Oratory Sacred and Secular; Or, The Extemporaneous Speaker / With Sketches of the Most Eminent Speakers of All Ages

by William Pittenger

INTRODUCTORY LETTER.

Rev. Wm. Pittenger:

Cadiz, O., 19th Nov., 1867.

Dear Sir,—I thank you for calling my attention to your forthcoming work on Extemporaneous Speaking. Unwritten speech is, in my judgment, the more efficient method of public speaking, because it is the natural method. The written essay, says an eminent critic of antiquity, “is not a speech, unless you choose to call epistles speeches.” A cultivated man, fully possessed of all the facts which relate to the subject of which he would speak, who cannot clearly express himself without first memorizing word for word his written preparation, can scarcely be called a public speaker, whatever may be his capacity as a writer or reader. The speaker who clothes his thoughts at the moment of utterance, and in the presence of his hearers, will illustrate by his speech the admirable saying of Seneca: “Fit words better than fine ones.”

It is not my purpose to enter upon any inquiry touching the gifts, culture and practice necessary to make a powerful and successful speaker. It is conceded that in the art of public speaking, as in all other arts, there is no excellence without great labor. Neither is it the intent of the writer to suggest the possibility of speaking efficiently without the careful culture of voice and manner, of intellect and heart, an exact knowledge of the subject, and a careful arrangement, with or without writing, of all the facts and statements involved in the discussion. Lord Brougham has said that a speech written before delivery is regarded as something almost ridiculous; may we not add, that a speech made without previous reflection or an accurate knowledge of the subject, would be regarded as a mere tinkling cymbal. I intend no depreciation of the elaborate written essay read for the instruction or amusement of an assembly; but claim that the essay, read, or recited from memory, is not speech, nor can it supply the place of natural effective speech. The essay delivered is but the echo of the dead past, the speech is the utterance of the living present. The delivery of the essay is the formal act of memory, the delivery of the unwritten speech the living act of intellect and heart. The difference between the two is known and felt of all men. To all this it may be answered that the ancient speakers, whose fame still survives, carefully elaborated their speeches before delivery. The fact is admitted with the further statement, that many of the speeches of the ancient orators never were delivered at all. Five of the seven orations of Cicero against Verres were never spoken, neither was the second Philippic against Mark Antony, nor the reported defence of Milo. We admit that the ancient speakers wrote much and practised much, and we would commend their example, in all, save a formal recital of written preparations. There is nothing in all that has come to us concerning ancient oratory, which by any means proves that to be effective in speech, what is to be said should be first written and memorized; there is much that shows, that to enable one to express his own thoughts clearly and forcibly, reflection, culture and practice are essential.

Lord Brougham, remarking on the habit of writing speeches, says: “That a speech written before delivery is something anomalous, and a speech intended to have been spoken is a kind of byword for something laughable in itself, as describing an incongruous existence.” This distinguished man, in his careful consideration of this subject, says: “We can hardly assign any limits to the effects of great practise in giving a power of extempore composition,” and notices that it is recorded of Demosthenes, that when, upon some rare occasions, he trusted to the feeling of the hour, and spoke off-hand, “his eloquence was more spirited and bold, and he seemed sometimes to speak from a supernatural impulse.” If this be true of the great Athenian who notoriously would not, if he could avoid it, trust to the inspiration of the moment, and who for want of a prepared speech, we are told by Æschines, failed before Philip,—might it not be inferred that one practised in speaking, would utter his thoughts with more spirit and power when not restrained by a written preparation and fettered by its formal recital?

Did not Fox often, in the Parliament, achieve the highest results of speech without previous written preparation; and is it not a fact never to be questioned, that the wonderful speech of Webster, in reply to Hayne, was unwritten?

In his admirable lecture on Eloquence, Mr. Emerson says: “Eloquence that so astonishes, is only the exaggeration of a talent that is universal. All men are competitors in this art. * * A man of this talent finds himself cold in private company, and proves himself a heavy companion; but give him a commanding occasion, and the inspiration of a great multitude, and he surprises us by new and unlooked for powers.” * *

Indeed, there is in this lecture of Mr. Emerson, in few words, much to sustain your theory. He says, “the word eloquence strictly means out-speaking; the main power, sentiment—the essential fact is heat, the heat which comes of sincerity. Speak what you know and believe, and are personally answerable for. This goes by weight and measure, like everything else in the universe. A man to be eloquent must have faith in his subject, and must have accurate knowledge of that subject. * * The author of power—he is the great man who always makes a divine impression, a sentiment more powerful in the heart than love of country, and gives perceptions and feelings far beyond the limits of thought. Eloquence is the power to translate a truth into a language perfectly intelligible to the person to whom you speak. Such a practical conversion of truth, written in God’s language, is one of the most beautiful weapons forged in the shop of the Divine Artificer. God and Nature are altogether sincere, and art should be as sincere.” How can sincerity be fully attained in the great art of public speech, if every word to be uttered must be previously written down in the closet, and memorized and recited? Was not Lord Brougham right in saying a speech written before delivery is inconsistent with the inspiration of the moment, and the feelings under which the orator is always supposed to speak? What feelings? The felt-conviction of the truth of what he has to say. What inspiration? The inspiration which, at the moment, clothes and expresses the honest thought in appropriate words.

Surely the living voice, rightly cultivated, and rightly employed, is a power in the world, and to condemn you for calling attention to what you believe to the most efficient method of human speech, would be one of those decisions of ignorant arrogance which it costs no labor and needs no intellect to pronounce.

Is not the man who well and truthfully speaks his own thoughts, as Shakspeare and Bacon wrote, in some sense their peer? Is not the mere reciter of their words, but their shadow?

It is said of Plato, that he poured forth the flood of his eloquence as by inspiration, and that, had the Father of the gods spoken in Greek, he would have used none other language than Plato’s; and yet this master of language takes pains, in reporting the apology of Socrates on trial for his life, to represent him as saying that it would not become him to speak “studied terms and expressions, but only the truth expressed in the plainest language.” I quote the words of Socrates as given by Plato:

“Among the false statements which my accusers made, there was one at which I especially marveled, namely when they warned you to take care not to be led astray by me, inasmuch as I was a powerful speaker. It did appear to me supremely audacious in them to make such an assertion, Which must immediately afterwards be disproved by the fact; for you will see that I have no skill in speaking, unless they call a man a powerful speaker because he says what is true. If they mean this, I certainly must allow that I am a speaker of a very different kind from them; for they, as I have said, have not spoken a word of truth; from me you shall hear the whole truth; and that not clothed in ornate sentences with studied terms and expressions; you will have from me plain facts expressed in the plainest language. Indeed, Athenians, it would ill become me at my age to come before you with a studied discourse like a boy. And there is one thing, O Athenians, which I must beg and entreat of you: if I use, in my defense, the same terms which I have been accustomed to use in the market-place and in the shops where most of you have heard me talking, do not wonder at that, nor take offence. For this is the fact, I now enter a court of justice for the first time, though I am more than seventy years old; I am, therefore, altogether strange to the kind of language used here; and therefore excuse me, as if I really were a stranger, if I speak to you in that tone and in that manner in which I have been brought up. I ask you a thing which is, I think, reasonable, that you take no account of the manner of my address to you—it might be better, it might be worse, perhaps—but to consider this, to attend to this, whether I say what is right or not, for that is the virtue of the judge, as to speak truly is the virtue of the advocate.”

No matter if the speech be not clothed in ornate sentences with studied terms, it is the virtue of the judge to consider whether the speech is right, as to speak truly is the virtue of the advocate.

It is only, it seems to me, when men speak wisely, truly and naturally, that the full significance of Quintillian’s words can be realized: “May I perish, if the all-powerful Creator of nature and the Architect of this world has impressed man with any character which so eminently distinguishes him as the faculty of speech.” Let him who would use this faculty effectively, and attain to that great power which rules the minds of men, and moves the passions and affections of the soul, see to it, that he speaks what he knows and believes, plainly and directly from the heart to the heart.

Very truly your friend,

JOHN A. BINGHAM.

PART I.
GENERAL PREPARATION.

CHAPTER I.
THE WRITTEN AND EXTEMPORE DISCOURSE COMPARED.

The special object of the following pages is to show the manner and requirements of extempore preaching. But as this differs from other methods of speech in its objects rather than in its external qualities, many of the thoughts we present will apply as well to the bar and forum as to the sacred desk.

There is need that this subject should be enforced, particularly on the ministry. A growing desire is manifested to give up plain, direct speech, and indulge in the ease and certainty of written sermons. Young men find themselves in places where it requires unwearied exertion to sustain their reputation, and satisfy the demands of a cultivated audience. They begin to fear that their spoken sermons may be deficient in polish and style, and at last they write. The people nearly always protest against the innovation, but to no purpose, for having convinced himself that he is right, the minister treats their murmurs as the effect of vulgar prejudice, and as a frequent result, his usefulness is permanently impaired.

This evil cannot be diminished by denouncing those who engage in it, for the supposed necessity they labor under is stronger than any other consideration. But it may be lessened by showing that there is a better way, and making it plain. Such will be our endeavor.

The two extremes of speech are, the discourse which is written and read verbatim, and that in which both words and thoughts are left to the impulse of the moment. Between these there are many intermediate grades. The latter may be excluded from the classification altogether, for no wise man will adopt it except in some unforeseen emergency. True extemporization relates to the words alone, and leaves full room for the complete preparation of thought. Between this and the manuscript discourse there are various compromises which seek to combine the advantages of both. These, for the sake of convenience, may be called the recited, composite, premeditated and sketched discourses.

It is useless to deny that the method of writing in full and reading, possesses many and great advantages. It secures time for the consideration of every thought. If the mind fags, the writer can pause until it is rested and begin again; and in this way all the ideas and expressions that occur for several days can be concentrated into one sermon. Then it can be revised, and the language improved to an indefinite extent, and the sermon, in its completeness, laid away for future use.

But there are great disadvantages. Such a sermon may, by solidity of thought, and brilliancy of expression, command approval, but it will seldom move and sway the people. The very idea that all has been written out, and is merely read, will tend powerfully to neutralize its effects. We may remonstrate against this if we will, and declare that our sermons should be judged by their substance, but this does not abate the preference of our auditors. They will retort, with truth, that they can read even better sermons at home, and dwell on them at their leisure. What they want in preaching is the living sympathy and guidance of the preacher; his soul burning and glowing, and thus lighting up other souls; his eye beaming on theirs; his clear, far-seeing mind, excited by the magnetism of truth, and appealing to their hearts with an earnestness that will take no denial. This fills the popular ideal of preaching, and no elaboration, no word music will atone for the want of it. Men of great genius may succeed otherwise, but the mass of speakers cannot.

The plan of memorizing and reciting sermons would seem, upon a superficial view, to secure the advantages of reading without its defects. But another and formidable class of disadvantages come into being. Very few men can declaim well. For one who can speak from memory with ease and naturalness, twenty can pour forth their ideas in the words of the moment with energy and effect. A few have mastered the difficult art, and won enduring laurels in this way, but their number is too small to encourage others to imitation.

This practice also imposes a heavy burden on the mind. To write and commit two or three sermons in a week, is a task that only those who are strong in mental and physical health can perform with impunity, and even then it requires too much time; for no matter how perfect a minister’s sermons may be, unless he fulfills other duties, he cannot be wholly successful. Most preachers who memorize, inevitably neglect pastoral work because they have not time for it. And another effect follows that is, if possible, still worse. Instead of growing daily in knowledge by diligent study, the mind is kept on the tread-wheel task of writing and committing sermons, and thus permanently dwarfed. A young man may take a higher rank at first by memorizing, than otherwise, but he will not retain it long, for the knowledge others accumulate while he is conning his discourses, will soon place them above him.

The practice of committing brilliant passages to be recited with the eyes withdrawn from the paper, or thrown into the current of unpremeditated discourse, we have termed the composite manner. It is open to all the objections urged against the last method, and a most formidable one in addition—the difficulty of making these sudden flashes fit into their proper places, and of preventing them from destroying the unity of the whole discourse. They differ so widely from the rest of the composition, that the audience are apt to see the artifice and despise it. A skillful man may join them properly, but even then his own attention, and that of the audience will, probably, be so closely fixed upon them that the main design of the sermon will pass out of sight.

These three varieties are much alike, and may be called branches of the word-preparation method. In them, words are carefully chosen, and form the groundwork of discourse. The next three are based on thought.

The premeditated discourse comes nearest to the word method. It was the medium of the wonderful eloquence of the late Bishop Bascom. In it the ideas are first arranged, and then each thought pondered until it resolves itself into words, which are mostly recalled in the moment of speech. Men who speak thus usually have great command of language and much fixity of impression. Those who receive ideas readily, and lose them again as easily, could not adopt this method, for words previously arranged could not be recalled in the same order, unless they had been fixed by the pen. There is little objection to this mode of preparation in the case of those who are adapted to it, provided they do not carry it so far as to feel burdened or confused. No words should be left in charge of the memory, and no conscious effort made to recall particular expressions.

Stevens, in his admirable book called “Preaching Required by the Times,” advises ministers, when revolving and arranging their ideas, not to let them run into words. We can see no ill effect in this, provided the result is a natural one. All the words must be retained easily in the memory, and not sought for if they do not spontaneously present themselves in the act of speech. President Lincoln, who was a most effective off-hand speaker, said, that he owed his skill in this art to the early practice of reducing every thought he entertained to the plainest and simplest words. Then when he desired to enunciate an idea he had no difficulty in giving it a form that even a child could understand.

The sketched discourse approaches very closely to the purely extempore method, and only differs from it in writing the whole matter in full, with no care for style, simply to practice in the art of expression, and to test our mastery of the plan arranged. In it there is no intention of memorizing, or of using the same words again, except so far as the ideas in their simplest form may suggest them. This is only doing on paper what, in the last method, was done mentally. It may be of great advantage to those who have had but a limited experience, and cannot so clearly grasp their ideas in the domain of pure thought as to be sure that they are fully adapted to the purposes of their sermons.

But at the slow rate of writing in the common hand, this requires too much time. If a person have mastered Phonography, or Tachygraphy, a valuable improvement of the former, more easily acquired and retained in practice, he may write a sermon in little more than the time it will take to preach it, if he only work at full speed and do not stay for the niceties of style. Then the defects in the arrangement or material, that before escaped his attention, will be brought to light. We can judge a sermon more impartially when it is placed outside of the mind, than if it were only mentally reviewed, and we still have time to correct whatever may be amiss.

But the great method of which the two former are mere branches, and which in fact underlies every other, is that of pure extemporization. In this there is a firm, compact road of previously prepared thought leading directly to the object aimed at. When thus speaking, we always feel on solid ground, and each moment have the proper, selected idea, seeking expression, and clothing itself in the needed words. All men talk thus, and we cannot but regard it as the highest form of oratory. When we have obtained complete mastery of expression, and the ability to so arrange facts and ideas, that at the fitting moment they will resolve themselves into words, the high problem of eloquence is in a great measure solved.

CHAPTER II.
PREREQUISITES—INTELLECTUAL COMPETENCY—STRENGTH OF BODY—COMMAND OF LANGUAGE—COURAGE—FIRMNESS.

Almost every speaker has at some time longed to obtain the golden power of eloquence. It always insures to its fortunate possessor a strong influence in the affairs of men. It is needed in the promotion of every reform, and is the only means by which the minds of a community can be at once moved in a new direction. When employed in the service of error and injustice it is like a fallen archangel’s power for evil. But its highest and purest sphere is in the promulgation of revealed truth. It there brings the word of God into living contact with the souls of men, and by it molds them into a higher life. It is sublime to be a co-worker with God, and thus assist him in peopling heaven.

Only the method of eloquence can be taught. Its refined and ethereal substance lies beyond the reach of all art. No preacher can be truly eloquent without the baptism of the Holy Spirit, and even the excited passion and burning enthusiasm which are the human sources of this quality, can be acquired by no formularies. But they may be developed and properly directed where a capability for them exists. In this respect there is the widest difference of talent. Some men never can attain the wondrous power of swaying their fellow-beings. Others are born orators. The latter class is small, and it is never safe to conclude that we belong to it until the fact has been incontestably proved. Neither is the class of incapables very large. The great mass of men lie between the extremes. Their talents do not make them great in spite of themselves; but if they make the proper effort, and are favored by circumstances, they may become effective, and even eloquent speakers. To these it is of great importance to have the right road pointed out, along which they may travel, and by earnest toil gain the desired end. There is no “royal road” to eloquence, but here, as elsewhere, application and study will produce their proper effects. Yet certain prerequisites must be received from God himself, without which all cultivation will be vain as the attempt to fertilize the sands of the seashore.

