CHAPTER V.CULTIVATION—IMAGINATION—LANGUAGE—GESTURE—CONFIDENCE.
The ability to convey our thoughts to others may be very greatly increased by culture. The vastest accumulations of learning will not be useful to the world unless there is an available channel by which they may be transmitted. We will consider a few of the elements that make a man ready in communicating his ideas.
Imagination is often thought to be unnecessary to the sacred orator; but if he resign to the poet and novelist that faculty that deals with beauty in all its forms, the lovers of beauty will be apt to desert the churches and seek gratification where it can be found. Imagination, in its legitimate sphere, is as necessary as the power of reasoning, or the sentiment of devotion. It deals with truth as well as fiction, and gives to its possessor the creative, life-breathing spirit of poetry. Listen to the description of any piece of natural scenery by a person of imagination and another destitute of it. They may describe with equal truthfulness, and even allude to the same objects; but one will give a dry catalogue of facts, on which the mind cannot fix without painful effort, while the other gives a picture that fills us with delight. The same difference is apparent in the commonest things. In relating a story or enforcing an argument, the man who has this rare and wonderful power will make his words glow with life, and arrest our attention.
It has been said of Henry Ward Beecher, who possesses sostrong an imagination, that the people would listen with wonder if he were only describing the way a potato grew. This is literally true. He would see in it a thousand beauties no one else had thought of, and paint the picture with a force and accuracy that would command attention. His own conceptions are exceedingly clear, and while his knowledge is great, his imagination enables him to concentrate everything into a clear and vivid description.
Even the Bible, which is the preacher’s great example, is pre-eminently a book of imagination. Nowhere is there loftier or more beautiful imagery employed, or truth wrought into more exquisite forms. A few short and simple words paint pictures that the world looks upon with astonishment from age to age. The first chapters of Genesis contain as much poetry as Paradise Lost; in fact, it is the poetry of these chapters interpreted by a mighty mind that illuminates the most sublime imaginative poem in the language of man. Job and Isaiah are without rivals in the mighty imagination that “bodies forth the forms of things unknown.” Even the New Testament, which we usually consider as a plain narrative, sparkles with true poetry. Where will we find a more graceful thought than that of our Saviour’s: “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” The Book of Revelation is full of glorious and awful figures addressed to the imagination.
With such sanctions, the preacher need not fear to employ all of this faculty that God has given him. Many of his subjects are in the remote past, and can only be brought near enough to the people to awaken their interest by one who can view them as present. There is no possibility of novelty in our themes. Times are altered since Paul was accused as a setter-forth of strange doctrines. Men have listened to the same stories all their lives. Yet if the preacher can make the sublime scenes of the Bible live in his own mind, he can describe them with the vivacity of aneye-witness. All have noticed the interest excited in the midst of a dry sermon by a simple story. The reason is, that the preacher was, at first, dealing with abstractions—mere words, and nothing more—but when he came to the story his heart and imagination took hold on it. The same interest may be excited in any part of a sermon if the speaker can but throw his own soul into it, and see what he describes.
The account of the storming of Lookout Mountain, as given by Bishop Simpson, was a fine illustration of this. The incident is perfectly familiar, and in describing it he used simple words, without the false brilliancy that sometimes passes for eloquence. There was no particular charm in his manner, but his imagination grasped the magnificent achievement, and it stood out in all its fullness before the eyes of the audience. They saw the old flag disappear in the cloud, and the long lines of blue wind up the mountain until they were hidden in the same obscurity; heard the thunder that man’s artillery made boom out of the bosom of the cloud; then saw the flag emerge from the mist and heard the cheer of victory ringing down from the sky. The effect upon the audience was overwhelming, and irrepressible tears streamed from the eyes of all.
Such glory may be thrown around the teaching of the Bible, and every word be true; and the audience will enjoy it more than if they were actually carried back to the olden time and witnessed its wondrous scenes with their own eyes; for they will have—what so many feel the want of when gazing on memorable scenes—some one to interpret their feelings and give them living sympathy.
While illustrations and comparisons flow principally from the reasoning faculties, they derive their beauty from imagination. Without its influence they may explain and simplify, but have no power to interest the hearer or elevate the tenor of the discourse. Beecher excels in this as in so many other things, and while his similes may take hold of the most common things, they are always highly imaginative and appropriate.
