clover, blue-eyed grass, meadow bars, river lane, cows moving homeward,
and especially the boy with the shadow on his face, the two older
brothers lying dead under the feet of the trampling foe? The subsequent
parts of the poem lend themselves to the activity of the imagination,
to a play of sympathy for the father seemingly bereft of all his sons,
until on a summer day cool and late he sees fluttering in the wind an
empty sleeve of army blue, beneath a face that he knew,—a scene which,
if constructed by the imagination, cannot help stirring the emotional
life of the reader and giving him proper tones and inflections in oral
reading while more fully realizing the price paid in war for the saving
of the nation. Very much of our thinking does not turn on images or
mental pictures. We do not primarily think justice, law, kindness, mercy
under the form of images, though by a secondary process we can throw
these ideas into concrete examples and image them as occurring in life.
Very many ideas cannot be made concrete in that way, as, for example,
the ideas of infinity, eternity. Sometimes an indistinct or faded image
does duty for the idea of horses in general, but in such cases the image
is representative of the idea, and should not be confounded with the
idea. Both are thoughts, but not all thoughts are ideas or images. Many
thoughts are propositions and cannot be imaged at all.
[Sidenote: Putting content into words.]
The images which go with words grow in fulness as one’s experience
enlarges. Take the word fire. The first idea was formed from fire in
the stove and in the smithy. A fuller idea resulted from the sight of a
distant mountain on fire. Then a distant conflagration resulting in the
loss of a block of town property gave the word still fuller content.
Finally, the destruction of the State Capitol, in which part of the
manuscript of a book, other valuable papers and records were destroyed,
and in which one or two friends almost lost their lives, gave a meaning
to the word fire which it never had before. Without doubt it hampers the
mind and impedes the logical processes of thought if the word invariably
calls up the idea of these fires with the accompanying emotions.
[Sidenote: Books on mathematics and other sciences.]
We saw the value of the labor-saving devices introduced by the symbols
and formulas of mathematics and other sciences. Analysts carry forward
long trains of thought by means of symbols whose meaning can be, but
is not always, called up with the successive links of the chain of
reasoning. In adding a column of figures, in solving an algebraic
equation, in reading a work on higher mathematics or logic, in thinking
the formulas of chemistry, physics, astronomy, etc., and in dealing
with objects, forces, and relations which have been accurately and
definitely quantified, the thinking may be carried forward by the use
of symbols which can be interpreted and applied whenever the occasion
requires, but whose meaning is not always present to the mind. In reading
of things which have not been quantified, the stream of thought often
flows on without images, or mental pictures, or copies of sensations.
Nevertheless, the examination of any school reader or book of selections
from the best literature will show how our best writers and orators
appeal to the imagination, and to what a large field the method of
thinking in images or mental pictures is applicable for the purpose of
securing due appreciation of good literature and proper expression in
oral reading.
The simplest thinking is the comparison of objects when these are present
to the senses. It prevails largely in the handicrafts and in the ordinary
duties of life. More difficult is the comparison of images or mental
pictures of things when these are not present to the senses, but must be
recalled by the memory. This thinking is essential to the appreciation of
poetry, to the vivid presentation of thought, and should not be neglected
by those who wish to move the multitudes with tongue or pen. “Imaging,”
says Dryden, “is in itself the very height and life of poetry, which,
by a kind of enthusiasm or extraordinary emotion of the soul, makes it
seem to us that we behold those things which the poet paints.” Higher,
from the scientist’s point of view, is the thinking in substitute symbols
which stand for ideas definitely fixed or quantified. Higher still is
the comparison of abstract and general ideas through expressive symbols,
including their application to the problems of life; for this is the kind
of thinking that characterizes the scientist and the philosopher, the
engineer and the surgeon, the editor and the orator, and, in fact, all
whose vocation has risen to the rank of a profession. But highest of all
is the thinking which creates and invents, begetting progress in science
and art, in literature and history, in government and civilization.
XV
THE STREAM OF THOUGHT IN WRITING, SPEAKING, AND ORAL READING
The highest joy is the freedom of the mind in the living play
of all its powers.
