CHAPTER IV.

CONSTRUCTING A PLAN.

No part of the orator’s work is more important than that of constructing a good plan. If this is not well done the fullest success is impossible. In speech all thoughts are expressed by the slow process of successive words. If these are badly chosen and so arranged as to carry forward the current of thought in the wrong direction, almost endless hindrance and distraction may follow. And as these words, in extempore speech, are given forth on the spur of the moment, it becomes necessary to make such an arrangement that the proper idea to be dissolved into words shall always be presented to the mind at the proper time.

In some cases this disposition of parts is very easy. A course indicated by the very nature of the subject will sometimes spring into view and relieve us of all further embarrassment. A lawyer may find the discussion of the testimony of each of several witnesses, together with the formal opening and close, to be all the plan that he needs. But more frequently this portion of the orator’s task will both require and repay severe thought.

Many different kinds of plans have been pointed out by preceding writers, but we will indicate those only which have considerable practical importance.

The first of these may be called the narrative method. It is most frequently used when the recital of some history forms the principal part of the discourse. Certain leading events, either grouped together according to their nature or following the order of time, furnish the primary divisions. This kind of a discourse follows the same laws, in the arrangement of the different parts, as histories, romances, and narrative poems. The order of time is the most obvious method of constructing it, but this order should not be adhered to when the story can be better and more dramatically told by varying from it. Both introduction and conclusion should be very carefully selected—the former to arouse attention and direct it in the right course; the latter to leave the strongest impression and the one most in harmony with the object of the speaker.

The second method is the textual, and is especially though not exclusively adapted to sermons. In it a verse from the Bible, a motto, a sentence used by an opponent, or some definite form of very significant words, affords a basis for each part of the discourse. The order of the discourse may, however, be different from that of the words in the text, any change being allowable which secures more of the advantages of the narrative or logical methods. When the text is itself well known, a plan based upon it has an obvious advantage in assisting the memory both of speaker and hearer, by suggesting each part of the discourse at the proper time. When any lecture or oration has a formal motto which sums up and fairly expresses the subject discussed, the textual plan will be as well adapted to it as to a sermon.

The logical or mathematical method is the third and probably the most symmetrical form the plan may assume. A topic is taken, and after the introduction, which may be the mere statement of the subject, or of the relations of the speaker or of the audience to it, that subject is unfolded with all the precision of a proposition in geometry. Each thought is preliminary to that which follows, and the whole ends in the demonstration of some great truth and the deduction of its legitimate corollaries. This method is the best possible in those cases adapted to it—particularly those in which some abstruse subject is to be unfolded and proved.

The last method we will describe proceeds by divisions and subdivisions. It is the military method, for in it the discourse is organized like an army, into corps, brigades, and regiments; or it is like a tree, which divides into two or three principal branches, and these again subdivide until the finest twigs are reached. All the detached items that have been selected are brought into related groups, each governed by a central thought, and these again are held in strict subordination to the supreme idea.

A subject will many times arrange itself almost spontaneously into several different parts, which thus form the proper divisions, and these again may be easily analyzed into their proper subdivisions. Even when this is not the case, we will see, as we examine the jottings we have made while gathering our materials, that a few of the ideas stand out in special prominence, and with a little close study of relations and affinities all the others may be made to group themselves around these. The individual ideas we put down on the first study of the subject usually form the subdivisions, and some generalization of them the divisions.

It is not well to make the branches of a subject too numerous or they will introduce confusion and fail to be remembered. From two to four divisions with two or three subdivisions under each, are in a majority of cases better than a large number. The tendency to multiply them to a great extent, and then to name them in the moment of delivery, in their order of firstly, secondly, etc., is in a great measure responsible for the popular estimate of the dryness of sermons, where this kind of plan prevails more than anywhere else.

Examples of the different kinds of discourses here alluded to may be found in the New Testament. The sermon of Paul on Mars Hill was logical in its development. The introduction is an exquisite adaptation of his theme to the position of his hearers, and from that point each thought is a development from the preceding thought, until the whole weight of argument converges to the duty of repentance because of the coming of a day in which Jesus Christ will be Judge. But when Paul told the story of his conversion before Agrippa, the narrative form, with strict adherence to the order of time, was naturally adopted. No better example of the divisional form can be found than Christ’s Sermon on the Mount, in which the three chapters about correspond with the general divisions, and the paragraphs devoted to such topics as blessing, prayer, fasting, and forgiveness, with the subdivisions.

When we have accumulated our materials, stricken out all that is unfitting or superfluous, and determined the general character of our discourse, the remainder of the work of finishing the plan must be left to individual taste and judgment. No rules can be given that will meet every case. We might direct to put first those statements or arguments which are most easily comprehended, and those which are necessary for understanding other portions of the discourse, and also whatever is least likely to be disputed. Something strong and impressive should be held well in reserve. It will not be according to the principles of that highest art which is the best mirror of nature if we exhaust interest in the opening and then close tamely. Beyond these obvious considerations little help can be given to the orator in this part of his work. He must form his own ideal and then work up to it. We do not advise any one to borrow other men’s outlines for the purpose of filling them up and then speaking from them as if the work was original. This is a most profitless kind of plagiarism. Such sketches may be useful to the very young speaker, merely as indications of the kind of excellence in plans or sketches at which he should aim. And when he hears good discourses he may look beneath the burning words and criticise the merits of the framework upon which they rest. This may render him less satisfied with his own plans, but such dissatisfaction ever affords the best hope for future success.