How may imagination be cultivated? It is said that “poets are born, not made;” but the foundation of every other faculty is in nature, while all are useless unless improved and applied. It, too, will increase in power by use. Imagination is the faculty that forms complete images from the detached materials furnished by the senses. It takes from all sources, and mixes and mingles until a perfect picture is formed. Now, the proper way of cultivating it is by forming just such pictures. Let the preacher throw on the canvas of the mind every part of his sermon that is capable of sensible representation. It is not enough to have all the facts, but he must cast them into the very shape he wishes them to take. A great part of every sermon may thus be made pictorial, and be far more easily remembered, and more effectively delivered. Even in doctrinal sermons, use may be made of this principle, by forming clear mental images of the illustrations, which are mostly from material objects. When Henry Bascom was asked how he succeeded in preaching so well, he said that it was by painting everything vividly in his mind, and then speaking of it as he saw it before him. He was a man of unbounded imagination, and perhaps allowed it too much influence in his discourses; but his example is most instructive to that large number who have not enough to prevent their sermons from being dim and dry.
But the preacher must use this faculty with great care, for it is an edged tool. He deals in sacred things, and while he may approach the burning bush where the Lord is, he must go with naked feet and softest tread. Above all, truth and propriety may never be violated. That imaginative preacher who pictured to his hearers the bustle of a railway station, the rush of the train, the crowding of friends around to welcome the passengers, and conspicuous among them, the gray-haired father of the prodigal son, hurrying with tottering steps to the edge of the platform, and there grasping the returning penitent by the hand, may have produced a vivid picture, but his sermon scarcely tended to edification!
This faculty may also be cultivated by reading and pondering the works of those who have it in a high degree of perfection. The time devoted to the study of the great poets is not lost. They give richness and tone to the speaker’s mind, introduce him into scenes of ideal beauty, and furnish him with many a striking thought and glowing image to be woven into his future discourses.
Many of the sciences give as full scope to imagination in its best workings as the fields of poesy. Astronomy and geology stand pre-eminent in this particular. Everything about them is great. They deal with immense periods of time, immeasurable magnitudes and sublimest histories. Hugh Miller’s “Vision of Creation” is as replete with imagination as a play of Shakespeare, and his other works sparkle with the same radiant spirit. Each science requires the formation of mental images, and thus approaches the domain of poetry. The dryness of mathematical and scientific study is a pure myth. A philosopher once said that poetry and the higher branches of science depended on the same powers of mind. He was right. The poet is a creator who forms new worlds of his own, and “gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name.” He pictures the idea that arises in his brain in all the vividness of outward form. The man of science is required to do the same thing, with the advantage, perhaps, of a few scattered hints. The geologist may have a few broken bones, a withered leaf, and some fragments of rock, from which to bring before him the true “forest primeval,” through which roamed gigantic animals, and dragons more unsightly than ever figured in Grecian mythology. The astronomer has the half dozen phenomena he can observe with his telescope from which to conceive the physical appearance of distant worlds. In every science the same need for imagination in its high, truthful function exists, and the same opportunity is afforded for its cultivation.
An eminent elocutionist once advised his class to employ all pauses in mentally painting the idea conveyed in thecoming sentence. By this means, he said, the expression of the voice would be made deeper and truer. If this is so important in reciting the words of others, how much more should we observe it when improvising sentences as well as modulations.
Our conceptions may remain vague and intangible while within the mind, but they can only reach others by taking the definite form of language. It by no means follows that a man who has important ideas and deep emotions, will be able to communicate them; but if he have a moderate endowment of language it may be so cultivated as to answer all his requirements. We have no doubt that diligent and long-continued practice in the methods indicated below will enable the vast majority of men to express their thoughts with clearness and fluency.
There are certain laws in every language, made binding by custom, which cannot be transgressed without exposing the transgressor to ridicule. These constitute grammar, and must be thoroughly learned. If a man has been under the influence of good models in speech from childhood, correctness will be a matter almost of instinct; but the reverse of this is usually the case.
At the present day, there is little difficulty in learning to write in accordance with the rules of composition; and when the power has been attained, we have a standard by which to judge our spoken words. But it is not enough for the extempore speaker to be able, by long effort, to reduce his sentences to correctness. That should be the first and spontaneous form in which they present themselves. He has no time to think of right or wrong constructions, and the only safe way 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 thought which is flowing ceaselessly through our brain, and which is usually clothed in unspoken words, must be in accordance with the laws of language. When we have attained the power ofprecise and accurate thinking, we will have no difficulty in avoiding the ridiculous blunders sometimes supposed to be inseparable from extemporaneous speech.