SCHILLER.
The historian Niebuhr, speaking of the historian’s vocation,
remarks that he who calls past ages into being enjoys a bliss
analogous to that of creating. With still more truth may we
say of that mind which is able, in the conscious awakening of
all its powers, to give full and satisfactory utterance to its
thick-coming thoughts, that it enjoys the joy of a creator. If
there is one bright particular hour in the life of the educated
man, in the career of the scholar, it is that hour for which
all other hours of student-life were made,—that hour in which
he gives original and full expression to what has been slowly
gendering within him.
SHEDD.
Unless a man can link his written thoughts with the everlasting
wants of men so that they shall draw from them as from wells,
there is no more immortality to the thoughts and feelings of
the soul than to the muscles and bones.
BEECHER.
XV
THE STREAM OF THOUGHT IN WRITING, SPEAKING, AND ORAL READING
[Sidenote: The first speech.]
Eventful in his career is the day on which a young person speaks in
public for the first time. His hands and arms are in his way; his lower
limbs quake; his lips and throat feel dry and parched; the vocal organs
refuse to obey his bidding; he experiences other discomforts which he
cannot explain and which are due to embarrassment and nervousness. What
is worst of all, he cannot tell what has gone wrong in his mind. If his
speech was committed, the memory fails to recall some word or sentence
that seems absolutely essential to the sequence of thought. If he speaks
extemporaneously, the stream of thought stops flowing, or turns back
in eddies, or perhaps spreads out over all the land instead of moving
towards the proper goal. In fact, all these annoyances have their fontal
source in the mind, in a play of emotions in which stage-fright is the
principal element. To this young man some trusted friend should whisper,
“Take courage;” for if ever in his life a young man needs encouragement
it is when he makes his first speech or preaches his first sermon.
[Sidenote: Public speakers are made, not born.]
Public speakers are made, not born. Native talent is helpful, but not all
sufficient. Most of the obstacles to success disappear as soon as one has
learned to think on his feet; that is, to control the stream of thought
when facing an audience.
[Sidenote: Dangers of fluency.]
There are, of course, exceptions to all rules. Some young men possess
an amount of self-confidence which is proof against embarrassment. Such
youth are sometimes gifted with a flow of words that is fatal to ultimate
success. It enables them to fill time without previous preparation.
Bautain describes a “fatal facility a thousand times worse than
hesitation or than silence, which drowns thought in floods of words, or
in a torrent of copiousness, sweeping away good earth and leaving behind
sand and stones alone. Heaven keep us from these interminable talkers,
such as are often to be found in southern countries, who deluge you,
relatively to anything and to nothing, with a shower of dissertation and
a down-pouring of their eloquence. During nine-tenths of the time there
is not one rational thought in the whole of this twaddle, carrying along
in its course every kind of rubbish and platitude. The class of persons
who produce a speech so easily and who are ready at the shortest moment
to extemporize a speech, a dissertation, or a homily, know not how to
compose a tolerable sentence; and I repeat that, with such exceptions as
defy all rule, he who has not learned how to write will never know how to
speak.”[40]
No one stands in greater need of the discipline derived from the use of
the pen than those who overflow with words and sentences. Their dearth
of ideas can be remedied in no other way. The sentence which escapes
from the lips is fleeting and soon forgotten. The sentence in black
and white, which stares you in the face from the written page, can be
read and re-read until its lack of sense and its wealth of nonsense and
absurdity grow too glaring to be endured. Paragraph after paragraph can
thus be tested, condensed, and stuffed full of meaning. This discipline
ultimately enables a fluent talker to speak with force and to the point,
because it gradually transforms his habits of thinking, deepening the
stream of thought and enabling it to carry craft too weighty to be borne
by a shallow stream.
[Sidenote: Hesitating speakers.]
The person who is afflicted with hesitation and embarrassment also
stands in sore need of the discipline of writing. In the solitude of the
home one can take time to find and fix the right word, to weave it into
sentences that stand the test of grammar, logic, and rhetoric, and to
arrange a line of thought from which everything irrelevant is excluded.