The first quality to which we will refer, is intellectual competency. By this, we mean a strength of intellect that can grasp an idea, and form a complete image of it; one who is not able to think out a subject in its leading features, cannot speak on it, and if the deficiency be general, he is unfitted to speak in public at all. We would not assert that none but men of commanding intelligence can profitably address their fellow-beings. It is not even necessary that the orator should be above the average of mental power possessed by his audience. Franklin was entranced by the preaching of Whitefield, though in grasp and compass of mind almost infinitely his superior. A man of comparative dullness may, by brooding over a particular subject, so master it, that the greatest intellect will listen to him with reverence and profit. The great German poet, Goethe, said that he met few men from whom he did not learn something valuable. But no man ought to address the people unless he can clearly comprehend the nature of his subject, mark out its limitations, understand its relations to other subjects, and so arrange and simplify it as to convey these ideas to his hearers. The Christian minister has to deal with a great variety of topics, and requires mind enough to grasp not one only, but many subjects.

It is hard to determine just how much mental power is required to secure a moderate degree of success as an orator. No precise rules can be given on this point, and if they could, egotism would prevent each from applying them to himself however correctly he might gauge his neighbor. The presumptuous would do well to remember that oratory is the highest of all arts, and to measure themselves with becoming humility; perhaps the following questions may aid in self-examination. Can you grasp an idea firmly? can you follow its ramifications, perceive its shades of meaning, and render it familiar in all its bearings? Can you analyze it clearly, so that each separate part will be understood by itself, and then again link these together and make each serve as a stepping-stone to the comprehension of that which follows? If you can do this with a single subject, you have the mental power to speak on that subject; if on all, or many of the subjects of the Christian religion, vast and varied as they are, you can preach. No deficiency of intellectual power or originality need dishearten you.

The fact of the close and mutual influence of body and mind is beyond dispute, although their connection is a subject of deep mystery. When we see how much the faculties of reason and imagination—nay, even of hope, love, and faith—are affected by bodily conditions, we can only exclaim with the Psalmist, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” Especially is this mutual dependence forced upon the attention of the extempore speaker. In every effort he feels the subtle effect of physical causes, and often under the pressure of disease, strives in vain to realize the grand but intangible thoughts that float through his brain. The body is the instrument of the mind in its communication with the outward world, and even if the most sublime and glorious conceptions existed within, they would be powerless if the bodily organs were unequal to the task of expressing them.

A dumb man cannot be an orator, no matter how richly endowed; and all other bodily defects will be felt as hindrances even if they fall short of the deprivation of an organ of sense. The preacher needs to be a completely developed man physically, as well as mentally, though he may succeed in spite of many disadvantages. Feeble health will always detract from his power. The mind may for a time rise superior to it, but a crushing recoil will follow. This takes place when the ill-health is not extreme; but when it fetters the ability of expression, and prevents the manifestation of living power, the barrier is absolute. Many ministers utterly fail, because they forget that eloquence is the offspring of health; others, perhaps, still more unfortunate have battled against disease and bodily infirmity for years, and yet have been doomed to feel, amid their brightest aspirations, that a power beyond their control was conquering them. It is terrible to sit helpless, and see a cloud stealing over the brightness of genius, and shading the whole future of life. Yet this has been the experience of thousands. We remember an impressive illustration of this in the case of one who possessed the richest endowments. He was almost unequaled as a pulpit orator, yet, in the middle of life, saw his powers of usefulness withdrawn, and his fame fading—only because his body could not bear the strain he unwisely put upon it.

In view of the many facts of this kind, it would be well for the man who aspires to eminence in the fields of eloquence, to examine himself, and see if he have the needed physical strength. With some the incapacity is no doubt total. How many ministers have had their light turned into darkness by a diseased throat, a cerebral affection, or a nervous disorder? But the majority of men only need care and obedience to the laws of life to bring their bodies up to the standard of efficiency. In youth, at least, there is nothing so easily improved as health. By the golden rule of temperance in all things—in voice and thought, as well as food and drink—nearly all may render the body adequate to the manifestation of mind.

To an orator, the power of readily clothing his thoughts in words is indispensable. Language is the dress of ideas—the means by which they are communicated to others. The thoughts that arise in our minds resolve themselves into words as naturally as the clouds do into falling showers. We use words to some degree in our most secret meditations, and whenever the latter become clear and well defined they fall into language without conscious effort. To cause them to do this with precision and certainty is one of the problems of extempore speech. The thought is prepared in advance, but is to be coined into words at the moment. If the faculty of language is weak this cannot be done without such hesitation and embarrassment as greatly to diminish the effect; but if strong, a tide of words will be poured forth without apparent effort. Even in common conversation, a wide difference in point of fluency may be observed. In fact, it was this which gave Gall the first hint that led to the establishment of Phrenology.

No doubt this faculty may be greatly cultivated and improved, but when its original strength is very small, it can not, probably, be made available for ready and powerful speech. There are persons whose voices seem to have no defect, who cannot learn to sing; others, with eyes perfectly organized, are unable to distinguish between colors. The power of language may be equally deficient in an otherwise well-constituted mind. We once knew a man who could not find the words necessary to make the most common statement without long and embarrassed pauses. He forgot the names of his nearest neighbors; and, when telling a story, required perpetual prompting wherever names occurred, and would often hesitate until some every-day term was suggested to him. No cultivation would have made him a speaker. He had as much education as his neighbors around, and was not remarkably dull. He was simply an almost wordless man. Many persons suffer in the same manner, though but few to the same degree.

But the mere fact that a man is slow of speech is no bar even to the highest eminence as an orator. The proper test of the power of this faculty is in common conversation. There one feels perfectly at ease, and deals with matters he understands. If he have but a moderate share of fluency, he will have no difficulty in conveying his ideas. But if he does experience such difficulty, it shows a radical defect which art can never remove. But we should not be discouraged if it is hard to find appropriate words when speaking on unfamiliar subjects, for we cannot have words to express ideas before possessing the ideas themselves!

Those who are deficient in language, but have strong powers of thought, are almost the only persons who really find relief in writing and reading their sermons. If they have time to wait, the right word may come to them, or they can search through dictionaries for it; but in the hurry of speech there is no such leisure for selection. They have some excuse for writing, though it will still be questionable whether it would not be better for them to dash ahead with the loss of some precision, or if this cannot be done, abandon altogether a profession for which they are so obviously unfitted.

A man must have a degree of courage to place himself within reach of any danger, and remain there. If he be destitute of it, he will resign the hope of victory rather than encounter the perils by which it may be won. It is needed in extempore speaking as well as in any species of physical danger, for the perils to be encountered are not less terrible. To some sensitive minds these even amount to a species of martyrdom. They go to the desk trembling in every limb, and would feel wonderfully relieved if they could exchange their position for the tented field, where the warfare would be of the body only, and not of the spirit. Some of the greatest orators have never been able to entirely overcome this feeling, although they may have been free from the fear of failure.

But it is difficult to be perfectly assured even against failure. “There is nothing so fitful as eloquence,” says the Abbe Bautain, who was well qualified to judge. The practiced and prepared orator does not often dread losing command of words altogether, and being obliged to close before the proper time, but fears that his rich and glowing conceptions may fade, and his high ideal be unattained.

Mere boldness does not suffice to protect a speaker from these dangers. Of what avail is a man’s courage if his brain be clouded and his tongue paralyzed? He cannot brave the consequences, for the power of ridicule is too keen for any armor—at least when it comes in such a concentrated volume as falls on the head of the unfortunate speaker who can not finish what he has begun. At such a time the boaster’s fate is worst of all; for, while others are pitied, he is crushed beneath the scorn and triumph of his audience. There is no positive guard against failure. Public speaking is a modern battle, in which the most skillful warrior may be stricken down by a random bullet—the bravest slain by a coward!

What then is the benefit of courage? We have placed it in the list of essential qualities, and believe the orator cannot succeed without it. It does not operate by rendering failure impossible, or even materially reducing the risk, but by enabling us to endure all danger and press on. Bonaparte said that most generals failed in one point—they delayed to attack when it became necessary to fight a great battle. The issue was so uncertain—so far beyond the reach of human wisdom—that they hesitated and deliberated until the favorable moment had passed forever. In war this timid policy courts destruction, by permitting the adversary to choose his own time to strike. The same principle governs in other affairs. The risk must be taken. A man of courage derives new lessons from his failures, and makes them the introduction to future triumphs. Especially in the field of oratory is there no possibility of success, if this indomitable, persevering spirit be wanting. Many persons of excellent talents have been condemned to perpetual silence, because they would not endure the perils of speech. Men who have instructed the world by their pens, and in the privacy of the social circle have charmed their friends by the magic of their conversation, have never spoken in public because they shrunk from the inevitable hazard. There is no difficulty in determining whether we possess this quality or not. Let the trial be made, and if we do not abandon our posts and incur disgrace rather than speak, we have all the boldness that is needed.

The quality of firmness in oratory is sometimes undervalued. While steady, persevering industry, working toward a definite end, is known to be essential in everything else, in this field genius is often supposed to be sufficient. There never was a greater mistake. Nature does lay the foundation broad and deep for some men, but they must build diligently upon it to make their gifts availing. The way to eminence, even for the favored few, is long and hard, requiring deep thought and earnest striving, and without a strong purpose fixed in the very beginning, and firmly adhered to through years of labor, there is slight chance of success. A few persons have risen to eminence without appearing to pay the price for it, but such exceptions are more apparent than real. There are times of great excitement, when some one before unknown is able to speak so as to fix the eyes of the nation upon himself, but unless he has been previously prepared, and continues to put forth resolute effort, his success is but transitory.

The career of Patrick Henry is adduced as an instance of success without labor. He had little education in the schools, but learned much from Nature herself. His observation was tireless. It is said, that when he kept a country store, he would sit and question his customers by the hour, causing them to display their various dispositions. He was thus learning to play upon the human heart, and as this was only one manifestation of a ruling passion, it doubtless took a hundred other forms. When on those long hunting excursions in the beautiful valley of Virginia, how many deep and ineffaceable impressions must have been made on his mind. He had a peerless genius, yet all we can learn of him leads us to believe that he cultivated it to the utmost, at least as applied to oratory.

The familiar examples of Demosthenes and Cicero are not solitary ones. All who have acquired the power of effective speech have toiled long and patiently. The poor, weak waverer can never be an orator in the highest sense of the term, however he may, on special occasions, flash into momentary brilliancy. And as the minister of the Gospel must cultivate the most difficult field of eloquence, we advise no one to attempt preaching who is not conscious of a strong, unchangeable purpose—a purpose that will bear delay, discouragement and weary waiting.

Of course, the nature of all the results obtained through our firmness will depend on the direction of our efforts. If personal ambition, or pecuniary profit be the object toward which we bend our energies, the grand and holy character of the Christian ministry will be lost sight of. But let our aim be unselfish, and our success will be pure and noble.

To him who has a mind to conceive, a body with strength to execute, language to coin the mass of thoughts into words, courage to bear the scrutiny of a thousand eyes, and firmness that will endure the toil of preparation—to him the upward pathway is clear. He may not win great fame, but he will be able to present the truth in its native beauty, and make his words fall with weight and power on the hearts of men.

CHAPTER III.
BASIS OF SPEECH—THOUGHT AND EMOTION—HEART CULTIVATION.

Thought and emotion are two prime elements in the manifestations of mind. All the products of mental action, unless it be the mysterious power of will, are divided between them, and by them, through various means of expression, we reach and influence the outward world.

Thought springs from the intellect, and acts upon the facts received from every source, retaining, arranging and modifying them at will. Feeling is the mind’s response to all these, and comprises fear, love, hope, faith, hatred and all the sentiments and emotions that are described under the general name of “the heart.” Speech is founded on these two elements, which meet and mingle in every human production, though seldom in the same proportion. The speaker who has greatest mastery of one, is often most deficient in the other. But if so, the whole range of eloquence is not open to him. He is only a half-developed orator, and his usefulness will be very much narrowed.

A man of deep thought but sluggish emotion, may enchain the attention of an assembly by the novel and far-reaching views he presents and the ability with which he unfolds them, but the whole discourse will be dull and lifeless. He will find it very difficult to move his hearers to action. They may assent to every word he utters, and yet continue in their own course. Every minister’s experience furnishes proof that it is not enough to convince, or it would be very easy to convert the world. At times it is right to use the sword of intellect alone. In controversy, for example, a solid basis of reasoning must be laid before anything else can be done. But it is not always enough. Men are led as often by their sentiments and intuitions as by their judgments, and we are allowed to use all lawful means to win them. Even the pure light of truth is not always to be discovered through the intellect alone. A mere feeling of what is right, or just, or true, often leads, in an instant, to a conviction that all subsequent reasoning can only strengthen. The ideal orator, therefore, is one who, even in argument, can show the truth, and then, by a flash of heavenly sympathy, change our cold assent into fervent conviction.

On the other hand, a man of predominant feeling may make us weep, but as we see no reason for it, we resist the emotion to the extent of our power. If we yield, a reaction follows, and we go away ashamed of what we cannot justify. Of this class were some of the early Methodist preachers—the weeping prophets, as they were termed. Their tears, and the feeling with which they spoke, were often irresistible, and by the mere force of sympathy, men who had very little intellectual power were able to sway the passions of an audience at will. But had it not been for some of their brethren, who were men of thought as well as emotion—men who had clear heads to organize and combine, as well as tears to shed, the effect of their labor would have been evanescent as the emotions they excited.

Continuity is a highly important quality of thought. All men think; they cannot help it, for the mind is ever active. But with most these thoughts are but random flashes—illuminated pictures—that arise for a moment, and then vanish to give place to others. Powerful thinking consists in holding these scattered images together in a chain, and making them run uninterruptedly from one point to another. There is no man who does not at times catch glimpses of far-reaching, profound thoughts; but before he can combine them into harmony and place them in their proper relation to other thoughts, they disappear, and he may search long before he will find them again. All persons see the beauties of natural scenery, but it is only the poet who can reproduce the scattered elements and combine them into a harmonious description. Only the true thinker can gather the fragments of thought that flash through the mind, and give them form and consistency. This power is indispensable to the speaker. He must give, not a mere gallery of pictures, however beautiful they may be, but a succession of thoughts, naturally connected, by which the mind advances step by step through the discourse, without jar or interruption. We will endeavor to give some directions for the acquisition of this power, as far as may be necessary in extempore speaking. The capability of thought must indeed be possessed or all cultivation will be vain; but if the mind have any native vigor, it can learn to think consecutively and methodically, even as the unskilled but perfectly organized hand may be taught to carve beautiful and complicated forms.

As a general rule, men can be more easily moved by appeals made to their feelings than to their reason, and find the most masterly dissertation cold and lifeless unless relieved by some touches of humanity and passion. A man who does not possess true feeling cannot so counterfeit it as to reach the hearts of others, but he may, in a great measure, transform his own nature and acquire it. The most essential qualification for a religious teacher is a deep personal religious experience. One who has never passed through the mystic, mingled sorrow and joy of penitence and the agony of remorse—has never watched with straining eyes for the dawning light of salvation, and at last been enabled to say, “Abba, Father!” such a one cannot preach the gospel with power and success. His speech may glitter with all the flowers of rhetoric and the form of words be complete, but the vast power of the earnest soul sympathizing with all the lips utter, will be absent. Without genuine experience, our preaching will be apt to fall into that loose generalization which can do no good. For it is only when we plant our feet on living realities—those we have tested and know to be sure, and deal in particular, specified facts, that we are able to pierce through all the folds of ignorance and self-love, and awaken an echo of the conscience within.

As a mere form of knowledge, the experience of God’s dealings with the awakened soul is more valuable than any other lore. But its great advantage to the preacher is not the increase of knowledge. It produces a tide of emotion that can never sleep until the judgment day. It connects the Cross and the divine Sufferer with cords of living sympathy that always thrill to the very centre of our being. Conversion invariably deepens and intensifies the emotions of our nature; and if the speaker has passed through a strongly marked change he will have the power of imparting his impressions to others, and of giving to his descriptions the inimitable charm of reality. If his religious experience accords with the Bible, he can speak from his own heart with almost irresistible force. This was the secret of the power wielded by Luther, Wesley, Whitefield and others who have shaken the world. Thus prepared, John Bunyan wrote the most wonderful book of any age—recorded the world’s experience in religion, and made the cold, dead realms of allegory flash with life. He laid the spell of his genius on all alike, and the child prattles of the burdened pilgrim with the giants in his way, while the old man is cheered by the light that streams down from the high hill on which the city is built. The reason of his power is simply that he wrote his own spiritual experience in the language of truth. He had stood at the bar of Vanity Fair, had fought with the fiends, and groped his way through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. From the depths of his own heart, torn by internal conflict, or healed and made happy by a heavenly anointing, he drew the images that glow with all the color of life in his marvelous book.

