When the audience has been induced to listen, the rest should be easy for the good speaker. Then comes into action his skill at explanation, his ability to reason and convince, to persuade and sway, which is the speaker's peculiar art. If they will listen to him, he should be able to instruct them. The introduction must, so far as this last is concerned, clear the way for the remainder of the speech. The methods by which such instruction, reasoning, and persuasion are effected best will be treated later in this book.
Having covered the preceding explanation of the aims and forms of introductions, let us look at a few which have been delivered by regularly practising speech-makers before groups of men whose interest, concern, and business it was to listen. All men who speak frequently are extremely uneven in their quality and just as irregular in their success. One of the best instances of this unevenness and irregularity was Edmund Burke, whose career and practice are bound to afford food for thought and discussion to every student of the power and value of the spoken word. Some of Burke's speeches are models for imitation and study, others are warnings for avoidance. At one time when he felt personally disturbed by the actions of the House of Commons, because he as a member of the minority could not affect the voting, he began a speech exactly as no man should under any circumstances. No man in a deliberative assembly can be excused for losing control of himself. Yet Burke opened his remarks with these plain words.
"Mr. Speaker! I rise under some embarrassment occasioned by a feeling of delicacy toward one-half of the House, and of sovereign contempt for the other half."
This is childish, of course. A man may not infrequently be forced by circumstances to speak before an audience whose sentiments, opinions, prejudices, all place them in a position antagonistic to his own. How shall he make them well-disposed, attentive, willing to be instructed? The situation is not likely to surround a beginning speaker, but men in affairs, in business, in courts, must be prepared for such circumstances. One of the most striking instances of a man who attempted to speak before an antagonistic group and yet by sheer power of his art and language ended by winning them to his own party is in Shakespeare's Julius Caesar when Mark Antony speaks over his dead friend's body. Brutus allows it, but insists on speaking to the people first that he may explain why he and his fellow conspirators assassinated the great leader. It was a mistake to allow a person from the opposite party to have the last word before the populace, but that is not the point just here. Brutus is able to explain why a group of noble Romans felt that for the safety of the state and its inhabitants, they had to kill the rising favorite who would soon as King rule them all. When he ceases speaking, the citizens approve the killing. Mark Antony perceives that, so at the beginning of his speech he seems to agree with the people. Caesar was his friend, yet Brutus says he was ambitious, and Brutus is an honorable man. Thus the skilful orator makes the populace well-disposed towards him, then attentive.
Having secured those things he proceeds slowly and unobtrusively to instruct them. It takes only a few lines until he has made them believe all he wants them to; before the end of his oration he has them crying out upon the murderers of their beloved Caesar, for whose lives they now thirst. Yet only ten minutes earlier they were loudly acclaiming them as deliverers of their country. The entire scene should be analyzed carefully by the student. It is the second scene of the third act of the play.
In actual life a man would hardly have to go so far as seemingly to agree with such opposite sentiments as expressed in this situation from a stage tragedy. It is general knowledge that during the early years of the American Civil War England sympathized with the southern states, mainly because the effective blockade maintained by the North prevented raw cotton from reaching the British mills. Henry Ward Beecher attempted to present the union cause to the English in a series of addresses throughout the country. When he appeared upon the platform in Liverpool the audience broke out into a riot of noise which effectively drowned all his words for minutes. The speaker waited until he could get in a phrase. Finally he was allowed to deliver a few sentences. By his patience, his appeal to their English sense of fair play, and to a large degree by his tolerant sense of humor, he won their attention. His material, his power as a speaker did all the rest.
It is a matter of very little consequence to me, personally, whether I speak here tonight or not. [Laughter and cheers.] But one thing is very certain, if you do permit me to speak here tonight, you will hear very plain talking. [Applause and hisses.] You will not find me to be a man that dared to speak about Great Britain three thousand miles off, and then is afraid to speak to Great Britain when he stands on her shores. [Immense applause and hisses.] And if I do not mistake the tone and temper of Englishmen they had rather have a man who opposes them in a manly way [applause from all parts of the hall] than a sneak that agrees with them in an unmanly way. [Applause and "Bravo!"] Now, if I can carry you with me by sound convictions, I shall be immensely glad [applause]; but if I cannot carry you with me by facts and sound arguments, I do not wish you to go with me at all; and all that I ask is simply fair play. [Applause, and a voice: "You shall have it too.".]
Those of you who are kind enough to wish to favor my speaking—and you will observe that my voice is slightly husky, from having spoken almost every night in succession for some time past—those who wish to hear me will do me the kindness simply to sit still and to keep still; and I and my friends the Secessionists will make the noise. [Laughter.]