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EXTEMPORE SPEECH
HOW TO
ACQUIRE AND PRACTICE IT.

BY

REV. WILLIAM PITTENGER,

Instructor in the National School of Elocution and Oratory.

PHILADELPHIA:

National School of Elocution and Oratory,

1416 and 1418 Chestnut Street.

1883.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883, by the

National School of Elocution and Oratory,

in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

Franklin Printing House,

321 Chestnut Street,

Phil’a.

PREFACE.

The following pages are the result of considerable observation and experience. Fifteen years ago the writer published a small volume entitled “Oratory; Sacred and Secular,” in which the same general views were set forth, though more slightly and crudely expressed. In this work the recognized defects of that earlier effort are supplied; and it is believed that all persons who have natural adaptation to public speech will here find all necessary directions to guide them by the shortest and surest road to success.

It is not necessary or even expedient that a book which teaches the mode of eloquence should itself be eloquent. We may watch, admire, and describe the flight of an eagle while standing on the firm ground quite as well as if flying in the air beside him. No effort, therefore, has been made to imitate those grand bursts of feeling or lofty flights of imagination in which the popular orator may indulge; but we have sought to give such directions about practical details as may be useful to the highest genius, while the broad path toward that kind of excellence most in harmony with the speaker’s own faculties is clearly marked out.

The writer is firmly convinced that more than nine-tenths of those who have any fair degree of ability to speak in public will succeed best in the mode laid down in the following pages; that is, by thorough preparation and arrangement of thought, combined with spontaneous selection of words in the moment of discourse.

Reasons will be given for considering this the most natural, logical, impassioned, and effective mode of discourse; indeed, the superior excellence of extempore speech is now generally conceded and will require little argument; but it is more important to encourage the beginner by showing him just how to acquire and practice fluent, accurate, and impressive off-hand speech in public, with as little embarrassment or fear as if every word were written out and in plain sight. This is the especial object of the following pages.

Table of Contents.

PART I.
Preliminary Considerations.

CHAPTER I.
Can Eloquence be Taught?

There is a widespread opinion that all study of the mode of oratory is unmanly, and leads to the substitution of artifice and adornment for simplicity and power. “Let a man have something important to say,” it is argued, “and he need not waste his time in trying to find how to say it.” So general is this sentiment, that a ministerial acquaintance of the writer’s was recently very careful to conceal from his congregation the fact that he was taking a series of lessons in elocution, lest his influence should be diminished.

We may admit that the popular prejudice against the study of eloquence is not without a mixture of reason. It is possible to foster a spurious kind of oratory, which shall be far inferior to the rudest genuine speech. But on the other hand, it is safe to maintain that every rational power man possesses can be strengthened by judicious cultivation, without in the least impairing its quality. There is no trick in true oratory—no secret magic by which a weak-minded man can become the leader of others stronger and wiser than himself. The great prizes of eloquence cannot be placed in the hands of the ignorant or slothful. But so surely as a raw apprentice can be transformed into a skillful workman, any person possessed of ordinary faculties, who will pay the price in labor, can be made master of the art of ready and forcible public utterance.

The methods of oratorical cultivation presented in this volume are not based upon mere theory. They have been tested in hundreds of instances, and their results are beyond question. A carpenter will assert with perfect assurance, “I guarantee to take an ordinary young man, who will place himself in my hands for a reasonable time, and turn him out a thorough mechanic, master of every part of his trade.” The effects of training are as marvelous and as certain in the fields of eloquence.

But this training must necessarily combine practice with theory. To study about great orators and observe their works is not sufficient. Here again, we may take a lesson from the mode in which an apprentice is trained. The master architect does not take his young men to gaze upon finished buildings, and expect them, from mere admiration and architectural fervor, to construct similar works. He would soon find that not one in a hundred had the “mechanical genius” for such an easy triumph. But he takes them into the shop, where work is in progress, places before them some simple task, and from that leads them on, step by step, to more difficult achievements. They learn how to make the separate parts of a house, and afterward how to fit those parts into a complete work. Under this rational mode of instruction the great majority master the whole business placed before them, and the failures are rare exceptions. If similar success does not attend oratorical students, the explanation must be sought, not in the nature of oratory, but in wrong methods of training. Merely reading Cicero and Demosthenes, even in their original tongues, declaiming choice selections, or listening to great orators, will not make any one eloquent, unless indeed he possesses that rare natural genius which rises above all rules and sweeps away every obstacle.

But it must be remembered that there are many degrees of eloquence. The popular conception is somewhat unjust in refusing recognition to those who possess this power in only a fair degree. It is not possible by any mode of training to produce many orators of the very highest type. Such will ever be rare for the same reason that there are but few great poets, generals, or statesmen. But proper education in the art of speech should enable a man to give full, free, and adequate expression to whatever thoughts and feelings he may possess. It may go further, and make him more fruitful in thought, and more intense in feeling, than he could have been in the absence of such education, and he may thus become fairly entitled to the rewards of eloquence without, however, reaching the level of the few great world-orators. The distinction between a good degree of practical, working eloquence, which may be successfully taught to the mass of students, and the very highest development of the same faculty, should always be kept in mind. Even the mightiest genius may be regulated, strengthened, and directed by culture; while moderate talents may, by similar culture, reach a very serviceable degree of efficiency and power.

While these considerations appear almost self-evident, they are not unnecessary. On listening to a true orator—one who, without hesitation, pours forth a stream of well-chosen words, and develops a difficult subject in a clear and masterly manner—we are apt to receive an impression like that made by the operation of a law of nature, or an unerring animal instinct. Does the orator acquire eloquence as the bee learns to construct honey cells? There is, no doubt, a foundation for eloquence in natural ability, but the analogy is far more close with the human builder, who sees mentally the image of the house he wishes to construct, fits the various timbers and other materials into their places, and works intelligently until his conception is realized. To Jack Cade and his fellows the mysteries of reading and writing “came by nature;” but experience has shown that this much of nature can be developed in the great majority of American children. In the moderate and reasonable meaning of the term, eloquence can be made almost as general as the elements of a common-school education. The child that masters the art of reading, really makes a greater conquest over difficulties, than the average well-educated youth needs to add to the stores he already possesses, in order to attain a good degree of oratorical power. There are, indeed, a few indispensable requisites which will be enumerated in another chapter; but the want of these debars a small minority only, and their absence is easily recognized. For all others the path of success lies open. Patient practice in the use of the pen as a servant but not as a master, the study of good models, and the laborious mastery in detail of the separate elements of oratory, will not fail of abundant fruit.

There are two classes of works with which this treatise should not be confounded. It aims to occupy an almost vacant place between manuals of elocution on the one hand, and works of technical instruction in the various oratorical professions, on the other. Both of these classes of books are very useful, and teach indirectly many of the elements of true eloquence. Elocution deals with voice and gesture, which are prime elements in oratory; and although it is popularly supposed to be applicable only to reading and recitation, it is equally serviceable in off-hand speech. Works of the second class give rules for preaching, debating, pleading at the bar, teaching, and all other professions which involve public speech. They show how various kinds of discourses may be constructed, but have few practical directions about the mode of delivery, or that grand and noble work—the development of the oratorical power itself.

This book is written from the standpoint of the student who wishes to wield the golden sceptre of eloquence and is willing to put forth all reasonable efforts to that end. It will aim to guide him into the right path; show him what helps are available, and what discipline is necessary; encourage him in overcoming difficulties, and stimulate him to seek the very highest excellence within the compass of his faculties.

CHAPTER II.
The Four Methods of Public Speech—Their Advantages and Disadvantages.

“What shall I do?” exclaims the young student who expects soon to face public audiences. “Shall I write out what I have to say, polish it as highly as possible, and then utter this finished product? Or must I take the risk of being able to say nothing at all, in hope of gaining the ease and naturalness of spontaneous speech?”

It must be admitted that the first course indicated above has many advantages, and seems in harmony with the marked tendency of civilization toward division of labor. It is hard to perform several different operations at the same moment. Look how heavily the extempore speaker is burdened. He must think of his subject; arrange his ideas, sentences, and words; remember quotations; originate proper tones and gestures; and keep his attention closely fixed upon his audience. All this he must do with the utmost promptness and regularity, or incur a fearful penalty—that of embarrassment and failure. Few men have the courage to stand long before an audience, waiting for a missing word or idea. To avoid this danger the mind of an extempore speaker must be accustomed to work with the rapidity and precision of a printing-press; otherwise, the appalling danger of failure and ridicule will constantly stare him in the face. It is not wonderful that such perils have made many speakers perpetual slaves of the pen.

But it may be noted that the public reader has an equal number of things to do at the same moment. He must look on the manuscript and recognize the words—a complicated process, which practice has made easy, but which does greatly distract attention. The whole discourse must be brought into mind as really as if extemporized with the difference that now, instead of arising from within, it is brought back from without—a much more difficult achievement. Tones and gestures are also increasingly difficult. The reader will usually wish to give some attention to the audience, which, with manuscript before him, will be far from easy. After he has done his best his hearers will think, “This man is reading, not speaking—giving us what he thought yesterday or last week, not what he is thinking now.” Possibly this will not diminish their pleasure, but the sentiment needs to be recognized.

The resource of memorizing the discourse after it has been prepared relieves the eye and lessens the physical distraction, but it throws an additional and very heavy burden upon the mind, and introduces new embarrassments peculiar to itself.

The advice enforced in these pages will be: “Extemporize; take the risk; fail, if necessary” though precautions will be given making failure well nigh impossible; “but in all cases when you speak to the people with the object of convincing or persuading, let it be seen that you speak directly the thoughts and feelings of that very moment.”

The two extremes of verbal communication between men are letters, books, or essays, on the one side, and desultory talk on the other. In the one, the pen is everything; in the other, it is not employed at all. Neither mode of address constitutes oratory, but the whole field of this art lies between them.

There are four principal methods of discourse distinguished in reference to the mode of delivery, which we may name as follows:

• 1. Reading.
• 2. Recitation.
• 3. Extemporizing.
• 4. The composite method.

Of these, the first two have the great advantage of allowing the speaker as much time as may be necessary for the arrangement of the speech down to the minutest detail. Words may be selected with the nicest care, and if the first effort is not satisfactory the speech may be written again and again, until the writer’s full power has been utilized. After delivery, the manuscript is at once available for publication or preservation. The first method gives the orator something to lean upon. Should he become embarrassed, he can fix his attention closely upon his writing until he recovers. Should his attention be distracted, and the thread of discourse be broken, it can be taken up again at any point.

In recitation more declamatory fervor is possible than in reading. Gesticulation is less restrained. The speaker need not be confined within the narrow limits of a circle, the centre of which is his manuscript, and the radius the distance at which he can read it.

As an offset, there is the effort, in some cases very considerable, of memorizing; the variable power of memory in different states of health; and the possibility of altogether forgetting the prepared words. It must also be admitted that few men can declaim well. Some have mastered the difficult art, and have won laurels in this way; but their number, especially in the modern world, is comparatively small.

Extemporizing does not exclude the most exhaustive study of a subject. It is easier, indeed, to write upon a subject only partially understood, than to address an audience directly upon the same topic. Neither does this method exclude the most careful pre-arrangement of the thoughts enunciated. The trained speaker will find it comparatively easy to make a plan at a moment’s notice which will serve as a basis for discourse; but he will usually be provided with a plan long before he begins to speak. He will aim to understand his subject, make the best arrangement of it in his power, select what is most fitting for his purpose, and then, face to face with his audience, will give them, in a manly way, the outflowing of his mind and heart. It is in this sense alone that the word “extempore” will be used in this volume. We maintain that, so far from being the refuge of ignorance and sloth, extempore speech is often the vehicle of the widest culture and the most extensive knowledge.

The increased attention paid to extempore speech within a few years indicates a hopeful improvement of taste among professional men. The majority of the people have always preferred it. They do not greatly desire of pulpit, platform, or bar, the verbal elaboration favored by written speech; but fervent manner, earnest conviction, and directness are highly prized. Readers and reciters imitate, as far as they can, the manner of spontaneous speech. It is well to remember that this tribute of imitation is never paid by the superior to the inferior.

One argument in favor of extempore delivery has never received due consideration: it is far more healthful than other forms of address. In the case of men who speak only at long intervals, this consideration may not be weighty; but to others, it involves years of added usefulness, or even life itself.

This superior healthfulness has often been observed, but what is its source? The answer will go far to show why true extempore speech is more persuasive and emotional than any other variety. In chemistry, a law of affinity has long been recognized, according to which substances just set free from combination have greater energy, and are more ready to form new combinations, than ever afterward. In the same way, voice and gesture readily respond to nascent emotion; that is, to emotion aroused for the first time. Every speaker who utters the thought of the moment, if not fettered by bad habits, or paralyzed by fear, will exhibit a perpetual change of position, a variety of muscular movement, and a play of expression which he can never afterward reproduce. The pitch, rate, and force of the voice are controlled in the same effective and almost automatic manner. An ordinary extemporizer, when thoroughly aroused, will employ as great a variety of tones and gestures as a highly trained elocutionist in his most elaborate recitations. Nothing is asserted as to the skill of the combinations, the melody of the voice, or the grace of the action; though even in these the advantage is not always on the side of the elocutionist. But in distributing the effort among all the organs, and in giving that alternate rest and action upon which health and strength depend, the elocutionist may strive in vain to equal the model set him by a good extempore speech. In Western and seaside camp-meetings, speakers who have never spent an hour in vocal drill will often address thousands of people in the open air with an energy of voice and manner that would, if employed over a manuscript by any other than the most accomplished elocutionist, speedily bring all efforts and the speaker himself to an end. But he easily endures the strain because there is that continual change which is the equivalent of rest. Notice some thoroughly excited speaker, trained only in the school of experience—possibly a mere demagogue or popular agitator—at his work. A word shot forth almost as piercing as a steam whistle is followed by a sentence far down the scale, and when emotion demands the same high key again, the organs in that position are fresh for a new ear-piercing effort. There is equal variation in the rate of speech. The whole body joins in the expression of emotion, without the slightest conscious effort, impelled only by the aroused nervous energy which seeks that mode of discharge. When the effort ends, the man is weary, indeed; but with a weariness distributed over the whole body, and without a trace of that exhaustion of brain, throat, or the upper part of the lungs, which has sent many manuscript speakers—clergymen, especially—to untimely graves.

