THE FIRST MOMENT OF SPEECH.
Haying completed all your preparations, you now anxiously await the
commencement of the intellectual battle. This period is often a severe
trial. Men who are physically brave sometimes tremble in anticipation of
speedily standing before an audience. The shame of failure then may
appear worse than death itself. As the soldier feels more of cold and
shrinking terror when listening for the peal of the first gun, than
afterward, when the conflict deepens into blood around him, so the
speaker usually suffers more in this moment of expectancy than in any
that follows. You behold the danger in its full magnitude, without the
inspiration that attends it. Yet whatever effort it may cost, you must
remain calm and collected, for if not master of yourself, you cannot
expect to rule others. Your material must be kept well in hand, ready to
be used at the proper time, though it is not well to be continually
conning over your preparation. That would destroy the freshness of your
matter and bring you to the decisive test weary and jaded. You only need
such an occasional glance as will assure you that all your material
remains within reach. It is seldom possible by any means to banish all
fear, and it is to the speaker’s advantage that he cannot. His timidity
arises from several causes, which differ widely in the effects they
produce. A conscious want of preparation, especially when this arises
from any neglect or indolence, is one of the most distressing sources of
fear. A species of remorse then mingles with the embarrassment natural
to the moment. If the speaker has no other motive than to win
reputation—to minister to his own vanity—he will feel terrified, as he
realizes that shame instead of honor may be the result of his rashness.
That man is fortunate who can say, “I only speak because I feel it to be
duty which I dare not refuse—a work that I must perform whether well or
ill.” The lawyer who must defend his client, the minister who feels that
the hour of service has arrived, the teacher in the presence of his
class, are examples of those who speak under the same kind of compulsion
that calls a field laborer out into the burning heat of a July noon
whether he feels like it or not. But if you are about to speak because
you have intruded into the work that properly belongs to another, you
need to be very sure of your preparation, for in case of failure you
will not have even your own sympathy.
But the most formidable and common foe of the speaker’s, in these
preliminary moments, is a general dread that can neither be analyzed nor
accounted for. Persons who have never felt its power sometimes make
light of it, but experience will change their views. The soldier who has
never witnessed a battle, or felt the air throb with the explosion of
cannon, or heard the awful cries of the wounded, is often a great
braggart; while “the scarred veteran of a hundred fights” never speaks
of the carnival of blood without shuddering, and would be the last, but
for the call of duty, to brave the danger he knows so well. There may be
a few speakers who do not feel such fear, but it is because they do not
know what true speaking is. They have never known the full tide of
inspiration which sometimes lifts the orator far above his conceptions,
but which first struggles in his own bosom like the pent fires of a
volcano. They only come forward to relieve themselves of the
interminable stream of twaddle that wells spontaneously to their lips,
and can well be spared the pangs preceding the birth of a powerful and
living discourse.
This kind of fear belongs to every kind of oratory, but is most intense
on those great occasions, in presence of large audiences, when men’s
passions run high. In mere instructive address, where the ground has
been repeatedly gone over and where the effort is mainly of an
intellectual character, it is less noticeable. It resembles the awe felt
on the eve of all great enterprises, and when excessive, as it is in
some highly gifted minds, it constitutes an absolute bar to public
speech. But in most cases it is a source of inspiration rather than of
repression.
There is a strange sensation often experienced in the presence of an
audience. It may proceed from the gaze of the many eyes that turn upon
the speaker, especially if he permits himself to steadily return that
gaze. Most speakers have been conscious of this in a nameless thrill, a
real something, pervading the atmosphere, tangible, evanescent,
indescribable. All writers have borne testimony to the power of a
speaker’s eye in impressing an audience. This influence which we are now
considering is the reverse of that picture—the power _their_ eyes may
exert upon him, especially before he begins to speak: after the inward
fires of oratory are fanned into flame the eyes of the audience lose all
terror. By dwelling on the object for which we speak and endeavoring to
realize its full importance, we will in a measure lose sight of our
personal danger, and be more likely to maintain a calm and tranquil
frame of mind.
No change should be made in the plan at the last moment, as that is very
liable to produce confusion. This error is often committed. The mind has
a natural tendency to go repeatedly over the same ground, revising and
testing every point, and it may make changes the consequences of which
cannot be in a moment foreseen. But the necessary preparation has been
made and we should now await the result calmly and hopefully. Over-study
is quite possible, and when accompanied by great solicitude wearies our
mind in advance and strips the subject of all freshness. If the eye is
fixed too long upon one object with a steadfast gaze, it loses the power
to see at all. So the mind, if exerted steadily upon a single topic for
a long period, fails in vigor and elasticity at the moment when those
qualities are indispensable. That profound thinker and preacher,
Frederick W. Robertson, experienced this difficulty and was accustomed
to find relief by reading some inspiring paragraphs upon some totally
different theme from that he intended to speak about. The energy and
enthusiasm of our minds in the moment of speech must be raised to the
highest pitch; the delivery of a living discourse is not the dry
enumeration of a list of particulars; but we must actually feel an
immediate and burning interest in the topics with which we deal. This
cannot be counterfeited.
