Fluency and accuracy in the use of words are two qualities that have often been confounded, but are really distinct. They are of equal importance to the speaker, while the writer has most need of the latter. All words have separate and well-defined meanings. They are not the product of a day, but have been building up through long ages. By strange turns, and with many a curious history, have they glided into the significations they now bear; but each one has become imbedded in the minds of the people as the representative of a certain idea. No two words are precisely alike. They are delicate paints that, to the untutored eye, may seem of one color, but each of which has its own place in the picture created by the hand of genius, that can be supplied by no other. Many ways have been suggested to learn these fine shades of meaning. It is often supposed that the study of the so-called learned languages—Latin and Greek—is the best and almost only method. This will certainly give a large amount of information concerning the origin and formation of words; but it cannot fix their signification at the present day, for radical changes of meaning often take place. A linguist can use his knowledge to great advantage; but the man who knows no language but his own need not consider himself as debarred from the very highest place as a master of words. He can obtain the same knowledge in a more condensed and accessible form by the study of a good etymological dictionary. In general reading, let him mark every word he does not perfectly understand, and referring to the dictionary, find what it came from, the meaning of its roots, and its varied significations at the present day. This will make the word so familiar, that, when he meets it again, it will seem like an old acquaintance, and he will notice if the author uses it correctly. He may not be able thus to study every word in the language, but will be led to think of the meaning of each one he sees; and from this silent practice will learn the beauty and power of the English tongue as perfectly as if he were master of the languages of Greece and Rome. If this habit is long-continued, it will teach him to use words truly in his very thoughts, and then he cannot mistake even in the hurry of speech.
Translating from any language, ancient or modern, will have just the same tendency to teach accurate expression as careful original composition. In either case, improvement comes from the search for words that will exactly convey certain ideas, and it matters not what the source of these latter may be. The use of a good manual of synonyms—a thesaurus, or storehouse of words—may be of service, by showing all terms that relate to any object in one view, and allowing us to choose the most suitable.
But none of these methods will very greatly increase our fluency. There is a difference between merely knowing a term and that easy use long practice alone can give. Elihu Burritt, with his fifty languages, has often been surpassed in fluency, force and variety of expression by an unlettered rustic, because the few words the latter knew were always ready. This readiness will always increase by use. The blacksmith’s arm, hardening by the exertion it puts forth, is a trite illustration of the effect of exercise; and the man who is always applying to ideas and things the verbal signs by which they are known, will increase the facility with which he can call them to mind. If he does not employ them properly, his manner will not improve, and with all his fluency he will speak incorrectly. But if he speak in accordance with established usage, his ability will daily increase.
Conversation is an excellent means for this kind of cultivation. We do not mean a running fire of question and answer, glancing so rapidly back and forth as to give no time for premeditating or explaining anything, but real, rational talk—an exchange of ideas, so clearly expressed as to make them intelligible. The man who deals much in this kind of conversation can scarcely fail to become a master of the art of communicating his thoughts in appropriate language. Talk, express your ideas when you can with propriety, or when you have an idea to express. Do it in the best way possible. If hard at first, it will become easier, and thus you will learn eloquence in the best and most pleasing school. For the common conversational style—that in which man deals with his fellowman—is the germ of true oratory. It may be amplified and systematized; but talking bears to eloquence the same relation the soil does to the tree that springs from its bosom.
But the best thoughts of men are seldom found floating on the sea of common talk. If we wish to drink the deepest inspiration, our minds must come often in loving contact with the words of the great and mighty of every age. There we will find “thought knit close to thought;” and, what is more to the present purpose, words, in their best acceptance, so applied as to breathe and live. We can read these passages until their spirit sinks into our hearts, and their melody rings in our ears like a song of bliss. If we commit them to memory, it will be a profitable employment. The words of which they are composed, with the meanings they bear in their several places, will thus be fixed in our minds, and ready to drop on our tongues when they are needed. This conning of passages is not recommended for the purpose of quotation, though they may often be thus used to good advantage; but to print the individual words of which they are composed more deeply on the memory.