What a difference there is between the preacher who languidly reads his manuscript for twenty-five minutes to a hundred people, and closes the mighty effort with aching head, quivering nerves, and exhausted throat, and the typical camp-meeting orator! The latter works hard, addressing thousands of people for an hour and a half or two hours; but as the stamping foot, the tense arm, the nodding head, the fully expanded lungs, and the swaying body have all taken part, the blood and nervous energy have been sent in due proportion to every organ, and there is no want of balance. The man can repeat the same performances the next day, and continue it, as many itinerants have done, for months together. Similar examples of endurance have often been given in heated political canvasses by orators of the very highest eminence, as well as by others unknown to fame. Difference of cultivation or of earnestness will not suffice to explain the contrast between the two classes of speakers.

The chemical analogy is instructive, and goes far to account for the observed differences. When thought passes out of the mist and shadow of general conceptions into the definite form of words, it has immeasurably greater power to arouse and agitate the mind in which this transformation is made, than it can have when the same words are merely recalled in memory or read from a sheet of paper. When the whole process of expression takes place at once:—the mental glance over the subject; the coinage of thoughts into words and sentences; the utterance of the words as they rise to the lips; the selection of key, inflection, emphasis, gesture:—the man must have a very cold nature, or his theme be very dull, if, with a sympathizing audience before him, the tides of emotion do not begin to swell. But notice how other modes of delivery squander this wealth of emotion. The writer carefully elaborates his language. He is perfectly calm, or if there is any excitement, it is purely intellectual, and the quickened flow of blood is directed only to the brain. When the ardor of composition subsides, and he reviews his pages, the fire seems to have died out of them. While memorizing, or making himself familiar enough with what he has written to read it with effect, he may recall some of the first ardor, but only to have it again subside. When at last he stands up to speak, his production is a thrice-told tale. In but few cases will he feel the full inspiration of his message. If he recites, the effort of memory distracts his attention, and he is probably reading from a page of manuscript presented by his mental vision. If he reads directly, he must take a position to see his paper, and at least part of the time keep his eye fixed upon it. The address is felt to come, notwithstanding all the artifice he can employ, at least as much from the paper as from the man. The most profound culture in reading and declamation only suffices to bring back part of the emotion with which the genuine extemporizer starts.

As bearing upon the subject of the healthfulness of extempore speech, a reference to the writer’s own experience may not be improper. Severe and exceptional hardship in the civil war led to a complete breakdown in health. The hope of any kind of active work, or even of many months of life, seemed very slight. The question was not so much how to speak best, as how to speak at all. Fortunately, a long series of daily lectures, involving no great intellectual effort, proved that mere talking was not necessarily hurtful. Some elocutionary hints at the right time were also of great value. When the pulpit was entered, greater difficulty arose. A few trials of memorized preaching produced alarming nervous exhaustion. Reading was equally deleterious to throat and voice. One path alone seemed open; and entering upon that with confidence, which eighteen years of experience has only deepened, the writer found that extempore speech was, for him, probably the most healthful of all forms of exercise. It is not likely that one-third of this term of work would have been secured by any other kind of address.

Another important advantage is the saving of time afforded by this mode of speech. The hours otherwise wasted in word-elaboration may be more usefully employed in general studies. The field for an orator’s improvement is boundless; but if obliged to fully write a large number of discourses, he must either work very rapidly or very perseveringly to enter far into that field. But if less preparation is given to individual speeches, more time will be available for the improvement of the speaker. Or if he uses the same length of preparation for each discourse in the extempore mode, he can collect and classify a far greater amount of material, and the mental element will thus gain far more than the merely verbal loses.

Only the fourth or composite method of discourse remains for our consideration. At first glance, it seems to combine the advantages of all other methods, and for many minds it possesses great attraction. In it the less important parts of the speech are given off-hand, while passages of especial brilliancy or power are written fully, and either read or recited. Added variety may be given by reading some of these, and declaiming others from memory. A very brilliant and showy discourse may thus be constructed. But the difficulties are also very great. Full success requires a rare combination of desirable qualities. A good verbal memory, the power of composing effective fragments, and of declaiming or reading them well, are not often joined to all the qualities that make a ready and impressive extemporizer. For this reason it usually follows that in composite discourses one of the elements so greatly predominates as to dwarf the others. A manuscript discourse in which an extempore remark or two is interpolated must be classed with written discourses. Neither does extemporizing lose its special character, though some scattered quotations be read or repeated from memory. To pick up a book, in the midst of a speech, and read a theme or argument, or the statement of another’s position, does not make the discourse composite in character, unless such reading be the principal part of it. An eloquent speaker on one occasion occupied more than half his time, and produced far more than half his effect, by reciting poems of the author who was the nominal subject of his lecture. The performance would have been more appropriately styled, “Recitations from the poems of ——.” The few running comments introduced did not entitle it to be classed as an original production, because they were obviously not its governing motive.

How shall the advantages of extemporizing be secured, while avoiding its dangers? No commendation can be given to those who simply talk to an audience, giving forth only what may happen to be in mind at the moment of delivery. The most pedantic writing and lifeless reading would, as a habit, be preferable to such recklessness. Unwritten speech does not preclude the fullest preparation. The plans advocated in this volume will enable a speaker to gather materials as widely, arrange them as systematically, and hold them as firmly in hand, as if every word was written; while at the same time he may have all the freedom and play of thought, the rush of passion, and the energy of delivery that comes in the happiest moment of outgushing words. But those who are unwilling to labor may as well lay down the book. We do not profess to teach a process of labor-saving, though much labor will be changed from mechanical to intellectual, and after long experience the total saving may be great. But in the first stages those who have been accustomed to write in full will find that the change involves an increase, rather than a diminution, of work.

On all ordinary occasions a good speech must result from a previous ingathering of materials—the formation of a mental treasury in connection with a special subject. The speaker works for days or weeks in collecting from all sources and arranging in the happiest manner that which his hearers are to receive in an hour with no other labor than that of listening. The great advantage of writing is supposed to lie in this preparation. To-day an orator may write everything he knows about a subject; to-morrow, by means of reading, conversation, or further thought, he may have more ideas to record; and he may thus continue to widen and record his knowledge, until his time, or the subject itself, is exhausted. Then he may revise, select what is most appropriate, refine and polish his language, and finally come before an audience confident that he holds in his hand the very best that he can give them. But, alas! it is an essay, or treatise, rather than a speech! So far as his materials are suitable for a speech, they can be gathered and used as readily in an extempore discourse. The use of the pen as an instrument of accumulation and record is not to be despised. But in its final form, not a line of the most massive and complicated speech that the mind of man can produce need be written. Enriched by garnered thoughts—knowing where to begin and where to close—seeing a clear outline of the whole subject in mental vision—the trained speaker may possess every faculty, and use every resource of speech, in as serene confidence as if every word was fixed in memory or on manuscript.

Those who have only one speech to deliver, and that for show rather than service, will hardly credit these assertions. Graduating orations will probably always be recited from memory. In such cases the matter is of little value, while the form is everything. So well is this relation of fitness understood, that in serious address it is a severe condemnation to say, “He declaims just like a school-boy,” or “That is sophomoric.” The line of appropriateness may be suggested as follows: When the sole aim is to inform or please, or when an address is submitted for criticism, those who have the needed ability may very well read or recite. But when conviction or persuasion is sought, when public opinion or conduct is to be influenced, the indescribable but most potent charm of sincere, earnest, spontaneous words will ever prove most effective. No leader of a great, popular movement ever trusted to manuscript appeals, and but two or three of such leaders memorized their orations. These methods may well be reserved for the oratory of ornament and show.

May a word of advice be hazarded to those who, in spite of all these considerations, prefer to rely upon manuscript or memory? Be honest about it! Those modes of delivery have advantages when their resources are fully mastered. Do not seek credit for what you do not possess, but stand firmly on your own ground and make the most of it. If you recite, memorize perfectly and employ the most effective elocutionary devices. Do not hesitate to study the manner of good actors, for your recitations and theirs must have much in common. If you read, put the paper, not where it will be best hidden, but where it will do you the most good, and read as well as you can. Thoroughly good reading is far more interesting and attractive than reading which is a bad imitation—there are no good imitations—of spontaneous speech. Do not mark in your manuscript “Here become pathetic;” or at another place, “Here show surprise and indignation.” Reading is essentially quiet in its character, appealing to intellect and gentle feeling rather than stormy passion. You will thus realize all the success that is possible for you in the method you have chosen, and escape such well-grounded sarcasm as that of Sydney Smith, who thus describes a style of preaching common in his day:

“Discourses have insensibly dwindled from speaking to reading, a practice which is of itself sufficient to stifle every germ of eloquence. It is only by the fresh feelings of the heart that mankind can be very powerfully affected. What can be more ludicrous than an orator delivering stale indignation, and fervor a week old; turning over whole pages of violent passions, written out in goodly text; reading the tropes and apostrophes into which he is hurried by the ardor of his mind; and so affected at a preconcerted line and page that he is unable to proceed any further?”

CHAPTER III.
Lessons from the Experience of Eminent Orators.

Although unwritten speech is popular and has innumerable arguments in its favor, many persons yet maintain that eloquence of the highest character cannot be reached without trusting to the memory and the pen. In vain we urge that it is more natural to find words at the moment of utterance; that a better framework may be constructed by confining preparation to it alone; that the hearer and speaker may thus be brought into more perfect accord; that this, in short, is the method of nature, which permits the solid part of the tree to stand through many winters, while its graceful robe of foliage is freshly bestowed every spring. With the emphasis of an axiom, opponents declare that the words of a great orator must be previously chosen, fitted, and polished.

A speech-writer is apt to have one argument drawn from his own experience which outweighs all argument. His own most satisfactory efforts are those in which nothing is left to the chance of the moment. But even experience sometimes misleads. We may be bad judges of our own performances. When extemporizing, the best utterances are often immediately forgotten by the speaker, whose mind is crowded with other “thick-coming fancies.” But in writing we may linger lovingly over each sentence, and return to enjoy it as often as we wish. If anything is imperfect, we can correct and improve down to the moment of speech. And while in the act of reading or reciting we are in a much better position to admire our own work, than when carried away by such an impassioned torrent as to scarcely know whether we have been using words at all. If our auditors declare their preference for the latter, we can find a ready explanation in their want of taste and culture.

It is not denied that great effects may be produced by memorized words. The popularity of the stage is sufficient proof of their power. Actors often cause uncontrollable tears to flow. If a man can write powerfully, and then recite well, he may greatly move an audience. Massillon, Bossuet, and our own John B. Gough, have each achieved great popular success in that manner. But while such men will be listened to with eagerness and pleasure, they will be regarded as great performers rather than as authorities and guides. They have placed themselves on a level with those who deal in unreal things, and must be contented to remain there. Doubtless, it is more noble to speak in the words that were once appropriate to our feelings and sentiments, than to deal only in the words of others; but the resemblance between quoting our own previously prepared language and the language of other persons is felt more keenly by the people than the difference between the two processes.

But even in momentary effect, declaimers of memorized words have been surpassed by extemporizers, as numerous examples demonstrate; while in power of thought and lasting influence the superiority of the latter is so great as to make comparison almost impossible.

The great examples of Demosthenes and Cicero are often quoted to prove that eloquence of the highest type must be written. Of these men it may be said that Demosthenes had an assemblage of great qualities that, backed by his tireless industry, would have made any method the road to brilliant success. But he did not always recite, and he would not have dreamed of using manuscript. Cicero was at least as great in literature as in oratory, and his speeches are now read as literary models. Some of them were never spoken at all. It may be allowed that he ordinarily recited previous preparations, but some of his most brilliant passages were purely extemporaneous. The outburst that overwhelmed Catiline upon the unexpected appearance of the latter in the Roman Senate was coined at white heat from the passion of the moment. Hortensius, the great rival of Cicero—perhaps his superior as an advocate—spoke in spontaneous words, as did many of the most eminent of the Roman orators, whose fame now is less brilliant than Cicero’s, mainly because no effective means then existed of preserving extempore speech. As an offset to the example of Demosthenes, the great name of Pericles may be fairly adduced. He did not write his addresses, and direct comparison is therefore impossible; but his speech established a sway over the cultivated democracy of Athens in the day of their highest glory more indisputable than Demosthenes ever attained.

The case in regard to the ancient world may be thus summed up: Manuscript reading was not considered oratory at all; all speeches were either recited or extemporized; the latter have inevitably perished, while some of the former have survived, and, becoming a part of school-book literature, have conferred a disproportionate fame upon their authors. An orator who was compelled to write his speech in order to preserve it had a much greater inducement to write than exists since the invention of shorthand reporting. Yet some speakers of the highest eminence did not adopt that mode, and others did not confine themselves to it.

In the modern world the weight of example is decisively on the side of unwritten speech. A few instances are all that our space will allow us to adduce.