Love is the mightiest of all forces, and Jesus was revealed to draw unto himself the love of the universe. Let the minister learn of him, and he will be able to speak as he never spoke before. He will strike the key-note of that song whose solemn music has rolled down through the centuries, and will wax louder and clearer until time shall be no more.

The story of the Cross, with all that depends upon it, forms principal part of the Christian orator’s theme. But he has other duties. His work is broad as human life. He stands by the bed of sickness; he weeps with the mourners when the last flutter of life is stilled, and strives to lift their eyes to the victor over death; he warns the impenitent of coming woe. It is his to deal with the highest and holiest emotions of the heart. And how can he touch these delicate chords gently, but firmly—not shrinking from the infliction of necessary pain, yet never causing a tear to flow “in the mere wantonness of grief”—unless he has passed through sorrow’s deep waters? He must have unfeigned sympathy for all, and be able to express it plainly and tenderly.

This power, both of feeling and expression, may be greatly increased by exercise. If the preacher will enter the abodes of rich and poor alike, and take a friendly interest in their hopes and fears, their joys and sorrows, he will find his heart drawn out toward them, and when he addresses them in public, it will be with far more intense anxiety for their good than if they were strangers. It will be comparatively easy for him to throw his heart into all he says.

There are two methods of cultivating genuine emotion that we would cordially recommend to all desirous of swaying the hearts of the people. The first is prayer. We need not enlarge on its general benefits, but will notice its effect on sacred oratory. The man who often addresses God in prayer is in the very best school of eloquence. It brings us close to Him, and in the awful light of His purity, we more clearly see anything that is bad in our hearts and strive to cast it out. As we pray for others, and spread their needs before him, we cannot fail to be inspired with a stronger desire for their welfare. Then, too, religion becomes something more than a mere form of words, and our hearts burn with a stronger flame. We speak now of prayer as it should be—a warm, pure, fervent outpouring of the heart to God. This is more difficult in the public congregation, for then many disturbing elements are brought to bear on the person praying. The listening people are apt to be in the preacher’s thoughts, and prevent him from enjoying simple and direct communion with heaven. It is the prayer “when none but God is nigh,” that will stir his heart to its profoundest depths and put his mind in the right frame for delivering his sermons. Let any one pray earnestly for help from above all the time his sermons are in course of preparation, and he will be surprised to find how much of the coldness and deadness supposed to belong to this species of composition will be swept away, and how beautifully over all will be spread the vivid charm of real experience. Yet we must not restrict our prayers to this time, for God may not meet us in loving friendship if we only approach him when we have a favor to ask. To reap the full benefit of prayer, it should be a habit woven into our life, and continued on every occasion. This will rebuke sinful ambition and moderate that sensitiveness which has reference to the opinions of our fellow-beings. Thus armed, the preacher will come as the messenger of God, rather than the caterer to men’s fancies. And from the mere operation of natural causes, he will speak with a boldness and earnestness that will draw the hearts of men as the magnet does the steel.

But prayer is far more than the means of cultivating emotion. There is a direct influence that comes from God to man. The power of the Holy Spirit is no fable. A heavenly anointing is sent down—an unction that gives sweetness and power even to the most commonplace words. It is not bestowed unasked, for God desires that we should feel the need of His high gifts before they are granted. But when humbly implored, there is often breathed an influence from above, mighty to sustain the faithful minister in his task. What an encouraging but awful thought! God himself stands by us in the time of our weakness and gives us His strength. If the minister would always go to the pulpit with this assurance, he would not fear the mass of upturned faces, but calmly view them with a heart stayed on the Master whose work he has to do.

The Spirit’s presence will not in the least absolve us from the need of complete preparation. In nothing is it more true that God helps those who help themselves. All that we contend for is such an influence as will cause the words uttered to penetrate the souls of those for whom they were spoken, remove the fear of man from the preacher’s heart, and make him bold in speaking the truth. It may be that clearer knowledge will be given, and the most fitting selection of words suggested, but this can only be hoped for after all preparation is made. God does not duplicate his work, and that which he gives man faculties to discover, he will not afterward bring to him by an express revelation.

The second method of imparting unction and feeling to the coldness of thought, is by meditating on the great truths and promises of Christianity. This subject is well treated in Baxter’s “Saint’s Rest,” though not with reference to the wants of the orator. The power of long-continued and earnest meditation varies in different persons, but all can acquire it to some degree. It may be defined as a method of transporting ones-self from a sense of the present reality to an ideal situation—reaching and experiencing the feelings that would naturally arise in that situation. Thus we may experience some of the pleasures of heaven and the society of the blest. We may walk the plains of Galilee with the Lord and behold his wondrous love there manifested, almost as if we mingled with the throng who hung on his gracious words; we may turn to the time of our own conversion, and recall the passage from despair to conscious life; or look forward to the day of our death, and think of its mingled sorrow and triumph. It is a kind of waking dream by which the mind is filled with one idea to the exclusion of all others. And when we select some high object of contemplation and return often to it, we acquire a susceptibility of strong and fervent emotion on that subject which it requires only a word to arouse. An illustration of this is often found in the case of an inventor or discoverer who has dwelt on one subject until his whole mind is filled with it, and he cannot hear it mentioned without the deepest feeling. However cold and listless he may be on other subjects, touch but the sacred one of his fancy, and his sparkling eye and animated voice tell how deeply you have roused the whole man. What an advantage it must be to the extempore speaker, with whom everything depends on feeling, to have all the cardinal facts he proclaims surrounded by fountains of holy emotion, continually supplied from the spring of meditation, and ready to flow copiously at the slightest touch! Such trains of thought may be carried on in moments too often given to idleness, and thus, not only will a mighty power be added to our pulpit ministrations, but our whole life ennobled and enriched. It has been conjectured that Milton’s mind, while composing “Paradise Lost,” existed in the state of a sublime waking dream, in which the forms of heaven and hell, chaos and creation, all mingled in one glorious vision. Something of this nature, though not necessarily continuous, must take place in the mental history of every true and powerful Christian minister.

CHAPTER IV.
ACQUIREMENTS.—KNOWLEDGE, GENERAL—OF BIBLE, OF THEOLOGY, OF MEN.

Thought is the workman of the mind, and requires materials upon which to labor. We are such creatures of experience that we cannot go far beyond a foundation of fact, or weave long trains of pure imagination. In the wildest fiction the mind can only combine and rearrange what was previously known. This necessity rests with added weight upon the preacher. He cannot invent his materials in the sense the poet can, but must confine himself to the statement of unadulterated truth. Fortunately, he has no narrow field to explore, for all knowledge is related to his themes. He has to speak of God, by whom everything exists, and whose glory shines through all the works of his hand. The truths he utters apply to the whole circle of life and its duties, yet are so familiar and so often neglected, that he needs all his power to make them touch the popular heart. There is no science that may not at times be made available for illustrating or enforcing the word of God.

The want of extended knowledge will be more severely felt by an extempore preacher, than by one who reads or recites. The latter has time for selection, and may take the parts of a subject with which he is familiar and pass over all others. But the former will find this very dangerous. Extemporizing should be free and unfettered. The speaker must be able to see his own way, and make it clear to his hearers. If he is always anxious to avoid dangerous obstructions and steer around them, he will lose that free flow of ideas in which much of the beauty of unstudied speech consists. Let the man, therefore, who looks to the preacher’s vocation, lay the foundation broad and deep in a complete education, not only in that of the schools, for the knowledge they teach is very defective, but let him know all the facts that hinge on common life; the processes of the different pursuits and trades; the subjects that most occupy the human mind; the arts and sciences in their wide departments. We have no hesitation in affirming that preaching ought to be more scientific than it often is; that is, when the preacher deals with the phenomena of nature, he should speak of them in their true form, as revealed by science, and not indulge in loose generalities or popular misstatements. If he master these and all other branches of knowledge, he will have at hand a fund of illustration that will never grow old, and instead of being under the necessity of turning over books of sermons, and hunting out figures of speech that have done duty for generations, he will be supplied from nature’s great volume with those that are ever fresh and new. They will be redolent of the morning dew, the sparkle of sunlight, the life of humanity, rather than the must of books.

This knowledge constitutes only the rough material of thought. It is the dust out of which the body is to be formed, and into which the breath of life is to be breathed. The power of thinking comes from no accumulated intellectual stores, but springs from the living energy of the soul within. It is above all dead brute force, and fills a world of its own. But we would lay the foundation of success in oratory by giving the mind food, and providing for it a general acquaintance with the universe. This may be superficial, for it is not given to man to be profound in everything, but it will suffice to keep the preacher within the bounds of truth, when, for a time, he leaves his own province.

But within that province, and on all topics he undertakes to discuss, his knowledge should not be superficial. He must here hold out no false light to lure mankind, but must speak because he knows the truth, and feels that others ought to know it. He will then speak—and in his own department he has the right to speak—“not as the Scribes and Pharisees, but as one having authority.”

To this end the preacher must study the Bible most thoroughly. It is the book from which he obtains his subjects, and the most powerful arguments by which they are enforced. He must meditate on it by day and night with earnest, loving zeal. There is not much profit in merely reading it through once or twice a year. Read it prayerfully. Study the sense. Strive to make it a living book. Realize the scenes it describes, the events it records, and the deep mysteries it unfolds. There is no study that will increase oratorical power more rapidly than the investigation of the Holy Scriptures. They are the best models of eloquence, the exhaustless armory from which the preacher draws his weapons. To be “mighty in the Scriptures” is one of the highest recommendations he can have; and, on the other hand, ignorance of the book it will be his life labor to expound, is unpardonable, and will expose him to merited contempt.

Many books will be needed in forming a critical, living comprehension of the Bible. The student should become familiar with the present aspect of Palestine and the manners and customs of former ages. Judicious commentaries will help him to penetrate through the covering which thoughtlessness and familiarity have woven over the sacred page, down to its vital meaning. Ancient history and Bible dictionaries will make plain many obscure passages. But above all, the Holy Spirit throws a flood of light over the whole book, and makes its dark places shine with the radiance of truth. Get this first, in a living baptism, and all else will be easy.

A knowledge of Theology is essential. It comes not with the same authority as the Word, for it is only man’s interpretation of what God has revealed, and no one has a right to bind others by the rule of his own weak judgment. Yet we cannot despise assistance even here. He would be very foolish who would insist on ignoring the light of science and the accumulated lore of ages, that he might discover all truth for himself. Life is so short and man’s intellect so slow, that an individual standing alone would never get beyond the state of a savage. We can weigh the evidence of truth in an hour that has taken years or ages to discover. There is no way but to accept the aid of others even in the matters that relate to God and our own souls, and use it to build up a complete system of knowledge, being careful not to surrender our independence of thought, nor do violence to our conscience.

The knowledge of what men have thought and done in the field of revelation is indispensable. Without some degree of it no man is prepared for the sacred office. It need not all be attained before beginning to preach, but should be a constant aim. The preacher should always be a diligent student. He will never reach the end. Even when his head is whitening for the grave he will find the book of God an unexhausted mine, and the interest of newly-discovered truth will impart such charm and vigor to his discourses that they will never grow old. Theology is a vast science, embracing all others—an infinite field where man may exert all his powers, and never cease for want of new realms to explore.

The preacher labors in the field of humanity, and aims to better the present and future condition of mankind. He needs to understand his ground, as well as the instruments of his labor. It is through him that divine truth reaches the hearts of the multitude. Unless he can cause the people to think new thoughts, and be ruled by new motives, wisdom and learning and brilliancy are all in vain. A knowledge of the heart, and of the best methods of reaching it, are of first importance. No matter if the preacher speaks a truth; unless that particular truth has an adaptation to the present wants of those whom he addresses, it will be, in a great measure, unfruitful. The love of God, the story of the Cross, with many other things revealed in the Bible, are suited to all ages and all men. But the consolations intended for a time of sorrow would fall strangely on the ear of a bridal party. Exhortations to repentance would be lost upon a congregation of sincere Christians. Different shades of experience need to be met by appropriate instruction; and the minister who does not watch all changing circumstances, and carefully adapt his words to them, will fail of the highest usefulness. It may be objected that, in large assemblies, the presentation of any truth will benefit some person, and that all cannot be reached at once. This is partly true; but the attentive minister will find currents of thought moving in his congregation from day to day, and will be surprised to see how often the people are thinking about the same objects. At one time, the minds of many will be tinged with unbelief; at another, spiritualism will have its votaries; and again, genuine, earnest searching for the truth will be apparent. He, who so thoroughly knows the heart that he can detect the signs of these changes, has the advantage possessed by a general who is acquainted with all the plans of his antagonist. A close observer once said that a certain minister would never be a revivalist, because he did not seem to understand the movements of the Spirit. There was truth in his judgment, although the deficiency was rather in understanding human nature. That preacher who can look over his congregation as he speaks, and discern something of the state of their hearts, can strike directly to the mark, while the strength of another might be wasted.

A general knowledge of the motives by which men are governed will also be of service. We must employ proper arguments when we seek to influence our hearers, for truth may be so presented as to repel rather than attract. We should know how to appeal to self-interest, for most follow what they believe to be its dictates. We should be able to excite their love and sympathy; in short, we ought to ascertain what motive is powerful enough to move them, and employ it. This quick and accurate knowledge of the heart is especially valuable to the man who preaches without notes. Looking into the eyes of the congregation, he will see their passing thoughts and emotions often indicated with great precision. He will thus know when it is best to dwell on any particular argument, and can press it home, or leave it, before the audience is wearied. He will, all the time, have the advantage of seeing his way distinctly, instead of stumbling along like a blind man who is conscious of no obstacle until brought into contact with it. To reap this profit, he must be able to read the expressions and changes that the heart throws over the countenance—visible signs of its own state.

The proper way to obtain a practical knowledge of men is to mingle with and study them. A preacher has great opportunities for this. He need not fear to lower his dignity or impair his influence by a free and easy intercourse with all classes. The people have acute perceptions, and will give him credit for all that is good in him; and he has no right to demand more. Indeed, if he have not native goodness and intelligence enough to retain the confidence of his people in the closest social intercourse, the sooner he relinquishes his office the better for all concerned. It is no excuse to say that he cannot spare time from his studies; for no labor will more surely bring a return of added power and eloquence than the study of his flock around their own hearths. The best books are only transcripts of the human heart, and here he can study the original in all its freshness.

But merely to mingle with the people will not fully cultivate this critical knowledge of character, unless it is made a particular study. A good way of doing this is to write down our first thoughts and impressions of persons we come in contact with, and test our correctness by subsequent experience. We thus discover the source of our errors, and avoid them in future, and, at the same time, form a habit of observation which, if continued for years, will increase the acuteness of our perceptions until we are able to read men at the first glance.

But most valuable of all means for attaining this power, is a thorough, practical acquaintance with Phrenology. Much ridicule has been thrown on this science by traveling imposters, who have practiced character-reading, together with witchcraft and fortune-telling—just as astronomy and astrology were once joined. But such associations are not more necessary than that sometimes supposed to exist between geology and unbelief. Phrenology is a branch of the inductive sciences, established and tested by observation and experiment. Its two cardinal principles are: First, that the brain is the organ of mind; second, that different mental functions are performed by different parts of the brain. The latter is no more unreasonable than to suppose that the different bodily actions, walking, lifting, eating, smelling, etc., are performed by different parts of the body. The first proposition is admitted by all; and if the second is allowed to be reasonable, it then becomes easy to determine whether the correspondence of faculty and organ in any case is sufficiently proved. The poets, Whittier and Bryant, Horace Greeley and the eminent educator, Horace Mann, all professed to derive great advantage from the study. Henry Ward Beecher, who stands among the first of living orators, attributes all his power “in making sermons fit” to the early and constant study of Phrenology. It is an instructive fact, that although the different organs were discovered singly and at long intervals, yet when the contributions of many laborers have been brought together, the result is a most beautiful and perfect mental philosophy—contrasting with the warring systems of metaphysics as the clear sunlight does with clouds and night. We give it as a deliberate opinion that it is better for the preacher to remain ignorant of any one of the natural sciences or learned languages, than to neglect that study which unfolds the laws of mind and teaches us to understand our fellow men.