Embarrassment vanishes with the advent of the feeling that one has
something to say. The growth of language, which invariably accompanies
the evolution and clarification of thought, corrects hesitation. Soon
the hands drop to the side or obey the will in gesture, and the feeling
of ease begins to color the delivery. Nothing more beneficial can happen
to a young preacher than the call to preach the same discourse a number
of times in succession, each time to a different audience. Repetition
will make him a master of the train of ideas, improving his phraseology,
and deeping the stream of thought. Who has not watched with delight the
improvement in the presentation of a lecture heard from the same lips
half a dozen times in succession? The change for the better was due to
the deepening, straightening, and improvement of the channel in which the
stream of thought seems to flow.
[Sidenote: Writing.]
If a student several times each month during a college course writes out
and fixes a line of argument for a debate, he can acquire the power to
fix and retain the thoughts as fast as he writes. The habit of memorizing
the words is, of course, pernicious, because it is apt to make him the
slave of his manuscript, to destroy his freedom in meeting the blows of
an antagonist, and to divest him of the glow of feeling and animation
which gives force to the delivery while the mind is engaged in the
elaboration of the argument. The sequence of ideas rather than of words
should be fixed in the mind, very much as the student of Euclid fixes
in his mind, not the words, but the ideas which constitute the chain of
proof. This kind of practice gives a young speaker the sense of security
without destroying his freedom in modifying the line of thought while
standing upon his feet.
[Sidenote: Criticism.]
From this point of view the folly of much criticism in teaching is
very apparent. The current of thought is frequently interrupted by
drawing attention at the wrong time to mistakes in grammar and errors of
pronunciation. The proper time for such criticism is after the movement
of thought has reached the goal; and even then the critic should not call
attention to too many defects at one time; otherwise the effect will be
to discourage and bewilder the pupil.
[Sidenote: The thought.]
The stream of thought is the most essential thing in writing, speaking,
and oral reading. The management of face and hands and feet, the
postures of the body, and the vocal utterance should, of course, not
be neglected. The intelligent counsel of a good friend is needed to
point out mannerisms and eccentricities. The practice prescribed by a
wise teacher is helpful in pruning the delivery of defects and harmful
habits which are sure to grow where attention to the thought sinks the
delivery into the subconscious realm. Nevertheless, the main thing in
writing and speaking is the stream of thought. A profound truth was
stated by the Kentucky backwoodsman, who said that he would have it in
him to become as great an orator as Henry Clay, were it not that he found
himself lacking in two things: Whenever a favorable opportunity for a
great speech presented itself he never knew _what to say_ nor _how to
say it_. The how is more easily acquired than the _what_. Both should
receive attention, from the kindergarten to the university. The getting
of something to say is invention. It is the one thing in which special
teachers and special courses give least help. The power of invention is
acquired by years of effort and discipline. Tributaries from many sources
must pour into the stream of thought before it becomes full, copious, and
capable of carrying great thoughts, or of supplying the motive power for
great undertakings.
[Sidenote: Hinderances.]
In writing nothing should be allowed to interfere with the stream of
thought. Some can write in the midst of noise. Others must seek silence
and solitude. Gifted men like Horace Greeley can write in the cars, upon
the knee, anywhere. Habit has much to do with the art of composing. In
any event, the stream of thought must be kept flowing. In so far as
the rules of grammar, logic, rhetoric have become unconscious guiding
principles, they do not interfere with the evolution of thought. In so
far as they absorb the attention and hinder the flow of thought, they
should be cast to the winds during the first glow of writing. Better
think of these during the process of rewriting, polishing, and correcting.
So great a thinker and successful a writer as Charles Darwin makes the
following suggestive statement concerning his own methods of composing:
[Sidenote: How Darwin composed.]