Augustine, the great Christian writer and preacher, has not left us in ignorance as to which mode of address he preferred. He enjoins the “Christian Teacher” to make his hearers comprehend what he says—“to read in the eyes and countenances of his auditors whether they understand him or not, and to repeat the same thing, by giving it different terms, until he perceives it is understood, an advantage those cannot have who, by a servile dependence upon their memories, learn their sermons by heart and repeat them as so many lessons. Let not the preacher,” he continues, “become the servant of words; rather let words be servants to the preacher.”

This advice will be equally applicable to others than preachers who may possess a serious purpose. But the charity of Augustine allows of reciting under certain circumstances. He well says: “Those who are destitute of invention, but can speak well, provided they select well-written discourses of another man, and commit them to memory for the instruction of their hearers, will not do badly if they take that course.” No doubt he intended that due credit should be given to the real author.

Of Luther it was said that “his words were half battles.” No man ever wielded greater power over the hearts of the people. He was an excellent writer, and had great command of words. But he was too terribly in earnest to write his discourses. From a vast fullness of knowledge he spoke right out, and evoked tears or smiles at pleasure. His strong emotions and indomitable will, being given full play, bore down everything before him.

It may well be doubted whether the eloquence of Lord Chatham did not surpass, in immediate effect, anything recorded of Demosthenes or Cicero. His example, and that of his equally gifted son, thoroughly refute those who deny that unwritten speech may convey impressions as strong as any ever made by man upon his fellows. Some of his grandest efforts were entirely impromptu, achieving overwhelming success under circumstances which would have left the man of manuscript or of memory utterly helpless.

Of William Pitt, the son of Lord Chatham, who was likewise an extempore speaker in the best sense of the word, Macaulay says:

“At his first appearance in Parliament he showed himself superior to all his contemporaries in power of language. He could pour out a long succession of rounded and stately periods without ever pausing for a word, without ever repeating a word, in a voice of silver clearness and with a pronunciation so articulate that not a letter was slurred over.”

These two men were never excelled in debate. They had that great advantage peculiar to good extempore speakers of being always ready. Every advantage offered was seized at the most favorable moment. Time wasted by others in writing and memorizing special orations they used in accumulating such stores of general knowledge and in such wide culture that they were always prepared. They came to great intellectual contests with minds un-fagged by the labor of previous composition, and their words were indescribably fresh and charming, because born at the moment of utterance.

The traditions of the almost supernatural eloquence of Patrick Henry are dear to the heart of every American school-boy. While few specimens of his eloquence survive, it is sure that he exerted wonderful power in speech, and that he contributed not a little to the establishment of the American Republic. He never wrote a word either before or after delivery, and his mightiest efforts were made in situations where the use of the pen would have been impossible. The Virginia Resolutions, which mark a vital point in the history of the Revolutionary struggle, were written by him on the blank leaf of a law book while a discussion was in progress. In the whole of the terrible debate which followed he was ever ready, speaking repeatedly and mastering every opponent. He was a great thinker, but a meager writer. History and human character were his favorite studies, and these contributed to fit his wonderful natural genius for coming triumph.

Among the great English preachers of the past century two were especially great as measured by the degree of popular influence they wielded. We do not wish to convey Wesley and Whitefield in any other light than as effective orators. They each did an amount of speaking that a manuscript reader would have found impossible, even if the latter had been hindered by no other consideration. At the beginning Whitefield did memorize most of his sermons. Even afterward he treated the same subject so frequently when addressing different audiences that the words, tones, and gestures, as well as the outline of thought, became quite familiar. Yet his own testimony is decisive as to the fact that he was not a memoriter preacher in the narrow sense of the term. He says that when he came to preach he had often, in his own apprehension, “not a word to say to God or man.” Think of a person who has a fully memorized speech, which he is conning over in his mind, making such a declaration, and afterward thanking God for having given him words and wisdom! Whitefield’s published sermons show few traces of the pen, but bear every mark of impassioned utterance. He spoke every day, until speaking became part of his very life. Think what a command of language, and of all the resources of speech, he must thus have acquired!

Wesley wrote many sermons, and on a very few occasions read them. He used the pen almost as much as the voice, but he wrote sermons, books, and letters for others to read, not as material for his own public reading. He was less impassioned and overwhelming than Whitefield but his sermons were not less effective. They were noted for the quality of exactness of statement. In the most easy and fluent manner he said precisely what he wanted to say. He was never compelled to retract an unguarded expression into which he had been hurried by the ardor of the moment. Yet his power over his hearers was not diminished by this carefulness. Scenes of physical excitement, such as attended the preaching of Whitefield, were even more marked under his own calm words.

We will refer to another deceased preacher, who presents the strange peculiarity of being an extempore speaker whose great fame has been acquired since his eloquent voice became silent in death, and now rests upon his written sermons. Frederick W. Robertson labored in a comparatively narrow field and finished his career in youth, but he was truly eloquent. His example proves that extempore speech may be the vehicle of the most profound thought and be crowned with all the graces of style. These qualities have given his sermons greater popularity in high scientific, literary, and philosophical circles, than those of any preacher of the present day. How could such extempore sermons be preserved? A few were taken down by a short-hand reporter, and although Robertson refused to allow their publication in his lifetime, thus leaving them without the benefit of his corrections, they are almost faultless in form and expression. Others were written out by his own hand after delivery, but these are more or less fragmentary. Had it been necessary for him to write and memorize each sermon, he could never have pursued those thorough studies, described in his letters, from which he derived so much of his power.

The great trio of American political orators belonging to the generation which has just gone from the stage—Clay, Webster, and Calhoun—were extempore speakers; Clay and Calhoun always, and Webster usually, speaking in that manner. The latter, however, was fond of elaborating some striking thought in his mind to the last degree of word-finish, and then bringing it forth in the rush of spontaneous utterance. This did not make his speech composite in the mode of delivery, for these prepared gems were short fragments, employed only for ornamental purposes. Competitors of these great men who were obliged to rely upon manuscript or memory stood no chance of success in the fiery debates through which they passed.

From hundreds of living extemporizers we will call attention to but three, and these of the highest eminence. They are all distinguished writers and do not rely on the extempore method of discourse because of inability to succeed in other methods. These men are Henry Ward Beecher, Charles H. Spurgeon, and William E. Gladstone. The amount and quality of work of all kinds they have accomplished would have been impossible for speech-readers or reciters. Beecher sometimes reads a sermon or a lecture, but though he reads well, the effect is small as compared with the fire and consummate eloquence of his extempore addresses. Spurgeon has drawn together and maintains probably the largest congregation that ever regularly attended the ministry of one man, and he is purely extemporaneous. Both these men are subjected to the additional test of having their sermons written from their lips and widely published, thus showing that their popularity has other elements besides the personal presence and magnetism of the speakers.

The wonderful power of Gladstone has been displayed unceasingly for half a century. While eager critics, hostile as well as friendly, in Parliament or at the hustings, are waiting to catch every word from his lips, he does not find it necessary to control his utterances through the use of the pen. Day after day, in the midst of heated canvasses, he discusses a wide range of complicated questions, and neither friend nor foe ever suggests that he could do better if his words were written out and memorized. Even in such addresses as include the details of finance and abound in statistics he uses but a few disconnected figures traced on a slip of paper. Some years ago, when his modes of speech were less known than now, the writer asked him to give a statement of his method of preparation, and any advice he might feel disposed to convey to young students of oratory. The following courteous and deeply interesting letter was received in reply, and with its weighty words we may appropriately close this chapter:

Hawarden, North Wales,           }

October 12th, 1867.}

Sir:—Though I fear it is beyond my power to comply in any useful manner with your request, I am unwilling to seem insensible to your wishes.

I venture to remark, first, that your countrymen, so far as a very limited intercourse and experience can enable me to judge, stand very little in need of instruction or advice as to public speaking from this side of the water. And further, again speaking of my own experience, I think that the public men of England are beyond all others engrossed by the multitude of cares and subjects of thought belonging to the government of a highly diversified empire, and therefore are probably less than others qualified either to impart to others the best methods of preparing public discourses or to consider and adopt them for themselves.

Suppose, however, I was to make the attempt, I should certainly found myself mainly on a double basis, compounded as follows: First, of a wide and thorough general education, which I think gives a suppleness and readiness as well as firmness of tissue to the mind not easily to be had without this form of discipline. Second, of the habit of constant and searching reflection on the subject of any proposed discourse. Such reflection will naturally clothe itself in words, and of the phrases it supplies many will spontaneously rise to the lips. I will not say that no other forms of preparation can be useful, but I know little of them, and it is on those, beyond all doubt, that I should advise the young principally to rely.

I remain, sir, your most obedient servant,

W. E. Gladstone.

CHAPTER IV.
An Embryo Speech, with Models of Very Simple Plans.

The first extemporaneous speeches attempted should be of the simplest character. Too high an ideal formed at the outset may be very harmful by causing needless discouragement. To speak freely in any manner, however rude, until confidence and the power of making every faculty available are acquired, should be the first great object. Many persons are slaves of bad habits through life because they began wrong. Nothing harms an orator more than cultivating his critical taste far beyond his power of ready utterance. There is no necessary relation between the development of the two things. To become a fine word-critic and master of an excellent written style does not imply the power to strike off finely finished sentences at the speed of the tongue; but it does tend to render the speaker dissatisfied with anything below the level of his written performances, and thus checks his fluency. To master the difficult art of written composition first, and strive afterward to gain a similar proficiency in spoken words, is a complete reversal of the natural method, and in all but a few gifted minds puts a premium on failure. An unlettered rustic may speak with perfect ease, because he is not conscious of the numberless verbal blunders he falls into; but if it were possible, by some process of spiritual infusion, to put him in possession of a fine, critical taste, he would be instantly smitten dumb.

The true method is to cultivate the faculty of extemporization side by side with critical judgment. In case that is done, ease and confidence will not be for a moment disturbed. It thus appears that while an extempore speaker can never know too much, it is quite possible for his knowledge and cultivation to advance in the wrong order. The pen will be of perpetual use to the speaker; but his command of it must not increase so rapidly in proportion as to make him ashamed of his tongue.

From this reasoning it follows that the best time to lay the foundation of excellence in speech is very early in life. Speeches made then are necessarily flimsy and rudimentary, but they are not the less valuable on that account. They are to be estimated not for their own worth, but for their results upon the mind producing them. The school-boy’s first “composition” has always been a mark for cheap witticism; but the boy himself regards it with justifiable pride, as the first step in the noble work of putting thought on paper. The same pains and patience applied to the art of public talking as to written composition will produce equal fruit. A few directions intended to aid in overcoming some of the initial difficulties of speech, which may serve as suggestions to teachers as well as helps to solitary students, are here appended. They are purposely made of almost ludicrous crudeness, but will not, it is trusted, be less serviceable on that account; for it is not so important to aid the mature speaker in giving the last fine strokes of genius to a masterly oration, as it is to stimulate and guide beginners in their first stammering utterances.

The simplest oration or formal address that can be constructed has three distinct parts. With these we will begin the great work of division and arrangement. They may be named as follows:

1. The Introduction.

2. The Discussion.

3. The Conclusion.

On this framework a speech-plan can be constructed simple enough for any child. And it is at the same time true that even a child, with such a plan, might speak appropriately who would otherwise not be able to begin at all.

We will consider these three parts in their order.

The introduction is at once important and embarrassing. First words are nearly always heard attentively, and they do much to determine the degree of attention that will be bestowed on the remainder of the speech. The young speaker should select something as an introduction upon which his mind can fasten, instead of dwelling upon the frightful generality of the naked theme. Neither is it hard to construct a good introduction if a few plain directions are heeded, which will be more fully given in a succeeding chapter. All persons feel the need of some kind of a formal opening, and therefore often begin with an apology—the very worst form of an introduction, because it is not interesting in itself and does not lead up to the subject.

In rudimentary speech, which we are now considering, the introduction should be simple, and, above everything else, easy for the speaker to comprehend and remember. If there is anything in the whole world which he is sure he can talk about for a few moments, and which can be made to have a moderate degree of connection with his subject, let that be chosen for an opening. If it is also vivid and striking in itself, and familiar to the audience, so much the better; but this quality should not be insisted upon in these first attempts.

When the introductory topic is selected it should be turned over in the mind until the speaker knows just what he is going to say about it. This process will have a wonderfully quieting effect upon his nerves. He has fairly mastered something, and knows that at all events he can begin his speech. It is well to make a note of this introduction in a few simple words which will strongly fasten themselves in the memory. No effort toward elaboration should be made, for that would naturally lead to a memorized introduction, and either require the whole speech to be written, or produce a painful and difficult transition.

The discussion deals directly with the subject or central idea of the discourse. Here a clear statement of at least one thought which the speaker can fully grasp should be made. The pen (or pencil) may be used in preparation without impropriety. If but one idea is thought of, let that be written in the fewest and strongest words at the student’s command. While doing this it is likely that another and related thought will spring into mind which can be treated in the same manner. With diligent students there may even be a danger of getting down too many seed-thoughts. But that contingency is provided for in the chapters on the fully developed plan, and needs no further notice at this time.

When this central division is completely wrought out, two other points claim attention. How shall the transition be made from the introduction to the discussion? A little reflection will show how to glide from one to the other, and that process should be conned over, without writing, until it is well understood. It is wonderful how many outlines of ideas the memory will retain without feeling burdened; and this power of retention grows enormously through exercise.

After this, the mode of gliding from the discussion to the conclusion may be treated in the same manner, and with equal profit. The conclusion itself is scarcely less material than the introduction; but there is much less range of choice in the manner of closing than in that of beginning. The subject is before the audience, and any wide departure from it seems like the beginning of a new speech—something not usually well received. There is this distinction between the relative value of introduction and conclusion: a good introduction adds most to a speaker’s ease, confidence, and power during the moment of speech; but a good conclusion leaves the deepest permanent impression upon the audience. It is usually remembered longer than any other part of the address.