Correct pronunciation is also of great importance. Usage has the same authority here as in the collocation of words, and has assigned to each one its proper sound, which no speaker can mistake without being exposed to misconception and damaging criticism. A deficient knowledge of pronunciation is apt to produce another and extremely hurtful effect. The mental effort necessary to determine between two different sounds that may be suggested, is liable to divert the mind from the subject it is engaged upon, and thus occasion embarrassment and hesitation. That accuracy in the use of words, which is the charm of spoken no less than written composition, may also be impaired; for if two or more terms for one object flash into the speaker’s mind, only one of which he is confident of his ability to pronounce, he will be strongly tempted to use that one, even if it be the least suitable. He ought to know how to pronounce all common words, and be so familiar with the right sound and accent, that no other will ever enter his mind. Then he will be able to select the terms that convey his meaning most clearly and strongly.
One blunder in pronunciation should be particularly shunned by every person of good taste. This is the omission of the sound of “r” in places where it rightly belongs. It is strange that this shameful perversion of language should be popular in certain circles. It is so easily observed and corrected that the poor excuse of ignorance is scarcely admissible, and in general it can be attributed only to silly affectation. This sound is as musical as most others, and the attempt to improve the melody of our speech by its omission is on a par with the efforts of our great-grandmothers to improve their beauty by affixing patches to their cheeks and noses.
Fluency and accuracy in the use of words are two qualities that have often been confounded, but are really distinct.They are of equal importance to the speaker, while the writer has most need of the latter. All words have separate and well-defined meanings. They are not the product of a day, but have been building up through long ages. By strange turns, and with many a curious history, have they glided into the significations they now bear; but each one has become imbedded in the minds of the people as the representative of a certain idea. No two words are precisely alike. They are delicate paints that, to the untutored eye, may seem of one color, but each of which has its own place in the picture created by the hand of genius, that can be supplied by no other. Many ways have been suggested to learn these fine shades of meaning. It is often supposed that the study of the so-called learned languages—Latin and Greek—is the best and almost only method. This will certainly give a large amount of information concerning the origin and formation of words; but it cannot fix their signification at the present day, for radical changes of meaning often take place. A linguist can use his knowledge to great advantage; but the man who knows no language but his own need not consider himself as debarred from the very highest place as a master of words. He can obtain the same knowledge in a more condensed and accessible form by the study of a good etymological dictionary. In general reading, let him mark every word he does not perfectly understand, and referring to the dictionary, find what it came from, the meaning of its roots, and its varied significations at the present day. This will make the word so familiar, that, when he meets it again, it will seem like an old acquaintance, and he will notice if the author uses it correctly. He may not be able thus to study every word in the language, but will be led to think of the meaning of each one he sees; and from this silent practice will learn the beauty and power of the English tongue as perfectly as if he were master of the languages of Greece and Rome. If this habit is long-continued, it will teach him to use words truly in his very thoughts, and then he cannot mistake even in the hurry of speech.
Translating from any language, ancient or modern, will have just the same tendency to teach accurate expression as careful original composition. In either case, improvement comes from the search for words that will exactly convey certain ideas, and it matters not what the source of these latter may be. The use of a good manual of synonyms—a thesaurus, or storehouse of words—may be of service, by showing all terms that relate to any object in one view, and allowing us to choose the most suitable.
But none of these methods will very greatly increase our fluency. There is a difference between merely knowing a term and that easy use long practice alone can give. Elihu Burritt, with his fifty languages, has often been surpassed in fluency, force and variety of expression by an unlettered rustic, because the few words the latter knew were always ready. This readiness will always increase by use. The blacksmith’s arm, hardening by the exertion it puts forth, is a trite illustration of the effect of exercise; and the man who is always applying to ideas and things the verbal signs by which they are known, will increase the facility with which he can call them to mind. If he does not employ them properly, his manner will not improve, and with all his fluency he will speak incorrectly. But if he speak in accordance with established usage, his ability will daily increase.
Conversation is an excellent means for this kind of cultivation. We do not mean a running fire of question and answer, glancing so rapidly back and forth as to give no time for premeditating or explaining anything, but real, rational talk—an exchange of ideas, so clearly expressed as to make them intelligible. The man who deals much in this kind of conversation can scarcely fail to become a master of the art of communicating his thoughts in appropriate language. Talk, express your ideas when you can with propriety, or when you have an idea to express. Do it in the best way possible. If hard at first, it will become easier, and thus you will learn eloquence in the best and most pleasing school. For the common conversationalstyle—that in which man deals with his fellowman—is the germ of true oratory. It may be amplified and systematized; but talking bears to eloquence the same relation the soil does to the tree that springs from its bosom.