The true mode of improving your plans is to bestow a great deal of time and thought upon them, and to make no disposition of any part for which you cannot give a satisfactory reason. This direction relates only to the beginner. In time the formation of plans will become so natural that any variation from the most effective arrangement will be felt as keenly as a discord in music is felt by a master in that art. From such carefully constructed plans, firm, coherent, and logical discourses will result.

There are certain general characteristics that each plan should possess. It must fully indicate the nature of the proposed discourse and mark out each of its successive steps with accuracy. Any want of definiteness in the outline is a fatal defect. You must feel that you can rely absolutely on it for guidance to the end of your discourse or be always in danger of embarrassment and confusion.

Each clause should express a distinct idea, and but one. This should be repeated in no other part of the discourse; otherwise, we fall into wearisome repetitions, the great vice, as it is often claimed, of extempore speakers.

A brief plan is better, other things being equal, than a long one. Often a single word will recall an idea as perfectly as many sentences, and it will burden the memory less. We do not expect the draft of a house to equal the house in size, but only to preserve a proportionate relation to it throughout. The plan cannot supply the thought, but, indicating what is in the mind, it shows how to bring it forth in regular succession. It is a pathway leading to a definite end, and, like all pathways, its crowning merits are directness and smoothness. Without these qualities it will perplex and hinder rather than aid. Each word in the plan should suggest an idea, and be so firmly bound to that idea that the two cannot become separated in any exigency of speech. You will find it sorely perplexing if, in the heat of discourse, some important note should lose the thought for which it previously stood and become an empty word. But with clear conceptions condensed into fitting words this cannot easily happen. A familiar idea can be expressed very briefly, while a strange or new conception may require more expansion. But all thoughts advanced by the speaker ought to be familiar to himself as the result of long meditation and thorough mastery, no matter how strange or startling they are to his hearers. Most skeletons may be brought within the compass of a hundred words, and every part be clearly indicated to the mind that conceived it, though perhaps not to any other.

There may be occasions when a speaker is justified in announcing his divisions and subdivisions, but such cases are exceptions. Hearers do not care how a discourse is constructed, so it comes to them warm and pulsating with life. To give the plan of a speech before the speech itself is contrary to the order of nature. We are not required first to look upon a grisly skeleton before we can see a graceful, living body. There is a skeleton inside each body, but during life it is well hidden, and there is no reason that the speaker should anticipate the work of the tomb. It is hardly less objectionable to name the parts of the discourse during the progress of the discussion, for—continuing the former illustration—bones that project through the skin are very unlovely. The only ease, I presume to think, where it is justifiable to name the parts of a discourse, either before or during its delivery, is where the separate parts have an importance of their own, in addition to their office of contributing to the general object. Much of the proverbial “dryness” of sermons arises from the preacher telling what he is _about_ to remark, _firstly_, before he actually makes the remark thus numbered. Whenever we hear a minister read his text, announce his theme, state the parts into which he means to divide it, and then warn us that the first head will be subdivided into a certain number of parts, each of which is also specified in advance, we prepare our endurance for a severe test.

What great speeches require are deep, strong appeals to the hearts of the people, through which shines the radiance of great truths and the lightning of intense convictions. These can all find their place in the most logically constructed address if the logic be not brought out and paraded in its offensive nakedness. No matter if the orator’s mode of work is less understood. A tree is far more beautiful and impressive when covered with waving foliage, even if some of the branches are hidden. Let the tide of eloquence flow on in an unbroken stream, bearing with it all hearts, but giving no indication of the manner in which it is guided; or, better still, let it move with the impetus of the cannon-ball, but without proclaiming in advance the mark toward which it is flying.

The plan should go just as far as the intended speech, that we may know exactly where to stop. Then we can arise with confidence, for we are sure that we have something to say; we know what it is, and, most important of all, we will know when it is finished. Most of the objections urged against extempore speaking apply only to speeches that have no governing plan. But when a firm and clear plan is prearranged, there is no more danger of saying what we do not intend, or of running into endless digressions, than if every word was written. Indeed, there is no better way of guarding against undue discursiveness in a written speech than by arranging such a plan before beginning to write.

But it may be urged that this laborious preparation—this careful placing of every thought—will require as much time as to write in full. It may at first. The mind needs to be drilled into the work, and it will be of great value even as a mental discipline. No study of logic or of metaphysics will give such practical insight into the nature of the mind’s workings as this pre-arrangement of thoughts and words to frame a speech. But the work grows continually easier with practice, until the mature speaker will save three-fourths—or even more than that proportion—of the time consumed by the speech-writer.

The speech is now clearly indicated. A plan has been prepared that fixes each item in its proper place. There is no further danger of the looseness and desultoriness with which extempore speech has been reproached. Yet there is abundant room for the inspiration of the moment. It is possible, in all the fire of utterance, to leave the beaten track and give expression to any new ideas that may be called up by the ardor of speech. But a sure foundation is laid—a course is marked out which has been deeply premeditated, and which gives certainty to all we say.