When a discourse has been prepared in this simple manner it has virtually five parts—three written and two held in memory. From such an outline it is far more easy to make an address than from the bare announcement of a theme. It is true that all these parts may be formed and held in mind without ever making a pen-stroke. A practiced orator will do this, in a moment, when unexpectedly called upon; or he may only forecast the introduction and trust to finding the plan as fast as it is needed. But in this he is no model for imitation by beginners. Even powerful orators sometimes spoil the whole effect of a good address by an unfortunate mode of closing. They may forget to close in time—a grievous fault!—or may finish with some weak thought or extravagant proposition, by which the whole speech is mainly judged and all its good points neutralized. The construction of even as simple a plan as here indicated would have more than double the effect of many speeches made by great men.

A few simple and rude plans are annexed. No merit is sought for in any one of them beyond making plain the method recommended.

PLANS OF SPEECHES.

EXAMPLE FIRST.

Subject.—Chinese Emigration to America.

Introduction.—The number of emigrants to our country and the nations they represent.

[A totally different and more effective introduction might be the description of a group of Chinese as seen by the speaker.]

Discussion.—The nature, amount, and present effect of Chinese emigration.

[It is possible for the speaker in his introduction to foreshadow the position he expects to maintain in his speech; or he may make a colorless introduction and reserve his opinion for the discussion. The material under this head is unlimited. It is only necessary from the oratorical standpoint that the speaker should determine what course to take, and then carefully think out in advance or read—for history and statistics cannot be improvised—all about that which he intends to use. When he can tell it all over easily to himself he may reasonably feel assured of his ability to tell it to others. The various arguments should be weighed and the best selected. That which most naturally connects with the introduction should be firmly fixed in the mind as the first, that it may form the bridge from the one part to the other.]

Conclusion.—Results of policy advocated, either predicted, described, or shown to be probable. Mode of remedying evils that might be apprehended from that policy.

[In the conclusion the speaker may take upon himself the character of a prophet, poet, or logician. He may predict results and let the statement make its own impression. He may put all emphasis upon a vivid painting of the future colored by the views he advocates; or he may sum up his reasons, deduce consequences, and weigh alternatives. The choice between these different modes may be made instinctively, or it may require considerable mental effort, but when made, the best mode of transition will be very easily found.]

In all this process, which in the case of undisciplined speakers may extend over many days of hard work, the pen may be used freely, making copious notes of facts and arguments. After enough has been accumulated and put in such shape that the speaker can easily look over the entire field, he is ready for another process—that of simplifying his plan. Rough and copious notes brought with him to the platform would only be a source of embarrassment. But the germ of his ideas, which are now familiar, can be put into very small compass. Perhaps the following would recall everything in the preceding outline:

The Chinese Question.

1. Experience.

2. Arguments.

3. Results.

But it is clear that a skeleton containing only three words need not be kept in view. The whole outline of the speech will therefore be in the mind. If numerous figures or citations from authorities are employed, they may be classified and read from books or notes, as needed. Such reading in no way detracts from the extemporaneous character of the address, though if too numerous they tend to damp oratorical fire and break the unity of discourse. One who has had no personal experience, or who has not carefully observed the methods of other speakers, can scarcely imagine how much a simple outline, such as here suggested, accomplishes in removing the confusion, fear, and hesitation which characterize beginners.

Another specimen, not of controversial character, is subjoined.

EXAMPLE SECOND.| Subject.—The Ocean.

Introduction.—The vastness of the ocean. No one person has seen more than a small part of it. Power evidenced by storm and shipwrecks.

Discussion.—Five great divisions of the ocean. Use in nature, watering and tempering the land; in commerce, as a highway; in history, by dividing and uniting nations; its mystery, etc.

Conclusion.—Proof of the Creator’s power and wisdom found in the ocean.

The Same Plan Condensed.

Subject.—The Ocean.

1. Vastness and Power.

2. Parts, Use, and Mystery.

3. Evidence.

Dean Swift’s Sermon.

This eccentric clergyman once preached a sermon shorter than its own text, yet having all the three parts of which we have spoken. The text was Prov. xix, 20: “He that pitieth the poor lendeth to the Lord; and that which he hath given will He pay him again.”

The sermon was:

“Brethren, you hear the condition; if you like the security, down with the dust.”

The collection is said to have been munificent.

In this short sermon the text with the word “Brethren” constitutes the introduction; the phrase, “you hear the condition,” is a good transition to the discussion contained in the next member, “if you like the security,” which assumes the truth of the text, makes its general declarations present and personal, and prepares the way for the forcible and practical, if not very elegant, conclusion, “down with the dust.”

Among the many speeches found in Shakespeare, the existence of these three essential parts may easily be noted. The funeral speeches over the dead body of Julius Cæsar afford an excellent example. The merit of the orations of Brutus and Antony are very unequal, but both are instructive. We will analyze them in turn.

Brutus speaks first. He shows his want of appreciation of the true nature of persuasive eloquence by declaring that this will be an advantage. His introduction is also too long and elaborate for the work he has in hand. The central thought with which he opens is in substance, “I am worthy of your closest attention.” This cannot be considered a fortunate beginning, and it would have been fatal for any one less highly esteemed by the people than “the well-beloved Brutus.” He says:

Brutus’ Speech.

“Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my cause, and be silent that you may hear; believe me for mine honor, and have respect to mine honor that you may believe; censure me in your wisdom and awake your senses that you may the better judge.”

This introduction is a master-piece of Shakespeare’s art, because it pictures so well the character of Brutus in his dignity and blind self-confidence; but for Brutus it is unfortunate, because it puts him on the defensive and makes the people his judges. He must now plead well, or they will condemn him.

In the discussion the thought simply is, “I was Cæsar’s friend, and therefore you may well believe that I would not have killed him if he had not deserved death because of his ambition.” This is the whole argument, and it is weak because it does not prove the ambition of Cæsar, or show that ambition on Cæsar’s part was a crime which Brutus had a right to punish with death. The antithetic sentences lack both logic and passion. As they touch neither head nor heart, they can have but slight and momentary effect. Notice the discussion as an example of fine words which do not serve their purpose.

“If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Cæsar’s, to him I say that Brutus’ love to Cæsar was no less than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves, than that Cæsar were dead, to live all freemen? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him; but as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears for his love, joy for his fortune, honor for his valor, and death for his ambition. Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.”

As several citizens cry out, “None, Brutus, none,” he passes to the conclusion, which is as weak as the discussion.

“Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Cæsar, than you shall do to Brutus. As I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.”

He has gained nothing by the whole speech, save the knowledge that none of the citizens present care at that time to impeach him for his crime; but their minds were open to other influences. Shakespeare thus shows how an able man might use all his powers in the perfection of oratorical and rhetorical forms, without producing a great or effective speech. Antony now comes forward. Behold the contrast!

Antony’s Speech.

The introduction is like and unlike that of Brutus. The same three titles are used; the same call for attention. But there is no repetition, no egotism, no elaboration. The introduction is short, calling attention to his ostensible purpose, and prepares for a beautiful transition to the discussion.

Introduction.

“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.

I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.”

There is not a superfluous word. But how can Antony glide into those praises of Cæsar, which he has disclaimed, but which are necessary to his purpose? The next sentence solves the question:

“The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their bones;

So let it be with Cæsar.”

This leads most naturally to the thought of the discussion, which is, No event of Cæsar’s life shows guilty ambition; but many do reveal love to the people and care for the general welfare. He should, therefore, be mourned, and—the next word is not supplied by the orator, but forced from the hearts of the people—avenged! We quote a few only of the well-known words:

The Discussion.

“The noble Brutus

Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious;

If it were so, it were a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.

Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,

(For Brutus is an honorable man,

So are they all, all honorable men,)

Come I to speak in Cæsar’s funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me;

But Brutus says he was ambitious,

And Brutus is an honorable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,

Whose ransom did the general coffers fill.

Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor hath cried Cæsar hath wept.

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,

And Brutus is an honorable man.

You all did see, that, on the Lupercal,

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,

Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?”

The strongest argument against belief in guilty ambition on the part of Cæsar and in favor of punishing his murderers is reserved by the subtle Antony for the last, and then he manages to have the people demand it of him. He proceeds very naturally and effectively from the rent robe and the bleeding body to the will of Cæsar. This instrument gave the Romans each a large donation in money, and bestowed upon them collectively “his walks, his private arbors, and new-planted orchards” as a public park. The argument was irresistible, and needed no elaboration. If his death was avenged as a murder, the will would be valid; otherwise, it would be set aside, and his estate confiscated by the conspirators. The people, thus fired by the strongest motives of gratitude and interest themselves supply the conclusion, and Brutus had to fly for his life.

The whole speech is worth study as an exhibition of almost perfect eloquence. Shakespeare meant to draw in Brutus the picture of a scholar coming before the people with fine words, and producing little more than a literary effect. In Antony he pictures the true orator in the plentitude of his power, to whom words are but servants in accomplishing his purpose of persuading and inflaming the people. The one speech reads as if it might have been written out in the closet and memorized; the other gushes from the heart of the speaker as he watches the sea of upturned faces, adapting his words with exquisite skill to suit and swell the passions written there.

CHAPTER V.
Initial Fear and how to Overcome it.

However numerous and varied may be the classes of those who contemplate extempore speech, they are all confronted by one common difficulty. Whether a boy makes his maiden effort, or a man of wide thought and ripe culture attempts for the first time to dispense with the manuscript in which he has trusted through years of successful public speech, the fear of failing looms up before each of them in a manner equally formidable.

The writer well remembers his first boyish venture into this arena of peril. A debate in a village shoemaker’s shop furnished the occasion. Two or three “speakers” were ranged on a side, and the question was that time-honored controversy of country lyceums—the comparative magnitude of the wrongs suffered by the Indians and the Negroes at the hands of the American Government. Which side the writer was on, or what arguments were used, has long since been forgotten, but the palpitating heart, the terrible suspense, as one after another of the preceding speakers made his remarks and brought the terrible moment of facing the audience nearer, can never cease to be remembered. When at last called out by the voice of the presiding officer, I found my way to the end of a rude bench or counter that ran partly across the room, leaned upon it, shut my eyes, and began to talk. How hoarse and hollow the sound that followed! All that was uttered was instantly forgotten by the speaker, for one terrible thought dominated every other—a speech was being made! My head whirled, every nerve tingled, and a confused, roaring sound filled my ears, while I most heartily repented of allowing myself to be persuaded into such a frightful position. A great dread stared at me from the end of each sentence—that of finding nothing more to say and being obliged to sit down amid the ridicule of neighbors and school-fellows. When at length the agony was over, and opening my eyes, I dropped into a seat, a striking revulsion of feeling occurred. This rose to the height of joy and triumph when I learned that “the speech” had actually been ten minutes long. It was a grand achievement!

In all sober earnest, I estimate that this first effort was probably the most profitable of my life, because it was a beginning in the right direction. Weeks of preparation preceded the momentous effort, and in some kind of a way the result had been poured upon the audience. From that time the writer was numbered among the village debaters and shared in the advantages of the village Lyceum—a capital means of improvement. Had the first extemporaneous effort been made later in life, the shrinking and terror would probably have been even greater.

While no way has been discovered of altogether preventing the initial fear that attends extemporaneous speech by the unpracticed orator, yet it may be greatly lessened and more rapid and perfect control of it obtained by heeding a few simple suggestions. Some serviceable expedients have already been pointed out, and will here only be referred to. As simple a plan as that described in the last chapter, with lengthened meditation on each part, will give the mind of the speaker something to do aside from dwelling upon his own danger. He should also prepare far more matter than can possibly be used—so much that in the simplest and baldest statement it will fill a respectable period of time. He need not be careful as to how he speaks, or in how many forms he repeats the same idea. Originality, also, may safely be neglected. The object is not to talk especially well, or to utter that which has never been uttered before, but only to keep on talking until self-possession and the mastery of every faculty have been fully restored. This preparation of great quantities of material with no care as to the graces of delivery may expose the speaker in time to another peril—that of being tedious and wearisome; but this is not the source of the initial fear with which we are now dealing, and when it becomes a real evil there are effectual means of guarding against it.

A further direction is that the mode of introduction be very firmly fixed in the mind. This wonderfully calms the speaker. He knows that he can begin even if he never gets any further; and by the time the introduction is passed, if the man possesses any natural aptitude for speech, his mind will in all ordinary cases have recovered its equilibrium, and be ready to devise and direct everything that follows.

The plan and the full notes which have been made should also be kept within easy reach, or even in the hand—not with the intention of using them, for that is the very thing to be avoided, but that the speaker, by knowing that they can be referred to in an emergency, may be guarded against “stage fright.” He may also exercise self-control by not looking at them unless absolutely driven to it.

The object of first efforts—even for the orator who is great in other modes of delivery—is not to make a great or admired speech, but only to get through the ordeal without disgrace or failure. Quality must be sought later. To get any reasonable quantity of speech at first, to satisfy yourself that you can both think and talk when on your feet, is achievement enough.