But the best thoughts of men are seldom found floating on the sea of common talk. If we wish to drink the deepest inspiration, our minds must come often in loving contact with the words of the great and mighty of every age. There we will find “thought knit close to thought;” and, what is more to the present purpose, words, in their best acceptance, so applied as to breathe and live. We can read these passages until their spirit sinks into our hearts, and their melody rings in our ears like a song of bliss. If we commit them to memory, it will be a profitable employment. The words of which they are composed, with the meanings they bear in their several places, will thus be fixed in our minds, and ready to drop on our tongues when they are needed. This conning of passages is not recommended for the purpose of quotation, though they may often be thus used to good advantage; but to print the individual words of which they are composed more deeply on the memory.
This may be effected also by committing selections from our own compositions. What is thus used should be polished, and yet preserve, as far as possible, the natural form of expression. When this is done to a moderate extent, it has a tendency to elevate the character of our extemporaneous efforts by erecting a standard that is our own, and therefore suited to our tastes and capacities, at the very highest point we can reach. But if this is made habitual, it will interfere with the power of spontaneous production, and thus contribute to destroy the faculty it was designed to cultivate. Ministers who write and commit all their sermons, are accustomed to read from a mental copy of their manuscript; and the force of habit binds them more and more closely to it until they cannot speak otherwise. When such persons are unexpectedly called upon to make a speech, theydo it, not in the simple, easy language that becomes such an occasion, but by throwing together bits of previously-committed addresses. They have made what might be an agent of improvement, the means of so stereotyping their minds that they can only move in one channel unless time is given them to dig out another.
There is no means of cultivating language that surpasses extempore speech itself. The only difficulty is to find occasion to speak often enough. The pioneer Methodist itinerants, who had to preach every day in the week, enjoyed this mode of cultivation to its full extent; and whatever may be thought of their other merits, their fluency of speech is beyond question. But long intervals of preparation bring counterbalancing advantages at the present time. Let these be improved in the way indicated hereafter, and the preacher will come to the sacred desk with a power increased by each effort.
When a thought is clearly understood, it will fall into words as naturally as a summer cloud, riven by lightning, dissolves into rain. So easy is it to express an idea, or series of ideas, that have been completely mastered, that a successful minister once said: “It is a preacher’s own fault if he ever fails in a sermon. Let him prepare as he ought, and there is no danger.” The assertion was too sweeping, for there are sometimes external causes that will prevent full success. Yet there is no doubt that the continuance of this thorough preparation, in connection with frequent speaking, will give very great ease of expression. “The blind, but eloquent” 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 considered the time exceedingly well spent. His manner is that most difficult to acquire—the diffuse, sparkling, rhetorical style so much prized by those who prefer flower to fruit. An earnest, nervous, and yet elegant style can be acquired by most persons in much less time.
There is another thought that those who complain of deficient language would do well to ponder. No one can use words well on any subject of which he is ignorant. The most fluent man, who knows nothing of astronomy, would find himself at great loss for words if he attempted to explain the phenomena of the heavenly bodies. Even if he were shown an orrery, and thus led to comprehend their motions, he would still be ignorant of the proper terms by which such knowledge is conveyed. If he attempted to explain what he understood so imperfectly, he would be apt to hesitate, and finally use words and names incorrectly. As our ideas become clear and defined, there is an intense hungering for the terms by which they are expressed; and this hunger will lead to its own supply. Let us increase our fluency by extending the bounds of our knowledge; but ask of language nothing more than belongs to its true function—to furnish means of expression for the ideas we already possess.
The voice, assisted by gesture, forms the immediate link between the speaker and his audience. Its qualities are of great importance, although, in some quarters, over-estimated. A good voice, well managed, gives powerful and vivid expression to thought, but cannot answer as a substitute for it. Neither is it indispensable. We have known many and great instances of success against much vocal disadvantage; but this only proves that its absence may be compensated by other excellencies. We can never be indifferent to the charm of a well-modulated voice, bending to every emotion, and responsive to the finest shades of feeling. It makes ordinary talk so smooth and pleasant as to be generally acceptable, but can never raise it to greatness. The instances that are given to prove this, do not seem capable of bearing such an interpretation. Whitefield is sometimes spoken of as an instance of what can be accomplished by masterly elocution; but he was a man of fervent, if not profound thought. His emotion was overpowering, and his voice, with all its melody, was only an instrument for its expression.Let a bad or indifferent man have Whitefield’s voice and manner in completeness, and he would be but a disgusting declaimer. It is soul that must speak through the voice to other souls, and only thus can the mighty effects of eloquence be produced.