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 so strong 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 an eye-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 the coming 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 of precise 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 conversational style—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, they do 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—we can 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 say OVER in 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 it an 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 precipice of 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 that interminable 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 warning of 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 action will 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 moment to 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 become an 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 have occasion 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.

PART II.
A SERMON.

CHAPTER I.
THE FOUNDATION—SUBJECT—OBJECT—TEXT.

We have thus far discussed the subject of preliminary training, and have endeavored to show what natural qualities the preacher must possess, and how these can be improved by diligent cultivation. The importance of a wide scope of knowledge, and especially of that which bears upon oratory; of understanding and having some command of the powers of language; of having a personal experience of Christ’s pardoning love, and a heart filled with desire for the salvation of our fellow men; of believing that God has called us to the work of the ministry; has already been pointed out. When a man finds himself in possession of these, and is still a diligent student, growing daily in grace, he is prepared to preach the Gospel in “demonstration of the spirit and of power.” He is then ready to consider the methods by which all his gifts and acquirements may be made available, and wielded with mightiest effect in the service of his Master.

Some of the directions given in this and succeeding chapters are of universal application, while others are to be regarded only as suggestions, to be modified and changed according to individual taste, or particular circumstances.

A plan is necessary to every sermon. A rude mass of brick, lumber, mortar and iron, thrown together as the materials chance to be furnished, does not constitute a house, and is worthless until each is built into its appropriate place, in obedience to some intelligent design. A sermon must be constructed in a similar manner. It may contain much that is good, or useful, or striking, and be replete with sparkling imagery, and full of ideas that will command the attention of the audience, and yet completely fail. The only safe method is to have a well-defined plan marked out from beginning to end, and to work according to it.

It is always better to have this plan previously constructed. Sometimes when we speak on a subject we have often thought over, its whole outline will flash upon us in a moment, and we will speak as well as if we had employed months in preparation. But such cases are rare exceptions. The man who attempts, on the spur of the moment, to arrange his facts, draw his inferences, and enforce his opinions, will find the task very difficult, even if his memory promptly furnishes all the necessary materials.

Every discourse, of whatever character, should have a subject and an object. A sermon requires a text also, and these three constitute the foundation upon which it is built. We will consider them separately.

A good plan cannot be constructed without an object in view. Why is it that at a particular time a congregation assembles, and sits silent while a man addresses them? What is his motive in standing up before them and asking their attention? Many of the people may have been drawn together by the lightest influences, but the minister, at least, should be actuated by a noble purpose. If he has a clear aim before him, it will tend powerfully to give unity and consistency to his discourse, and prevent him from falling into endless digressions. It will bind all detached parts together, and infuse a common life through the whole mass. We cannot be too careful in the selection of such a ruling object, for it will affect the whole superstructure.

Our purposes should not be too general. It is not enough that we should wish to do good. Probably no minister ever preaches without that general desire. But the important question is, “What special good do I hope to accomplish by this sermon?” When he has decided this, he will then be prepared to adapt his means to the end proposed, and the whole discourse will acquire a definiteness and precision that would never otherwise have belonged to it. The more we sub-divide our objects, the more will this precision be increased, although there is a limit beyond which it would be at the expense of other qualities. If we desire the salvation of souls, it is well, and most powerful sermons have been preached with that object in view. But if we narrow our immediate aim, and keep in view only one of the steps by which the soul advances to God, it will give our discourse a keener edge, and we can plead with those who have not yet taken that step with more prospect of immediate success, than if we at once placed the whole journey before them. For example, many sermons may be preached with “repentance” as the central object, and this duty enforced by various motives and innumerable arguments. We may show that it is a duty, that man is lost without it, that Jesus calls him to it, that God assists, that salvation follows it, etc.

Our objects usually have reference to the action of those who hear us, and the more fully that action is understood, and the more earnest our desire to produce it, the greater our persuasive power will be. If we do not exactly know what we wish to accomplish, there is very little probability that our audience will interpret our thoughts for us. We may, it is true, labor to convince the judgment of our hearers, and make them understand truth more clearly than before, but this is usually because of the influence thus exerted on their actions.

The objects that should govern our sermons are comparatively few, and ought to be selected with great care. Much of our success depends on having the right one of these before us at the right time; for if we aim at that which is unattainable, we lose our effort. If we preach sanctification to a congregation of unawakened sinners, no power of treatment can redeem the sermon from the cardinal defect of inappropriateness. If we preach against errors which no one of our hearers entertains, our logic is lost, even if the very errors we battle against are not suggested. Let us carefully note the state of our audience, and select for our object that which ought to be accomplished.

There is a difference between the subject of a discourse and its object; the latter is the motive that impels us to speak, while the former is what we speak about. It is not uncommon for ministers to have a subject without any very distinct object. Their engagements require them to speak, and a subject is a necessity. That which can be treated most easily is taken, and all the ideas they possess, or can collect about it, are given forth, and the matter left. Until such persons grow in earnest, and really desire to accomplish something, they cannot advance the cause of God.

The object of a sermon is the soul, while the subject is only the body; or, we may say, the one is the end, and the other the means by which it is accomplished. After the object is fixed the subject can be chosen to much better advantage; for instance, if it be our object to lead the penitent to the Cross, we may select any of the themes connected with the crucifixion and dying love of Christ; we may show the sinner his inability to fulfill the requirements of the law, and that he needs an atoning sacrifice to save him from its penalty; we may show that the salvation purchased is full and free. Many other branches of the same great topic will be found suitable for the purpose in view.

This order of selection may sometimes be reversed to good advantage. When a minister is stationed with a certain congregation, there are many objects he wishes to accomplish, and often no strong reason for preferring one in the order of time to another. It will then be well for him to take that subject which may impress him, and bend his mind toward an object he can enforce most powerfully through it.

On other occasions there is a particular end to be attained, which is for the time all-important, and which thus furnishes the proper object. Nothing then remains but for the preacher to choose a subject through which he can work to the best advantage.

This is one great advantage the Methodists have in protracted meetings. An object is always in view, and the congregation expect it to be pressed home with power. No plea of general instruction will then save a sermon from being thought worthless, if it does not produce an immediate result. And even the much calumniated “mourners’ bench” contributes most powerfully to the same result. There is something proposed which the congregation can see, and through it judge of the preacher’s success or failure. An outward act is urged upon the unbelieving portion of the audience, by which they signify that they yield to the power of the Gospel; and the very fact of having that before him as an immediate, though not an ultimate aim, will stimulate the preacher’s zeal, and cause him to put forth every possible exertion.

After all, the order in which subject and object are selected is not very material. It is enough that the preacher has a subject that he understands, and an object that warms his heart and enlists all his powers. Then he can preach, not as if dealing with abstractions, but as one who has a living mission to perform.

Every subject we treat should be complete in itself, and rounded off from everything else. Its boundaries should be run with such precision as not to include anything but what properly belongs to it. It is a common but grievous fault to have the same cast of ideas flowing round every text that may be preached from. There are few things in the universe that have not some relation to everything else, and if our topics are not very strictly bounded, we will fall into the vice of perpetual repetition. Thus, in a book of sermon sketches we have examined, nearly every one begins by proving that man is a fallen creature, and needs the helps or is liable to the ills mentioned afterward. No other thought is introduced until that primal point is settled. This doctrine is of great importance, and does affect all man’s relations, but we can sometimes take it for granted, without endangering the edifice we build upon it, and occasional silence will be far more impressive than that continual iteration, which may even induce a doubt of what seems to need so much proof.

Ministers sometime acquire such a stereotyped form of thought and expression that what they say in one sermon will be sure to recur, perhaps in a modified form, in all others. This kind of preaching is intolerable. There is an end to the patience of man. He tires of the same old ideas, and wishes when a text is taken that it may bring with it a new sermon. The remedy against this evil is to give each sermon its own territory, and then guard rigidly against trespass. It is not a sufficient excuse for the minister who preaches continually in one place, that what he says has a natural connection with the subject in hand, but it must have a closer connection with it, than with any other he may use. By observing this rule, we make each theme the solar centre around which may cluster a great number of secondary ideas, all of which naturally belong to it, and are undisturbed by satellites from other systems.

The subjects from which a preacher may choose are innumerable. The Bible is an inexhaustible storehouse. Its histories, precepts, prophecies, promises and threatenings, are almost endless. Then all the duties of human life, and especially those born of the Christian character; the best methods of making our way to the end of our journey; the hopes after which we follow; the dangers that beset our path; the mighty destinies of time and eternity, are a few of the themes that suggest themselves, and afford room enough for the loftiest talent, during all the time that man is allowed to preach on earth. If we would search carefully for the best subjects, and, when found, isolate them from all others, we would never need to weary the people by the repetition of thoughts and ideas.

While, as a rule, we ought to shun controversial points, we should not be afraid to lay hold of the most important subjects that are revealed to man. These will always command attention; heaven and hell, judgment, redemption, faith, the fall, and all those great doctrines upon which the Christian religion rests, need to be frequently impressed on the people. It is also profitable to preach serial sermons on great subjects. The rise of the Jewish nation and economy would afford a fine field for instruction. The life and work of Jesus Christ would be still better. This latter series might consist of discourses on His birth, baptism, temptation, first sermon, His teaching in general, some miracle as a type of all others, transfiguration, last coming to Jerusalem, Gethsemane, betrayal and arrest, trial, crucifixion, resurrection, ascension and second advent. Many other subdivisions might be made. Such linked sermons, covering a wide scope, instruct the people better than isolated ones could, and afford equal opportunities for enforcing all Christian lessons. Yet it would not be well to employ them exclusively, or even generally, as such a practice would tend to wearisome sameness.

The subject must be well defined. It may be of a general nature, but our conception of it should be so clear that we always know just what we are speaking about. This is more necessary in an extempore speech than in a written one, although the want of it will be felt severely even in the latter. A strong, vividly defined subject will give unity and life to a whole discourse, and often leave a permanent impression on the mind. To aid in securing this, it will be well for the preacher, when he has chosen a subject, to reduce it to its simplest form, and then by writing it as a phrase or sentence, stamp it on the mind, and let it ring in every word that is spoken; that is, let each word aid in carrying out the great idea, or in leading to the desired object, and be valued only so far as it does this. Those interminable discourses, that seem to commence anywhere and end nowhere, may be called sermons by courtesy, but they are not such in reality. The word “sermon” signifies “a thrust,” which well expresses the concentrativeness and aggressiveness that should distinguish it, and which nothing but a well-defined theme can give. It ought not to glitter with detached beauties, like the starry heavens, but shine with the single, all-pervading radiance of the sun.

This unity of theme and treatment is not easily preserved. It is hard to see in the mind’s eye what we know would please and delight those who listen, and turn away and leave it, but it is often necessary to exercise this more than Spartan self-denial, if we would not reduce our sermons to mere random harangues. Not that illustration should be discarded, for the whole realm of nature may be pressed into this service, and a good illustration in the right place is often better than an argument. But nothing, whatever its nature, should be drawn in, unless it so perfectly coalesces with the parent idea, that a common vitality flows through them. If this is the case, the unity will be unbroken, though even then it often happens that the idea would produce a better effect in connection with another theme, and should be reserved for it.

Usage has established the practice of employing a passage of Scripture as the basis of a sermon. This is of great advantage to the minister, for it gives the discourse something of divine sanction, and makes it more than a popular address. Opinion is divided as to whether it is best to select the text, and arrange the discourse to correspond with it, or reversing this order, to compose the sermon first, and thus secure the harmony that arises from having no disturbing idea, and at the last moment choose a text of Scripture that will fit it as nearly as possible.

No doubt the comparative advantages of these methods will be to a great degree determined by the occasions on which they are used. When a subject is of great importance, and we wish to be precise in explaining it, we may adopt the latter method, but the former is more generally useful. There are so many valuable ideas and important suggestions in the words of Scripture, that we can ill afford to deprive ourselves of this help. For the Bible, with all its ideas, is common property. No minister need fear the charge of plagiarism, when he borrows, either in word or thought from its inspired pages. He is God’s ambassador, with the Bible for his letter of instruction, and the more freely he avails himself of it, if it be done skillfully, the better for the authority of his mission. We may often select a subject that appears dark and confused, but when we have found a passage of Scripture embracing the same idea, there may be something in it that will solve every doubt, and indicate the very thoughts we wish to enforce. For this reason we believe that under ordinary circumstances, the practice of first constructing the sermon and only at the last moment before delivery, tacking on a text, is not the best.

Another reason in favor of previously selecting the text is worth consideration. The people, who are not supposed to know anything of the subject, expect, when we read a passage of Scripture, as the foundation of our remarks, that it will be something more than a mere point of departure. They anticipate that it will be kept always in view, and furnish the key-note to the whole sermon. This is but reasonable, and if disappointed, they will not so well appreciate what is really good in the discourse. We would not sacrifice unity to a mere rambling commentary on the words of the text. Let the subject be first in the mind and bend everything to itself. But let the text be next in importance, and the whole subject be unfolded with it always in view. It may be feared that the work of sermonizing will be rendered more difficult by observing this double guidance, but if a proper text be chosen—one that, in its literal meaning, will embrace the subject—the labor will be much lightened.

It is a common fault to take a passage of Scripture consisting of a few words only, and put our own meaning upon it, without reference to the intention of the inspired writer who penned it. This borders very closely on irreverence. If we cannot use God’s words in the sense he uses them, we had better speak without a text at all, and then our sin will only be a negative one. The taking of a few words divorced from their connection, and appending them to a discourse or essay, that has no relation to their true meaning, is not less a profanation than it would be to prefix the motto, “Perfect love casteth out fear,” to a fashionable novel. But when, on the other hand, we take a text that contains our subject, and expresses it clearly, we are prepared to compose a sermon to the best advantage. The subject present in our own mind runs through every part of the discourse, making it a living unity, instead of a collection of loose and disordered fragments; while the text, being always kept in view by the hearers as well as by the speaker, leads all minds in the same direction, and gives divine sanction to every word that is spoken. It is not without reason that the people, whose tastes are nearly always right, though they may not be able to give a philosophical explanation of them, complain of their preacher when he does not “stick to his text.” It is right that he should so adhere.

A man of genius may neglect this precaution, and still succeed, as he would do, by mere intellectual force, were he to adopt any other course. But ordinary men cannot, with safety, follow the example of Sydney Smith. His vestry complained that he did not talk about the text he took, and, that he might the more easily reform, they advised him to divide his sermons as other preachers did. He promised to comply with their request, and the next Sabbath began, “We will divide our discourse this morning into three parts; in the first place we will go up to our text, in the second we will go through it, and in the third we will go FROM it.” It was generally allowed that he succeeded best on the last division, but preachers who have not his genius had better omit it.

These rules in relation to the absolute sway of object, subject and text, may appear harsh and rigid, but cannot be neglected with impunity. A true discourse of any kind is the orderly development of some one thought, with so much clearness, that it may ever afterward live as a point of light in the memory; other ideas may cluster around it, but one must reign supreme. If it fails in this particular, nothing else will redeem it. Brilliancy of thought and illustration will be wasted, as a sculptor’s art would be on a block of clay.

A man of profound genius once arose to preach before a great assemblage, and every breath was hushed to listen. He spoke with power, and some of his passages were full of thrilling eloquence. He poured forth beautiful images and deep solemn thoughts, with the utmost profusion. Yet when he took his seat a sense of utter disappointment filled the hearts of all present. The sermon was confused. No subject could be traced that bound it together, and made a point of union to which the memory might cling. Had he not read his text no one could have guessed it. It was a most impressive warning of the necessity of laying a foundation before erecting a magnificent structure. Had he adhered to the thoughts expressed in his text, which was one of the richest in the Scriptures, his eloquence and power would not have been thrown away.

CHAPTER II.
THE PLAN—THOUGHT-GATHERING—ARRANGING—COMMITTING.

The logical order of sermon preparation is, first, to gather the materials of which it is composed; second, to select what is most fitting, and arrange the whole into perfect order; third, to fix this in the mind, thus making it available at the moment of use. These processes are not necessarily separated in practice, but may be best considered in the order indicated.