One caution may be offered to the man possessing a good written style which the boy will not need. Do not make your preparation so minutely or verbally that the very words linger in your memory. If you do, one of two things will probably happen: either you will recite a memorized speech, which, however fine in itself, will contribute nothing to the object of learning to speak extemporaneously, or the fine fragments of remembered diction that flood in your mind will be so out of harmony with the words spontaneously evolved as to produce a continual series of jars and discords noticeable to every one, and to none more painfully than to yourself. The writer once listened to a speech of this mixed character, in which the orator would soar for a time on the wings of most excellent words, and then drop down to his ordinary and very meagre vocabulary. So frequent and unexpected were these transitions that the orator’s progress suggested nothing so much as traveling over one of those western corduroy roads, where the wheels of the carriage first rise with a great effort on top of a log, and then plunge into fathomless depths of mud! Rather than such jolting, it is better that the experimental speeches should never rise above the level of mere talk, and thus maintain a uniform progress. In due time all qualified persons can lift their extemporaneous words as high as the utmost reach of the pen. But first must be gained the power of standing unprotected by a paper wall, face to face with an audience and employing every faculty as calmly and efficiently as in the study. Practice in talking to the people will make this possible and easy, but nothing else will.

CHAPTER VI.
Utility of Debating Societies.

Comparatively little attention is paid to the direct cultivation of extemporaneous oratory in schools and colleges. Indirectly, much help is given by teaching many things which go to furnish the orator with ideas and words, but the combination of these into that noble effort of human genius—a speech—is left to individual research or to accident. A few schools of oratory have been founded which give a large and probably disproportionate share of attention to elocution in the form of stage or dramatic reading; but even the best of these are as yet but entering upon their real work of cultivating thoroughly the power of persuasive public speech. When each college shall have a chair of extempore speech, and each academy shall give as much attention to unpremeditated utterances in conversation and public address as is now bestowed upon Greek or Latin, the oratory of pulpit, bar, platform, and legislature will be of a vastly higher type.

Some newspaper critics have deprecated teaching the art of speech on the ground that there is already too much public talking. This view, if seriously entertained, is very narrow and misleading. Not more, but better speech—an increase of quality, rather than quantity—would result from cultivation, and improved methods. And it may also be argued that if a great part of the work of life is found in convincing, instructing, and persuading our fellows, an abundance of speech is absolutely required. As freedom and mental activity increase, the only practicable modes of leading and governing men, which rest upon persuasive speech, will be more urgently demanded. In a state where the will of one man is law, political speech has little place; and in a Church where independent thought is heresy and the mass of the people accept unquestioningly the precise form of faith in which they were born, preaching will have a very narrow field. But in our own country it is our boast that we determine every subject by free discussion; and it is clear that a man who can take no part in the oral battles that are continually waged about him is placed at a great disadvantage.

But the literary societies generally connected with schools do afford very valuable help in acquiring the art of oratory. Not only their formal exercises, but their discussion of points of order and procedure, and the management of the business and government of such societies, call out talking talent. Debating societies or lyceums give the same kind of facilities to speakers outside of educational halls. A spirited debate on some topic not above the comprehension of the debaters affords one of the best possible means of acquiring the prime faculties of assurance and fluency. In such debates the question is chosen, the sides assigned, and ample time given for that kind of preparation which can only be effectually made in the general study of the subject. There is no great temptation to write a speech for a coming debate, as its formal sentences would fit poorly into the line of argument, the course of which cannot be foreseen, even if their substance should not be anticipated by a speaker on the same side. But the more general knowledge of the subject in its entire range that can be acquired the better, so long as it does not overwhelm the speaker. The opening speech may indeed be planned in advance with some definiteness, but all others will be colored and modified by the situation into which the debate has been drawn. Each participant is under a strong stimulus to do his best, sure, if successful, of warm approval by his colleagues and sweet triumph over his opponents. After the opening speech each contestant will have the time his predecessor is speaking for arranging arguments and preparing an answer. The stimulus of contradiction rouses every faculty to the highest energy. Each argument is scrutinized for the purpose of discovering its weak point, and nothing will pass on trust. It may as well be acknowledged that the gladiatorial spirit, though in a modified form, is still rife in the civilized world. The “joy of conflict” may be tasted as well in the sharp encounters of an earnest debate upon some topic of absorbing interest as on the battle-field. A society which furnishes its members continual opportunity for speech, under such conditions cannot fail to be a powerful educator in the direction of extemporaneous speech. In such encounters, the freedom that belongs to this kind of address is most highly appreciated, and the mistaken considerations of dignity and propriety which so often take all life and heart from speech can have little weight. Debates have indeed been occasionally carried on by means of essays in place of speeches, but such encounters have been tame and listless affairs, and have soon given place to the real article. Among the American statesmen who have taken their first lessons in the art which paved their way to greatness in country debating societies may be reckoned Henry Clay, Abraham Lincoln, James A. Garfield, and many others only less eminent.

Enough inducements, we trust, have been set forth to lead every student of speech to find or make an opportunity for availing himself of this capital means of cultivation. Let him enter upon the work of debating, earnestly resolving (after the first few efforts) to do the very best in his power. Let him arrange his material carefully, select a striking mode of opening each address, and strive to close in such a manner as to leave the best effect on the minds of his hearers. As he debates for improvement rather than for immediate victory, he will, of course, despise all tricks and seek to win fairly, or—what is just as important a lesson—he will learn to accept defeat gracefully.

The skeletons of two speeches on opposite sides of the same question are here presented for the purpose of showing how a simple plan will hold to the proper place all the thoughts and arguments that may be accumulated.

The same form of outline is used as in the preceding chapter.

Question.

Would the annexation of Cuba to the United States be beneficial?

Affirmative Argument.

Introduction.—How small and hemmed in by powerful countries the United States would have been if no annexations had ever been made. To annex Cuba would be no new policy.

Discussion. Argument First.—Favorable location of Cuba and commercial value to the United States.

Argument Second.—The great riches and beauty of the Island, which make it very desirable.

Argument Third.—Advantages to the people of Cuba themselves, in belonging to a great and free nation.

Conclusion.—All previous annexations had to encounter strong opposition when first proposed, but are now acknowledged to have been good policy. So, if Cuba is brought under our flag, opposition will die out and all parties be glad of the result.

Negative Argument.

Introduction.—Plausible but inconclusive nature of the argument advanced on the other side. Previous annexations may not have been good, though opposition ceased when it could avail nothing. Even if all former annexations were beneficial this might not be, as all attending circumstances are so widely different.

Discussion. Argument First.—The nation has already as much territory as can be well governed. An increase would lead to grave dangers.

Argument Second.—The people of Cuba are different in language, race, and religion from the majority of the people of the United States; have different customs, and are unacquainted with the working of our institutions. They could not therefore be transformed easily into good citizens.

Conclusion.—Dreadful wars and calamities have arisen in all ages and all parts of the world from greediness in absorbing territory—“earth hunger,” as the Germans call it. To annex Cuba would involve present and future danger.

PART II.
Preparation of the Speaker.

CHAPTER I.
Unfortunates who Never can Extemporize.

Persons are met every day who declare their belief in extempore speech—for others—but who are fully persuaded that the possibility of ever becoming effective speakers has been placed by nature forever beyond their own reach. In some cases this persuasion is well founded. There are people who cannot by any possible effort learn to speak well without manuscript or memorized words. But too much must not be made of this acknowledgment. The number of these unfortunates is smaller than is usually believed. It is also noticeable that persons of undoubted talent are often most ready to despair of their own future as speakers, while others, whose defects are patent to all their neighbors, have no fears whatever.

The object of this chapter is to point out the character of the few insuperable disqualifications for extempore speech, and supply rational tests by which their presence in any given case may be determined. This is a task of no small difficulty and delicacy; yet it is necessary. To encourage any person to strive for that which is forever placed out of his reach is cruel—almost criminal. It is equally wrong to discourage those who only need persevering effort in order to achieve full success.

With regard to the faculty of eloquence, mankind may be divided into three classes. Persons in the first class have the oratorical temperament so fully developed that they will speak well and fully succeed in whatever mode they may adopt, or, indeed, without consciously adopting any method at all. They have such a union of the power of expression and of the impulse toward it, that they speak as naturally and as surely as the nightingale sings. The existence of extraordinary native genius must be acknowledged as a fact in every department of human effort. But it by no means follows that these wonderfully gifted beings will rise to the highest eminence in their own spheres. They certainly will not unless they add diligent effort and careful cultivation to their natural powers. Some of the greatest orators have not belonged to this class, but to that next described. They would never have been heard of—would probably never have addressed an audience at all—if they had not forced their way upward against adverse criticism, and often against their own feeling and judgment, impelled only by a sense of duty or by enthusiastic loyalty to some great cause.

The second class is far larger than either of the others. The majority of people have not so great talents for speech as to drive them of necessity into the oratorical field. Neither are they absolutely incapable of true speech. If they will labor for success in oratory, as a photographer or a sculptor labors to master his art, they will gain it; otherwise, they will always be slow and embarrassed in utterance and be glad to find refuge in manuscript or in complete silence. It is often amusing to note a person of this class who has never learned how to be eloquent, but who is full of ideas that seek expression, using another person who is a mere talking machine as a mouthpiece! There is nothing wrong in such a division of labor, but the latter secures all the glory, although he runs considerable risk, as his stock of borrowed information cannot be replenished at will. The writer knew two young men, members of a certain literary society, who sustained this relation to each other. They usually sat together, and while a debate was in progress the wiser of the two would whisper the other what line of argument to follow and what illustrations to employ, and at the proper time the latter would spring to his feet with the utmost confidence, and blaze forth in borrowed eloquence. In time, however, the silent man tired of his part and took the pains to learn the art of speech for himself. A great profusion of language is not the first need of an orator. Quite as often as otherwise it proves a hindrance and a snare. The members of this large class have every encouragement to work diligently, and are sure of ultimate reward.

But the remaining class can no more learn to speak well, than a blind man can learn to paint, or a dumb man to sing. How shall such persons be made acquainted with their condition, and thus save themselves years of painful and fruitless toil? Mathematical accuracy of determination is not practicable, but any person of candor and ordinary judgment may apply a few simple tests which will not allow wide room for error.

A dumb man cannot be an orator. The physical impediment is here absolute and recognized by all. But mere slowness and defects of speech, though hurtful, are not necessarily fatal. Stammering may in almost every case be cured, and many stammerers have made good speakers. A weak voice is also a misfortune; but it may be greatly strengthened, and by cultivation and judicious husbanding become equal to every purpose. A feeble voice will accomplish much more in extemporizing than in reading a manuscript. Some most eloquent men have reached their stations in spite of vocal defects. John Randolph, Robert Hall, and Bishop Simpson are cases in point. After all the examples that have been afforded of the power of cultivating the voice, supplemented by the effects of using it in a natural manner, no man who can carry on an ordinary parlor conversation need say, “My voice is so weak that I can never be a public speaker.” He may require training in the ways pointed out hereafter; but with proper effort he can reasonably expect a good degree of success. The writer here speaks from experience. His voice was so feeble that reading a single paragraph aloud at school was difficult; and when afterward the study of law was contemplated, many friends dissuaded on the ground that lack of voice forbade all hope of success at the bar. But special drill and the healthful practice of extemporaneous speech have wrought such an improvement that now no great effort is required to make several thousand persons in the open air hear every word of a long address.

Some persons are ready to assign their own timidity as an excuse for never attempting public speech. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred this is no real disqualification. If the timidity, indeed, be so great that the person will not risk speech, that decides the question against him, but in such a case he should say, “I will not,” rather than “I cannot.” Fear is more under the government of the will than we are apt to imagine. Even when excessive, the right kind of drill will go far toward overcoming it. Great cowards often make good soldiers when so well disciplined that they know just what to do, and from the force of habit cannot neglect it, although their attention may be wholly absorbed in something else. But it is idle to disguise that the extempore speaker will always run some risk of failure. Probably no great orator ever escaped a mortifying, if not disastrous, overthrow at some period of his career. Sheridan and Lord Beaconsfield each began their great achievements in the English House of Commons by a complete breakdown. But they also had the courage to try again and to keep trying until success came. Mere natural shrinking from such trials is no disqualification, if when the mind is fully made up as to the best course there is sufficient courage and will-power to go forward. Indeed, a certain degree of fear belongs to the oratorical temperament. A man who can at the first trial calmly face an expectant audience, probably lacks some of the sensitiveness which is one of the qualifications of the powerful and effective speaker. The only real disqualification, therefore, in the direction of timidity, is such a degree of fear as will make the speaker turn away from all the prizes of oratory, unwilling to encounter the hardship and the struggle by which they may be won.

But is the position of the reader or declaimer better in this particular than that of the true speaker? How difficult it is to read well before an audience! Even elocutionists who devote years of practice to a narrow range of selections find their efforts very unequal. They can never be sure of reaching the full measure of former successes. To read one’s own composition, and to feel responsible for the words and the matter, as well as for the delivery, greatly intensifies the fear of falling below reasonable expectations. The writer has observed many manuscript readers, and can testify that they are usually as much embarrassed when the hour of trial arrives as off-hand speakers. In the latter mode of delivery the voice is so much more free and varied, and the mind is apt to be removed so much more from self, that the balance of advantages in the matter of embarrassment seems to be decidedly in favor of extemporizing.

The perils of the reciter are still more formidable. The reader seldom grows so much embarrassed as to be unable to see the words before him. If he loses his place he can begin somewhere else, and stumble on in some kind of way. But verbal memory, when weighted with the burden of a whole discourse and clouded by embarrassment, easily give way altogether. A slight physical ailment may produce the same result. When memory thus fails, scarcely any escape is possible to one accustomed to depend upon it. Many speakers will recollect occasions on which they were unable to recall short memorized passages, but could easily supply extemporized words and thus follow the line of discourse previously marked out without any mortifying confession of failure. It will therefore be a gain to one who aspires to public speech of any kind to settle it finally that no other mode of utterance can diminish those risks which so terrify the extempore speaker.