We do not think there is much virtue in the merely mechanical training of the voice. To teach the pupil just what note on the scale he must strike to express a particular emotion, how much of an inflection must be used to indicate sudden 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 from this let it not be inferred that the cultivation of the voice is useless. It is the instrument for the expression of thought, and the more perfect it can be made the better it is fitted for its high office. It would be well for the preacher to spend some time every day for years in vocal training, for there is nothing more susceptible of improvement than the voice. The passion excited during animated speech will demand almost every note and key within its compass, and unless it has been previously trained on these, it may fail. To prepare in this way by exploring the range of the voice, and testing all its capabilities, has in it nothing mechanical or slavish. It is only like putting a musical instrument in tune before beginning to play.
Nothing contributes so much to give ability to manage the voice as the separation of words into the simple elements of sound, and continued practice in the enunciation of these. They can be best learned from the short-hand system of tachygraphy or phonography, or from the phonetic print. In these we find sound resolved into its elements, which are but few in number, and on which we can practice until every difficulty in enunciation is overcome. If there is a fault in our articulation, we will find just where it is, and can bring all our practice directly to its remedy. When we are able to give clearly each one of the separate sounds of the language—not many over forty in number—wecan easily follow them into all their combinations, and are thus master of the first great excellency in speaking—good articulation. Nor is this all. We can then practice on the same elements, at different degrees of elevation on the musical scale, until we can strike every one in full round distinctness at each point, from the shrillest note used in speech to the deepest bass. Then the whole field of oratory is open before us.
But there is still another advantage: if our strength of voice be not so great as we would wish, we can take the same sounds, and by practicing upon them with a gradually-increasing effort, attain all the force our organs are capable of, and even increase their power to a degree that would be incredible, were it not so often proved by actual experiment. When engaged in these practices, we will notice a distinction between the vowel sounds—that while some of them may be prolonged indefinitely, others are made at a single impulse. Following out these ideas, we will increase the rapidity of the second until they can be struck with all the suddenness of the report of a pistol, and one after another so rapidly that the ear can scarcely catch the distinction between them. This will enable us to avoid drawling, and help us to speak with rapidity when we desire it, without falling into indistinctness. We next learn to prolong the other vowels, and thus to make them carry the sounds of words to the greatest distance. The full, deliberate enunciation of a word is audible much further than the most violent shout. The passenger calling to the ferryman across the river does not sayOVERin one single violent impulse, or, if he does, he is not heard, but o-o-ver; and even if his tone is gentle, the hills ring again, and the ferryman is aroused. Let this principle be brought into use in public speaking, and soon no hall will be too large for the compass of the voice.
The different extensions of sounds, as well as their pitch on the musical scale, and variations of force in enunciation, constitute the perspective of the art of oratory, and give itan agreeable variety, like the mingling of light and shade in a well-executed picture. A dull, dead uniformity, in which each word is uttered on the same key, with the same degree of force, and each sound enunciated with the same rapidity, would be utterly unbearable; while a perpetual variety, reflecting in each rise and fall, each storm and calm of sound, the living thought within, is the perfection toward which we must strive.
Little can be done in training the voice beyond these elementary exercises. The expression in the moment of speech may safely be left to the impulse of nature. Supply the capability by previous discipline, then leave passion to clothe itself in the most natural forms. We believe there is such a connection between the emotions of the mind and the different tones of voice, that emphasis, inflection and intonation need not be taught. They will well up from the heart itself. Reading may require more teaching, for its very nature is artificial; and it behoves those who read their sermons to study hard to supply the want of emotion and naturalness by the resources of elocution. But the only effect of rules upon the speaker, so far as he heeds them at all, is to make him a cold and lifeless machine. The child that is burnt needs no instruction to find the right tone to express its pain, so that every one who hears it knows that it is suffering. It strikes the key-note of joy and every other emotion with equal certainty. Let nature but have her way, untrammeled by art, and every feeling that arises will mold the voice to its will, and every heart will recognize and respond to the sound. We may in this way miss the so-called “brilliancy” of theatric clap-trap, but our voices will have that “touch of nature that makes the whole world kin.”
Something may be done by observing the world closely and thus becoming more deeply permeated by that atmosphere of sympathy and passion that wraps all men into one family, and forms a medium of communication deeper and more wide-spread than any language of earth.It is also profitable to listen to the great orators who have mastered the mysteries of speech, not for the purpose of imitating them, but that we may appreciate better what true excellence is. Yet it is hurtful to confine our attention too long to one model, for excellence is many-sided, and if we view only one of its phases, we are apt to fall into slavish imitation—the greatest of all vices. We avoid this by looking upon many examples, and making use of them only to elevate our own ideal. Then, without a conscious effort to reproduce anything we have heard, we will be urged to greater exertions, and the whole level of our attainments raised.
