criticism has not died. Refined natures have heartstrings like
the chords of Aeolian harps, sensitive to the faintest touch,
responsive to the gentlest whisper of the evening breeze; such
shrink in terror from the icy breath of the scoffer: the purpose
is frozen dead within their souls. O criticism! what crimes have
been committed in your name! How many noble careers have you
blasted?
[Side note: The world's greatest orators]
The man without ambition is not worth his salt. Some of the
world's greatest orators have been spurred on to triumph despite
difficulties before which timid men would stand aghast.
The story of Demosthenes is too familiar to bear repetition.
A good voice and commanding presence are powerful auxiliaries
towards oratorical success; but Curran's appearance was so mean
that he was once taken for a shoeblack. His stammering, blunders,
and collapses in early life earned for him the nickname of
"Orator Mum." Yet to what a lofty eminence did not his sleepless
endeavours lift him!
If Sheil's portraits speak truly he must have closely resembled a
starved sweep on a wet day, while Disraeli declares his voice was
as unmusical as the sound of a broken tin whistle. Of him Lecky
writes:--"Richard Lalor Shiel forms one of the many examples
history presents of splendid oratorical powers clogged by
insuperable natural defects. His person was diminutive and wholly
devoid of dignity. His voice shrill, harsh, and often rising to a
positive shriek. His action, when most natural, violent, without
gracefulness, and eccentric even to absurdity."[3]
[3] Lecky--"Leaders of Public Opinion in Ireland," p. 194.
In spite of these defects, and at a period when the nation's ear
was pampered to fastidiousness by the eloquence of Grattan, Flood
and O'Connell, he began his upward struggle towards eminence. He
not only succeeded in winning a foremost place, but in wreathing
himself with deathless fame when laurels shaded the brows of
giants alone.
In face of these encouraging examples who could lose heart when
the trumpet of ambition blows--"struggle, struggle, struggle."
"Scorn delights and live laborious days."
CHAPTER SIXTH
THE ART OF ELOCUTION
The subject of preaching would be incomplete without a chapter on
the important and graceful art of elocution.
[Side note: What books should we read?]
If asked what works would a student read on the subject, the
wisest answer would be, every book he can lay hold of. The number
of works dealing with rhetoric are few, but if a man can get
half-a-dozen new ideas from any one of them his labour is more
than repaid. Even should he meet the same thought repeated, the
fact that it is clothed in different language and set in a new
light invests it with a freshness that is sure to fix it
permanently in his mind.
If, however, the question be narrowed down to which are the three
best books on this subject? without pretending to give a decisive
answer to this difficult question we have no hesitation in saying
that, for the ecclesiastical student, "Potter's Sacred
Eloquence," "The Making of an Orator," by Mr. John O'Connor
Power, and Mr. McHardy Flint's little work, "Natural Elocution,"
will be found most useful.
Some of the thoughts in this chapter are borrowed from the last
two authors.
With this general acknowledgment both gentlemen will, we are
sure, be content when we spare the reader repeated references to
either titles or pages of their works.
[Side note: What is rhetoric?]
[Side note: Cicero]
At the threshold of our subject we are met by the question--What
is rhetoric? Mr. Power gives the answer--"The resources of
rhetoric are natural resources, and rules for composition are
only records intended for the guidance of those who have not
discovered the originals for themselves. The first speakers had
no rules and no experience to draw upon but their own. In course
of time speeches came to be reported, and then the secret of
their eloquence disclosed itself. All the qualities of the orator
were then observed; the highest and the best were chosen and
combined and erected into an art, which was named Rhetoric. This
art was designed to _aid_ speakers and not as a means of
_fettering their natural ability_." Cicero has put almost the
same thoughts in different words--"I consider that, with regard
to all precept, the case is this; not that orators by adhering to
them have obtained distinction in eloquence, but that certain
persons have noticed what men of eloquence have practised of
their own accord, and formed rules accordingly; _so that
eloquence has not sprung from art, but art from eloquence_." This
is not only sound theory, but sound sense. It shatters a
time-worn fallacy and gives hope and encouragement to the
student. Every man can become an orator in a greater or a less
degree. The powers slumber within him; and the teacher's duty is
not to create but awaken, draw out, develop and guide these
inborn gifts.