When we choose a subject for a sermon, and allow the mind to dwell upon it, it becomes a centre of attraction, and naturally draws all kindred ideas toward it. Old memories that have become dim in the lapse of time, are slowly hunted out and grouped around the parent thought, and each hour of study adds to the richness and variety of our stores. The relations between different and apparently widely-separated things become visible, just as new stars are seen when we gaze intently toward them. Everything that the mind possesses is subjected to a rigid scrutiny, and all that appears to bear any relation to the subject is brought into view. A considerable period of time is usually required for the completion of all this, and the longer it is continued the better, provided the interest felt is not abated.

Such continuous reaches of thought form a principal element in the superiority of one mind over another. Even the mightiest genius cannot, at a single impulse, exhaust the ocean of truth that opens around every object of man’s contemplation. And it is only by viewing a subject in every aspect, that we can guard against superficial and one-sided impressions. But the continued exertion and toil which this implies are nearly always distasteful, and the majority of men can accomplish it only by a stern resolve. This ability, whether acquired or natural, is one of prime necessity, and the young minister, at the very first, should learn to thoroughly investigate and finish every subject he undertakes, and continue the habit during life. This will generally determine the question of his success or failure, at least from an intellectual point of view. Thought is a mighty architect, and if you keep him fully employed, he will build up, with slow and measured strokes, a gorgeous and enduring edifice on any subject within your mental range. You may weary of his labor, and think the wall rises very slowly, and will never be completed, but wait. The work will be finished at last, and will be no ephemeral structure to be swept away by the first storm, but will stand unshaken on the basis of eternal truth.

M. Bautain compares the accumulation of thought around a subject, to the almost imperceptible development of organic life. Striking as is the illustration, there is one marked point of dissimilarity. The growth of thought is voluntary, and may be arrested at any stage. Even a cessation of conscious effort is fatal. To prevent this, and keep the mind employed until all its work is done, requires, with most persons, a regular and formal system. Profound thinkers, who take up a subject, and cannot leave it until it is traced into all its relations, and mastered in every part, and who have at the same time the power of long remembering the trains of thought that pass through their minds, may not need an artificial method. But these are exceptions to the general rule.

We will give a method we have found useful for securing sermon materials, and allow others to adopt it so far as it may prove advantageous to them.

Ideas are not always kept equally in view. Sometimes we may see one with great clearness, and after a little time lose it again, while another, at first invisible, comes into sight. Each one should be secured when it occurs. After the subject has been pondered for a sufficient length of time, write all the thoughts that are suggested on it, taking no care for the arrangement, but only putting down a word or brief sentence that will recall the idea intended. After everything that presents itself has thus been rendered permanent, the paper containing these items may be put away, and the subject recommitted to the mind. As other ideas arise, let them be recorded in the same way, and the process extended over days together. Sometimes new images and conceptions will continue to float into the mental horizon even for weeks. Most persons who have not tried this simple process, will be surprised to find how many thoughts they have on the commonest topic. If some of this gathered matter remains vague and indefinite, it will only be necessary to give it more time, more earnest thought, and all obscurity will vanish.

At last, there comes a consciousness that the mind’s power on that theme is exhausted. If we also feel that we possess all the requisite material, this part of our work is ended. But more frequently there will be a sense of incompleteness, and we are driven to seek what we need elsewhere.

The next step is the obtaining of new facts. We have thus far dealt with what the mind itself possesses, and have only sought to make that previously-accumulated knowledge fully available. But when this stage is reached, we hunger for more extended information. We read the works of those who have treated on the themes we are discussing, converse with well-informed persons, observe the world closely, and at last find the very idea we want. We receive it with joy, and from thenceforth it becomes a part of our being. We place the treasure on paper with other items, and continue to search until we have all we desire. It often happens that we do not find exactly the object of our search, but strike on some chain that guides us to it through the subtile principles of association. It is only the more welcome because we have thus traced it out.

We have on paper, at last, and often after much toil, a number of confused, unarranged notes. The whole mass relates to the subject, but much is unfitting, and all requires, by another process, to be cast into order and harmony. The first step in this direction is to omit everything not necessary to the purpose of the sermon. This is a matter of great importance. It has been said that the principal difference between a wise man and a fool is, that the one utters all his thoughts, while the other gives only his best to the world. Nearly every man has, at times, thoughts that would profit mankind, and if these are carefully selected from the puerilities by which they may be surrounded, the result cannot but be valuable. And if this cautious selection be needed on general topics, it is still more imperative in the ministry of the Word. The preacher must beware of giving anything repugnant to the spirit of his mission. And the necessity of a purpose running through his whole discourse, which we have before enlarged on, compels him to strike out each item at variance with it. It is well to carefully read over our scattered notes after the fervor of composition has subsided, and erase all that are unfitting. Sometimes this will leave very few ideas remaining, and we are obliged to search for others to complete the sermon. This can be continued until we have gathered a sufficient mass of clearly connected thoughts to accomplish the object in view.

Next follows the task of constructing the plan for the intended sermon. Unless this is well done, success is impossible. The mightiest results are obtained in oratory by the slow process of words, one following another. Each one should bear forward the current of thought in the right direction, and be a help to all that follow. And as, in extempore speech, these words are given forth on the spur of the moment, it becomes necessary to so arrange that the proper thought to be dissolved into words, may always be presented to the mind at the right time.

In some cases this disposition of parts is quite easy. A course indicated by the very nature of the subject will spring into view, and relieve us of further embarrassment. But often this portion of our task will require severe thought.

Many different kinds of plans have been specified by writers on Homiletics. We will be contented with four divisions, based on the mode of construction.

The first, we may call the narrative method. It is principally used when some scripture history forms the basis of the sermon. In it the different parts of the plan are arranged according to the order of time, except when some particular reason, borrowed from the other methods, intervenes. When there are few or none of these portions which give it a composite character, the development proceeds with all the simplicity of a story. Many beautiful sermons have been thus constructed.

A second method is the textual. Each part of the sermon rests on some of the words or clauses of the text, and these suggest the order of its unfolding, although they may be changed to make it correspond more nearly to the narrative, or the logical methods. This kind of plan has an obvious advantage in assisting the memory by suggesting each part at the proper time.

The logical method is the third we will describe. A topic is taken, and without reference to the order of time or the words of the text, is unfolded as a proposition in Geometry—each thought being preliminary to that which follows, and the whole ending in the demonstration of some great truth, and the deduction of its legitimate corollaries. This method is exceedingly valuable in many cases, if not pressed too far.

The last method, and the one employed more frequently than all the others, is the divisional. It is the military arrangement, for in it the whole sermon is organized like an army. All the detached items are brought into related groups, each governed by a principal thought, and these again are held in strict subordination to the supreme idea; or, to change the figure, the entire mass resembles a tree, with its single trunk, its branches subdivided into smaller ones, and all covered with a beautiful robe of leaves, that rounds its form into graceful outlines, even as the flow of words harmonizes our prepared thoughts, into the unity of a living discourse.

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 subdivisions. Even when this is not the case, we will see, as we examine our jottings, that a few of the ideas stand out in especial 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 which we put down on the first study of the subject, usually form the subdivisions, and some generalization of them the divisions.

It is well not 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 larger number. The tendency to multiply them almost infinitely, which was formerly very prevalent, and is still too common, receives a merciless, but well-deserved rebuke from Stephens, in his “Preaching Required by the Times.” He is criticising a popular “Preacher’s Manual”:

“These more than six hundred pages are devoted exclusively to the technicalities of sermonizing. We almost perspire as we trace down the tables of contents. Our eye is arrested by the ‘divisions’ of a subject—and here we have no less than ‘nine kinds of divisions:’ the ‘Exegetical Division,’ the ‘Accommodational Division,’ the ‘Regular Division,’ the ‘Interrogative Division,’ the ‘Observational Division,’ the ‘Propositional Division,’ etc.; and then come the ‘Rise from Species to Genus,’ the ‘Descent from Genus to Species.’ And then again we have exordiums: ‘Narrative Exordiums,’ ‘Expository Exordiums,’ ‘Argumentative Exordiums,’ ‘Observational Exordiums,’ ‘Applicatory Exordiums,’ ‘Topical Exordiums,’ and, alas for us! even ‘Extra-Topical Exordiums.’ One’s thoughts turn away from a scene like this spontaneously to the Litany, and query if there should not be a new prayer there.

“But this is not all. Here are about thirty stubborn pages to tell you how to make a comment on your text, and we have the ‘Eulogistic Comment’ and the ‘Dislogistic Comment,’ (turn to your dictionary, reader; we cannot stop in the race to define), ‘Argumentative Comment’ and the ‘Contemplative Comment,’ the ‘Hyperbolical Comment,’ the ‘Interrogative Comment,’ and the list tapers off at last with what it ought to have begun and ended with, the ‘Expository Comment.’

“And even this is not all. Here is a section on the ‘Different kinds of Address,’ and behold the astute analysis: ‘The Appellatory, the Entreating, the Expostulatory, the Remedial, the Directive, the Encouraging, the Consoling, the Elevating, the Alarming, the Tender, the Indignant, the Abrupt.’

“This is the way that the art ‘Homiletic’ would teach us when and how to be ‘Tender,’ ‘Indignant,’ ‘Consoling,’ and even ‘Abrupt!’ ‘Nonsense!’

“Yes, ‘nonsense!’ says any man of good sense in looking at this folly: a folly which would be less lamentable if it could only be kept to the homiletic professor’s chair, but which has still an almost characteristic effect on pulpit eloquence—not only on the form of the sermon, but as a natural consequence on its very animus. This tireless author gives all these outlines as practical prescriptions. He even presents them in a precise formula. We must yield to the temptation to quote it. ‘There are,’ he says, ‘certain technical signs employed to distinguish the several parts of a discourse. The first class consists of the principal divisions, marked in Roman letters, thus: I., II., III., IV., etc. Next, the subdivisions of the first class, in figures, 1, 2, 3, etc. Under these, subdivisions of the second class, marked with a curve on the right, as 1), 2), 3), etc. Then, subdivisions of the third class, marked with two curves, as (1), (2), (3), etc.; and under these, subdivisions of the fourth class, in crotchets, thus: [1], [2], [3]. As—

“I. Principal division.

1. Subdivision of first class.

1). Subdivision of second class.

(1). Subdivision of third class.

[1]. Subdivision of fourth class.

“Mathematical this, certainly; some of Euclid’s problems are plainer. As a ‘demonstration’ is obviously necessary, the author proceeds to give the outline of a sermon on ‘The Diversity of Ministerial Gifts,’ from the text ‘Now there are Diversities of Gifts,’ etc. He has but two ‘General Divisions,’ but makes up for their paucity by a generous allowance of ‘Subdivisions.’ His ‘General Divisions’ are, I. Exemplify the Truth of the Text. II. Derive some Lessons of Instruction, etc.,—an arrangement simple and suitable enough for any popular audience, if he were content with it, but under the first head he has two ‘subdivisions,’ the first of which is reduced to thirteen sub-subdivisions, and one of these thirteen again to seven sub-sub-subdivisions! The second of his subdivisions again divided into eight sub-subdivisions, while the ‘homily’ (alas for the name!) is completed by a merciless slashing of the second ‘general division’ into no less than eight subdivisions. The honest author, when he takes breath at the end, seems to have some compunctious misgivings about this infinitesimal mincing of a noble theme, and reminds the amazed student that though the plan should be followed ‘in the composition of a sermon,’ the ‘minor divisions’ can be concealed from view in preaching; and he concludes the medley of nonsense with one sensible and very timely admonition: ‘If a discourse contain a considerable number of divisions and subdivisions,’ care should be taken to fill up the respective parts with suitable matter, or it will be, indeed, a mere skeleton—bones strung together—‘very many and very dry!’”

When we have accumulated our materials, stricken out all not needed, and determined what shall be the character of our plan, the remainder of the work must be left to individual taste and judgment. No rules can be given that will meet every case. We might direct to put first what is most easily comprehended, what is necessary for understanding other portions, and also what is least likely to be disputed. But beyond these obvious directions little aid can be given. The preacher must form his own ideal, and work up to it. He may profitably examine sermon skeletons, to learn what such forms should be. And when he hears good discourses he may look beneath the burning words, and see what are the merits of the frame-work on which they rest. This may render him dissatisfied with his own achievements, but such dissatisfaction is the best pledge of earnest effort for higher results.

A certain means of improvement is to bestow a great deal of time and thought on the formation of plans, and make no disposition of any part without a satisfactory reason. If this course is faithfully continued, the power to arrange properly will be acquired, and firm, coherent, and logical sermons be constructed.

There are certain characteristics that each sermon skeleton should possess. It must indicate the nature of the discourse, and mark out each of its steps with accuracy. Any want of definiteness is a fatal defect. The orator must feel that he can rely absolutely on it for guidance to the end of his discourse, or be in perpetual danger of embarrassment and confusion. Each clause should express a distinct idea, and but one. If it contain anything that is included under another head, we fall into wearisome repetition, the great danger of extempore preachers. But if discordant and disconnected thoughts are grouped together, we are liable to forget some of them, and in returning, destroy the order of the sermon.

A brief plan is better than a long one. Often a single word will recall an idea as perfectly as many sentences would do, and will burden the memory less. We do not expect the draft of a house to equal the building in size, but only to indicate the position and proportion of its apartments. The plan cannot supply the thought, but, indicating what exists in the mind, it shows how to bring it forth in regular order. It is a pathway leading to a definite end, and like all roads, its crowning merits are directness and smoothness. Without these, it will perplex and hinder rather than aid. Every word in the plan should express, or assist in expressing an idea, and be so firmly bound to it that the two cannot be separated by any exigency of speech. It is perplexing in the heat of discourse to have a prepared note lose the idea attached to it, and become merely an empty word. But if the conception is clear, and the most fitting term has been chosen to embody it, this cannot easily happen. A familiar idea may be noted very briefly, while one that is new requires to be more fully expressed. Most sermon skeletons may be brought within the compass of a hundred words, and every part be clear to the mind that conceived it, though, perhaps not comprehensible by any other.

It is not always best to present the divisions and subdivisions in preaching. The congregation do not care how a sermon has been constructed, provided it comes to them warm and pulsating with life. To give the plan of a sermon before the sermon itself, is contrary to the analogy of nature. She does not require us to look upon a grisly skeleton before we can see a living body. It is no less objectionable to name the parts and numbers of the sketch during the discourse, for bones that project through the skin are very uncomely. The people will not suffer, if we keep all the divisions to ourselves, for they are only professional devices to render our share of the work easier. Much of the proverbial “dryness” of sermons arises from displaying all the processes we employ. A hotel that would have its beef killed and dressed before its guests at dinner, would not be likely to retain its patronage. Whenever we hear a minister state his plan in full, and take up “firstly” and announce the subdivisions under it, we prepare our patience for a severe test.

What the people need, are deep, strong appeals to their hearts, through which shines the lightning of great truths, and the sword of God’s spirit smites—not dry, dull divisions through which “it is easy to follow the preacher”—a compliment often given, but always equivocal. A tree is far more beautiful when covered with waving foliage, even if some of the branches are hidden. Let the stream of eloquence sweep on in an unbroken flow, 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, overthrowing everything in its path, but not proclaiming in advance the mark toward which it is flying!

We should go as far in the plan as we intend to do in the sermon, and know just where to stop. Then we 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 objections against extempore preaching apply only to discourses that have no governing plan. When this is firm and clear, there is no more danger of saying what we do not intend, or of running into endless digressions, than if we wrote every word. Indeed there is no better way to compose a written sermon, than by first arranging a plan.

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 trained in the work, and it will be of great advantage even as a mental discipline. But it grows easier with practice, until the preparation of two sermons a week will not be felt as a burden—will only afford grateful topics of thought while busied at other labor. The direct toil of a mature preacher may not exceed an hour per week.

The sermon is now clearly indicated. A plan has been prepared that fixes each thought to be expressed in its proper place. There is no further danger of the looseness and desultoriness that are not unfrequently supposed to be peculiar to extemporaneous speech. It is possible, in the moment of utterance, to leave the beaten track, and give expression to any new ideas that may be suggested. But there is a sure foundation laid—a course marked out that has been deeply premeditated, and which gives certainty to all we say.

But it is not enough to have the plan on paper. As it came from the mind at first in detached items, it must, in its completed state, be restored to it again. Some ministers are not willing to take the trouble of committing their skeletons to memory, but lay the paper before them, and speak on one point until that is exhausted, and then look up the next, which is treated in the same manner. This tends powerfully to impair the unity of the discourse, which should he unbroken, and to make each note the theme of a short, independent dissertation, rather than an integral part of the whole. The minister reaches a point where he does not know what is to come next, and on the brink of that gulf looks down at his notes, and after a search, perhaps finds what he wants. Had this latter thought existed in his mind, it would have been taken notice of in time, and the close of the preceding one bent into harmony with it. The direct address of the preacher to the people, which they value so much, is interfered with in the same way, for his eye must rest, part of the time, on his notes. The divisions also of the sermon are apt to be mentioned, for it is hard for the tongue to refrain from pronouncing the words that the eye is glancing over.

