But beware of thinking that you must be loud, in order to be impressive. Nothing is more disgusting than that interminable roar, beginning with a shout and continuing all through the sermon. It is worse than monotony itself. The very loudness of voice that, applied at the right place, would be overpowering, loses all power, and becomes as wearisome as the ceaseless lashing of ocean waves to the storm-tost mariner. Strive to have something to say, keep the fires of passion burning in your own soul, and the voice, which has previously been diligently cultivated, will not fail in what should be its only office—the bringing of your thoughts into contact with the souls of others.
Books on oratory properly devote much space to the consideration of gesture, for the eye needs to be addressed and pleased as well as the ear. But we doubt whether the marking out of gestures to be imitated is calculated to do much good. The principal use of training seems to be, first, to overcome the backwardness that might freeze both speaker and congregation; and second, to discard awkward and repulsive movements. The first can be accomplished by a firm resolution, and is worthy of it. We have all seen most eloquent men who did not move at all, or who moved very slightly in the course of their address, but never without feeling that the want of gesticulation detracted just so much from their power. It is unnatural to speak standing still, and none but a lazy, sick, or bashful man will do it. Yet many who do not hesitate to make their voices reverberate to the roof, will fear to move even a finger. Let this timidity be thrown off. Even an ungraceful gesture is better than none at all.
But after the first fear has been overcome, and the speaker has learned to use his hands, he next needs to guard against bad habits. If anything is truly natural, it will be beautiful; but we are so much corrupted by early example that it is hard to find what nature is. There is hardly a public speaker who does not, at some time, fall into habits that are unsightly or ridiculous. The difference in this respect is, that some retain all the faults they once get, hanging and accumulating around them; while others, from the warning of friends or their own observation, discover their errors, and cast them off.
A good method of testing our own manner, from which we should not be deterred by prejudice, is by speaking before a mirror. There is reason for the common ridicule thrown upon this practice, if we recite our sermons for the purpose of marking the proper points of gesture, and of noting where to start, and frown, and wave the arm, so as to make the whole mere acting. But what we advise is to speak before the glass in as earnest and impassioned a manner as we can command, not for practice on the subjects we are to discuss, but that we may “see ourselves as others see us.” In ordinary speaking we can hear our own voice, and thus become sensible of any audible errors that we may fall into; but we need the glass to show us how we look, and to make us see any improper movement that we may have unconsciously contracted. We do not advise the recital of a sermon before the glass. There is something cold and irreverent in the very idea. But the same objection does not apply to ordinary declamation.
By these two processes—pressing out into action under the impulse of deep feeling, as strongly and freely as possible, and by lopping off everything that is not graceful and effective, we will soon attain a good style of gesture. All mechanical imitation, all observance of artificial rules, and especially all attempts to make the gesture descriptive, such as pointing toward the object alluded to, placing the hand on the heart to express emotion, etc., will do more harm than good. The best gesticulation is entirely unconscious.
Frequently the speed or slowness of the gesture reveals more emotion than its direction or form. The stroke, when it falls upon a particular word, aids to make it emphatic, even when there is no observable connection between the kind of movement made and the sentiment uttered. Let the mind, intent on its subject, take full possession of the whole body, as a medium of expression, and every action will correspond with tone and word, and the soul of the hearer be reached alike through eye and ear.
We have already spoken of boldness as an indispensable requisite for an extempore speaker. But more is needed than the courage that leads us to encounter the perils of speech. Some speakers master their fears sufficiently to begin, yet continue to experience a nervous dread which prevents the free use of their faculties. This clinging timidity may hang around an orator, and impede his flights of eloquence as effectually as an iron fetter would an eagle on the wing. The speaker must confide in his own powers, and be willing to trust to their guidance.
It is not necessary that he should have this confidence previous to speaking, for it is then very difficult to exercise it, and if possessed, it may assume the appearance of egotism and boastfulness. Many a man begins to speak while trembling in every limb, but soon becomes inspired with his theme and forgets all anxiety. But if his fear be greater than this, and keep him in perpetual terror, it will destroy liberty and eloquence. A man under such an influence loses his self-possession, becomes confused, all interest evaporates from his most carefully-prepared thoughts, and he finally sits down, convinced that his effort was a failure, while, perhaps, he had in his brain the necessary power and material to sway the assembly at will. Such a one must learn to fear less, or seek a higher support under his trials.
There is no remedy more effectual than to do all our work under the immediate pressure of duty. If we speak for self-glory, the frowns or approval of the audience become a matter of vast importance to us, and if we fail, we are deeply mortified and bewail our foolishness in exposing ourselves to such risks. On the contrary, if we speak from a sense of duty, if we hear the cry, “woe is me if I preach not the Gospel,” sounding in our ears, it is no longer a matter of choice, and we go forward, even trembling, to obey the imperative command. Our mind is fixed on our theme, and the applause of the multitude becomes of small moment to us except as it is the echo of God’s approval. We feel that we are his workmen, and believe that he will sustain us. Men have thus been forward in the Christian ministry who would otherwise never have faced the dangers and exposures of public speaking. They were driven to it, and therefore threw themselves bravely into it, and often attained the highest eminence.
A want of proper confidence is one great reason why so many with superior talents for off-hand speaking seek refuge in their notes. They try, and fail. Instead of copying the school-boy motto “try, try again,” and thus reaping the fruition of their hopes, they give up—conclude that they have no talents for the work, and sink to mediocrity and tameness, when they might have been brilliant in the field of true oratory.