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.