There are abundant faults to mar the freedom of nature; and the speaker who would be truly natural must watch vigilantly for them, and, when found, exterminate them without mercy. The sing-song tone, the scream, the lisp, the guttural and tremulous tones, must be weeded out as they come to the surface; and if the preacher’s own egotism is too great to see them, or his taste not pure enough, some friend ought to point them out for him. At the bar, or in political life, the keen shaft of ridicule destroys such things in those who are not incorrigible; but in the pulpit they are too often suffered to run riot because the sacred nature of its themes prohibits ridicule, and causes every one to endure in silence.
But there is one fault that over-tops all others, and constitutes a crying sin and an abomination before the Lord. Would that every hearer who suffers by it had the courage to go to his minister and tell him of the torture he inflicts. He could not long endure such an overwhelming fire brought to bear on him. It is what is sometimes designated as the “solemn or holy tone.” It prevails to an alarming extent. Men who, out of the pulpit, are varied and lively in their conversation, no sooner enter it than it seems as if some evil spirit had taken possession of them and enthroned itself in their voice, which at once sinks into a measured, or rather measureless drawl, with each word sloping down a precipiceof falling inflections. It conceals ideas as perfectly as ever Talleyrand did; for surely no idea, even of living light, could penetrate through such a veil. Men who thus neutralize their talents and contribute to render religion distasteful, will surely have to answer for it at the great day of account. Let our style in the pulpit be simple, earnest and manly. Let each emotion clothe itself in its own language and tones, and then we will be above all rules, and all censure too, for we will be under the infallible guidance of nature and the Spirit of God.
Should we use a conversational tone in speaking? This question has often been discussed, and although there is a great difference of opinion, yet it seems to admit of satisfactory answer. The language of conversation is the language of nature, and therefore it should be the basis of speech. The same intonations that are used in it should be employed in every branch of oratory. But the manner of conversation is not always the same. The man who talks with a friend across a river would not use the same tones as if he held that friend by the hand. And if a man is speaking to a number at once, the very need of being heard will cause him to speak somewhat louder than in addressing a single person. With this exception, it might be safely laid down as a rule that a speech should be commenced in the same manner as we would speak to an individual. But should it be continued in that way? The orotund tone is calculated to make a deeper impression than a higher key, or a less degree of force. But there need be no solicitude about its employment. Begin as a man who is talking to his friends upon an interesting subject would do, and then, as the interest deepens, throw away all restraint of voice. Let it follow passion, and it will naturally fall into the way that will best express that passion. It will deepen into the thunder-roar when that is needed, and will become soft and pathetic at the right time.
But beware of thinking that you must be loud, in order to be impressive. Nothing is more disgusting than thatinterminable roar, beginning with a shout and continuing all through the sermon. It is worse than monotony itself. The very loudness of voice that, applied at the right place, would be overpowering, loses all power, and becomes as wearisome as the ceaseless lashing of ocean waves to the storm-tost mariner. Strive to have something to say, keep the fires of passion burning in your own soul, and the voice, which has previously been diligently cultivated, will not fail in what should be its only office—the bringing of your thoughts into contact with the souls of others.
Books on oratory properly devote much space to the consideration of gesture, for the eye needs to be addressed and pleased as well as the ear. But we doubt whether the marking out of gestures to be imitated is calculated to do much good. The principal use of training seems to be, first, to overcome the backwardness that might freeze both speaker and congregation; and second, to discard awkward and repulsive movements. The first can be accomplished by a firm resolution, and is worthy of it. We have all seen most eloquent men who did not move at all, or who moved very slightly in the course of their address, but never without feeling that the want of gesticulation detracted just so much from their power. It is unnatural to speak standing still, and none but a lazy, sick, or bashful man will do it. Yet many who do not hesitate to make their voices reverberate to the roof, will fear to move even a finger. Let this timidity be thrown off. Even an ungraceful gesture is better than none at all.
But after the first fear has been overcome, and the speaker has learned to use his hands, he next needs to guard against bad habits. If anything is truly natural, it will be beautiful; but we are so much corrupted by early example that it is hard to find what nature is. There is hardly a public speaker who does not, at some time, fall into habits that are unsightly or ridiculous. The difference in this respect is, that some retain all the faults they once get, hanging and accumulating around them; while others, from the warningof friends or their own observation, discover their errors, and cast them off.