For all these reasons we believe that notes should seldom, if ever, be used in the pulpit. They remedy none of the acknowledged defects of extempore speaking, but add to them the coldness and formality of reading. Those who cannot trust the mind alone had better go further, and read their sermons with what earnestness they can command, and thus secure the elegant finish supposed to be attainable only in written compositions.

But not all who use notes thus abuse them. Many employ them merely to prevent possible forgetfulness, and perhaps do not look at them once during the sermon. Yet it is still better to carry them in the pocket, and thus avoid the appearance of servile dependence, while they would still guard against such a misfortune as befel the Abbe Bautain, who, on ascending the pulpit to preach before the French king and court, found that he had forgotten the subject, plan and text!

By committing the plan to memory the mind takes possession of the whole subject. It is brought into one view, and if any part is inconsistent with the main discussion, the defect will be seen at once. If the plan is properly constructed, the mind is then in the best possible condition for speech. The object is fixed in the heart, and will fire it to earnestness and zeal, and the subject is spread out before the mind’s eye, while the two meet and mingle in such a way as to give life and vitality to every part. This is just what is needed in true preaching. The speaker’s soul, heated by the contemplation of his object, penetrates every part of his theme, investing it with an interest that compels attention. All the power he possesses is brought to bear directly on the people. We can scarcely imagine a great reformer—one who has shaken the nations—to have adopted any other method of address. Think of Xavier or Luther with their notes spread out before them, while addressing the multitudes who hung on their lips! The Presbyterian elder who once prayed in the presence of his note-using pastor: “O Lord! teach thy servants to speak from the heart to the heart, and not from a little piece of paper, as the manner of some is!” was not far wrong.

It is well to commit the plan to memory a considerable time before entering the pulpit. There is then less liability of forgetting some portion of it, and it takes more complete possession of the mind. This is less important when we preach on subjects with which we are perfectly familiar, for then “out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.” But we are not always so favored. Even if the salient features are well known, some of the minor parts may require close consideration. This cannot be so well bestowed until after the plan is completely prepared, for before that time there is danger that much of our attention may be given to some idea which may be ultimately rejected, or changed with the plan. But when the plan is finished, each idea has settled into its place. If obscurity still rests anywhere, it will be seen at once, and the strength of the mind brought to bear on that particular point. The impressions then made are easily retained, because associated with a part of the prepared outline. Such deep meditation on each division of the sermon can scarcely fail to make it original in the truest sense of the term, and weave it together with strong and massive thought.

After the plan is committed to memory, we can meditate on its different portions, not only at the desk, but everywhere. As we walk from place to place, or lie on our beds, or at any time find our minds free from other engagements, we can ponder the ideas that cluster around our subject until they grow perfectly familiar. Even when we are reading, brilliant thoughts may spring up, or those we possessed before take stronger and more definite shape.

This course we would strongly urge on the young speaker. If diligently followed, it will be invaluable. Arrange the plan from which to speak as clearly as may be, and memorize it; turn it over and over again; ponder each idea and the manner of bringing it out; study the connection between all the parts, until the whole, from beginning to end, appears perfectly plain and simple. This method of preparation has been so fully tested by experience, that its effectiveness is no longer questionable.

It is important to grasp the whole subject, as nearly as possible, in a single idea—in the same way that the future tree is compressed in the germ from which it springs. Then this one thought will suggest the entire discourse to the speaker, and at its conclusion will be left clear and positive on the hearer’s mind. It is true that some acute auditors may outrun a loose speaker, arrange his scattered fragments, supply his omissions, and arrive at the idea which has not yet formed itself in his own mind. Such persons often commend preachers who are incomprehensible to the majority of their audience. But it is not safe to trust their applause for they are exceedingly apt to be in the minority.

After the plan is memorized, it is often of advantage to sketch the discourse in full; if this is done in long hand, there is danger that its slowness will make it more of a word-study than what it is intended to be—a test of ideas. Here short hand is valuable; and its use in this manner will at once detect anything that may be wrong in the plan, for if all is well arranged there need be no pause in the most rapid composition. If we are able at one effort to throw the whole into a dress of words, we can be confident that with the additional stimulus supplied by the presence of a congregation, it will be easy to do the same again. There should be no attempt, at the time of speaking, to recall the terms used in writing, but our command of language is usually improved by having so lately used many of the terms we will need again. Frequently there are fine passages in the sermons thus struck off at white heat which we would not willingly forget, yet it is better to make no effort to remember them, for we are almost certain to rise even higher in the excitement of speech.

Those who cannot write at a speed approaching that of the tongue, and who wish a little more assistance than is furnished by the plan, can make a brief sketch of it—a compact and intelligible model of the whole subject. A discourse that requires an hour in delivery may be compressed into a wonderfully small compass, without a material thought being omitted or obscurely indicated. Such a sketch differs from the plan in clearly expressing all the ideas that underlie the discourse, while the latter would be unintelligible to any but the writer. The one is only a few marks thrown out into the field of thought, by which an intended pathway is indicated; the other is an exceedingly brief view of the thoughts themselves, without adornment or verbiage. Some speakers who might feel insecure in trusting the notes and hints of the plan, would feel free to enlarge on a statement of their thoughts, so brief as to require only two or three minutes for reading. But this is only an expedient, and need not be adopted by those who have confidence in their trained and cultivated powers.

The method of committing to memory a skeleton for the purpose of securing our accumulations, is widely different from the systems of Mnemonics that were once so current. Ideas are linked together by natural, not artificial associations. It is the grasping of one thought that points to another, or dissolves, as we gaze upon it, into minuter ones, and is, in most instances, based upon that rigid analysis which cannot be dispensed with even by those who would think exactly. All who write their sermons would do well to adopt it. Strict analysis and broad generalization are the foundation of all science, and if the preacher builds upon them the world of spiritual truth will yield him its treasures.

After a plan has been fully prepared it may easily be preserved for future use, by being copied into a book kept for the purpose, or, what is more convenient in practice, folded into an envelope, with the subject written on the back. By the latter means a large number may be preserved in such form as to be readily consulted. These can be improved as our knowledge increases, so as to be, at any time, the complete expression of our ability on the theme treated of.

CHAPTER III.
PRELIMINARIES—FEAR—VIGOR—OPENING EXERCISES.

It is an anxious moment when, after having completed his preparation, the preacher awaits the time for beginning his intellectual battle. Men who are physically brave often tremble in this emergency. The shame of failure appears worse than death itself, and as the soldier feels more of cold and shrinking terror while listening for the peal of the first gun, than when the conflict deepens into blood around him, so the speaker suffers more in this moment of expectancy than in any that comes after. He sees the danger in its full magnitude without the inspiration that attends it. Yet he must remain calm and collected, for unless he is master of himself, he cannot expect to rule the multitude before him. He must keep his material well in hand, that it may be used at the proper time, although it is not best to be continually conning over what he has to say. The latter would destroy the freshness of his matter, and bring him to the decisive test weary and jaded. He only needs to be assured that his thoughts are within reach.

It is very seldom possible to banish all fear, and it is to the speaker’s advantage that he cannot. His timidity arises from several causes, which differ widely in the effects they produce. A conscious want of preparation is one of the most distressing of these. When this proceeds from willful neglect no pity need be felt, although the penalty should be severe. If the speaker’s object is only to win reputation—to pander to his own vanity—he will feel more terrified than if his motive were worthy. Such is often the position of the uncalled minister. He can have no help from on high, and all his prayers for divine assistance are a mere mockery. But if we speak because we dare not refrain, a mighty point is gained, for then failure is no reproach. And the less of earthly pride or ambition mingles with our motives, the more completely can we rely on the help of the Spirit.

Another cause of fear is less unworthy. The glorious work in which we are engaged may suffer from our insufficiency; for, while God will bless the truth when given in its own beauty and power, there is still scope enough for all the vigor of intellect, and the strongest preacher feels the responsibility of rightly using his powers resting heavily upon him.

A general dread, that cannot be analyzed or accounted for, is perhaps more keenly felt than any other. Persons who have never spoken sometimes make light of it, but no one will ever do so who has experienced it. The soldier, who has never witnessed a battle, or felt the air throb with the explosion of cannon, or heard the awful cries of the wounded, is often a great braggart, while “the scarred veteran of a hundred fights” never speaks of the carnival of blood without shuddering, and would be the last, but for the call of duty, to brave the danger he knows so well. A few speakers never feel such fear, but it is because they do not know what true speaking is. They have never felt the full tide of inspiration that sometimes lifts the orator far above his ordinary conceptions. They only come forward to relieve themselves of the interminable stream of twaddle that wells spontaneously to their lips, and can well be spared the pangs that precede the birth of a profound and living discourse.

This kind of fear belongs to oratory of any character, but especially to that which deals with sacred themes. It resembles the awe felt on the eve of all great enterprises, and when excessive, as it is in some highly gifted and sensitive minds, it constitutes an absolute bar to public speech. But in most cases it is a source of inspiration rather than of repression.

There is a strange sensation often experienced in the presence of an audience before speaking. It may proceed from the united electric influence of the many eyes that are turned upon the speaker, especially if he catches their gaze. It may enchain him and leave him powerless, unless he rises superior to it, and, throwing it backward to its source, makes it the medium of his most subtile conquests. Most speakers have felt this in a nameless thrill, a real something, pervading the atmosphere, tangible, evanescent, indescribable. All writers have borne testimony to the effect of a speaker’s glance in impressing an audience. Why should not their eyes have a reciprocal power?

By dwelling on the object for which we speak, and endeavoring to realize its full importance, we will in a measure lose sight of the danger to be incurred, and our minds be more likely to remain in a calm and tranquil state. But no resource is equal to the sovereign one of prayer. The Lord will remember his servants when they are laboring in his cause, and grant a divine influence to prepare them for the work.

No change in the plan should be made just before speaking, for it will almost inevitably produce confusion. Yet this error is very difficult to avoid. The mind has a natural tendency to be going over the same ground, revising and testing every point, and is liable to make changes, the consequences of which cannot at once be foreseen. After all necessary preparation has been made, we should wait the result quietly and hopefully. Over-study is possible, and when accompanied by great solicitude, is a sure means of driving away all interest from the subject. If the eye be fixed too long upon one object, with a steadfast gaze, it will be unable to see at all. So the mind, if confined to one point for a great period, will lose its vivacity, and grow weary. Nothing can compensate for the want of elasticity and vigor in the act of delivery. It is not enough to enumerate a dry list of particulars, but we must enter into their spirit with the deepest interest. This cannot be counterfeited. To clearly arrange, and weigh every thought that belongs to the subject, lay it aside until the time for speech, and then enter upon it with only such a momentary glance as will assure us that all is right, is doubtless the method to make our strength fully available. To await the decisive moment with calm self-confidence, is very difficult, especially for beginners, but the ability to do it may be acquired by judicious practice and firm resolution. M. Bautain, whose experience was very extensive, says that he has sometimes felt so confident of his preparation, as to fall asleep while waiting to be summoned to the pulpit!

But those who misimprove the last moments by too much thought, form the smallest class. Many, through mere indolence, permit the finer lines of the future discourse, that have been traced with so much care, to fade out. This not unfrequently happens to those who preach a second or third time on the same subject. Because they have succeeded once, they imagine that the same success is always at command. This is a hurtful, though natural error. It is not enough to have the material for a sermon where it may be collected by a conscious and prolonged effort, but it must be in the foreground. There is no time, in the moment of delivery, for reviving half obliterated lines of memory.

We once witnessed an instance of most unexpected failure from this cause. The speaker was much engrossed with other duties until the appointed hour, and then, having no leisure for preparation, he selected a sermon he had preached shortly before, and with the general course of which he was no doubt familiar. Yet when he endeavored to produce his thoughts they were not ready. He became embarrassed, and was finally compelled to take his seat in the midst of his intended discourse.

It is well, during the last interval, to care for the strength of the body, for its condition will influence all the manifestations of mind. It is said that the pearl-diver, before venturing into the depths of the sea, always spends a few moments in deep breathing, and other bodily preparation. In the excitement of speech, the whirl and hurricane of emotion, it is necessary that our physical condition should be such as to bear all the tension put upon it. Mental excitement wears down the body faster than muscular labor. To meet all its demands we must reserve our strength for the time it is needed; for any illness will operate as a direct reduction of the orator’s power, and he must not hope, under its influence, to realize full success.

Holyoake makes the following pertinent observations in reference to this point:

“Perhaps the lowest quality of the art of oratory, but one on many occasions of the first importance, is a certain robust and radiant physical health; great volumes of animal heat. In the cold thinness of a morning audience, mere energy and mellowness is inestimable; wisdom and learning would be harsh and unwelcome compared with a substantial man, who is quite a house-warming.”

The picture painted in romances of a speaker with attenuated form, and trembling step, scarcely able to sustain his own weight as he ascends the platform, but who, the moment he opens his lips, becomes transfigured in the blaze of eloquence, is more poetical than natural. Let the instrument be in perfect tune, and then can the hand of genius evoke from it sweet and thrilling music.

As the time for speaking approaches every fatiguing exertion should be avoided.

In the “Rudiments of Public Speaking,” Holyoake gives a passage from his own experience which well illustrates this:

“One Saturday I walked from Sheffield to Huddersfield to deliver on the Sunday two anniversary lectures. It was my first appearance there, and I was ambitious to acquit myself well. But in the morning I was utterly unable to do more than talk half inaudibly and quite incoherently. In the evening I was tolerable, but my voice was weak. My annoyance was excessive. I was a paradox to myself. My power seemed to come and go by some eccentric law of its own. I did not find out till years after that the utter exhaustion of my strength had exhausted the powers of speech and thought, and that entire repose instead of entire fatigue should have been the preparation for public speaking.”

Absolute rest is not generally advisable, for then the preacher would enter the pulpit with languid mind and slowly beating pulse, and would require some time to overcome this state. A brisk walk, when the health is good, will invigorate and refresh all his faculties, and in part prevent the feebleness and faintness of a listless introduction, by enabling him to grasp the whole subject at once, and launch right into the heart of it. Should any one doubt the power of exercise to produce this effect, let him, when perplexed with difficult questions in his study, start out over fields and hills, and review the matter in the open air. If the minister cannot secure this kind of exercise he may easily find a substitute. If alone, he can pace back and forth, and swing his arms, until the circulation becomes brisk, and pours a stream of arterial blood to the brain that will supply all its demands.

Another simple exercise will often prove of great advantage. It is well known that many ministers injure themselves by speaking too much from the throat. This results from improper breathing—from elevating the upper part of the chest instead of pressing the abdomen downward and outward, causing the air to pass through the whole length of the lungs. To breathe properly is always important, and does much to prevent chest and throat diseases. But it is worthy of the most careful attention on the part of the speaker, for by it alone can he attain full compass and range of voice. But in animated extempore speech there is no time to think of the voice at all, and the only method possible is to make the right way so habitual that it will be adopted instinctively. This will be greatly promoted if, just before beginning to speak, we will breathe deeply a number of times, inflating the lungs completely to their extremities.

At this last hour, the speaker must not dwell upon the dangers he is about to encounter, or picture the desirability of escape from them. He has taken every precaution and made every preparation. Nothing remains for him but to put his trust in God, and bravely do his duty.

The order of opening services is different in the different churches, but in all they are of great advantage to the minister by overcoming excessive timidity, and giving an easy introduction to the audience. The hymn, or psalm, is to be read, which is not a very embarrassing task, and in doing it he becomes familiar with the sound of his own voice. Yet it requires many rare qualities to read well. Good sense and modesty are essential. The theatric method, sometimes admired, exaggerating every tone, and performing strange acrobatic feats of sound, tends to dispel the solemn awe and reverence that should gather around the sanctuary. Let the hymn be read quietly, with room for rise as well as fall, and all be perfectly natural and unaffected. The sentiment expressed by the voice should correspond with the meaning of the words. Even in this preliminary exercise, it is possible to strike a chord that will vibrate in unison through the hearts of preacher and people.