A third disqualification is the want of ordinary mental power. Great mental endowments may not be necessary. In the ordinary meaning of the word, the orator need not be a genius. His education may be very defective, his range of information narrow, and his general powers of mind not above the average. But if he is to stand before his fellows as a guide and instructor—a position assumed to some degree by every speaker—he should not be inferior in a marked degree to his hearers, at least in those things which relate to the subjects he discusses. A mediocre man who has had special training in some one direction, and adds native vigor of mind, may be a very instructive and entertaining speaker in his own field. But if through mental weakness he talks so foolishly on any topic that his want of wisdom is apparent to all his hearers, he might better close his lips; and if his mental faculties are so defective or badly balanced that he cannot master the ordinary subjects upon which he will be required to speak if he speaks at all, he should abandon all thought of oratory.

This disqualification is the most difficult for a man to determine in himself. A weak voice, overmastering fear, infirm health, can all be recognized with an approach to certainty; but who can be bold enough to settle the question whether his mind is sufficiently strong to profitably address his fellows? A few general suggestions presented in the form of questions are all that will be useful in making this decision. Do you find it possible to study a subject until all sides of it are clearly visible in their mutual relations? Do the subjects with which you are most familiarly acquainted still seem shadowy and confused in your own mind? When you try to tell a friend about any passing event, do you use words so bunglingly as to give him no clear conception of the matter? A speaker must be able to hold a subject firmly in his mind, and to make such a presentation of it to others that they also may understand it.

Yet in answering these questions let it be remembered that many persons, exceedingly self-distrustful, have put forth their efforts all the more diligently on that account, and have thus achieved brilliant success.

The rule is a safe one, that a man whose mind furnishes him with important ideas, and with the desire to communicate them, may speak successfully. Mental powers may be greatly improved and strengthened, and no one who does not stand far down the scale in natural endowment, or is willing to use the means at his disposal diligently, need hesitate to make an attempt which can scarcely fail to be full of profit, even when it does not command perfect success. We will not now enter upon a consideration of the modes by which the general strength of the mind may be augmented and its stores increased, for oratory busies itself with the method of communication rather than with the illimitable field of general cultivation.

Any mortal disease, or such physical infirmity as prevents the exercise of bodily and mental powers, will be found to interfere as materially with oratory as with other forms of labor. For a man who is far advanced in consumption to begin a course of preparatory training with a view to becoming an orator, would be an evident waste of effort. If he has anything to say which the world ought to know, he should speak it out at once in the best form that his present ability allows, or commit the task to others. This seems so self-evident that it should be understood without statement; but the opposite idea has attained some degree of currency. It is sometimes said of an individual, “Poor fellow, his health is so broken that he can never make a living by any hard work; it would be well for him to turn his attention to some easy profession, where he would have nothing to do but speak.” There is one form of truth concealed in this hurtful error. Natural speech does furnish healthful exercise for the vocal organs, which in their turn are closely connected with the most vital parts of the human body. In some cases serious disease has been cured by the habit of public speech. But these cases are exceptional, and do not in the least invalidate the principle here laid down, which is, that disease, so far as it enfeebles the body, operates as a direct disqualification for effective speech; and if the disease be severe and permanent the disqualification is total. It must also be remembered that some forms of disease are rendered worse by the effort and excitement inseparable from public address. Physicians usually forbid the healthful exercise of surf-bathing to persons afflicted with heart disease. But the intellectual waves of a heated discussion buffet no less fiercely than the ocean surf, and to be met successfully requires a steady arm and a strong heart. Even in the calmest and most passionless discourse it is scarcely possible to avoid having the pulse quickened, and all the elements of mental and physical endurance severely tested. The star of a most eloquent man suddenly faded a few years ago while he was still in middle life, because he became too feeble to put forth oratorical force. He continued to speak for a few years, but scores only listened to him where hundreds and thousands had hung spell-bound on his utterances before his physical strength declined.

But it is cheering to remember that especially in youth ill-health may often be entirely removed. The great majority of young people need only the careful observance of healthy conditions in order to make their bodies efficient instruments for the expression of all the fires of eloquence that may be enkindled in their souls.

One of the principal marks by which man is distinguished from the lower animals is the invention and use of articulate language. By it, the dress for our ideas is formed, and it is scarcely possible even to meditate without mentally using words. During all our waking moments, even the most idle, a stream of language is running ceaselessly through our minds. The more completely the form of language is spontaneously assumed by the thought-current, the easier it becomes to open the lips and let it gush forth in words. With most persons unspoken meditations are very fragmentary and obscure—mere snatches begun and broken off by passing impulses or impressions. An extemporaneous speaker must be able to control his thoughts and hold them to a predetermined path; and if he also accustoms himself to force them into a full dress of language, the habit will greatly lessen conscious effort in the moment of speech. But however this is, the power of wielding the resources of his mother tongue is absolutely essential to the orator. A great and incurable deficiency in this respect is fatal. There are examples of almost wordless men, who, though suffering no deprivation of any of the physical organs of speech, have yet been so deficient in language-power that they could not employ it as the medium of ordinary communication. Such a man—an Illinois farmer—well known to the writer, could not find words to make an ordinary statement without long and embarrassing pauses. The names of his nearest neighbors were usually forgotten, so that he required continual prompting in conversation. He was not below the average of his neighbors either in education or intelligence, but was simply almost without the faculty of language. This deficiency in a less marked degree is not uncommon. No amount of training would ever have converted this farmer into an orator. Had he attempted to discuss the most familiar topic his beggarly array of words would have been more forlorn than Falstaff’s recruits. Another example that may be cited was in one sense still more instructive—a preacher whose goodness was acknowledged by all who knew him, a man of solid acquirements and of great diligence and energy. But his long and embarrassed pauses, together with his struggles to get words of some kind to express his meaning, constituted a trial to his hearers so great that no congregation would long endure his ministry.

It is possible that such persons would gain some relief by writing and reading their discourses. Probably they could not memorize at all. Their reading, however, would most likely be marked by many of the same defects as their spoken utterances.

Many of the persons who accuse themselves of a lack of words mistake the nature of their difficulty. It is easy to bring the matter to a decisive test. If you are really very deficient in the faculty of language, you cannot tell an ordinary story, with the details of which you are perfectly acquainted, in a prompt and intelligent manner. Try the experiment. Read over two or three times a newspaper account of a wreck, a murder, or some other common occurrence; then lay down the paper and in your own way tell your friend what has happened. If you can do this easily, you need never complain of the lack of words. Equal familiarity with any other subject will produce the same results. Neither the preacher nor the farmer referred to could have successfully passed this test. The preacher would have told the story badly, and in an incredibly long space of time; the farmer would not have told it at all.

We have now considered the most serious disqualifications for the orator’s vocation. Many things which are constantly assigned by candidates as the reasons for confining themselves to the use of manuscript in public address have not been included, for most of these, as will appear in a subsequent chapter, are susceptible of easy remedy. Here we have only mentioned those which cannot be cured. If a man concludes, after due trial and consultation, that these defects, or any part of them, prevail in his own case, it will be prudent for him to select some other life-work to which he is better adapted than he can ever hope to be for public speaking.

We sum up the following disqualifications for oratory: incurable defects of voice, extreme timidity, feebleness of mind, certain forms of bodily disease, and great deficiency in the faculty of language.

CHAPTER II.
Thought and Emotion.

Two kinds of preparation contribute to the production of eloquence. One is the preparation of the speaker, the other of the speech. The first is fully as important as the second. In ordinary cases both are indispensable. Some “born orators” speak well without appearing to pay any attention to the improvement of their faculties. Others are occasionally eloquent on a topic without special preparation. Yet these cases when closely examined will be found apparent rather than real exceptions to the rule above stated. The man who seems never to have cultivated the power of speech, and is yet able to blaze into fervid eloquence at will, has usually concealed his preparation or carried it on in such uncommon methods that they have not been recognized as preparations. On the other hand, a man who speaks well without a moment’s warning can do so only when the subject is thoroughly familiar to him. A ready and self-possessed speaker may grasp thoughts which have been long maturing in his mind, and give them forth to an audience in obedience to an unexpected summons, but if he is called upon when he knows nothing whatever of his subject, failure is inevitable, though he may possibly veil it more or less in a stream of platitudes. Ask a man at a moment’s warning to give an astronomical lecture. If he is perfectly familiar with the subject in general, and is also a practical orator, he may succeed well without preparing a special speech. But if he is ignorant of Astronomy, what kind of an address can he make? If he is the most eloquent man in the nation that faculty will avail him nothing, for he cannot extemporize the names of the planets, the laws which govern their motions, or any of the facts out of which his lecture must be woven. Precisely the same necessity of adequate information exists in every other field of intelligence. The ignorant man cannot possibly tell that which he does not know, although he may make a great show of knowledge out of small material; but even to do that with certainty requires careful premeditation and arrangement.

In this and following chapters we wish to treat of the kind of cultivation which makes a man ready to speak. The field is here very wide and some general considerations must be introduced, but we hope also to give valuable practical directions, especially to those who are yet at the beginning of their career.

In considering man as a speaker, we may classify his faculties into two broad divisions; those which furnish the materials of communication with his fellows; and those which furnish the means of such communication. The first class gives rise to thoughts and emotions in man’s own breast; the second enables him to arouse similar thoughts and emotions in the breasts of others. Our course, therefore, will be to consider, first, thought and emotion, and afterward those powers of body and mind by which we express, that is, press out from ourselves toward the receptive faculties of our fellow beings.

Thought, in the broad sense here given, embraces the knowledge of all facts, and all the reasoning that may be based upon those facts. Emotion is the mental feeling or response to knowledge, and comprises love, hate, joy, fear, sorrow, and hope. These two elements are the broad basis of all eloquence. Keen, profound, far-reaching thought—in other words, thought raised to its highest terms—and quick, sensitive, powerful emotion, are necessary to the highest eloquence. Compared with them, mere verbal fluency is less than dust in the balance. But such a combination—the highest degree of both thought and emotion—is rare, and many degrees less than the highest of either is available for genuine eloquence. To increase either or both, if it can be done without any corresponding sacrifice, is to increase eloquence in precisely the same proportion.

Education in the popular sense is the cultivation of thought with the added faculty of language. But we prefer to consider the latter power separately as one among the means of communicating thought.

How, then, shall thought-power be increased? There is no royal road. Every one of the faculties by which knowledge is accumulated and arranged or digested into new forms grows stronger by being employed upon its own appropriate objects. Exercise is then the means by which the material of knowledge is gathered, and all faculties strengthened for future gathering. Each fact gained adds to the treasury of thought. A broad and liberal education is of exceeding advantage. This may or may not be of the schools. Indeed, they too often substitute a knowledge of words for a knowledge of things. That fault is very serious to the orator, for the only way by which even language can be effectively taught, is by giving terms to objects, the nature of which has been previously learned.

But many persons need to speak who cannot obtain an education in the usual sense of the words—that is, college or seminary training. Must they keep their lips forever closed on that account? By no means.

A thousand examples, some of them the most eminent speakers the world has produced, encourage them to hope. Let such persons learn all they can. Wide, well-selected, and systematic reading will do wonders in supplying the necessary thought-material. Every book of history, biography, travels, popular science, which is carefully read, and its contents fixed in the mind, will be available for the purposes of oratory. Here a word of advice may be offered, which, if heeded, will be worth many months of technical education at the best colleges in the land; it is this: have always at hand some work that in its own sphere possesses real and permanent merit, and read it daily until completed. If notes are made of its contents, and the book itself kept on hand for reference, so much the better. If some friend can be found who will hear you relate in your own words what you have read, this also will be of great value. Many persons, especially in our own country, spend time enough in reading the minute details of the daily papers to make them thoroughly acquainted in ten years with forty volumes of the most useful books in the world. Think of it! This number may include nearly all the literary masterpieces. Which mode of spending the time will produce the best results? One newspaper read daily would amount to more than three hundred in a year, and allowing each paper to be equal to ten ordinary book pages, the result would be three thousand pages annually, or six volumes of five hundred pages each. In ten years this would reach sixty volumes! This number, comprising the world’s best books in history, poetry, science, and general literature, might be read slowly, with meditation and diligent note-taking, by the most busy man who was willing to employ his leisure in that way. Libraries and books are now brought within the reach of all, and the mass of what man knows can be learned in outline by any student who thirsts for knowledge. While thus engaged the student is on the direct road toward oratorical efficiency, though such knowledge will not in itself constitute eloquence. It is but one of its elements. Neither will the speaker have to wait until any definite quantity of reading has been accomplished before it becomes serviceable to him. All that he learns will be immediately available, and, with proper effort, the facility of speech and the material for speaking will keep pace with each other.

But personal observation of life and nature are just as necessary as reading. The world of books is very extensive, but it yields its treasures only to persons who bring to its study some independent knowledge of their own. We cannot hope to add much to the world’s stock of knowledge by what we see with our own eyes, but what we do see and hear will interpret for us what we learn from the far wider world of books. Gibbon tells us that his militia service, though of no great advantage in itself, was afterward very useful to the historian of the Roman Empire. What we behold of the landscape around us lays the foundation for understanding what poets and travelers tell us of other landscapes we may never see. Book knowledge wall become real and vivid just in proportion as it is brought into comparison with the observation of our own senses. To the orator, this is far more important than to the ordinary student, for it adds greatly to the royal faculty of imagination. A description from the lips of a speaker who beholds at the moment a mental picture, accurate as a photograph, and bright with color, will be very different from another description built up only of words, however well chosen and melodious the latter may be. A little dabbling in natural science, a few experiments tried, an occasional peep through telescope or microscope at the worlds they open, and all other means of bringing knowledge under the scrutiny of our own senses, will greatly contribute to the power of the orator.

