Extempore Speech: How to Acquire and Practice It

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.

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.

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.