Prayer is still more important. When it is read, the same remarks apply as to the reading of the hymns. Each word should be made the echo of an inward feeling. But in most American churches prayer is extempore. The minister addresses heaven in his own words, on behalf of himself and congregation. The golden rule here is to pray really to God. That minister had no reason to feel flattered, whose prayer was commended as the most eloquent ever offered to a Boston congregation! The mass of humanity before us should only be thought of, in order to express their wants, and to intercede for them at a throne of grace. The simpler our language the better it is fitted for this purpose. Gaudy rhetoric, and even the charm of melodious words, if in the slightest degree sought for, is out of place. The only praise that should be desired from a congregation, in regard to their pastor’s prayers, is the acknowledgment that their holy yearnings and aspirations, as well as their needs, have been clearly expressed. All beyond this is disgusting.

Neither should fervid utterance be strained after. If deep emotions arise, and express themselves in the voice, it is well. But without these, mere loudness of tone will be empty noise; the prayer will be the hardest part of the service; and complex metaphors and profuse poetical quotations will afford very inadequate relief. But if the heart be full it is easy to pray, and this renders all the remainder of the service easier. A bond of true spiritual sympathy unites the preacher with all the good in his congregation, and as he rises to speak, their prayers are given for his success.

CHAPTER IV.
THE DIVISIONS—INTRODUCTION—DISCUSSION—CONCLUSION.

The sermon is the culmination of ministerial labor. Other duties are important, but preaching is highest of all. Example, conversation, private influence, only prepare the way for the great Sabbath work. In it the minister can speak to the assembled multitude with the freedom and boldness of truth. The believer receives deeper insight into God’s ways, and directions for his own walk. The careless listen while he denounces impending wrath and shows the only means of escape. He wields tremendous power, and if sincere and unselfish, he cannot fail to win stars for his heavenly crown.

We will consider the sermon under the three parts of introduction, discussion and conclusion. It is often divided more minutely, but these will be sufficient for our purpose.

Nothing is harder to frame than a good introduction. It is indispensable, for, however we may approach our subject there is a first moment when silence is broken and our thoughts introduced. The rustle of closing hymn books and the subsiding murmur of the audience, tell the speaker that the time has come. If he be sensitive, or has never spoken before, his pulse beats fast, his face flushes, an indescribable feeling of faintness and fear thrills every nerve. He advances to the pulpit, and reads from the Bible the words that are to be the warrant for his utterances, and breathing a silent prayer for help, opens his lips, and hears the tremulous echo of his own voice.

There is a vast difference between reciting and extemporizing at first, and the advantage is all on the side of recitation. Every word is in its proper place, and the speaker is perfectly calm and self-confident. He is sure that his memory will not fail in the opening, and will usually throw his whole power into it, causing his voice to ring clear and loud over the house. But it is different with the extempore speaker. He is sure of nothing, and the weight of the whole speech is heavy on his mind. He is glancing ahead, striving to forecast the coming sentences, as well as caring for those gliding over the tongue, and his first expressions may be feeble and ungraceful. Yet this display of modesty and timidity will conciliate the audience and secure their good will. We can scarcely fail to distinguish an extemporized discourse from a recited one, by the difference in the introduction alone.

Some persons commit the opening passages of the sermon, to avoid the pain and hesitancy of an unstudied beginning. But while this may accomplish the immediate object, it is apt to be at the expense of the remaining part of the discourse. The mind cannot pass easily from recitation to extemporization, and the voice, being too freely used at first, loses its power. The hearers having listened to highly polished language, cannot so well relish the plain words that follow, and the whole sermon, which, like the condor, may have pitched from Alpine summits, falls fast and far until the lowest level is reached. A written introduction may be modest and unpretending, but unless it is exactly like unstudied speech there will be a painful transition.

A favorite method of avoiding these difficulties is to make no formal introduction, but plunge at once into the heart of the subject. Occasionally, this can be done to good advantage, and tends to prevent a monotonous uniformity. But as a rule it is better to prepare the minds of our hearers by all needed observations, and gradually lead them to our subject.

The introduction should not be left to the chance of the moment. It requires more careful study than any other part of the sermon, for the tide of speech, which may afterward bear us over many barriers, is not then in full flow. But the preparation should be general, and not extend to the words. A first sentence may be forecast, but much beyond this will do harm. For the introduction should not be the part of the discourse longest remembered. It would be better to omit it, than to have the attention distracted from the main subject. For this reason nothing far-fetched or hard to be understood should be admitted. But, beginning with some familiar thought closely connected with the text, it should remove difficulties and open the whole subject for discussion.

Much is gained if, at the outset, we can arrest the attention and win the sympathy of our hearers. They come together from many different employments, with thoughts fixed on various objects, and it is a difficult task to remove these distracting influences and cause the assembly to dwell with intense interest on one subject. Sometimes a startling proposition will accomplish this end. Earnestness in the speaker tends powerfully toward it. But sameness must be carefully avoided. If every sermon is carried through an unvarying number of always-expressed divisions and subdivisions, the hearer knows what is coming, and loses all curiosity. We have heard of a minister who made it a rule to consider the nature, reason and manner of everything he spoke of. He would ask the questions: “What is it? Why is it? How is it?” The eloquence of Paul would not many times have redeemed such an arrangement.

A considerable degree of inattention is to be expected in every audience at first, and the speaker’s opening words may be unheard by many and unheeded by all. It is useless to attempt by violent means and loudness of voice to awaken them from their indifference. The preacher may safely bide his time. If his words have weight and his manner indicate confidence, one by one will listen, until that electric thrill of sympathy, impossible to describe, but which can be felt as easily as an accord in music, will vibrate through the hearts of all present. Then the orator’s power is fully developed, and it is delightful to use it. This silent, pulsating interest is more to be desired than vehement applause, for it cannot be counterfeited, and indicates that the hearts of the assemblage have been reached, and fused by the fires of eloquence, and are ready to be molded into any desired form. Happy the minister who has this experience, for if his own heart is enlightened by the Holy Spirit, he can stamp on the awakened multitude the seal of undying truth.

The introduction should be plain, simple and direct. But its very simplicity renders it more difficult to construct. Preachers who are great in almost everything else, often fail by making their introductions too complicated, thus defeating their own purpose as surely as the engineer who gives his road such steep grades, that no train can pass over it. Others deliver a string of platitudes that no one wishes to hear, and the audience grows restive at the very beginning.

When from these or other causes, the sermon is misbegun, the consequences are likely to be serious. The thought is forced home on the speaker, with icy weight, that he is failing, and this conviction paralyzes all his faculties. He talks on, but grows more and more embarrassed. Incoherent sentences drop from him, requiring painful explanation to prevent them from degenerating into perfect nonsense. The outline of his plan dissolves into mist. The points he intended to make, and thought strong and important, now appear very trivial. He blunders on with little hope ahead. The room may grow dark before him, and in the excess of his discomfort, he ardently longs for the time when he can close without absolute disgrace. But, alas! the end seems far off. In vain he searches for some avenue of escape. There is none. His throat becomes dry and parched, and the command of his voice is lost. The audience grow restive, for they are tortured, as well as the speaker, and if he were malicious he might find some alleviation in this. But he has no time to think of it, or if he does, it reacts on himself. No one can help him. At last, in sheer desperation, he cuts the Gordian knot, and stops—perhaps seizing some swelling sentence, and hurling it as a farewell volley at the audience—or speaks of the eternal rest, which no doubt appears very blissful in comparison with his own unrest—then sits down bathed in sweat, and feeling that he is disgraced forever! If he is very weak or foolish, he resolves that he will never speak again without manuscript, or, if wiser, that he will not only understand his discourse, but how to begin it.

The passage from the introduction to the discussion should be gradual. To make the transition smoothly, and strike the subject just at the right point, continuing the interest that may have been previously excited, is a most important achievement. A strong, definite purpose materially assists in this, for it dwells equally in all parts of the sermon. The object is clearly in view, and we go right up to it with no wasted words, while the people cheerfully submit to our guidance because they see that we have an aim before us. But if this be absent we may steer around our subject, and are never quite ready to enter upon it, even if we are not wrecked at the outset. A careful preparation of the plan will do much to prevent this, but it is not enough, for the words and phrases are not to be prepared. With every precaution, the best of speakers may fail at this point, and the more brilliant the introduction the more marked will the failure be. When this danger is safely passed, he is in the open sea, and the triumphs of eloquence are before him.

There is great pleasure in speaking well. An assembly hanging on the words, and thinking the thoughts of a single man, gives to him the most subtile kind of flattery, and he needs to beware how he yields to its influence, or his fall will be speedy and disastrous. The triumphs of oratory are very fascinating. The ability to sway our fellow men at will—to bind them with the strong chain of our thought, and make them willing captives—produces a delirious and intoxicating sense of power. But this is very transient, and unless taken advantage of at the moment, to work some enduring result, it fades, like the beautiful cloud-work of morning, before the rising sun. Even during the continuance of a sermon it is hard to maintain the influence of a happy moment. Persons not unfrequently give utterance to some great and noble thought, that echoes in the hearts of the audience, and the nameless thrill of eloquence is felt, but some irrelevant phrase, or commonplace sentiment dissolves all the charm. To avoid this, the whole discourse must be of a piece, and rise in power until the object is accomplished.

Diffuseness is often supposed to be an essential quality of extemporaneous speech. It is not such, though many speakers do fall into it. The reason of this fault is that they are not content to place the subject in a strong light by one forcible and luminous expression, but say nearly what they mean, and continue their efforts until they are satisfied. They furnish no clear view of anything, but give a sort of twilight intimation of their idea. But serious as this fault is, it may easily be overcome. Exquisite finish, and elaborate arrangement are not to be expected in off-hand speech, but we may give force and true shading to every idea just as well as in writing.

To express exactly what we mean at the first effort, is one of the greatest beauties of a spoken style. The hearer is filled with grateful surprise when some new and living idea is placed before him, clothed in a single word or sentence. But a diffuse speaker gives so many premonitions of his thought, that the audience comprehend it before he is half through the discussion, and are forced to await his ending, in listless weariness. He never receives credit for an original idea, because his advances toward it call up the same thought in the mind of his hearers, and when formally presented it has lost all novelty, and seems to be trite.

The same study that will impart the power of condensation in writing will do it in speech, for it can only be obtained in either by earnest, persevering effort. Frequently forecast what to say, and drive it into the smallest possible number of vivid, expressive words; then, without memorizing the language, reproduce the same thought briefly as possible in the hurry of speech. It may be less compact than the studied production, but if so, let the effort be repeated with the knowledge of where the defect is, and this continued until it can be cast into bold, well-defined outlines at a single impulse. This process, often repeated, will give the ability to condense, but in order to exercise it successfully another quality is needed. We must be able to resist the seduction of fine language. No sentence should be introduced because it glitters or sparkles, for a single unnecessary word that requires others to explain its use, may damage a whole sermon. Let the best words be chosen with reference to beauty and impressiveness as well as strict appropriateness, but the latter must never be sacrificed. The danger of showy language in speech is greater than in a written composition, for if the writer be drawn too far away, he can go back and begin again, while the speaker has only one trial. If beauties lie in his way all the better, but he must never leave his path to search for them.

Bishop Simpson’s lecture on “The Future of our Country,” was a model of compactness. Every gaudy ornament was discarded, and short, simple sentences conveyed ideas that would have furnished a florid speaker with inexhaustible material. The whole discourse was radiant with true beauty—the beauty of thought shining through the drapery of words, and each idea, unweakened by any pause of expectation, struck the mind as new truth, or the echo of what was felt, but never so well expressed before.

We have seen directions for “expanding thought,” and have heard young speakers admire the ease and skill with which it was done. But thoughts are not like medicines which require dilution in order to be more certain in their effects, and more readily taken. It is far better to give the essence of an idea, and go on to something else. If thoughts are too few, it is more profitable to dig and delve for others, than to attenuate and stretch what we have. We need deep, burning, throbbing conceptions that will live without artificial aid.

A similar error exists in regard to the kind of language best adapted to oratory. High-sounding epithets and latinized words are sometimes supposed to be the proper dress of eloquence. These might give an impression of our learning or wisdom to an ignorant audience, but could not strike the chords of living sympathy that link all hearts together. Language is only available as a medium, so far as hearer and speaker understand it in common. If we use a term the congregation have seldom heard, even if they can arrive at its meaning, it will lose all its force whilst they are striving to understand it. But one of the homely Saxon words that dwell on the lips of the people, will unlade its meaning in the heart as soon as its sound strikes the ear. For while uncommon words erect a barrier around thought, familiar ones are perhaps not noticed at all, leaving the feeling to strike directly to its mark.

The only reason why Saxon derivatives are so powerful, is because they are usually the words of every-day life. But the test of usefulness is not in etymology. If terms of Latin or French origin have passed into the life of the people, they will serve the highest purpose of the orator. Of coarse, all debased and slang words should be rejected. We do not plead for “the familiarity that breeds contempt.” The two great requisites in the use of words are, that they should exactly express our idea, and be familiar to the audience. Melody and association should not be despised, but they are secondary.

Every sermon should have strong points upon which especial reliance is placed. A general has his choice battalions reserved to pierce the enemy’s line at the decisive moment, and win the battle. It is important to know how to place these reserved thoughts, that all their weight may be felt.

A crisis occurs in nearly every sermon—a moment when a strong argument or a fervent appeal will produce the result intended, or when failure becomes inevitable—just as a vigorous charge, or the arrival of reinforcements, will turn the scale of battle, when the combatants grow weary and dispirited. The speaker, knowing what his object is, should so dispose his forces as to drive steadily toward it, and when within reach, put forth all his power in one mighty effort, achieving the result for which the whole speech was intended. If neglected, such chances seldom return, and an hour’s talk may fail to accomplish as much as one good burning sentence thrown in at the right time. This should be foreseen, and the idea, which we know to be the key of our discourse, carefully prepared—in thought, not word.

Quotations, either in prose or poetry, may be often used to good advantage, but should be short, appropriate and secondary. The grand effect of an extempore discourse must not depend on a borrowed passage, or its character will be changed, and its originality lost.

We have all along taken it for granted that deep thought underlies the whole discourse. Without this, a sermon or any serious address deserves no success. Under some circumstances nothing is expected but sound to tickle the ear. This is play, while the eloquence of the pulpit is solemn work. The very fact that the speaker has a solid and worthy foundation, gives him confidence. He knows that if his words are not ringing music, he will still have a claim on the attention of his auditors.

It is not necessary that our thoughts should extend far beyond the depths of the common mind, for the most weighty truths lie nearest to the surface, and within the reach of all. But most men do not dwell long enough on one subject to understand even its obvious features, and when these are fully mastered and presented in striking form, it is like a new revelation. A good illustration of this is found in the sublimity that Kitto imparts to the journeyings of the Israelites. Very few new facts are stated, but all are so arranged and vivified by a thoughtful mind, that the subject grows into new meaning. Let the preacher, by speaking extempore, save his time for investigation and study, and his sermons will soon have a charm beyond any jingling combination of words.

Is the minister, as he stands before a congregation with their eyes fixed upon him, to expect them to be overwhelmed by his eloquence? Such a result is possible, but is seldom attained, especially when sought for. If persons attempt what is beyond their power, the only result will be to render themselves ridiculous. But good sense and solid usefulness are within the reach of all. Any man who studies a subject till he knows more about it than others do, can interest them in a fireside explanation, if they care for the matter at all. He communicates his facts in a plain style and they understand him. Many persons will sit delighted till midnight to hear a man converse, but will go to sleep if he address them half an hour in public. In the first case he talks, and is simple and unaffected; in the other he speaks, and uses a style stiffened up for the occasion. When Henry Clay was asked how he became so eloquent, he said he knew nothing about it; when he commenced an address he had only the desire to speak what he had prepared (not committed), and adhered to this until he was enwrapped in his subject and carried away, he knew not how. This is a characteristic of the modern, as opposed to the ancient, school of eloquence. The latter memorized, while our greatest speakers only arrange, and speak in a plain, business style, until hurried by the passion of the moment into bolder flights. If this does not happen, they still give a good and instructive speech.

These few considerations may be of use when the speaker stands in the pulpit, but he must rely on his own tact for the management of details. Closely observing the condition of the audience, taking advantage of every favoring circumstance, he moves steadily towards his object. With an unobstructed road before him, which he has traveled in thought until it is familiar, he will advance with ease and certainty. As he gazes into the intent faces around, new ideas arise, and, if fitting, are woven into what was previously prepared, often with thrilling effect. Each emotion kindled by sympathy will embody itself in words that touch the heart as nothing prepared could do, and each moment his own conviction sinks deeper in the hearts of his hearers.