“There seems to be a sort of fatality in my mind, leading me to put at
first my statement or proposition in a wrong or awkward form. Formerly
I used to think about my sentences before writing them down; but for
several years I have found that it saves time to scribble in a vile hand
whole pages as quickly as I possibly can, contracting half the words;
and then correct deliberately. Sentences thus scribbled down are often
better ones than I could have written deliberately.”[41]
No one should speak as he writes, nor should any one write as he speaks.
Few men are satisfied with the stenographic report of a speech, exactly
true to the language at the time of delivery. A reporter who cannot make
a speech read better, without changing the line of thought, than if it
were printed exactly as spoken is not a master of the art of reporting.
Written discourse abounds in longer sentences, in more involved
constructions, in forms of diction which please the eye, but are too
cumbersome for the voice and the ear. The public speaker is prone to use
short, simple sentences in which the subject of the sentence does not
pass out of the mind before the predicate is reached. His style abounds
in questions which arrest the attention of the hearer; if necessary, he
indulges in colloquial expressions to which the ears of the hearer are
accustomed, thereby bringing himself nearer the common people.
[Sidenote: Fox’s opinion.]
[Sidenote: Written discourse.]
Upon a speech delivered in the British Parliament high praise was
bestowed in the hearing of Mr. Fox. “Does it read well?” he inquired.
“Yes, grandly,” was the reply. “Then,” said he, “it was not a good
speech.” It may be difficult to point out exactly wherein speaking
differs from writing so far as the stream of thought is concerned; yet
one feels the difference. Austin Phelps shows the difference by using an
extract from an essay on the “End of God in Creation:”
“What was the final cause of creation? The transition from the
unconditioned to the conditioned is incomprehensible by the human
faculties. What that transition is, and how it could take place, and
how it became an actualized occurrence, it is confessed on all hands
are absolutely incomprehensible enigmas. We cannot reasonably imagine,
then, that, if we are thus ignorant of the nature and mode of this
stupendous fact, we can nevertheless comprehend its primitive ground,
can explore its ultimate reasons, can define its final motive. Nor can
we think to unveil the infinite soul at that moment when, according to
our conceptions, the eternal uniformity was interrupted and a new mode
of being, absolutely unintelligible to us, was first introduced. We
cannot think to grasp all the views which were present to that soul,
extending from the unbeginning past to the unending future, and to fathom
all its purposes, and to analyze all its motives. If anywhere, we must
here repel everything like dogmatic interpretation of the phenomena, and
admit whatever is put forth only as conjectural in its nature, or, at
all events, partial, and belonging far more to the surface than to the
interior of the subject.”
[Sidenote: Example of spoken discourse.]
One can easily see how ill adapted to oral delivery these sentences are.
Phelps throws the same leading thoughts and succession of thoughts into a
form adapted for public speaking:
“Why did God create the universe? Creation is incomprehensible to man.
What is creation? How was it possible? How did it ever come to be? I
cannot answer. Can you? Every man of common sense confesses his ignorance
here. But if we are ignorant of what creation is, and how it is, can we
imagine that we understand why it is? Shall we think to unveil the mind
of God in the stupendous act? That moment when God said ‘Let there be
light’ was a moment of which we can know nothing but that ‘there was
light.’ Shall we think to see all that God saw? Can we look through the
past without beginning, and the future without end, and fathom all His
purposes and all His motives? Can we, by searching, find out God? If we
must repel assertion anywhere, we must do so here. Whatever we may think,
it is but little more than guess-work. At the best it can be but knowing
in part. The most we can know must be on the surface. It cannot penetrate
to the heart of the matter.”[42]
[Sidenote: Two kinds of style.]
The plan of writing down a line of discussion helps to clarify the
thought. Casting aside the manuscript as soon as the sequence of ideas is
fixed in the mind emancipates the speaker from the written page. Several
years of practice develop two kinds of style, one adapted for writing,
the other for speaking. After this stage of development is reached, it
may be no longer necessary to formulate on paper every line of argument.
Nevertheless, the pen cannot be laid aside entirely without detriment to
the quality of the thought and the effectiveness of oral discourse.
[Sidenote: Dictating.]