The reasoning faculties must also be trained by exercise upon their own objects. The knowledge which has been gathered from personal observation or from the testimony of others in books will furnish material, but will not enable us to reason. Logic and mathematics have considerable utility as guides, but they cannot supply the want of continuous application of the processes of argument and deduction. No man becomes a reasoner from merely learning the mode in which the reason operates. Of two persons, one of whom understands every mood of the syllogism and the source of every fallacy, while the other has no technical knowledge of logic, but has been engaged in careful reasoning, discussion, and argument, all his life, it may easily happen that the latter will be the better reasoner of the two—just as a man might learn from the books all the rules of the game of croquet, and yet be beaten by another who continually handled the mallet, but had never read a single rule. Practice makes perfect. Essay writing, constructing arguments, tracing effects back to their causes, making careful comparison of all things that can be compared, in short, bringing our judgment to bear upon all facts, forming our own opinions of every event, and being always ready to give a reason to those who ask,—these modes of exercise will make the faculty of reason grow continually stronger. It is not pretended that these or any other modes of cultivation can make all minds equal, but they will improve any one—the lowest as surely as the most active—though the interval after both have been thus exercised will remain as great as before.

Extempore speech itself, when practiced upon carefully arranged plans or models as recommended hereafter, is one of the most powerful modes of cultivating the logical faculty. To construct plans, so that all thoughts accumulated upon a given subject may be unfolded in a natural and orderly manner, cannot fail to exercise the reasoning faculties, and impart corresponding strength to them.

But how shall emotion be cultivated? The wisest speech, if deep feeling neither throbs in the words nor is manifested in delivery, cannot be eloquent. The orator can only speak forth from an aroused and excited nature. There is a kind of intellectual excitation kindled by the presentation of truth which is sufficiently effective when instruction is the only object. But to persuade and move men—the usual aim of the orator—requires passion. No pretense will avail the extempore speaker. He will infallibly be detected if counterfeiting, and to succeed in exhibiting feeling he must really feel. There are but two things which can arouse feeling—care for a cause or for persons. Many a man is eloquent when “riding his hobby,” though at no other time. He has thought so much upon that special subject, and has so thoroughly identified himself with it, that everything relating to it becomes invested with personal interest. Any cause which can thus be made personal will be apt to arouse feeling. It would be wise, therefore, for an orator to identify himself as closely as possible with all manner of good causes which come within his reach. Then such well-springs of emotion will gush out easily and frequently.

This mode of excitation is largely intellectual in its character. The next to be described has more to do with the affections. The clergyman wants to secure the welfare of his congregation, and the better he is acquainted with them individually the stronger will be this wish. The lawyer is but a poor attorney if he does not so identify himself with his client as to feel more than a professional interest in the latter’s success. The politician needs no exhortation to rouse his enthusiasm for his party and his chief. All these are instances of that care for persons which adds so greatly to the powers of effective speech. The plain inference, therefore, is that the speaker will gain largely by identifying himself as closely as possible with the interests of men, and by cultivating love for them. A cynical or indifferent spirit makes a fearful discount from the possibilities of eloquence. Only the greatest qualities in other directions can prevent it from proving fatal.

The power and sensitiveness of emotions founded upon intimate knowledge and partnership of interest go far to explain the wonderful eloquence of the old Greeks. Their country was the native land of eloquence. This arose not so much from the character of that gifted race as from the fact that each speaker personally knew his audience and had an intimate, material interest in the affairs he discussed. They regarded their opponents as terribly bad men. Their own lives and the lives of many of their friends were not unfrequently involved in the questions they discussed. The States were so small, and the personal element so important, that strongly aroused feeling became inevitable. The discussion of war or peace before an audience who knew that if they voted war their town might be besieged by the enemy within a fortnight, was sure to be eagerly listened to. No platitudes would be tolerated. The orators spoke before their neighbors, some of them friendly, others bitter enemies who were seeking in each word they uttered an occasion for their ruin. Much of the wonderful power of Demosthenes arose from the deep solicitude felt by himself and excited in his hearers as they watched the swiftly coming ruin of their common country.

It is also a law of human nature that we feel deeply for that which has cost us great labor. The collector of old china or of entomological specimens learns to greatly value the ugly dishes and bugs he gathers, though others may despise them. The more of real work we do in the world, the deeper the hold our hearts take upon it. This is one of the secrets of the power of goodness as an element of oratory. It was long ago declared that a good man, other things being equal, will be a better speaker than a bad man. His affections are called forth by a greater variety of objects. Yet hate can make a man eloquent as well as love, and some of the most eloquent orations ever uttered partook largely of this baleful inspiration. But the occasions on which noble feelings may rise into eloquence are far more numerous and important.

Why should not a man train himself to take a deep interest in all that is brought familiarly to his notice? This wide range of sympathy is one of the marks which distinguishes a great from a small mind. It has been said that “lunar politics” can have no possible interests for the inhabitants of this globe. But who can be sure of this, if there be such a thing as “lunar politics”? The wider our knowledge the more we recognize the possibility of interests which we had not before dreamed of. If there are inhabitants on the moon, and if we have an immortal existence, it is far from impossible that we might some time be brought into the closest connection with them. No man can tell the bearing of a new fact upon human welfare, more than he can write the history of a new-born babe. At any rate, every fact is a part of the great system of truth which lies all about us, and which is adapted to the needs of our intellect. Let it also be remembered that all men are kindred, and that we should make common cause with them. When this comes to be the habitual attitude of the mind, not as a mere sentiment, but as a strong and steady impulse, impassioned speech on any great theme affecting the interests of nations or individual men will be easy.

Emotion cannot be feigned, neither can it be directly roused by an effort of the will. We cannot say, “Now I will be in a furious passion,” or, “Now I will be inflamed with wrath against this great wrong,” for the mere sake of speaking better upon the subject in hand. But we can gaze upon a great wrong, and meditate upon the evil it involves, until the tides of indignant emotion arise in our breast. Many a well-prepared speech has failed of effect, because the orator was so anxious about the form of his address and his own popularity as to lose interest in the subject itself. Sometimes speeches read or recited fail from an opposite cause. The interest has once been aroused, and having burned during the protracted period of composition, it cools and cannot be recalled. No energy, declamation, or elegance of diction can redeem this capital defect.

To tell a man in general terms how he may widen his sympathies and enter into the closest bonds with his fellows is difficult. It is much easier to tell him what not to do. The hermits of the desert took exactly the wrong course. They lost the power of eloquence except upon some theme which could be wedded to their solitary musings. Peter the Hermit was roused to fury by the tales of wrongs to pilgrims in the Holy City—almost the only thing that could have made him eloquent. But on that one topic he spoke like a man inspired and was able to call all Europe to arms. Whatever separates from the common interests of humanity must diminish the power or at least the range of genuine emotion. To know a great many men, to understand their business affairs, to enter into their joy and fear, to watch the feelings that rise and fall in their hearts, is sure to deepen our own feelings by unconscious imitation and sympathy. Each new friend is an added power of noblest emotion—a new point at which the world takes hold of our hearts. How many persons are eloquent for a cause only! On the other hand, some men care nothing for general principles, but will throw their whole soul into a conflict for friends.

That man is well furnished for eloquence who knows a great deal, who can mentally combine, arrange, and reason correctly upon what he knows, who feels a personal interest in every fact with which his memory is stored, and every principle which can be deduced from those facts, and who has so great an interest in his fellows that all deeds which affect them awaken the same response in his heart as if done to himself. He will then possess all the necessary treasures of thought, and will himself be warmed by the fires of emotion. The only remaining problem will be to find the manner of communicating his thought and emotion in undiminished force to others through the medium of speech.

The mode of cultivating the powers necessary to this end will next engage our attention.

CHAPTER III.
Language.

The preceding chapter dealt with those faculties which provide the materials of speech, and in one sense was scarcely appropriate to a treatise designed to show the best modes of communicating knowledge. Yet it was difficult to approach the subject intelligibly in any other way. So much has been said about the natural power of oratory that it was necessary to define its character and to show how it might be supplemented by cultivation. But it is more directly our task to point out the mode of improving the communicative faculties.

First in importance among these stands language. Without its assistance thought could not be consecutively imparted. Some vague and intangible conceptions might arise within our own minds, but even these could not be given to other minds without the medium of words. The power of language is distinct from general intellectual ability. It by no means follows that a man who possesses important thoughts and deep emotions will be able to communicate them well; but a very moderate endowment of the word-faculty may be so cultivated as to fulfill every requirement. Diligent practice in the methods advised below will enable the great majority of men to express their thoughts with fullness and accuracy.

There are certain laws in every language made binding by custom, which cannot be transgressed without exposing the offender to the severe penalty of ridicule and contempt. These laws form the basis of grammar, and must be thoroughly learned. If a man has been under the influence of good models from childhood, correctness will be a matter almost of instinct; but the reverse of this is frequently the case. Even then there is but little difficulty experienced by any one who will take the necessary pains, in learning to write in accordance with the rules of speech, and when this power has been attained there is a standard formed by which to judge our spoken words. But it is not enough for the extempore speaker to be able to reduce his sentences to correctness by recasting, pruning, or adding to them. They should be required to present themselves at first in correct form and in rounded completeness. He has no time to think of right or wrong constructions, and the only safe way, therefore, is to make the right so habitual that the wrong will not once be thought of. In other words, we must not only be able to express ourselves correctly by tongue and pen, but the very current of unspoken words that flows in our brains must be shaped in full conformity to the laws of language. When we exercise the power of continuous grammatical thinking, there will be no difficulty in avoiding the ridiculous blunders which are supposed to be inseparable from extempore speech.

Correctness in pronunciation is also of importance. Usage has given each word its authorized sound, which no person can frequently mistake without rendering himself liable to the easiest and most damaging of all criticisms. Bad pronunciation produces another and extremely hurtful effect upon extempore speech. The mental effort necessary to discriminate between two modes of pronouncing a word, neither of which is known to be right, diverts the mind from the subject and produces embarrassment and hesitation. Accuracy in the use of words, which is a charm in spoken no less than written language, may also be impaired from the same cause; for if two terms that may be used for the same idea are thought of, only one of which can be pronounced with certainty, that one will be preferred, even if the other be the more suitable. The extemporizer ought to be so familiar with the sound of all common words that none but the right pronunciation and accent will ever enter his mind.

Fluency and accuracy in the use of words are two qualities that have often been confounded, though perfectly distinct. To the speaker they are of equal importance, while the writer has far more need of the latter. All words have their own peculiar shades of meaning. They have been builded up into their present shape through long ages. By strange turns and with many a curious history have they glided into the significations they now bear; and each one is imbedded in the minds of the people as the representative of certain definite ideas. Words are delicate paints that, to the untutored eye, may seem of one color, but each has its own place in the picture painted by the hand of genius, and can be supplanted by no other. Many methods have been suggested for learning these fine shades of meaning. The study of Greek and Latin has been urged as the best and almost the only way: such study may be very useful for discipline, and will give much elementary knowledge of the laws of language: but the man who knows no other tongue than his own need not consider himself debarred from the very highest place as a master of words. The careful study of a good etymological dictionary will, in time, give him about all the valuable information bearing upon this subject that he could obtain from the study of many languages. In general reading, let him mark every word he does not perfectly understand, and from the dictionary find its origin, the meaning of its roots, and its varied significations at the present day. This will make the word as familiar as an old acquaintance, and when he meets it again he will notice if the author uses it correctly. The student may not be able to examine every word in the language, but by this mode he will be led to think of the meaning of each one he sees; and from this silent practice he will learn the beauty and power of English as fully as if he sought it through the literatures of Greece and Rome. If this habit is long continued it will cause words to be used correctly in thinking as well as in speaking. To read a dictionary consecutively and carefully (ignoring the old story about its frequent change of subject) will also be found very profitable.

Translating from any language, ancient or modern, will have just the same tendency to teach accurate expression as careful original composition. In either case the improvement comes from the search for words that exactly convey certain ideas, and it matters not what the source of the ideas may be. The use of a good thesaurus, or storehouse of words, may also be serviceable by showing in one view all the words that relate to any subject.

But none of these methods will greatly increase fluency. There is a practical difference between merely knowing a term and that easy use of it which only habit can give. Elihu Burritt, with his knowledge of fifty languages, has often been surpassed in fluency, force, and variety of expression by an unlettered farmer, because the few words the latter knew were always ready. There is no way to increase this easy and fluent use of language without much practice in utterance. Where and how can such practice be obtained?

Conversation affords an excellent means for this kind of improvement. We do not mean the running fire of question and answer, glancing so rapidly back and forth as to allow no time for premeditating or explaining anything, but real and rational talk—an exchange of thoughts and ideas clearly and intelligibly expressed. The man who engages much in this kind of conversation can scarcely fail to become an adept in the art of expressing his thoughts in appropriate language. Talk much; express your ideas in the best manner possible; if difficult at first, persevere, and it will become easier. Thus you will learn eloquence in the best and most pleasing school. The common conversational style—that in which man deals directly with his fellow man—is the germ of true oratory. It may be amplified and systematized; but talking bears to eloquence the same relation that the soil does to the tree that springs out of its bosom.

But the best thoughts of men and the noblest expressions are seldom found floating on the sea of common talk. To drink the deepest inspiration, our minds must often come in loving communion with the wise and mighty of all ages. In the masterpieces of literature we will find “thought knit close to thought,” and, what is still more to our present purpose, words so applied as to breathe and live. These passages should be read until their spirit sinks into our hearts and their melody rings like a blissful song in our ears. To memorize many such passages will be a profitable employment. The words of which such masterpieces are composed, with the meanings they bear in their several places, will thus be fixed in our minds ready to drop on our tongues when needed. This conning of beautiful passages is not now recommended for the purpose of quotation, although they may often be used in that manner to good advantage, but simply to print the individual words with their signification more deeply in memory.

