No doubt this faculty may be greatly cultivated and improved, but when its original strength is very small, it can not, probably, be made available for ready and powerful speech. There are persons whose voices seem to have no defect, who cannot learn to sing; others, with eyes perfectly organized, are unable to distinguish between colors. The power of language may be equally deficient in an otherwise well-constituted mind. We once knew a man who could not find the words necessary to make the most common statement without long and embarrassed pauses. He forgot the names of his nearest neighbors; and, when telling a story, required perpetual prompting wherever names occurred, and would often hesitate until some every-day term was suggested to him. No cultivation would have made him a speaker. He had as much education as his neighbors around, and was not remarkably dull. He was simply an almost wordless man. Many persons suffer in the same manner, though but few to the same degree.
But the mere fact that a man is slow of speech is no bar even to the highest eminence as an orator. The proper test of the power of this faculty is in common conversation. There one feels perfectly at ease, and deals with matters he understands. If he have but a moderate share of fluency, he will have no difficulty in conveying his ideas. But if he does experience such difficulty, it shows a radical defect which art can never remove. But we should not be discouraged if it is hard to find appropriate words when speaking on unfamiliar subjects, for we cannot have words to express ideas before possessing the ideas themselves!
Those who are deficient in language, but have strong powers of thought, are almost the only persons who really find relief in writing and reading their sermons. If they have time to wait, the right word may come to them, or they can search through dictionaries for it; but in the hurry of speech there is no such leisure for selection. They have some excuse for writing, though it will still be questionable whether it would not be better for them to dash ahead with the loss of some precision, or if this cannot be done, abandon altogether a profession for which they are so obviously unfitted.
A man must have a degree of courage to place himself within reach of any danger, and remain there. If he be destitute of it, he will resign the hope of victory rather than encounter the perils by which it may be won. It is needed in extempore speaking as well as in any species of physical danger, for the perils to be encountered are not less terrible. To some sensitive minds these even amount to a species of martyrdom. They go to the desk trembling in every limb, and would feel wonderfully relieved if they could exchange their position for the tented field, where the warfare would be of the body only, and not of the spirit. Some of the greatest orators have never been able to entirely overcome this feeling, although they may have been free from the fear of failure.
But it is difficult to be perfectly assured even against failure. “There is nothing so fitful as eloquence,” says the Abbe Bautain, who was well qualified to judge. The practiced and prepared orator does not often dread losing command of words altogether, and being obliged to close before the proper time, but fears that his rich and glowing conceptions may fade, and his high ideal be unattained.
Mere boldness does not suffice to protect a speaker from these dangers. Of what avail is a man’s courage if his brain be clouded and his tongue paralyzed? He cannot brave the consequences, for the power of ridicule is too keen for any armor—at least when it comes in such a concentrated volume as falls on the head of the unfortunate speaker who can not finish what he has begun. At such a time the boaster’s fate is worst of all; for, while others are pitied, he is crushed beneath the scorn and triumph of his audience. There is no positive guard against failure. Public speaking is a modern battle, in which the most skillful warrior may be stricken down by a random bullet—the bravest slain by a coward!
What then is the benefit of courage? We have placed it in the list of essential qualities, and believe the orator cannot succeed without it. It does not operate by rendering failure impossible, or even materially reducing the risk, but by enabling us to endure all danger and press on. Bonaparte said that most generals failed in one point—they delayed to attack when it became necessary to fight a great battle. The issue was so uncertain—so far beyond the reach of human wisdom—that they hesitated and deliberated until the favorable moment had passed forever. In war this timid policy courts destruction, by permitting the adversary to choose his own time to strike. The same principle governs in other affairs. The risk must be taken. A man of courage derives new lessons from his failures, and makes them the introduction to future triumphs. Especially in the field of oratory is there no possibility of success, if this indomitable, persevering spirit be wanting. Many persons of excellent talents have been condemned to perpetual silence, because they would not endure the perils of speech. Men who have instructed the world by their pens, and in the privacy of the social circle have charmed their friends by the magic of their conversation, have never spoken in public because they shrunk from the inevitable hazard. There is no difficulty in determining whether we possess this quality or not. Let the trial be made, and if we do not abandon our posts and incur disgrace rather than speak, we have all the boldness that is needed.
The quality of firmness in oratory is sometimes undervalued. While steady, persevering industry, working toward a definite end, is known to be essential in everything else, in this field genius is often supposed to be sufficient. There never was a greater mistake. Nature does lay the foundation broad and deep for some men, but they must build diligently upon it to make their gifts availing. The way to eminence, even for the favored few, is long and hard, requiring deep thought and earnest striving, and without a strong purpose fixed in the very beginning, and firmly adhered to through years of labor, there is slight chance of success. A few persons have risen to eminence without appearing to pay the price for it, but such exceptions are more apparent than real. There are times of great excitement, when some one before unknown is able to speak so as to fix the eyes of the nation upon himself, but unless he has been previously prepared, and continues to put forth resolute effort, his success is but transitory.
The career of Patrick Henry is adduced as an instance of success without labor. He had little education in the schools, but learned much from Nature herself. His observation was tireless. It is said, that when he kept a country store, he would sit and question his customers by the hour, causing them to display their various dispositions. He was thus learning to play upon the human heart, and as this was only one manifestation of a ruling passion, it doubtless took a hundred other forms. When on those long hunting excursions in the beautiful valley of Virginia, how many deep and ineffaceable impressions must have been made on his mind. He had a peerless genius, yet all we can learn of him leads us to believe that he cultivated it to the utmost, at least as applied to oratory.
The familiar examples of Demosthenes and Cicero are not solitary ones. All who have acquired the power of effective speech have toiled long and patiently. The poor, weak waverer can never be an orator in the highest sense of the term, however he may, on special occasions, flash into momentary brilliancy. And as the minister of the Gospel must cultivate the most difficult field of eloquence, we advise no one to attempt preaching who is not conscious of a strong, unchangeable purpose—a purpose that will bear delay, discouragement and weary waiting.