Everything calculated to interfere with the stream of thought should, so
far as possible, be eliminated from the act of composing. Some men find
the pen an irksome drain upon their energy and vitality. Their thought
moves faster than they can write. The employment of a stenographer aids
them in the work of composing. The danger against which they must guard
is a growing dislike to the use of the pen, and a deterioration of their
style resulting in the obliteration of the difference which distinguishes
effective speaking from successful writing.
[Sidenote: Lectures and orations.]
There is a radical difference between a lecture and an oration. Public
speaking which partakes of the nature of the lecture, aiming primarily
at instruction or the communication of knowledge, may be assisted by
experiments, by maps, charts, and pictures upon the screen, by specimens
and models designed to throw light upon the theme under discussion.
Public speaking which partakes of the nature of oratory, its aim being to
move the will to action, is generally limited in the appliances it can
utilize, and in the way it must appeal to the hearer. It must not exhaust
the attention of the hearer by consuming his time in the establishment of
principles, and in showing, by lengthy details, how results are obtained.
Far better is it to cite authorities, to quote their language if
necessary, and to make the application to the case in hand. In referring
to recognized standards, like a dictionary, a treatise on law, or the
Sacred Scriptures, it is always best to quote the exact words. This is
also more appropriate on the written page than a reproduction of the
thought in inferior forms of statement. In public speaking, however, the
original statement may be too involved, and a breaking up into shorter,
simpler sentences may aid the forward movement of the stream of thought.
The first aim of the speaker is to be understood. If he fails to reach
the understanding, he can neither persuade nor convince, nor spur the
will to action.
[Sidenote: Starting in too high a key.]
There is another limitation to the kind of public speaking which partakes
of the nature of oratory. The idea which the speaker seeks to have
realized in the vote, or verdict, or conduct of others, must be carried
back to the necessary ideas of the hearer. The full discussion of this
peculiarity in the stream of thought belongs to treatises on rhetoric.
Such a discussion can be found in Theremin’s Rhetoric, translated by
Shedd. Suffice it to say that the recognition of this principle makes
the speaker a more thoughtful man. It causes him to rely for the effect
he seeks to produce upon solid and sterling qualities rather than showy
rhetoric. It tends to make the stream of thought flow deeper, fuller,
yet clearer and with more power. Any interference with the stream of
thought while the speaker is before the audience may be disastrous.
The crying of a child, or an outburst of feeling in the audience,
or some other mishap may disconcert his mind. Legouvé tells how the
world-renowned advocate, Berryer, lost a very good cause by unconsciously
starting his speech in too high a key. “His temples soon felt the unusual
fatigue of the larynx; from the temples it passed to the brain; the
strain being too great, the brain gave way; the thought became confused,
and the language disarranged and indistinct.” He broke down in open court
because he never thought of descending from the lofty perch on which
his voice started at the beginning of his plea. Legouvé claims, and the
experience of many speakers confirms the claim, that the abuse of the
high notes has not infrequently affected injuriously the orator’s very
flow of thought.
[Sidenote: The three generals.]
Three generals made stump speeches on a joint trip during the last
Presidential campaign. One day the name of the candidate of the other
great political party was mentioned, when there was a perfect storm of
applause in the gallery. A second reference elicited similar applause,
and the disconcerted general, who had bravely faced the enemy on the
battle-field, took his seat. The next general, walking on a crutch,
came forward, and requested that all who had been sent to disturb the
meeting should rise. Ho one moved. He exclaimed, “There are some cowards
here.” Then he asked that all who had come to listen and learn should
rise. Everybody rose. He exclaimed, “There are some liars here.” Next
he announced that any one attempting to disturb the meeting would be
pitched out of doors, the general on the crutch declaring he would
lead the attack. Soon a man arose as if to ask a question. Whereupon
a big burly policeman threw the fellow out, and there was no further
outside interference with the stream of thought in the mind of speaker
or listeners. The man on the platform always has the advantage over
disturbers in the audience, provided he is master of his faculties, full
of resources, and quick at repartee.
[Sidenote: The schools of France.]
[Sidenote: The reading lesson.]