We do not think there is much virtue in the merely mechanical training of the voice. To teach the pupil just what note on the scale he must strike to express a particular emotion, how much of an inflection must be used to indicate sudden joy or sorrow, and how many notes down the scale mark a complete suspension of sense, is absurd. Speech can never be set to music.
But from this let it not be inferred that the cultivation of the voice is useless. It is the instrument for the expression of thought, and the more perfect it can be made the better it is fitted for its high office. It would be well for the preacher to spend some time every day for years in vocal training, for there is nothing more susceptible of improvement than the voice. The passion excited during animated speech will demand almost every note and key within its compass, and unless it has been previously trained on these, it may fail. To prepare in this way by exploring the range of the voice, and testing all its capabilities, has in it nothing mechanical or slavish. It is only like putting a musical instrument in tune before beginning to play.
Nothing contributes so much to give ability to manage the voice as the separation of words into the simple elements of sound, and continued practice in the enunciation of these. They can be best learned from the short-hand system of tachygraphy or phonography, or from the phonetic print. In these we find sound resolved into its elements, which are but few in number, and on which we can practice until every difficulty in enunciation is overcome. If there is a fault in our articulation, we will find just where it is, and can bring all our practice directly to its remedy. When we are able to give clearly each one of the separate sounds of the language—not many over forty in number—we can easily follow them into all their combinations, and are thus master of the first great excellency in speaking—good articulation. Nor is this all. We can then practice on the same elements, at different degrees of elevation on the musical scale, until we can strike every one in full round distinctness at each point, from the shrillest note used in speech to the deepest bass. Then the whole field of oratory is open before us.
But there is still another advantage: if our strength of voice be not so great as we would wish, we can take the same sounds, and by practicing upon them with a gradually-increasing effort, attain all the force our organs are capable of, and even increase their power to a degree that would be incredible, were it not so often proved by actual experiment. When engaged in these practices, we will notice a distinction between the vowel sounds—that while some of them may be prolonged indefinitely, others are made at a single impulse. Following out these ideas, we will increase the rapidity of the second until they can be struck with all the suddenness of the report of a pistol, and one after another so rapidly that the ear can scarcely catch the distinction between them. This will enable us to avoid drawling, and help us to speak with rapidity when we desire it, without falling into indistinctness. We next learn to prolong the other vowels, and thus to make them carry the sounds of words to the greatest distance. The full, deliberate enunciation of a word is audible much further than the most violent shout. The passenger calling to the ferryman across the river does not say OVER in one single violent impulse, or, if he does, he is not heard, but o-o-ver; and even if his tone is gentle, the hills ring again, and the ferryman is aroused. Let this principle be brought into use in public speaking, and soon no hall will be too large for the compass of the voice.
The different extensions of sounds, as well as their pitch on the musical scale, and variations of force in enunciation, constitute the perspective of the art of oratory, and give it an agreeable variety, like the mingling of light and shade in a well-executed picture. A dull, dead uniformity, in which each word is uttered on the same key, with the same degree of force, and each sound enunciated with the same rapidity, would be utterly unbearable; while a perpetual variety, reflecting in each rise and fall, each storm and calm of sound, the living thought within, is the perfection toward which we must strive.
Little can be done in training the voice beyond these elementary exercises. The expression in the moment of speech may safely be left to the impulse of nature. Supply the capability by previous discipline, then leave passion to clothe itself in the most natural forms. We believe there is such a connection between the emotions of the mind and the different tones of voice, that emphasis, inflection and intonation need not be taught. They will well up from the heart itself. Reading may require more teaching, for its very nature is artificial; and it behoves those who read their sermons to study hard to supply the want of emotion and naturalness by the resources of elocution. But the only effect of rules upon the speaker, so far as he heeds them at all, is to make him a cold and lifeless machine. The child that is burnt needs no instruction to find the right tone to express its pain, so that every one who hears it knows that it is suffering. It strikes the key-note of joy and every other emotion with equal certainty. Let nature but have her way, untrammeled by art, and every feeling that arises will mold the voice to its will, and every heart will recognize and respond to the sound. We may in this way miss the so-called “brilliancy” of theatric clap-trap, but our voices will have that “touch of nature that makes the whole world kin.”
Something may be done by observing the world closely and thus becoming more deeply permeated by that atmosphere of sympathy and passion that wraps all men into one family, and forms a medium of communication deeper and more wide-spread than any language of earth. It is also profitable to listen to the great orators who have mastered the mysteries of speech, not for the purpose of imitating them, but that we may appreciate better what true excellence is. Yet it is hurtful to confine our attention too long to one model, for excellence is many-sided, and if we view only one of its phases, we are apt to fall into slavish imitation—the greatest of all vices. We avoid this by looking upon many examples, and making use of them only to elevate our own ideal. Then, without a conscious effort to reproduce anything we have heard, we will be urged to greater exertions, and the whole level of our attainments raised.
There are abundant faults to mar the freedom of nature; and the speaker who would be truly natural must watch vigilantly for them, and, when found, exterminate them without mercy. The sing-song tone, the scream, the lisp, the guttural and tremulous tones, must be weeded out as they come to the surface; and if the preacher’s own egotism is too great to see them, or his taste not pure enough, some friend ought to point them out for him. At the bar, or in political life, the keen shaft of ridicule destroys such things in those who are not incorrigible; but in the pulpit they are too often suffered to run riot because the sacred nature of its themes prohibits ridicule, and causes every one to endure in silence.
But there is one fault that over-tops all others, and constitutes a crying sin and an abomination before the Lord. Would that every hearer who suffers by it had the courage to go to his minister and tell him of the torture he inflicts. He could not long endure such an overwhelming fire brought to bear on him. It is what is sometimes designated as the “solemn or holy tone.” It prevails to an alarming extent. Men who, out of the pulpit, are varied and lively in their conversation, no sooner enter it than it seems as if some evil spirit had taken possession of them and enthroned itself in their voice, which at once sinks into a measured, or rather measureless drawl, with each word sloping down a precipice of falling inflections. It conceals ideas as perfectly as ever Talleyrand did; for surely no idea, even of living light, could penetrate through such a veil. Men who thus neutralize their talents and contribute to render religion distasteful, will surely have to answer for it at the great day of account. Let our style in the pulpit be simple, earnest and manly. Let each emotion clothe itself in its own language and tones, and then we will be above all rules, and all censure too, for we will be under the infallible guidance of nature and the Spirit of God.
Should we use a conversational tone in speaking? This question has often been discussed, and although there is a great difference of opinion, yet it seems to admit of satisfactory answer. The language of conversation is the language of nature, and therefore it should be the basis of speech. The same intonations that are used in it should be employed in every branch of oratory. But the manner of conversation is not always the same. The man who talks with a friend across a river would not use the same tones as if he held that friend by the hand. And if a man is speaking to a number at once, the very need of being heard will cause him to speak somewhat louder than in addressing a single person. With this exception, it might be safely laid down as a rule that a speech should be commenced in the same manner as we would speak to an individual. But should it be continued in that way? The orotund tone is calculated to make a deeper impression than a higher key, or a less degree of force. But there need be no solicitude about its employment. Begin as a man who is talking to his friends upon an interesting subject would do, and then, as the interest deepens, throw away all restraint of voice. Let it follow passion, and it will naturally fall into the way that will best express that passion. It will deepen into the thunder-roar when that is needed, and will become soft and pathetic at the right time.