A good method of testing our own manner, from which we should not be deterred by prejudice, is by speaking before a mirror. There is reason for the common ridicule thrown upon this practice, if we recite our sermons for the purpose of marking the proper points of gesture, and of noting where to start, and frown, and wave the arm, so as to make the whole mere acting. But what we advise is to speak before the glass in as earnest and impassioned a manner as we can command, not for practice on the subjects we are to discuss, but that we may “see ourselves as others see us.” In ordinary speaking we can hear our own voice, and thus become sensible of any audible errors that we may fall into; but we need the glass to show us how we look, and to make us see any improper movement that we may have unconsciously contracted. We do not advise the recital of a sermon before the glass. There is something cold and irreverent in the very idea. But the same objection does not apply to ordinary declamation.
By these two processes—pressing out into action under the impulse of deep feeling, as strongly and freely as possible, and by lopping off everything that is not graceful and effective, we will soon attain a good style of gesture. All mechanical imitation, all observance of artificial rules, and especially all attempts to make the gesture descriptive, such as pointing toward the object alluded to, placing the hand on the heart to express emotion, etc., will do more harm than good. The best gesticulation is entirely unconscious.
Frequently the speed or slowness of the gesture reveals more emotion than its direction or form. The stroke, when it falls upon a particular word, aids to make it emphatic, even when there is no observable connection between the kind of movement made and the sentiment uttered. Let the mind, intent on its subject, take full possession of the whole body, as a medium of expression, and every actionwill correspond with tone and word, and the soul of the hearer be reached alike through eye and ear.
We have already spoken of boldness as an indispensable requisite for an extempore speaker. But more is needed than the courage that leads us to encounter the perils of speech. Some speakers master their fears sufficiently to begin, yet continue to experience a nervous dread which prevents the free use of their faculties. This clinging timidity may hang around an orator, and impede his flights of eloquence as effectually as an iron fetter would an eagle on the wing. The speaker must confide in his own powers, and be willing to trust to their guidance.
It is not necessary that he should have this confidence previous to speaking, for it is then very difficult to exercise it, and if possessed, it may assume the appearance of egotism and boastfulness. Many a man begins to speak while trembling in every limb, but soon becomes inspired with his theme and forgets all anxiety. But if his fear be greater than this, and keep him in perpetual terror, it will destroy liberty and eloquence. A man under such an influence loses his self-possession, becomes confused, all interest evaporates from his most carefully-prepared thoughts, and he finally sits down, convinced that his effort was a failure, while, perhaps, he had in his brain the necessary power and material to sway the assembly at will. Such a one must learn to fear less, or seek a higher support under his trials.
There is no remedy more effectual than to do all our work under the immediate pressure of duty. If we speak for self-glory, the frowns or approval of the audience become a matter of vast importance to us, and if we fail, we are deeply mortified and bewail our foolishness in exposing ourselves to such risks. On the contrary, if we speak from a sense of duty, if we hear the cry, “woe is me if I preach not the Gospel,” sounding in our ears, it is no longer a matter of choice, and we go forward, even trembling, to obey the imperative command. Our mind is fixed on our theme, and the applause of the multitude becomes of small momentto us except as it is the echo of God’s approval. We feel that we are his workmen, and believe that he will sustain us. Men have thus been forward in the Christian ministry who would otherwise never have faced the dangers and exposures of public speaking. They were driven to it, and therefore threw themselves bravely into it, and often attained the highest eminence.
A want of proper confidence is one great reason why so many with superior talents for off-hand speaking seek refuge in their notes. They try, and fail. Instead of copying the school-boy motto “try, try again,” and thus reaping the fruition of their hopes, they give up—conclude that they have no talents for the work, and sink to mediocrity and tameness, when they might have been brilliant in the field of true oratory.
The possession of confidence while speaking secures respect and deference. The congregation can pardon timidity at the beginning, for then their minds are fixed on the speaker, and his shrinking seems to be but a graceful exhibition of modesty and good sense. But after he has once begun, their minds are on the subject, and they associate him with it. If he is dignified, respectful and confident, they listen attentively, and feel the weight of his words. This is far different from bluster and bravado, which always injure the cause they advocate, and produce a feeling of disgust toward the offender. The first seems to arise from a sense of the dignity of the subject; the second from an opinion of personal importance—an opinion no speaker has a right to entertain when before an audience, for, in the very act of speaking to them, he constitutes them his judges. He may have confidence in his own power to present the subject faithfully, and he will speak with only the more force and certainty if he is well assured of that, but he must not let it be seen that he is thinking of himself, or trying to exhibit his own genius.
