The possession of confidence while speaking secures respect and deference. The congregation can pardon timidity at the beginning, for then their minds are fixed on the speaker, and his shrinking seems to be but a graceful exhibition of modesty and good sense. But after he has once begun, their minds are on the subject, and they associate him with it. If he is dignified, respectful and confident, they listen attentively, and feel the weight of his words. This is far different from bluster and bravado, which always injure the cause they advocate, and produce a feeling of disgust toward the offender. The first seems to arise from a sense of the dignity of the subject; the second from an opinion of personal importance—an opinion no speaker has a right to entertain when before an audience, for, in the very act of speaking to them, he constitutes them his judges. He may have confidence in his own power to present the subject faithfully, and he will speak with only the more force and certainty if he is well assured of that, but he must not let it be seen that he is thinking of himself, or trying to exhibit his own genius.
A speaker needs confidence that he may avail himself of the suggestions of the moment. Some of the best thoughts he will ever have, will be out of the line of his preparation, and will occur at a moment when there is no time for him to weigh them. He must reject them immediately or begin to follow, not knowing whither they lead, and this not in thought alone, but in audible words, with the risk that they may bring him into some ridiculous absurdity. He cannot even stop to glance ahead, for the least hesitation will break the spell he may have woven around his hearers, while if he rejects the self-offered idea, he may lose a genuine inspiration. A quick searching glance, that will allow no time for his own feelings or those of his hearers to cool, is all that he can give, and it is necessary in that time to decide whether to reject the thought, or follow it with the same assurance as if the end were clearly in view. It requires some boldness to do this, and yet every speaker knows that his very highest efforts—thoughts that have moved his hearers like leaves before the wind—have been of this character.
It also requires some confidence to begin a sentence, even when the idea is plain, without knowing how it is to be framed or where it will end. This difficulty is experienced very often in speech even by those who are most fluent. A man may learn to cast sentences very rapidly, yet it will take some time for them to pass through his mind, and when he has finished one, the next idea may not have fully condensed itself into words. To begin, then, with this uncertainty and go on without letting the people see any hesitation, demands a good deal of confidence in one’s power of commanding words and forming sentences. Yet a bold and confident speaker feels no uneasiness on such occasions. Sometimes he will prolong a pause while he is thinking of the word he wants, and hazardous as this appears, it is really safe, for the mind is so active when in the complete possession of its powers that, if necessary, as it seldom is, something extraneous can easily be thrown in, that will fill up the time until the right term and the right construction are found.
This necessary confidence can be cultivated by striving to exercise it, and by assuming its appearance where the reality is not. Let a person make up his mind that he will become an extempore speaker, and patiently endure all failures and mistakes that follow, and he will thus avoid the wavering and shrinking, and questioning in his own mind that otherwise distress him and paralyze his powers. If he fail, he will be stimulated to a stronger and more protracted effort. If he succeed, that will be an argument upon which to base future confidence, and thus, whatever is the result, he is forwarded on his course.
And in regard to the difficulty of sentence-casting, he will make his way through so many perplexities of that kind, that the only danger will be that of becoming careless, and constructing too many sentences without unity or polish. He will acquire by long experience so much knowledge of the working of his own thoughts, as to be able to tell at a glance what he ought to reject, and what accept, of the unbidden ideas that present themselves. He will be ready to seize every new thought, even if it be outside of his preparation, and, if worthy, give it instant expression; and if not, dismiss it at once and continue unchecked along his intended route.
There is only one direction that we can give for the acquisition of the confidence that is respectful and self-assured, and yet not forward nor obtrusive. Be fully persuaded as to what is best for you, and make up your mind to take the risks as well as the advantages of extempore speaking. Then persevere until all obstacles are overcome.
We have thus glanced at a few of the more important acquired qualities necessary for public speaking. These do not cover the whole field, for to speak aright requires all the faculties of the mind in the highest state of cultivation. There is no mental power that may not contribute to the orator’s success. The whole limits of possible education are comprised in two great branches: the one relating to the reception, and the other to the communication of knowledge. The perfect combination of these is the ideal of excellence—an ideal so high that it can only be aspired to. All knowledge is of value to the orator. He may not have occasion to use it directly in his speeches, but it will always be at hand to select from, and give his views additional breadth and scope. If his materials are few he must take, not what is best, but what he has. If a wide extent of knowledge is open before him, the chances are that he will find exactly what is needed for his purpose.
The improvement of the power to communicate knowledge is, if possible, still more important. A great part of the value even of a diamond depends upon its setting and polish, and the richest and most glowing thoughts may fail to reach the heart or charm the intellect, unless they are cast into the proper form, and given external beauty.
Let the man, then, who would speak well not fear to know too much. He cannot be great at once. He must build for future years. If he wish a sudden and local celebrity that will never increase, but molder away, even in his own lifetime, he could, perhaps, attain it in another way. He might learn a few of the externals of elocution, and then, with great care, or by the free use of the material of others, prepare some finely-worded discourses, and read or recite them as often as he can find a new audience. It is true that by this means his success will probably not be as great as he would wish, but he can be sure that what he achieves will be sufficiently evanescent. He will not grow up to the measure of greatness, but become daily more dwarfed and stereotyped in intellect. But on the other hand, let him “intermeddle with all knowledge,” and make his means of communicating what he thus gathers as perfect as possible, and then talk to the people out of the fullness of his treasures, and if no sudden and empty acclaim should greet him, he will be weighty and influential from the first, and each year that passes will bring him added power. The aim of the sacred orator should be the full and harmonious development of all the faculties that God has given him, and their consecration to his great work.