Notwithstanding the popularity of unwritten speech, and the innumerable arguments in its favor, there is an impression in some quarters that the very highest excellence cannot be attained without the previous use of the pen. It may be shown that it is more natural to find the words in which our thoughts are clothed at the moment of expression; that a stronger and better frame-work of thought can be constructed, if the mind, in preparing for speech, is occupied with that alone; that the speaker and hearer may thus be brought into closer union; that this, in short, is the order of nature, which leaves the solid frame-work of the tree standing through many winters, but each spring bestows its graceful robe of leaves upon that which was prepared to receive it. But this is not enough to produce lasting conviction. It is still maintained, almost with obstinacy, that in the highest fields of oratory, words must be previously chosen, fitted together, and polished.
This nearly every speech-writer proves from his own experience. The efforts that have afforded him most satisfaction were those in which nothing had been left to the chance of the moment. But it is easy to see how even experience may mislead in this particular. We can judge the comparative merits of another in his different modes of address with some approach to accuracy, for our mental state—that of listeners—continues the same under them all. But it is different when we judge ourselves. When we extemporize, our best expressions fade from the mind after they have been given forth, and can only be recalled by a strong effort. On the other hand, when we have wrought our language slowly, and lingered over each sentence, we see all the beauty it contains, and begin to admire our own production. If we see anything faulty, instead of lamenting it, as we would an unfortunate, spoken sentence, we change it, and take credit for the keenness of our critical taste. Is it wonderful that when we come before an audience with an address made as nearly perfect as we can construct it in every line, and the whole clearly written, or firmly engraved on the memory, and then repeat it, with a full appreciation of each beauty as we pass along, that we consider it to be of far higher merit than the impassioned torrent poured forth on another occasion, when we scarcely knew that we were using words at all? If the people do not seem to appreciate it, their want of taste and culture affords a ready excuse for them, even if the speaker is not too much occupied with his own eloquence to notice them at all. He is always ready, too, with the examples of Massillon and Bossuet, or of Chalmers, to prove that it was thus the most powerful orators spoke.
We do not deny that great effects may be produced, under certain circumstances, by committed words. The fact that many actors have won great fame by repeating the words of others, proves how much may be done in this direction. It is but reasonable, that if some gifted minds can thrill an audience to tears, and rouse every feeling to its highest bent by merely copying others, that those who, in addition to this ability, possess the power of framing their own thoughts in suitable words, may accomplish as much. John B. Gough is an instance of the power that may be wielded in this manner. But such men cannot occupy the highest position in the temple of fame. They are but actors. When they speak they will be listened to with eagerness and pleasure, as great performers always are, but it will be as performers rather than as authorities. They have placed themselves on a level with those who deal in unreal things, and there they must be content to remain. Doubtless it is more noble to speak the sentiments and feelings that we once possessed, in the language adapted to that time, than to deal in those belonging to another person, but the resemblance between the two is very close, and the people feel it so acutely that they make no discrimination.
But we maintain that even in momentary effect—the quality which is supposed to belong peculiarly to the powerful declamation of prepared language—extempore speakers have passed beyond all others; while in power of thought and lasting influence, there can be no comparison. There is no single quality of speech that cannot be reached as well without writing as with it, while perpetual readiness, vast and profound knowledge (which writing extensively leaves no time to acquire), and weight and authority with the people, belong almost exclusively to the extemporizer.
These assertions may seem bold to many, but we are prepared to substantiate them. In the preceding pages we have aimed to show how this species of address may be acquired, and improved to an almost unlimited degree. The ideal thus sketched is not an impossible or imaginary one. It has often been attained, and for the encouragement of those who may be disposed to throw away their manuscripts, and trust to the method of nature, the following examples are selected. These are chosen because of their eminence, and also because of the wide variety of qualities displayed in their eloquence. Many more might be given, but these are sufficient for our purpose, which is to show that in every department of speech the highest eloquence that ever flowed from the lips of men has clothed itself in unpremeditated words.
In these sketches we, of course, make no pretension to originality, but have compiled what was adapted to our purpose from every available source. And as the matter so obtained has been frequently abridged, and two or three different accounts woven together, it has sometimes been impossible to give full credit. We are under especial obligation to the “New American Cyclopedia,” Mosheim’s Church History, Stevens’s History of Methodism, Harsha’s “Orators and Statesmen,” “Kidder’s Homiletics,” with the current biographies of the speakers treated of.
Much of the oratory of antiquity was recited. This has been used as an argument to prove the comparative inferiority of that speech which is the offspring of the moment, forgetting the great difference between ancient and modern life—a difference arising from the greater diversity of the latter, and the nobler aims to which it gives birth. The typical Grecian oration is as much a work of art as a statue. It was made to be admired, and if, by the beauty of its arrangement, the melody of its language, and the elegance of its delivery, this object was achieved, the orator was satisfied. It was so, to a less degree, in the classic age of Rome. The form of the oration was of greater importance than its matter, and it was judged that this would be best perfected by the use of the pen, and of the memory. Yet the practice of antiquity on this point was far from uniform. Some of the noblest orators spoke extempore, and have less fame than those who adopted the opposite plan, only because at that time the art of reporting was too imperfect to preserve their eloquence. The effect they produced remains, and from it we obtain a faint view of their greatness. Pericles spoke without previous writing, and the sway his speech established over his countrymen was more undisputed than that of Demosthenes. The latter had an assemblage of talents that, with his tireless industry, would have made him eminent in any mode of address that he might have adopted; but even he did not recite exclusively.
The great rival of Cicero, Hortensius, whose wonderful power excited the emulation of the former, spoke from the impulse of the moment, as did many of the more eminent of the Roman orators. Cicero was a man of tireless energy. He applied himself to the study and practice of eloquence with a singleness of aim, and a concentration of purpose that may well command our admiration. He accumulated vast stores of knowledge, perfected his logic, and improved his voice until it became music, and brought all the resources of a mighty mind to bear on oratory. It is not wonderful that he was listened to with profound attention, while he recited what he had previously composed. But some of his most brilliant passages were extemporaneous. The outburst that overwhelmed Catiline when he unexpectedly appeared in the senate, was coined, at white heat, by the passion of the moment.
The reason why so many of the ancients committed their speeches, was because they could not be preserved otherwise, unless the orator could remember and write down what he had said. Every unwritten speech perished, and left nothing but a dim memory of the results it had produced. This is the reason why the extempore speakers of the ancient world are less known than the reciters. But the art of short-hand has effected a revolution in this particular, and the most impassioned speeches are now photographed for the admiration of future generations. The man who wishes his speech preserved is no longer compelled to write it.