Now, the question is--By what standard shall the speaker be
trained? The master-hand of Shakespere has framed a set of rules
that will stand for all time as the most pregnant piece of wisdom
ever penned on the art of elocution. Though Hamlet's advice is
addressed to actors, there is scarcely a line which the young
orator can afford to ignore. He would do well to commit the
entire piece to memory.
[Side note: Shakespere's advice to speakers]
"Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you,
trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of our
players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do
not saw the air too much with your hand thus: but use all gently;
for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of
your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may
give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul, to hear a
robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to
very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings; who, for the
most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and
noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o'er-doing
Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it. Be not too
tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the
action to the word, the word to the action; with this special
observance, that you o'er-step not the modesty of nature; for
anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end,
both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as 'twere the
mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her
own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and
pressure. Now this, overdone, or come tardy off, though it make
the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the
censure of which one, must, in your allowance, o'er-weigh a whole
theatre of others. O, there be players, that I have seen
play--and heard others praise, and that highly--not to speak it
profanely, that, neither having the accent of christians, nor the
gait of christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted, and
bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had
made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so
abominably."
[Side note: Avoid extremes]
It will be well to observe that throughout this advice the poet
is careful to warn us against extremes--neither to tear a passion
to rags nor to be too tame--he insists on moderation. Even in the
very tempest of passion one must not lose self-control nor make
extravagant use of the hands. The "overdone" and the "come tardy
off" are the two poles to be shunned.
"Speak the speech as I pronounced it." By placing the two words
"speak" and "pronounce" in contrast, Hamlet leads us to infer
that in reading the play over for the actors his principal care
was to give perfect articulation. "Speak the speech as I
_pronounced_ it."
"Trippingly on the tongue." Evidently the slow, thick utterance
of the mumbling speaker, to the roof of whose mouth the words
seem to cling, was not unknown in Shakespere's day. As a remedy
against this he tells them to "speak it trippingly." No word in
the English language could so clearly convey the case. Nimble,
airy resonance is suggested by the very sound of the word
"trippingly."
[Side note: Two errors]
Having given this advice he hastens to warn them against the
opposite extreme: "But if you mouth it." He wants no boisterous
notes of artificial passion: he would as lief the town-crier
spoke his lines. The office of that humble functionary demands
not the graces of finished elocution, only strong lungs with
which to shout; hence a piece of delicate pathos or varied
passions would probably receive scant justice at his hands. But
even the town-crier is tolerable--he is nature's product--
compared with the workmanship of nature's journeymen--those who
strut and bellow. "They imitate humanity so abominably" that
their delivery touches the extremest limit of all that is
reprehensible in elocution.
[Side note: Gesture]
"Suit the action to the word, the word to the action." Here we
have the fundamental law for the use of gesture.
Gesture is not an artificial action standing apart from, or added
to, the words. It is thought seeking spontaneous, visible,
outward expression through the movements of the hand or eye or
features just at the moment when that same thought is receiving
articulate birth on the tongue. Its purpose is to make the words
grow large, as it were; to expand and emphasise their meaning;
hence the wisdom of the advice--"Suit the action to the word, the
word to the action." If the action distract the listeners'
attention from the word its purpose is defeated.
Now that we have an idea of what elocution is, and analysed the
wisest set of rules ever framed for its government, we turn to
the mechanical agencies by which it is produced--breathing,
resonance, inflection.