A speaker needs confidence that he may avail himself of the suggestions of the moment. Some of the best thoughts he will ever have, will be out of the line of his preparation,and will occur at a moment when there is no time for him to weigh them. He must reject them immediately or begin to follow, not knowing whither they lead, and this not in thought alone, but in audible words, with the risk that they may bring him into some ridiculous absurdity. He cannot even stop to glance ahead, for the least hesitation will break the spell he may have woven around his hearers, while if he rejects the self-offered idea, he may lose a genuine inspiration. A quick searching glance, that will allow no time for his own feelings or those of his hearers to cool, is all that he can give, and it is necessary in that time to decide whether to reject the thought, or follow it with the same assurance as if the end were clearly in view. It requires some boldness to do this, and yet every speaker knows that his very highest efforts—thoughts that have moved his hearers like leaves before the wind—have been of this character.
It also requires some confidence to begin a sentence, even when the idea is plain, without knowing how it is to be framed or where it will end. This difficulty is experienced very often in speech even by those who are most fluent. A man may learn to cast sentences very rapidly, yet it will take some time for them to pass through his mind, and when he has finished one, the next idea may not have fully condensed itself into words. To begin, then, with this uncertainty and go on without letting the people see any hesitation, demands a good deal of confidence in one’s power of commanding words and forming sentences. Yet a bold and confident speaker feels no uneasiness on such occasions. Sometimes he will prolong a pause while he is thinking of the word he wants, and hazardous as this appears, it is really safe, for the mind is so active when in the complete possession of its powers that, if necessary, as it seldom is, something extraneous can easily be thrown in, that will fill up the time until the right term and the right construction are found.
This necessary confidence can be cultivated by striving to exercise it, and by assuming its appearance where the reality is not. Let a person make up his mind that he will becomean extempore speaker, and patiently endure all failures and mistakes that follow, and he will thus avoid the wavering and shrinking, and questioning in his own mind that otherwise distress him and paralyze his powers. If he fail, he will be stimulated to a stronger and more protracted effort. If he succeed, that will be an argument upon which to base future confidence, and thus, whatever is the result, he is forwarded on his course.
And in regard to the difficulty of sentence-casting, he will make his way through so many perplexities of that kind, that the only danger will be that of becoming careless, and constructing too many sentences without unity or polish. He will acquire by long experience so much knowledge of the working of his own thoughts, as to be able to tell at a glance what he ought to reject, and what accept, of the unbidden ideas that present themselves. He will be ready to seize every new thought, even if it be outside of his preparation, and, if worthy, give it instant expression; and if not, dismiss it at once and continue unchecked along his intended route.
There is only one direction that we can give for the acquisition of the confidence that is respectful and self-assured, and yet not forward nor obtrusive. Be fully persuaded as to what is best for you, and make up your mind to take the risks as well as the advantages of extempore speaking. Then persevere until all obstacles are overcome.
We have thus glanced at a few of the more important acquired qualities necessary for public speaking. These do not cover the whole field, for to speak aright requires all the faculties of the mind in the highest state of cultivation. There is no mental power that may not contribute to the orator’s success. The whole limits of possible education are comprised in two great branches: the one relating to the reception, and the other to the communication of knowledge. The perfect combination of these is the ideal of excellence—an ideal so high that it can only be aspired to. All knowledge is of value to the orator. He may not haveoccasion to use it directly in his speeches, but it will always be at hand to select from, and give his views additional breadth and scope. If his materials are few he must take, not what is best, but what he has. If a wide extent of knowledge is open before him, the chances are that he will find exactly what is needed for his purpose.
The improvement of the power to communicate knowledge is, if possible, still more important. A great part of the value even of a diamond depends upon its setting and polish, and the richest and most glowing thoughts may fail to reach the heart or charm the intellect, unless they are cast into the proper form, and given external beauty.
Let the man, then, who would speak well not fear to know too much. He cannot be great at once. He must build for future years. If he wish a sudden and local celebrity that will never increase, but molder away, even in his own lifetime, he could, perhaps, attain it in another way. He might learn a few of the externals of elocution, and then, with great care, or by the free use of the material of others, prepare some finely-worded discourses, and read or recite them as often as he can find a new audience. It is true that by this means his success will probably not be as great as he would wish, but he can be sure that what he achieves will be sufficiently evanescent. He will not grow up to the measure of greatness, but become daily more dwarfed and stereotyped in intellect. But on the other hand, let him “intermeddle with all knowledge,” and make his means of communicating what he thus gathers as perfect as possible, and then talk to the people out of the fullness of his treasures, and if no sudden and empty acclaim should greet him, he will be weighty and influential from the first, and each year that passes will bring him added power. The aim of the sacred orator should be the full and harmonious development of all the faculties that God has given him, and their consecration to his great work.