To clearly arrange all thoughts that belong to the subject, lay them
aside when the work is done until the moment of speech, and then enter
confidently upon them with only such a momentary glance as will assure
us that all is right—this is the method to make our strength fully
available. This confidence while in waiting seems to the beginner very
difficult, but experience rapidly renders it easy. M. Bautain declares
that he has been repeatedly so confident in his preparation as to fall
asleep while waiting to be summoned to the pulpit!
Those who misimprove the last moments by too much thought and solicitude
are not the only class of offenders. Some persons, through mere
indolence, suffer the fine lines of preparation which have been traced
with so much care to fade into dimness. This error is not unfrequently
committed by those who speak a second or third time on the same subject.
Because they have once succeeded they imagine that the same success is
always at command. No mistake could be greater. It is not enough to have
speech-material in a position from which it can be collected by a
conscious and prolonged effort, but it must be in the foreground of the
mind. There is no time at the moment of delivery for reviving half
obliterated lines of memory.
The writer once saw a notable case of failure from this cause. A
preacher on a great occasion was much engrossed with other important
duties until the hour appointed for his sermon had arrived. With perfect
confidence he selected a sketch from which he had preached a short time
before and with the general course of which he was no doubt familiar.
But when he endeavored to produce his thoughts they were not ready. He
became embarrassed, talked at random for a short time, and then had the
candor to tell the audience that he could not finish, and to take his
seat. Probably half an hour given to reviewing his plan would have made
all his previous preparation fresh again, and have spared him the
mortification of failure.
In this last interval it is also well to care for the strength and vigor
of the body, as its condition greatly influences all mental operations.
It is said that the pearl-diver, before venturing into the depths of the
sea, always spends a few moments in deep breathing and other bodily
preparations. In the excitement of speech, the whirl and hurricane of
emotion, it is advisable to be well prepared for the high tension of
nerve that is implied. Mental excitement exhausts and wears down the
body faster than bodily labor. We must carefully husband our strength
that we may be able to meet all demands upon it.
Holyoake makes the following pertinent observation in reference to this
point:
“Perhaps the lowest quality of the art of oratory, but one on many
occasions of the _first importance_, is a certain robust and radiant
physical health; great volumes of animal heat. In the cold thinness of a
morning audience mere energy and mellowness is inestimable; wisdom and
learning would be harsh and unwelcome compared with a substantial man,
who is quite a housewarming.”
Fatiguing and excessive exercise should be very carefully avoided.
Holyoake illustrates this from his own experience. He says:
“One Saturday I walked from Sheffield to Huddersfield to deliver on
Sunday two anniversary lectures. It was my first appearance there, and I
was ambitious to acquit myself well. But in the morning I was utterly
unable to do more than talk half inaudibly and quite incoherently. In
the evening I was tolerable, but my voice was weak. My annoyance was
excessive. I was a paradox to myself. My power seemed to come and go by
some eccentric law of its own. I did not find out until years after that
the utter exhaustion of my strength had exhausted the powers of speech
and thought, and that entire repose, instead of entire fatigue, should
have been the preparation for public speaking.”
The last statement is somewhat too strong, for absolute rest is not
generally advisable. It would leave the speaker, when he began to speak,
with languid mind and slowly beating pulse—a state which it would
require some minutes for him to overcome. A short, but brisk walk, when
the health is good, will invigorate and refresh all his faculties, and
often prevent a listless introduction by giving him the vigor to grasp
the subject at once and launch right into the heart of it. Should any
person doubt the power of exercise to produce this effect, let him, when
perplexed with difficult questions in his study, start out over fields
and hills, and review the matter in the open air. It is a good thing to
carry the breath of the fields into the opening of our addresses.
But when the speaker cannot take this form of exercise in the moments
just preceding speech, he may easily find a substitute for it. If alone,
he can pace back and forth and swing his arms until the circulation
becomes brisk and pours a stream of arterial blood to the brain.
Another simple exercise can be practiced anywhere, and will be of great
benefit. Many persons injure themselves by speaking too much from the
throat. This is caused by improper, short, and shallow breathing. To
breathe properly is beneficial at any time, and does much to prevent or
remedy throat and lung disease. But in the beginning of a speech it is
doubly important: when once under way, there will be no time to think of
either voice or breath: the only safe plan, then, is to have the right
mode made habitual and instinctive. This will be greatly promoted if
just before beginning we breathe deeply for a few minutes, inflating the
lungs to their extremities and sending the warm blood to the very tips
of the fingers.
Having now done all we can in advance, nothing remains but to rise and
speak. Preparation and precaution are passed. Actual work—the most
joyous, thrilling, and spiritual of all human tasks—is now to be entered
upon.