[Side note: How to inhale]
When a person draws in the air through the mouth, the cold,
unpurified stream strikes directly on the back of the roof,
causing dryness and irritation. To avoid this the preacher,
except when actually engaged in speaking, should inhale through
the nose. The advantages of so doing are considerable. The air
inhaled through the nasal organs is drawn over the roof of the
mouth and soft palate, and thus warmed by contact with the
blood-vessels; so that it is rendered innoxious by the time it
reaches the throat. Again, any particles of dust or other
impurities it might contain are caught by the filterers or hairs
situated in the nasal cavities for that purpose. Thus it reaches
the tender vocal chords both warmed and purified. To these may be
added another advantage: it is more becoming to inhale with
closed lips--the picture of a speaker gasping open-mouthed is not
a graceful one.
[Side note: How use the lungs]
We now come to the important question--How shall I increase my
vocal powers? As is well known, there are two methods of inhaling
and expelling the air from the lungs. One is by means of the
rising and falling of the ribs. This is called "the costal
method." The other is by the contraction and distention of the
midriff or diaphragm. The diaphragm is the movable floor to the
thorax or box that encloses the lungs. This is called "the
diaphragmatic method." Now, since God has furnished us with both
methods, He evidently intended that we should use both, as we use
our two eyes or our two ears. They are given, not as alternative,
but as simultaneous instruments of action. The weakness in many a
speaker's voice, its want of volume and its failure when a
sustained effort is demanded, is due to the fact that he breathes
by means of his ribs alone, throwing all the pressure on the
upper portion of the lungs, not asking the large areas to
contribute anything. He thus robs himself of breathing capacity,
and consequently of voice power.
[Side note: Diaphragmatic breathing]
To get a perfect mastery over the "diaphragmatic" method and make
it as serviceable as possible, practise breathing while lying on
your back, filling the lungs to the utmost, and exhausting them
as completely as possible. Inhale rapidly and exhale slowly. Then
reverse the order; inhale slowly and exhale rapidly. Again let
"slow" and "rapid" alternately make both movements.
By this exercise you acquire flexibility of the midriff muscles,
you enlarge the cubic dimensions of the breathing area, you
distribute the burden generally; and when the occasion comes to
send your voice over four thousand heads you will discover that
the reserve fund of voice and strength acquired by this practice
is at your service. This plan bears that highest and safest
sanction--_in practical experience it has proved a genuine
success_.
[Side note: A clergyman's sore throat]
The ailment known as "a clergyman's sore throat" is too common
and too serious to be passed over--the raucous, husky voice sawn
across the throat, the congested blood-vessels, the strained
muscles, the throat lining as raw as a beefsteak. Here you have
evident results of some unnatural effort. What is it? In ordinary
conversation we employ the throat, back of the mouth and vocal
chords mainly: very little demand is made on the lungs. The voice
we use is the "head voice." Now, when called on to fill a large
building, the centre of stress should instantly be shifted from
the mouth and throat to the lungs. On them the whole weight
should be flung--then you produce the "chest voice." It is the
want of this transference of strain from the throat to the lungs
that causes the misery called "a clergyman's sore throat." Men
endeavour to fill a large building with precisely the same set of
organs that they use when speaking by the fireside. The strain
intended for the broad-based, strong-fibred lungs is kept on the
delicate vocal chords, palate and throat. These were never built
for that purpose, and nature kicks against the outrage. The
throat becomes congested, parched, torn and raw; the voice grows
husky, cracked, and finally ends in a scream. Here is the genesis
of the fatal "clergyman's sore throat" explained.
[Side note: An illustration]
Analogy makes this clearer still. Our back teeth were built for
the purpose of grinding; hence their broad crowns, strong shafts,
and firm roots; the teeth in the front of the mouth were intended
for tasks not at all so arduous. Tamper with this arrangement;
transfer the laborious work of mastication to the front teeth,
and see how nature will punish you. This illustrates the outrage
committed when the strain and effort that should be shifted to
the lungs are allowed to rest on the slender organs intended for
the entirely different purpose of modulation.
[Side note: How acquire a chest voice]
One question remains--How can a person cultivate a chest voice?