This may be effected, also, by memorizing selections from our own best writings. What is thus used should be highly polished, and yet preserve, as far as possible, the natural form of expression. Carried to a moderate extent, this exercise tends to elevate the character of our extemporaneous efforts by erecting a standard that is our own, and therefore suited to our tastes and capacities; but if made habitual, it will induce a reliance upon the memory rather than on the power of spontaneous production, and thus destroy the faculty it was designed to cultivate.

But no means of cultivating fluency in language can rival extempore speech itself. The only difficulty is to find a sufficient number of occasions to speak. Long intervals of preparation have great advantages as far as the gathering of material for discourse is concerned; but they have disadvantages, also, which can only be overcome by more diligent effort in other directions.

Clear and definite ideas greatly increase the power of language. When a thought is fully understood it falls into words as naturally as a summer cloud, riven by the lightning, dissolves into rain. So easy is it to express a series of ideas, completely mastered, that a successful speaker once said, “It is a man’s own fault if he ever fails. Let him prepare as he ought, and there is no danger.” The assertion was too strong, for failure may come from other causes than a want of preparation. Yet the continuance of careful drill, in connection with frequent speaking and close preparation, will give very great ease and certainty of expression. The “blind but eloquent” preacher, Milburn, says that he gave four years of his life—the time spent as chaplain at Washington—to acquire the power of speaking correctly and easily without the previous use of the pen, and he declares that he considers the time well spent. His style is diffuse, sparkling, rhetorical, the most difficult to acquire, though not by any means the most valuable. An earnest, nervous, and yet elegant style may be formed by those who have the necessary qualifications in much shorter time.

CHAPTER IV.
Imagination.

Nothing adds more to the brilliancy and effectiveness of oratory than the royal faculty of imagination. This weird and glorious power deals with truth as well as fiction and gives to its fortunate possessor the creative, life-breathing spirit of poetry.

Listen to the description of natural scenery by a person of imagination, and afterward by another destitute of that faculty! Each may be perfectly accurate and refer to the same objects, even enumerating the same particulars in the same order; but the one gives a catalogue, the other a picture. In relating a story or enforcing an argument, the same difference in the vividness of impression is apparent.

It is said of Henry Ward Beecher, who possesses a strong imagination, that the people would listen with delighted attention if he only described the mode in which a potato grew! He would see a thousand beauties in its budding and blossoming, and paint the picture so vividly as to command universal attention.

The Bible, which is the most popular of all books, is pre-eminently a book of imagination. Nowhere is loftier or more beautiful imagery employed, or wrought into more exquisite forms. A few short and simple words paint pictures that the world looks upon with astonishment from age to age. Paradise Lost, the most sublime imaginative poem in the language of man, drew much of its inspiration from a few passages in Genesis. Job and Isaiah are without rivals in the power of picturing by means of words, sublime objects beyond the grasp of mortal vision.

While illustrations and comparisons flow principally from the reasoning faculties, their beauty and sparkle come from imagination. Without its influence these may explain and simplify, but they have no power to interest the hearer or elevate the tenor of discourse.

How may imagination be cultivated? It is said that “Poets are born, not made,” but the foundation of every other faculty also is in nature, while all are useless, unless improved, and applied. Imagination will increase in vigor and activity by proper use. Its function is to form complete mental images from the detached materials furnished by the senses. It gathers from all sources and mixes and mingles until a picture is produced. The proper way to cultivate it lies in forming abundance of just such pictures and in finishing them with all possible care. Let the orator, on the canvas of the mind, paint in full size and perfect coloring, every part of his speech which relates to material or visible things. Illustrations also can usually be represented in picturesque form. We do not now speak of outward representation, but of viewing all objects in clear distinctness, through the eye of the mind. It is not enough for the speaker, if he would reach the highest success, to gather all the facts he wishes to use, to arrange them in the best order, or even to premeditate the very form of words. Instead of the latter process, he may more profitably strive to embrace all that can be pictured in one mental view. If he can summon before him in the moment of description the very scenes and events about which he is discoursing, and behold them vividly as in a waking dream, it is probable that his auditors will see them in the same manner. A large part of all discourses may thus be made pictorial. In Ivanhoe, one of the characters looks out through a castle window and describes to a wounded knight within the events of the assault which was being made upon the castle. Any person could describe the most stirring scene vividly and well in the moment of witnessing it. A strong imagination enables a speaker or poet to see those things he speaks of almost as accurately and impressively as if passing before his bodily eyes, and often with far more brightness of color. To make the effort to see what we write or read will have a powerful effect in improving the imaginative faculty.

Reading and carefully pondering the works of those who have imagination in high degree will also be helpful. The time devoted to the enjoyment of great poems is not lost to the orator. They give richness and tone to his mind, introduce him into scenes of ideal beauty, and furnish him with many a striking thought and glowing image.

Most of the sciences give as full scope to imagination in its best workings as poetry itself. Astronomy and geology are pre-eminent in this particular. Everything about them is grand. They deal with immense periods of time, vast magnitudes, and sublime histories. Each science requires the formation of mental images and thus gives the advantages we have already pointed out. It is possible for a scientific man to deal exclusively with the shell rather than the substance of science, with its technical names and definitions rather than its grand truths; but in this case the fault is with himself rather than with his subject. The dryness of scientific and even mathematical studies relates only to the preliminary departments. A philosopher once said that success in science and in poetry depended upon the same faculties. He was very nearly right. The poet is a creator who forms new worlds of his own. The greatest of their number thus describes the process by which imagination performs its magic.

“The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;

And, as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen

Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name.

Such tricks hath strong imagination.”

Almost the same result must be reached in many departments of science, with the aid of only a few scattered facts for a basis. The geologist has some broken bones, withered leaves, and fragments of rock, from which to reconstruct the primitive world. From the half-dozen facts observed through his telescope, the astronomer pictures the physical condition of distant planets. In every science the same need exists for imagination in its highest, most truthful function, and the same opportunity is, therefore, afforded for its cultivation.

An eminent elocutionist frequently urged his classes to employ all pauses in mentally picturing the idea contained in the coming sentence. He declared that by this means the expression of the voice was rendered more rich and true. In uttering our own words this process is at once more easy and more fruitful in varied advantages.

CHAPTER V.
Voice and Gesture.

Voice and gesture form the immediate link between the speaker and his audience. The value of good quality in both is sometimes over-estimated, though it is always considerable. A good voice, well managed, gives powerful and vivid expression to thought, but cannot supply the absence of it. Neither is such a voice indispensable. Many instances of high success against vocal disadvantages might be mentioned; but these only prove that other excellencies may atone for a single defect. We can never be indifferent to the charms of a good voice, that modulates with every emotion and responds to the finest shades of feeling. It has much of the pleasing quality of music.

But this harmony cannot be evoked by merely mechanical training. To teach the pupil just what note on the musical scale he must strike to express a particular emotion, how much of an inflection must be used to express 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 let it not be inferred from this that voice cultivation is useless. The more perfect the instrument for the expression of thought can be made, the better it will be fitted for its high office. An orator may profitably spend a little time daily for years in training the voice, for it is a faculty he must continually employ, and none is more susceptible of improvement. The passion evoked in animated speech will demand for its adequate expression almost every note and key within the compass of the voice; and unless it has previously been trained into strength on each of these, it will fail or grow weary. The proper kind of preparation operates by exploring the range of the voice, testing its capabilities, and improving each tone. This work is not imitative or slavish. It is only like putting an instrument in tune before beginning a musical performance.

To give full elocutionary instruction here would be aside from our purpose; but a few useful modes of practice may be pointed out.

Good articulation is of prime importance. Nothing will contribute more to secure this valuable quality than the separation of words into their elements of sound and continued practice on each element as thus isolated. Phonetic shorthand affords a good means for making such analysis, or the same purpose may be accomplished by means of the marks of pronunciation found in any dictionary. As we practice these elements of sound we will discover the exact nature of any defect of articulation we may suffer from, and can drill upon the sounds that are difficult until they become easy. When we have thus learned to pronounce these few elements—not much above forty in number—and can follow them into all their combinations, we have mastered the alphabet of utterance. It will also contribute greatly to strengthen the voice and make it pliable, if we continue the same practice on these elements at different degrees of elevation on the musical scale until we can utter each one in full, round distinctness, at any pitch from the deepest bass to the shrillest note ever used in speech. This will bring all varieties of modulation within easy reach.

Practice on these elements is also a very effective mode of strengthening weak voices. By pronouncing them one by one, with gradually increasing force, the degree of loudness we can attain at any pitch, will be greatly extended. The amount of improvement that may be made would be incredible if it were not so often exemplified. Every teacher of elocution can testify of students, the power of whose voices has thus been multiplied many fold; and almost equal advantages may be reaped in persevering private practice.

Following on the same line, we may learn to enunciate the elements, and especially the short vowels, in a quick, sharp tone, more rapidly than the ticking of a watch, and with the clearness of a bell. This will enable the speaker to avoid drawling, and be very fast when desirable, without falling into indistinctness. Then, by an opposite process, other sounds, especially the long vowels, may be prolonged with every degree of force from the faintest to the fullest. Perseverance in these two exercises will so improve the voice that no hall will be too large for its compass.

The differing extension of sounds, as well as their pitch and variations in force, constitute the perspective of speech and give it an agreeable variety, like the mingling of light and shade in a well-executed picture. The opposite of this, a dull, dead uniformity, with each word uttered in the same key, with the same force, and at the same degree of speed, becomes well-nigh unbearable; while perpetual modulation, reflecting in each rise and fall, each storm and calm of sound, the living thought within, is the perfection of nature, which the best art can only copy.

All vocal exercises are of an essentially preparatory character. In the moment of speech details may safely be left to the impulse of nature. Supply the capability by previous discipline, and then allow passion to clothe itself in the most natural forms. There is such a vital connection between emotion and the tones of voice, that emphasis and inflection will be as spontaneous, on the part of the disciplined speaker, as breathing. Rules remembered in the act of speaking tend to destroy all life and freshness of utterance.

When bad habits have been corrected, the voice made supple and strong, confidence attained, and deep feeling evoked in the speaker’s breast, there will be little need to care for the minutiæ of elocution. The child that is burnt needs no instruction in the mode of crying out. Let nature have her way, untrammeled by art, and all feelings will dominate the voice and cause every hearer to recognize their nature and participate in them. In this way we may not attain the brilliancy of theatric clap-trap, but we will be able to give “the touch of nature that makes the whole world kin.”

If carefully guarded, the faculty of imitation may be of great service in the management of the voice. The sounds that express sympathy and passion are heard everywhere, forming a medium of communication more subtle and widespread than any language of earth. From the example of great orators we may learn what true excellence is, and become able to reproduce some, at least, of their effects. It would be hurtful to confine our attention too long to one model, for true excellence is many-sided, and if we continually view only one of its phases we are apt to fall into slavish imitation—one of the greatest of all vices. By having many examples to look upon, and using them only to elevate our own ideal, we will escape this danger. The models before us will urge us to greater exertions and the whole level of our attainments be raised.

There are abundant faults to mar the freedom and naturalness of delivery, and the speaker who would be truly natural must watch diligently for them and exterminate them without mercy. The sing-song tone, the scream, the lisp, the guttural and tremulous tones, the rhythmical emphasis which falls like a trip-hammer at measured intervals, are specimens of common, bad habits that should be weeded out as fast as they push through the soil; and if the speaker’s egotism is too great to see them, or his taste not pure enough, some friend should point them out. Even the advice of an enemy conveyed in the unpleasant form of sarcasm and ridicule may be profitably used for the purpose of reform and improvement.

Should a conversational tone be employed in speaking? This question has often been asked, and much difference of opinion evoked, but it may be satisfactorily answered. The language of conversation is the language of nature in its most unfettered form, and it should, therefore, be the basis of all speech. The same variety and character of intonations used in it should be employed in every variety of oratory. But conversation itself varies widely with varying circumstances. The man talking with a friend across a river will speak less rapidly but more loudly than if he held that friend by the hand. In speaking to a number at once, the orator must, in order to be heard, speak more forcibly and distinctly than in addressing one only. With this explanation, it may be laid down as a safe rule that a speech should begin in a conversational manner. But should it continue in the same way? A deep, full tone—the orotund of the elocutionist—will make a stronger impression than a shrill, feeble utterance. And as conversation becomes earnest even between two persons, there is the tendency to stronger and more impressive tones. This same tendency will be a sufficient guide in speech. A trained man giving utterance to a well-prepared speech, upon a theme which appeals to his own emotions, will adopt those oratorical tones which form a proper medium for eloquence, without a single thought given to that subject during the moment of delivery. Begin as a man who is talking to a number of his friends upon an interesting subject; then, as the interest deepens, let go all restraint. As passion rises like an inflowing tide, the voice will be so fully possessed by it and so filled out and strengthened as to produce all the effect of which its compass is capable. It will deepen into the thunder roll when that is needed, and at the right time will grow soft and pathetic.

But above almost every other error that the speaker can commit, 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 to split the speaker’s throat and the hearer’s ears all through the discourse. This fault is not uncommon in the pulpit, especially among those who desire a reputation for extraordinary fervor and earnestness. But it is the worst kind of monotony. The loudness of tone, that applied at the right place would be overpowering, loses all power except to disgust and weary an audience. It expresses no more thought or sentiment than the lashing of ocean waves conveys to the storm-tossed mariner. Have something to say; keep the fires of passion burning in your own soul; learn the real strength there is in the reserve of power; and the cultivated voice will not fail in its only legitimate office—that of making the clear and adequate impression of your thoughts and emotions upon the souls of others.