Chapter XII After the Speech
When a fervent and successful discourse has been concluded there comes a feeling of inexpressible relief. The burden of an important speech rests with accumulating force upon the mind from the time the subject is chosen until it becomes well-nigh intolerable. When speech actually begins every power is called into play and exerted to its utmost capacity. The excitement of the conflict hurries the speaker on, and although he may not at the time realize the gigantic exertions put forth, yet when he pauses at length, perhaps exhausted, but with the victory won, the sense of rest, relief, and security, is exceedingly delightful.
After such an effort both mind and body do need rest. There are speakers who profess to feel no fatigue after an hour’s labor, but these are seldom in the front rank of orators. If the soul has been aroused and all the man’s faculties bent to the accomplishment of a great purpose, relaxation is often followed by a sense of utter prostration. Nothing better for the moment can be advised than to abandon one’s self to the luxury of utter repose. Social intercourse and all distractions should as far as possible be avoided. If circumstances permit, a short sleep, if but for a few minutes, will afford great relief; and in most cases sleep will come if wisely courted.
After resting, it is well to ponder closely the lessons derived from each new experience in speaking. To indulge in exultation over success or to lament over failure is not profitable. The speaker is not a perfect judge of either. He has probably done the best he could at the time, and there the case should rest, except so far as he sees the need or the means of future improvement.
But judgment of success or failure cannot easily be avoided. If the speaker’s standard is low, he may pass beyond it without accomplishing anything worthy of high praise: or if he is despondent in nature he may have expected little and may now feel correspondingly elated because he has exceeded his very moderate expectations. But it is a curious fact that speakers are often least pleased with their best speeches. In the mightiest efforts of the mind the standard is placed very high—perhaps beyond the possibility of attainment—and the speaker works with his eyes fixed upon that summit, and probably, after all his exertions, sees it shining still far above him. His ideas are but half expressed; he is mortified that there should be such a difference between conception and realization. But his hearers have been led over untrodden fields of thought, and knowing nothing of the grander heights still above the orator’s head, they are naturally filled with enthusiasm, and cannot enter into the feelings of the speaker if he is foolish enough to tell them of his disappointment.
This is the reason that we are least able to judge of the success of speeches that have been long meditated and thoroughly prepared. The subject expands as we study, its outlines becoming grander and vaster until they pass beyond our power of adequate representation. Each separate thought in the whole discussion that is fully mastered becomes familiar, and is not, therefore, valued at its true worth. Sometimes, when we begin to speak with little thought, intending to give only easy and common views of the subject, everything appears fresh before us, and if some striking ideas arise, their novelty gives them three-fold value, and we imagine that we have made a great speech. All this constitutes no argument against diligent preparation, but it should stimulate us to bring up our powers of expression more nearly to the level of our conceptions.
There should never be extreme discouragement over an apparent failure. Some good end may be reached even by a very poor speech. One evening the writer preached when weary and almost unprepared. From first to last the effort was painful, and to prevent absolute failure the intended plan had to be abandoned, and detached thoughts from any source thrown in. Yet that discourse, which was scarcely worthy of the name, elicited warmer approval and did more apparent good than any one preached for several previous months. One or two fortunate illustrations redeemed every defect, so far as the audience (but not the speaker) was concerned.
Whatever judgment we may entertain of our own performances, it is not usually wise to tell our hearers, or to ask their opinions. Criticisms spontaneously offered need not be repulsed, but all seeking for commendation is childish or disgusting. It is sweet to hear our efforts praised, and most of men can bear an amount of flattery addressed to themselves which would be insufferable if offered to others; but this disposition, if much indulged, becomes ungovernable and exposes us to well-deserved ridicule. It is pitiable to see a man who has been uttering wise and eloquent words afterward stooping to beg crusts of indiscriminating flattery from his hearers.
Whenever there is a probability that any discourse will be repeated, it is well to review it soon after delivery, while its impression is still fresh upon the mind, and if any defect appears, amend it in the plan, and add to the same plan all the valuable ideas that have been suggested during the speech or afterward. In this manner we keep each discourse up to the high watermark of our ability.
Some orators are accustomed to write their speeches out in full after delivery. When the theme is important and time permits, this is a good exercise, but in many—perhaps the majority of cases—the labor would outweigh the profit.
No such objection applies to reviewing and correcting a verbatim report of our speeches. To many speakers such a review of the exact words they have uttered would be a striking and not altogether pleasing revelation. Pet phrases, which might otherwise be unnoticed for years; faults of expression, and especially the profuseness of words, in which extemporaneous speakers are tempted to indulge;—would all be forced upon our notice. We would be surprised to learn that we could often write the discourse in one-fourth the words employed in delivery. To form the habit of thus condensing our speeches after delivery would have a powerful tendency toward compacting thought in speech itself. The only hindrance in applying this capital means of improvement consists in the difficulty of obtaining such shorthand reports. Where this cannot be overcome a part of the advantage may be gained by taking the plan and from it writing out the same kind of a compact presentation of the thoughts as uttered. This differs from writing in full by making no effort to record exact words or forms of expression, but only to recall from memory and from the sketch the exact thoughts that were expressed in the language of the moment. Even if the same kind of brief sketch has been made previous to the act of speech, this does not take the place of what we now recommend; for the former outline may have been greatly modified by the experience of delivery.
In whatever form the best result of the discourse is recorded, great care should be taken in its preservation. The plan, sketch, or fully written discourse may be slipped into an envelope (which may also contain all illustrative scraps, notes, or references to books that bear upon the discourse) and on the back may be written the title, time, and character of delivery, with any other facts of importance. If the young speaker will faithfully follow up such a method of recording the results of his oratorical experience, he will find it one of the best forms of discipline, and the record itself—carefully indexed, frequently reviewed, and kept within reasonable bulk—will in time possess a value greater than gold.
FINIS