How bring the voice directly from the lungs without in the least
distressing the throat? This is all important. The young speaker
should practise for a short time daily the method of lifting,
first, words and then sentences straight from the lungs without
making the least possible demand on the throat or vocal chords,
stealing each word out of the depths of the lungs, afraid, as it
were, of awakening the upper organs. When he has acquired this
habit of speaking words and sentences, let him practise a verse
or two of declamation. In a short time he will be surprised at
his progress in acquiring a chest voice. In public speaking it
will become his ordinary voice; for not only does the established
habit assist him, but the organs daily develop and fit themselves
to his purpose, and he learns to transfer the stress from his
throat to his lungs as easily and quickly and instinctively as
the pianist passes his fingers from the treble to the base notes
on the keyboard.
The test of any theory is--How has it worked in practice? The
method of voice production here recommended has given the writer
advantages that it would be difficult to overestimate. Lungs
naturally weak grew to three times their former size and
strength; his voice increased in depth, richness and resonance;
though constantly speaking in large churches for years, he has
never known what hoarseness, sore throat or huskiness is.
A method that to him has been worth untold gold may not be
without advantage to his readers.
[Side note: Resonance]
We must, however, have more than speech; we must have musical
speech. This is acquired by resonance and inflection.
To send a stream of air from the lungs and vocalise it on its
outward passage is not enough; by this you produce only a tiny,
impoverished voice that conveys no force and awakens no emotion.
There is something wanting; that something is--Resonance. It
supplies richness and effectiveness to the stream of sound.
[Side note: An illustration]
The difference between speech stripped of resonance and
accompanied with it is best illustrated by a simple experiment.
Take a violin-string in your hand: touch it, and mark the sound
produced--how weak and thin. Now, attach the string to the
violin: touch it again, and see how the resonating instrument
converts the feeble sound of the detached string into a sonorous
wave of vibrating music. Now, the vocal chords are placed in the
throat midway between two resonators--the chest and the head.
These are to the chords what the body of the violin is to the
string. When the stream of air has passed the chords it is
already accompanied by the vibrations of the chest, but the head
is the main contributor. The residual air in the upper portions
of the throat, mouth and nasal cavities is thrown into vibration.
Here the importance of the subject reveals itself. The art that
can convert a screech into pleasing cadences of soft sound is no
trifle. Nasal resonance must not be confounded with nasal twang.
The one is produced by vibrating the air in the cavities, the
twang by expelling it from them. The part played by each organ in
voice production may be briefly summarised:--The lungs send out a
stream of air; the vocal chords, principally, modulate it; the
head and chest give it resonance.
Now, that it is clearly evident God intended us to speak and sing
to the accompaniment of these aerial orchestras concealed in the
head and chest, the only remaining question is--How we shall use
them?
[Side note: Advice how to avoid screech]
Take care never to exhaust these reservoirs of air; if you do the
result will be screech and shout. No matter what demand is made
on you, be sure to hold a reserve supply of residual air: set it
vibrating, and your voice on its outward passage will receive an
enrichment of volume, force, and music.
[Side note: Inflection: its necessity]
"Go slowly and articulate well" are not sufficient. "Inflect your
language" must be added. A student should practise assiduously
till his sentences become as flexible as a cutting whip, capable
of being bent to every mood and of lending themselves to every
passion. In pathos his words should sink almost to a sob, tearful
in their plaintiveness; in denunciation they should rise,
muttering the voices of the storms; and in narrative the proper
pitch is ordinary middle tone.
[Side note: French and English want inflection]
It is in this want of inflective grace that English, and more
especially French, speakers lose so much of their force. Both
read admirably and articulate with precision, but the unvaried
straight line tone, so suited to reading, will not serve the
purpose when we not only wish to make people understand, but also
endeavour to move their passions.
[Side note: The secret power of a good story-teller]
Recall a good story-teller or speaker of whom you never wearied;
go back in memory and see how much he owed to the power contained
in the inflected voice--the varied tones that sank or swelled as
suited the mood or passion.