This may be effected also by committing selections from our own compositions. What is thus used should be polished, and yet preserve, as far as possible, the natural form of expression. When this is done to a moderate extent, it has a tendency to elevate the character of our extemporaneous efforts by erecting a standard that is our own, and therefore suited to our tastes and capacities, at the very highest point we can reach. But if this is made habitual, it will interfere with the power of spontaneous production, and thus contribute to destroy the faculty it was designed to cultivate. Ministers who write and commit all their sermons, are accustomed to read from a mental copy of their manuscript; and the force of habit binds them more and more closely to it until they cannot speak otherwise. When such persons are unexpectedly called upon to make a speech, they do it, not in the simple, easy language that becomes such an occasion, but by throwing together bits of previously-committed addresses. They have made what might be an agent of improvement, the means of so stereotyping their minds that they can only move in one channel unless time is given them to dig out another.
There is no means of cultivating language that surpasses extempore speech itself. The only difficulty is to find occasion to speak often enough. The pioneer Methodist itinerants, who had to preach every day in the week, enjoyed this mode of cultivation to its full extent; and whatever may be thought of their other merits, their fluency of speech is beyond question. But long intervals of preparation bring counterbalancing advantages at the present time. Let these be improved in the way indicated hereafter, and the preacher will come to the sacred desk with a power increased by each effort.
When a thought is clearly understood, it will fall into words as naturally as a summer cloud, riven by lightning, dissolves into rain. So easy is it to express an idea, or series of ideas, that have been completely mastered, that a successful minister once said: “It is a preacher’s own fault if he ever fails in a sermon. Let him prepare as he ought, and there is no danger.” The assertion was too sweeping, for there are sometimes external causes that will prevent full success. Yet there is no doubt that the continuance of this thorough preparation, in connection with frequent speaking, will give very great ease of expression. “The blind, but eloquent” Milburn, says, that he gave four years of his life—the time spent as chaplain at Washington—to acquire the power of speaking correctly and easily without the previous use of the pen, and considered the time exceedingly well spent. His manner is that most difficult to acquire—the diffuse, sparkling, rhetorical style so much prized by those who prefer flower to fruit. An earnest, nervous, and yet elegant style can be acquired by most persons in much less time.
There is another thought that those who complain of deficient language would do well to ponder. No one can use words well on any subject of which he is ignorant. The most fluent man, who knows nothing of astronomy, would find himself at great loss for words if he attempted to explain the phenomena of the heavenly bodies. Even if he were shown an orrery, and thus led to comprehend their motions, he would still be ignorant of the proper terms by which such knowledge is conveyed. If he attempted to explain what he understood so imperfectly, he would be apt to hesitate, and finally use words and names incorrectly. As our ideas become clear and defined, there is an intense hungering for the terms by which they are expressed; and this hunger will lead to its own supply. Let us increase our fluency by extending the bounds of our knowledge; but ask of language nothing more than belongs to its true function—to furnish means of expression for the ideas we already possess.
The voice, assisted by gesture, forms the immediate link between the speaker and his audience. Its qualities are of great importance, although, in some quarters, over-estimated. A good voice, well managed, gives powerful and vivid expression to thought, but cannot answer as a substitute for it. Neither is it indispensable. We have known many and great instances of success against much vocal disadvantage; but this only proves that its absence may be compensated by other excellencies. We can never be indifferent to the charm of a well-modulated voice, bending to every emotion, and responsive to the finest shades of feeling. It makes ordinary talk so smooth and pleasant as to be generally acceptable, but can never raise it to greatness. The instances that are given to prove this, do not seem capable of bearing such an interpretation. Whitefield is sometimes spoken of as an instance of what can be accomplished by masterly elocution; but he was a man of fervent, if not profound thought. His emotion was overpowering, and his voice, with all its melody, was only an instrument for its expression. Let a bad or indifferent man have Whitefield’s voice and manner in completeness, and he would be but a disgusting declaimer. It is soul that must speak through the voice to other souls, and only thus can the mighty effects of eloquence be produced.