PROGRESS OF THE SPEECH.
The passage from the introduction to the discussion should be made
smoothly and gradually. To accomplish this, and to strike the subject at
just the right angle, continuing all the interest previously excited, is
a most important achievement. A definite object is a great assistance in
this part of the work. If the object is clearly in view, we go right up
to it with no wasted words, and the people follow our guidance because
they see that we are not proceeding at random. But with no strong
purpose we are apt to steer about our subject without ever being quite
ready to enter upon it. The more brilliant the introduction the more
difficult this transition will be. But all these difficulties may be
overcome with the aid of a well-constructed plan, and then all the
triumphs of oratory are before us.
There is great pleasure in speaking well. An assembly hanging on the
words and thinking the thoughts of a single man, gives to him the most
subtle kind of flattery. But he must not inhale its fragrance
heedlessly, or his fall will be speedy and disastrous. The triumphs of
oratory are very fascinating—the ability to sway our fellows at
pleasure, to bind them willing captives with the strong chain of our
thought—produces a delirious and intoxicating sense of power. But in the
best of instances such achievements are very transient, and unless taken
advantage of at the moment to work our cherished purposes, the
opportunity is lost. Even during a single address it is hard to maintain
the influence of a happy moment. Speakers sometimes utter a great and
noble thought and the nameless thrill of eloquence is felt, but some
irrelevant phrase or common-place sentiment dissolves the charm. To
avoid this, the whole discourse must be animated with some controlling
purpose, and in its general character, tend upward, until its close.
The law of climax ought to be carefully considered by the speaker. There
may be more than one culmination of interest in an address, separated by
an interval less absorbing and powerful, but this decline should only be
allowed in order to prepare a second or third climax grander than all
before. To violate this rule and have a speech “flatten out” toward its
close, is a fearful error. Better reduce the length of the whole by
one-half or three-fourths, and maintain interest and attention to the
end.
A few miscellaneous considerations in regard to the style and manner of
the speech may be inserted here as well as anywhere.
Diffuseness is often supposed to be a necessary quality of
extemporaneous speech. Many speakers do fall into it, but they need not.
They are diffuse because they are unwilling or unable to say exactly
what they mean, but come near it, and continue their efforts until they
are satisfied. They furnish no clear view of any idea, but only a kind
of twilight illumination. This serious fault may be overcome in
spontaneous speech as readily as in writing. He who thinks clearly and
forcibly will talk in the same manner. Exquisite finish and elaborate
verbal arrangement are not to be looked for in off-hand speech, but each
idea may be expressed with great force, vigor, and accuracy of shading.
This ability to say precisely what we mean in few words, and at the
first effort, constitutes one of the great beauties of a spoken style.
The hearer is filled with grateful surprise when some new and living
idea is suddenly placed before him clothed in a single word or sentence.
A diffuse speaker gives so many premonitions of his thought that the
audience have guessed it, and may even come to believe that they have
always known it, before he has made his formal presentment. Of course,
they are wearied, and never give him credit for an original conception.
If troubled with this fault, frequently forecast what to say; drive it
into the smallest number of vivid, expressive words; then, without
memorizing the language, reproduce the same thought briefly in the hurry
of speech. If not successful in making it as brief as before, repeat the
effort. This exercise will, in time, give the ability to condense. But
to exercise it the temptation to fine language must be overcome. No
sentence should be introduced for mere glitter or sparkle: a single
unnecessary word may require others to justify or explain it, and thus
may ruin a whole discourse. The danger of showy language in speech is
far greater than in writing, for if the writer be drawn too far away
from his subject he can strike out the offending sentences and begin
again, while the speaker has but one trial. If beauty lies in his way,
well; but if not, he should never abandon his course to seek it.
We have seen many directions for “expanding thought,” and have heard
young speakers admire the ease and grace of such expansion. But thoughts
are not like medicines which require dilution to be more palatable. It
is better to give the essence of an idea and go on to something else.
There should be clear and ample expression; condensation carried to the
point of obscurity would be a fault; but nothing more than clearness is
needed. If thoughts are few it is better to delve for others rather than
to attenuate and stretch what we have.
A popular error exists as to the kind of language best adapted to the
purposes of oratory. High-sounding epithets and Latinized words are
considered the fitting medium of speech. These may overawe ignorant
hearers, but can never strike the chords of living sympathy which bind
all hearts together. If we use terms hard to be understood the effort
put forth by hearers to master their meaning is just so much subtracted
from the force of the address. The homely Saxon words that dwell on the
lips of the people will unload their wealth of meaning in the heart as
soon as the sound strikes the ear. Uncommon words build a barrier around
thought; familiar ones are like a railroad over which it glides swiftly
to its destination.
All debased and slang words should be rejected, unless the speech is to
partake of the nature of burlesque: we do not advocate “the familiarity
that breeds contempt:” this is also a hurtful extreme. The two great
requisites in the use of words are that they should exactly express our
ideas, and that they should be familiar: the charms of melody and
association are not to be despised, but they are secondary.