As you sat by the winter's fire your flesh was made to creep and
your hair stood on end in terror while you furtively stole a
glance around looking for the apparition described in the weird
ghost story. The secret power that somewhere lay enthralled you.
Was it not in the husky whisper or the hush of restraint? Let
that speaker tell the same story in the middle pitched narrative
tone, and lo! the spell is vanished. If the thunder thrills that
rocked and vibrated through his voice were taken from
Demosthenes, would he have ever driven Eschines into exile?
[Side note: Two advantages of inflection]
The practice of varied cadences in speech has two genuine
advantages--_it saves the speaker from fatigue and the hearers
from weariness_.
When a man varies his tone of voice he breaks up the arrangement
in the group of muscles that till then bore the stress of effort:
a new combination is formed, and the work transferred to fresh
muscles. This brings instant relief. A similar sense of
refreshment comes to his hearers.
In speaking, as in singing, we must have melody, but there is no
melody without variety. People would rush even from a Melba if
she sang every note in the same key. Inflection not only
constitutes the melody of speech, but imparts to it rhetorical
significance and logical force.
The want of success in many a speaker who has both a good voice
and good matter may be found in the fact that his voice, instead
of being as flexible as a piece of whalebone, is as unbending as
a bar of iron; or, worse still, perhaps he adopts the dreary
monotony of the sing-song tone: the two unvarying notes so
suggestive of the up and down movements of a pump-handle. This
"cuckoo" tone would blight the best written sermon.
[Side note: Two impediments to good preaching]
Nothing now remains except to warn the young preacher against the
two most common defects--affectation of voice and word-dropping
at the end of the sentences.
[Side note: An artificial tone of voice]
"Preach," says Dr. Ireland, "in a manner that the people will
understand, and that goes straight to their hearts, and not in
the stilted phraseology of the seventeenth century sermon." Sage
advice! The comic stage has set the world laughing at the
grotesque inflections of the parson preacher; but is his
counterpart never found amongst ourselves. Is the Catholic pulpit
free from speakers whose ridiculous cadences at once class them
amongst the disciples of the Rev. Mr. Spalding?
[Side note: Artificiality means failure]
We have met priests, typical of a considerably large class, who,
in ordinary conversation, could speak in a manner both natural
and pleasing; who, when roused, could be even eloquently
convincing; who, at the dinner-table and even on the platform,
are listened to with pleasure, yet let one of them go into a
pulpit, and fifteen minutes exhausts the patience of the most
charitable congregation. Should he exceed this limit there are
suppressed sighs and ominous consulting of watches. Why? Because
in the pulpit he adopts an artificial tone of voice. In some
instances it takes the shape of a pious whine, in others of a
drone. But in whatever shape it finds expression the hollow ring
of the unreal is there to damn it.
[Side note: How he came to acquire it]
A hoary tradition made it venerable in his eyes. As a boy he
heard it from a pastor to whom he was accustomed to look with
reverence.
He came to persuade himself that, like a "judge's gravity" or a
"soldier's step," a priest too should bear a professional
hallmark, and this should be a "preacher's voice," so he acquired
it. Fatal acquisition!
The peculiarity of it is that this tone is reserved exclusively
for the pulpit. Not a whisper of it heard during the week. It is
his "preaching voice," and like his "preaching stole" or
"preaching surplice" it is laid aside till Sunday brings him
again before the congregation.
[Side note: The result of the artificial tone]
What madness! Adopting this tone is like drawing the lead from
the pistol or putting a foil on the rapier: it defeats his
purpose, it renders his weapon ineffective. So far from setting
his congregation on fire he sets them asleep; instead of sending
them away with clenched convictions they leave the church
tittering, or perhaps in bad temper.
[Side note: Priests never use in moments of serious issues]
I would like to ask such a man--If you were pleading in a court
for your character or before an angry mob for your life is it on
this antiquated weapon you would rely? Would not nature's
unerring instinct tell you to fling it to the winds and stake
your fortunes on the untrammeled outpouring of head and heart?
Every tone would ring with earnestness: every sentence thrill
with passion.