all these considerations powerfully plead for the

manuscript. Yet in hardly any other form of address is the manuscript so

hurtful. Extemporaneous speech is pre-eminently the persuasive form of

address, and persuasion is the great object of the sermon. If the

preacher ceases to be persuasive he may as well cease to preach, so far

as the accomplishment of the true function of his office is concerned.

The mode pointed out in the following part of this work will, it is

believed, enable the extemporaneous preacher to utilize all the

persuasiveness that belongs to his character, and at the same time

escape all the dangers which have driven so many preachers to

manuscript.

The conditions under which lawyers speak are very different. They are

tempted by the surroundings of the court-room to set too low a value

upon the graces of oratory, while the accomplishment of an immediate

purpose engrosses their attention. The judge and jury are before them—a

client is to be made victorious, or a criminal to be punished. Keen

interest and emotion are supplied by the occasion itself. The law must

be explained, the facts elicited and weighed, and the jury persuaded.

There is also the great advantage of having the case decided at a

definite time. No disposition exists on the part of the jury to

postponement. If the lawyer once convinces them that law and evidence

are on his side, the verdict follows as a matter of course. But when the

preacher gets that far he has scarcely begun. His hearers may admit the

truth of every word he speaks and the goodness of the course he advises,

but they can comply with his advice at any time, and in that feeling

they may postpone their action for years, if not permanently. But the

lawyer can press his case on to a decision, which may be resisted for a

time by one of the parties, but not by the jury to whom he addresses his

arguments, and seldom by the judge.

Lawyers have but little temptation to indulge in written speeches: the

exigencies of the trial make formal preparation of little service. The

great talent for a lawyer’s purpose is that favored by extemporaneous

speech—the power of a clear, orderly statement of facts that are often

exceedingly complex. This generally proves more effective than any

argument. To grasp all the evidence that has been brought forward, and,

putting it into the very simplest form it will bear, to show on that

statement to judge and jury that he is entitled to the verdict—this is

the great art of the advocate. But his statement must include or account

for all the facts; otherwise, he lays himself open to an easy and

damaging reply. The method usually adopted is to make a note of each

fact elicited, each argument used by the opposite attorney, and each

salient point of the case. Then these are reduced to the simplest form,

an appropriate introduction sought, and either a strong argument, or an

effective summing up, reserved for the conclusion. With this much of

preparation the lawyer finds it easy to provide suitable words for the

expression of the whole speech.

The speech of the judge in summing up or charging the jury differs only

from that of the advocate in the greater impartiality by which it is

marked. The most fair-minded attorney will be biased, more or less

unconsciously, by the greater care which he bestows upon his own side of

the case.

Anniversary, platform, and lyceum lectures have much in common.

Entertainment being the prominent object in them all, illustration and

embellishment are greatly sought for. Humor is also in most cases highly

enjoyed. The same address may be repeated many times and comes to have

the finish of a work of art. The great camp-meeting sermons at seaside

resorts, at anniversaries, and similar occasions, properly belong to

this class rather than to that of sermons. This is the field in which

memoriter addresses are usually supposed to be superior to all others.

It may be conceded that whenever form rises into more prominence than

matter, writing and memorizing will have increasing claims. A speaker

who wishes to repeat one speech without substantial variation to a

hundred audiences will not find it a great task to write it in full and

memorize it. But if he is really a master in spontaneous utterance he

need not depart from his usual course. He can fully prepare his

materials and then speak the words of the moment, without the least fear

of suffering in comparison with the reciter.

Instructive addresses by teachers and professors are nearly always given

extempore, with the exception of those written lectures in the higher

institutions which are supposed to sum up the results of knowledge in

their respective departments. Even then the practice is not uniform, as

many professors prefer talking to their pupils rather than reading to

them. The practice of reading in such cases is really a survival from

the days when books were scarce and high-priced, and the student found

it easier to write notes from the lips of some master than to purchase

the volumes containing the same knowledge, even when it had been

published at all. But the tendency now is to find the statement of the

facts of science, art, and literature in books, and depend upon the

living teacher only to give vividness, life, and illustration to them.

All this can be best done by the extemporaneous method.

Other modes of speech will naturally suggest themselves, but they

present nothing peculiar in form. All that can be said about them may be

compressed as profitably into the general topics of subject and object,

thought-gathering, arrangement, and use of the plan, etc., which occupy

the following pages.

PART III.

PLAN AND DELIVERY OF THE SPEECH.

CHAPTER I.

THE PEN AND THE TONGUE.

It does not follow from anything we have said that the pen should be

discarded by the extempore speaker. Because he is not obliged to write

each word, he should not feel excused from writing altogether. Few

greater misfortunes could happen to a speaker than being deprived of the

power of recording and preserving notes for the purposes of oratory. The

most tenacious memory is burdened by the weight of a large number of

intended discourses, especially if they are long and complex. No person

can feel sure that he will remember all parts of the speech he intended

to utter even in outline, unless it has been reduced to regular form so

that one part will suggest another. In going to a store to purchase a

few articles the pen is very useful in making a memorandum; if the

errand boy neglects that precaution some of the most essential things

may be forgotten. Among illiterate people a great many mnemonic signs

have been employed, such as associating things to be remembered with the

fingers, etc.; but among intelligent persons all of these have been

superseded by the use of writing, and it would be very absurd to

advocate a return to the old modes on the plea that the memory might be

so strengthened that all items could be safely remembered. The reply

would be ready: “Yes, it is possible; but we have a far better and less

burdensome way of accomplishing the same object and have no motive in

returning to the more difficult mode.” Thus while it may be possible to

arrange in the mind all the outlines of a long discourse, it is not easy

to do it, and there is no gain in the extra labor involved. Everything

bearing upon a discourse may be written in brief outline, and then a

selection made of what is best, throwing out all other portions. The

remainder can then be far better arranged when in such a position that

the eye as well as the mind can glance at it. The preparation for the

intended speech thus assumes the shape of a miniature or outline, and

may be filled out at any point which needs strengthening.

But even if it were possible to construct the plan and speak well

without any previous use of the pen, this would, in the majority of

cases, be insufficient. The orator needs to preserve the materials, if

not the form of his oration, either for use in future speeches or for

comparison with later efforts. It is very wasteful to throw away

valuable material once accumulated, and then search the same ground over

again when required to treat the same topic. This would be acting in the

spirit of the savage who eats enough to satisfy his appetite and throws

away all that remains, as he feels no further need for it, and only

begins to gather again when hunger spurs him to exertion.

The pen is the instrument of accumulation and preservation, and should

be diligently employed. No speaker can rise to permanent greatness

without it. The instances given to the contrary are mere delusions or

evasions. If the service of other pens can be employed, as in the case

of short-hand reporters and amanuenses, this is but doing the same thing

under another form.

The principal purpose of this third division of the work is to show how

the pen may be used in such a manner as to preserve and arrange all the

material we may gather, elaborate, or originate on any subject, so as to

bring to the moment of unfettered extempore speech all the certainty of

result and accumulated power of which our faculties are capable.

Bacon says: “Reading makes a full man, writing an exact man, and

conference a ready man.” All these means should be used and all these

qualities attained by the eloquent speaker.