Every speech should have its strong points, upon which especial reliance
is placed. A skillful general has his choice battalions reserved to
pierce the enemy’s line at the decisive moment, and win the battle. In
both the physical and the mental contest, it is important to place these
reserves aright that all their weight may be felt.
A crisis occurs in nearly all living addresses—a moment in which a
strong argument or a fervid appeal will accomplish our purpose—just as a
vigorous charge, or the arrival of reinforcements, will turn the
doubtful scale of battle. The speaker, from the opening of his speech,
should have his object clearly in view and drive steadily toward it, and
when within reach, put forth his whole power in a mighty effort,
achieving the result for which the whole speech was devised. If the
right opportunity is neglected it seldom returns, and an hour’s talk may
fail to accomplish as much as one good burning sentence thrown in at the
right time. Much talk after the real purpose of an address is
accomplished also is useless and even perilous.
It has all along been taken for granted that the speaker has something
worthy to say. Without this a serious address deserves no success,
although under some circumstances nothing but sound to tickle the ears
is desired. Such speeches are well enough in their way, but they rank
with the performances on the piano by which a young lady entertains her
uncritical visitors. They cannot be called speeches in any real sense.
The fact that a speaker has a solid and worthy foundation of knowledge
and an adequate purpose gives him confidence. He knows that if his words
are not instinct with music, and if the pictures of his fancy are not
painted in the brightest colors, he has yet a just claim upon the
attention of his hearers.
It is not necessary that the orator’s thoughts should be exceedingly
profound; the most vital truths lie near the surface, within reach of
all. But most men do not dwell long enough upon one subject to master
its obvious features, and when some one does fully gather up and fairly
present what belongs to a worthy theme it is like a new revelation. A
good illustration of this is found in the sublimity Dean Stanley imparts
to the story of the Exodus of Israel. Few new facts are presented, but
these are so arranged and vivified by a thoughtful mind that the subject
glows into new meaning. The extemporaneous speaker may have abundant
time for such study of every topic within his range of addresses, and if
he uses it aright, he can soon wield a charm far beyond any jingling
combination of words.
When an orator stands before an audience, shall he expect to overwhelm
them by his eloquence? Such a result is possible but not probable; and
it can never be safely calculated upon. If persons attempt to be greatly
eloquent on all occasions, they are apt to end by becoming ridiculous.
Good sense and solid usefulness are better objects of endeavor.
Any man who studies a subject until he knows more about it than his
neighbors can interest them in a fireside explanation, if they care for
the subject at all: he tells his facts in a plain style and is
understood. Many persons will listen delighted to a man’s conversation
until midnight, but will fall asleep in ten minutes if he tries to make
a speech to them. In the first case he _talks_, and is simple and
unaffected; in the other he _speaks_ and feels that he must use a style
stiffened up for the occasion.
When Henry Clay was asked how he became so eloquent, he said that he
could tell nothing about it; all he knew was that when he commenced an
address he had only the desire to speak what he had prepared (not
memorized), and adhered to this line of preparation until he was
enwrapped in the subject, and carried away, he knew not how. This was a
good course, for if the extraordinary inspiration did not come, a good
and sensible speech was secured at any rate.
Some of these considerations may be of service if weighed in advance,
but when the speaker once ascends the platform he must rely on his own
tact for the management of all details. Closely observing the condition
of the audience, and taking advantage of every favoring element, he
moves steadily toward his object. With an unobstructed road before him,
which he has traveled in thought until it is familiar, he will advance
with ease and certainty. As he looks upon interested faces, new ideas
arise, and if fitting, are woven into harmony with previous
preparations, often with thrilling effect. Each emotion enkindled by
sympathy embodies itself in words that move the heart as prepared
language could not do, and each moment his own conviction sinks deeper
into the hearts of his hearers.
There are three principal ways of concluding a speech. One of the most
graceful is to condense a clear view of the whole argument and tendency
of the address into a few words, and leave the summing up thus made to
produce its own effect. Discourses aiming principally to produce
conviction may very well be concluded in this manner. To throw the whole
sweep of an argument, every point of which has been previously
elaborated, into a few telling sentences will contribute powerfully to
make the impression permanent.
Another and very common mode is to close with an application or with
practical remarks. When the address is a sermon, this form of closing is
frequently termed an exhortation, and the whole speech is made to bear
upon the duty of the moment. The conclusion should be closely connected
with the remainder of the address: if it be so general in character as
to fit any speech it will be of little service to any.
A conclusion should always be short and contain no new matter. Few
things are more disastrous than the practice of drawing toward an end
and then launching out into a new discussion. All good things that have
been said, all previous favorable impressions, are obliterated by this
capital fault. We should be careful to finish the discussion of our
theme before we indicate that the conclusion has been reached. And if,
at the moment of finishing, we happen to think of anything, however
vital, which has been omitted, it had better be left to another time and
place altogether.
A third method of closing is to simply break off when the last item is
finished. The full development of the discourse is thus made its ending,
care being taken that the last item discussed shall be of weight and
dignity. This is by no means the easiest form of conclusion, but rightly
managed it is one of the most effective.