There are three principal ways of concluding a sermon. The first, and most graceful, is to condense a clear view of the whole argument, and leave the audience with the comprehensive impression thus made. This is admirably adapted to discourses the principal object of which is to convince the understanding. To throw the whole sweep of the argument, every point of which has been enforced, into a few telling, easily remembered sentences, will go far to make the impression permanent.

The old plan of closing with an exhortation, is perhaps the most generally beneficial. An application is the same thing in substance, only a little less pungent and personal. In it the whole sermon is made to bear on the duty of the moment. It should be closely connected with what went before; for a general exhortation, fitting the end of every sermon, cannot well apply to any. All the sermon should be gathered up, as it were, and hurled as a solid mass into the hearts and consciences of those whom we wish to affect, thus making it a real “thrust,” of which the exhortation is the barbed point. It should be short, and no new matter introduced at the time the audience are expecting the end.

The third method is to break off when the last item is finished. If the lines of the argument are few and simple, or so strong that they cannot fail to be remembered, there is no need to recapitulate them. And if the exhortation has kept pace with the progress of the sermon, there is no place for it at the close. If both these coincide, a formal conclusion would be a superfluity. It is only necessary to finish the development of the plan, care being taken that the last idea discussed shall be one of dignity and importance. This is simply stopping when done, and is certainly an easy method of closing, though, in practice, too often neglected.

CHAPTER V.
AFTER CONSIDERATIONS—SUCCESS—REST—IMPROVEMENT.

When we have concluded a fervent discourse, especially if successful, there comes a feeling of inexpressible relief. For the burden of a speech accumulates on the mind, from the time the subject is chosen, until it grows almost intolerable. When we begin to speak all our powers are called into play, and exerted to the limit of their capacity. The excitement of the conflict hurries us on, and although we may not realize the gigantic exertions we put forth, yet when we pause, with the victory won, the sense of relief and security is exceedingly delightful. Yet we must not indulge too deeply in the self-gratulation so natural at such a moment. If we have conquered, it has been in God’s name, not our own, and the first thing to be done is to offer him thanks for our preservation. This is but the complement of the prayers made at the beginning of the service, for if we ask help with fear and trembling, before the real perils of speech begin, it would be very wrong, in the hour of triumph, to cease to remember the arm upon which we leaned. But by pouring out our thankfulness to God, we are at the same time preserved from pride and undue exaltation, and encouraged to depend upon Him more fully the next time we speak.

If the effort has been an earnest one, both mind and body need rest. There are speakers who profess to feel no fatigue after an hour’s labor, but these seldom occupy a place in the first class. If the soul has really been engaged, and all the powers of mind and body bent to the accomplishment of a great object, relaxation must follow, and often a sense of utter prostration. It is well, if possible, to abandon ones-self to the luxury of rest—that utter repose so sweet after severe labor. Even social intercourse should be avoided. A short sleep, even if only for a few minutes, will afford great relief, and it is much to be regretted that circumstances so often interfere with the enjoyment of such a luxury. After the morning service, especially if the minister has to preach again in the evening, all labor, even in the Sabbath-school, should be avoided, although, before preaching, such toil will only form a grateful introduction to the duties of the day. No practice is more pernicious than that of inviting the minister to meet company, at dinner-parties or elsewhere, immediately after service. This is objectionable for two reasons; the conversation at such parties seldom accords with the sanctity of the Sabbath, and if unexceptionable in this respect, a continued tax is made upon the already exhausted brain—a tax greater during such a state of relaxation and languor, than ten-fold the labor would be at another period. Let the preacher, when he can, retire to the privacy of his own home, and there enjoy the freedom of untrammelled rest.

It is well to ponder closely the lessons derived from each new experience in speaking. The minister can never exactly measure his own success, and may often lament as a failure that effort which has accomplished great good. He has in his mind an ideal of excellence by which he estimates his sermons. If this be placed very low, he may succeed in coming up to it, or even pass beyond it, without accomplishing anything worthy of praise. But in such a case he is apt to be well satisfied with the result. And often the sermons with which we are least pleased, are really the best. For in the mightiest efforts of mind the standard is placed very high—sometimes beyond the limit of possible attainment, and the speaker works with his eye fixed upon the summit, and often, after all his exertions, sees it shining above him still, and closes with the conviction that his ideas are but half expressed. He feels mortified that there should be such difference between conception and execution. But his hearers, who have been led over untrodden fields of thought, know nothing of the heights still above the orator’s head, and are filled with enthusiasm, or have received new impulses to good. This is the reason why we are least able to judge of the success of sermons that have been long meditated, and are thoroughly prepared. The subject expands as we study it, and its outlines become grander and vaster, until they pass beyond our power of representation. And each separate thought that is mastered also becomes familiar, and is not valued at its full worth by the speaker. If he had begun to speak without thought, intending to give only the easy and common views of his subject, all would have been fresh to him, and if a striking idea presented itself, its novelty would have enhanced its appreciation. This is no reason against diligent preparation, but rather a strong argument in favor of it. It should only stimulate us to improve our powers of expression as well as of conception.

But with all these sources of uncertainty in our judgment of our own productions, we should not be indifferent to our perceptions of success or failure. In the greater number of instances will be correct, and we can very frequently discover the cause of either, and use this knowledge to future profit.

Even if we imagine our failure to be extreme, we have no need to feel unduly discouraged. God can, and does, often work with the feeblest instruments, and the sermon we despise may accomplish its purpose. The writer preached one evening when very weary, and almost unprepared. From first to last a painful effort was required to find anything to say, and to prevent utter failure the intended plan had to be abandoned, and new, detached thoughts thrown in as they could be found. And yet that discourse, which was scarcely worthy of the name, elicited warmer approval, and apparently accomplished more good, than any one from the same preacher ever given at that point. But such instances should never lead us to neglect all the preparation in our power, for usually when failure springs from a real defect, the verdict of the people will coincide with our own.

However we may judge of our success it is not wise to ask any of our hearers for their opinion. We may observe any indications of the effect produced, and, if the criticisms of others are offered spontaneously, it is not necessary to repulse them, especially if they are marked by a spirit of candor and good will; but all seeking for commendation is debasing. It is sweet to hear our sermons praised, and most of men can endure an amount of flattery addressed to themselves, that would be disgusting if applied to others; but if we indulge this disposition it will become ungovernable, and expose us to well-deserved ridicule. It is pitiable to see a man who is mighty in word and thought, who wields the vast powers of eloquence, stooping to beg crusts of indiscriminate praise from his hearers. Nothing contributes more to destroy our influence, and make our audience believe that we are merely actors, unaffected by the sublime truths we declare.

It is well to think over our sermons after they have been preached, and if any defect appear, amend it in the plan, and add all the new ideas that may have been suggested during speech. This prepares us to preach still better when we have occasion to use the same plan a second time.

Some ministers are accustomed to write their sermons after delivery. This may do well, especially when the theme is of great importance, but in general, it is questionable whether the advantage is great enough to warrant the expenditure of so much time.

But to review and correct a verbatim report of our sermons would be far more profitable. If some short-hand writer—a member of our family, or any other who is willing to take so much trouble—will preserve our words for us, a revisal of them on Monday would be of immense benefit. The offensiveness of pet phrases, which we might otherwise be unconscious of for years, would be detected at once. Faults of expression, and especially the profuseness of words, in which extempore speakers are apt to indulge, would be forced upon our notice; and if any really valuable ideas occurred, they could be preserved. There would be little use in writing the sermon over in full, for we would commonly find that it might be reduced to one-third or one-fourth its bulk without material injury. The habitual condensation of our sermons after delivery, would teach us to express our thoughts compactly even in speech.

The only difficulty in applying this capital means of improvement, is the small number of persons who can write short-hand with sufficient rapidity—a difficulty that may be less in the future than it has been in the past, and can now be obviated by the minister’s wife or daughters, who may have sufficient perseverance and devotion to master the laborious, but precious art for his sake.

PART III.
MISCELLANEOUS ADDRESSES.

CHAPTER I.
INSTRUCTIVE ADDRESS.

We will give only a brief consideration to the various fields of oratory outside the pulpit, because the greater number of principles already laid down can be applied, with slight modifications, to any kind of speech. The different varieties of secular address may be divided as follows:

I. Instructive Oratory.

II. Legal Oratory.

III. Deliberative Oratory.

IV. Popular Oratory.

V. Controversial Oratory.

We apply the first term to all oral teaching, more connected than question and answer, and to all lectures that have instruction for their primary object. This species of discourse differs from the sermon in the absence of persuasion, rather than in its positive character. The lecturer should thoroughly understand the topic he attempts to unfold, and place it in the clearest possible light. Much illustration is needed, for the subject is usually a novel one to the greater portion of the audience, and can be best explained by comparison with familiar objects. It should have its strong central points, which can be easily remembered, and around which the minor parts of the discourse may be grouped, for if the whole consist of isolated facts poured forth without generalization or arrangement, no distinct impression will be left.

Appeals to passion and emotion are less necessary in lectures than in most other kinds of speech. Yet so closely are heart and intellect connected, that we can arouse attention, and secure a more durable result, if the facts we narrate are linked with the experiences and emotions of life.

The practice of writing is even more prevalent when applied to lectures than to sermons, and the reasons urged in its favor have more plausibility. As the lecturer does not aim to move his hearers to immediate action, the advantages of direct address are less required. Still he wishes to interest them, and it may be questioned whether this can, in any case, be so well accomplished from manuscript. But it is urged that in a scientific lecture there is often too great a number of detached facts to be easily remembered. This may be true, but it suggests another important question: if they cannot be recalled by the speaker who has reviewed them again and again for days together, how can it be expected that those who only hear them read over once, will retain any distinct impression? A clearer generalization of the whole discourse, and a proper arrangement of each fact under the principle which it illustrates, would go far to obviate both difficulties. Yet, in the use of statistics or other items, about which the speaker wishes to be precise, though he may only care to give the audience a general conception of them, notes will be a great relief to the memory, and the statement of principles deduced can be still made in direct address.

After a man has become so famous that each word he utters will be listened to with profound attention, because it comes from him, he may write safely. This is especially the case with those who have become authorities in their own departments of knowledge. What they say is received rather as a conclusion to argument, than as an assertion to be weighed, and the calm, deliberate reading of such final statements has all needed impressiveness. But if we have not attained this position, we had better employ every legitimate means to interest our audiences.

It is often claimed by the advocates of reading, that a literary lecture must be written to secure the polish and smoothness needful in the treatment of such themes. It will not do, say they, to give, in our words and manner, an illustration of the absence of the very qualities we praise. But surely men can speak on a subject they understand in good grammar and fitting language, without having first placed each word on paper! And if they attempt much beyond this they lead the mind of the hearer from the subject to a consideration of the skill of the lecturer. We are ready to grant that compositions should be read, not spoken, when ever they cease to instruct about something else, and become an exhibition in themselves. A poet is right in reading his poem; and even in prose, if we wish to call attention to our melodious words, and our skill in literary composition, instead of the subject we have nominally taken, it will be well to write. But the resulting composition will not be a lecture.

The field for instructive lectures is constantly enlarging. In former times they were monopolized by university professors, and very few persons sought to teach the people. But this has changed. There are now many more schools where courses of lectures are given on various topics, and every town of any pretension has its annual lecture course. Even these are not sufficient to meet the increasing demand, and, as every community cannot pay Beecher or Gough from one to five hundred dollars for an evening’s entertainment, there is abundant scope for humbler talent. Strolling lecturers, without character or knowledge, reap a rich harvest from the credulity of the people. Even the noble science of phrenology is often disgraced by quacks, who perambulate the country and pretend to explain its mysteries—sometimes telling character and fortunes at the same time. So far has this prostitution of talent and opportunity gone, that the village lecturer is often placed in a category with circus clowns and negro minstrels. But this should not be, and no class could do more to prevent it than the clergy. If they would each prepare a lecture or two upon some important subject they have mastered, they could extend their usefulness, and teach others besides their own flocks.

Lecturers are becoming more numerous and popular. New sciences and arts are continually springing into being, and there is no way that a knowledge of them can be so readily diffused among the masses of the people, as by public addresses upon them. Even the oldest of the sciences—Astronomy—has been brought to the knowledge of thousands who otherwise would have remained in ignorance of its mysteries. It was thus that the lamented General O. M. Mitchel succeeded in awakening public interest, and in securing funds for the erection of his observatory at Cincinnati.

Benefit lectures are very common. In these the services of the lecturer are given gratis, or for a nominal compensation, and persons are induced to purchase tickets that some good cause may be benefited by the proceeds. This is the most pleasant of compromises, and is surely better than fairs, gift drawings, etc., although when the patronage of the public is thus secured for a lecture that has no real merit, the benefit is more questionable.

The most important point in a lecture is that the subject be thoroughly understood, and so arranged that there may be no difficulty in grasping the whole thought. Vivacity and life will prevent the audience from growing weary; wit, if it be true and delicate, will add to the interest, and has a far larger legitimate sphere than in a sermon. Ornaments, too, may abound, provided they do not call attention away from the subject, or weaken the force of expression. The plan of a lecture may be constructed in a manner similar to that of a sermon, as the end in view is not very different. If this be well arranged, and all the principles, facts and illustrations be properly placed, no need of writing will be felt.

CHAPTER II.
MISCELLANEOUS ADDRESS—LEGAL—DELIBERATE—POPULAR—CONTROVERSIAL.

The speech adapted to the bench and bar presents some peculiar features. The lawyer deals with facts and living issues. He works for immediate results, and therefore uses the means best adapted to secure them. The use of manuscript, which increases in proportion as we remove from the sphere of passion, finds no place when life and property are at stake. The lawyer who would read his appeal to the jury in an exciting case, would have few others to make. At the bar the penalty for inefficiency is so rapid and certain, that every nerve is strained to avoid it. To argue with a lawyer against the use of written discourses, would be like proving the advantage of commerce to an Englishman. His danger lies in the opposite direction—that of caring too little for polish, and of making the verdict of the jury his only aim.

A lawyer should never contend for what he believes to be wrong. Yet the common estimate of the morality of attorneys is not based on fact. They may have greater temptations than some others, and many of them may fall, but another reason than this accounts for the grave imputations cast on them. In every suit, at least one party must be disappointed, and it is natural that, in his bitterness, he should throw discredit on all the agencies by which his hopes were destroyed. But this is most frequently groundless. The lawyer may be counsel for a man whom he knows to be in the wrong, but he ought never to take his stand on a false position. He may show any weakness in his adversary’s case, and see that all the provisions of the law are faithfully complied with, but must not endeavor to distort the truth. An adherence to this determination will soon give his words a power and influence that will more than counterbalance all disadvantages. Let him seek for the strong points in his own case, and then throw them into the simplest and boldest shape, not forgetting the importance of appealing to the heart, as well as head, of judge and jury.

The judge differs from the advocate in having both sides of the case to present, and in seeking truth rather than victory. As he stands upon the law, and unfolds its dictates, which are obeyed as soon as known, he has no need to appeal to passion, and can give his words with all calmness and certainty.

Under the most absolute monarchy there are always some things that men are left to settle according to their own pleasure, and when a number of persons have equal interest and authority this can only be done by discussion. In our own land the people bear rule, and the field of deliberation is almost infinitely widened. City councils, State and national legislatures, the governing societies of churches, parties, companies, and all organizations, have more or less of power to be exercised. If this were vested in a single will, silent pondering would determine each question, but in assemblies these must be decided by discussion, argument and vote.[^[1]]

[1]. See rules for these in Appendix.

There is one general peculiarity that marks the speeches addressed to such a body; their main object is to give information. All are about to act, and are supposed to be diligently looking for the best course to be taken. This secures an interest in everything that really throws new light on the subject, while it often renders such an assemblage intolerant of mere declamation. In representative bodies there is also constant reference to the opinions and wishes of those for whom they act.

Such speeches are frequently intended to be read beyond the bounds of the audience where they are delivered, and for this reason are often elaborately prepared, and read at first. If they do truly give information, either in reference to principles or facts, they suffer from this less than any other class of addresses. They may be dry and unattractive in form, but if each concerned, feels that he is obtaining new facts for guidance, he will listen with patience. Yet, even then, a greater impression would be produced if the same accuracy and sureness of statement were embodied in spoken words. Let there first, be broad, statesmanlike views, a clear comprehension of the effects of measures, and perfect confidence in what we advocate, and then all the graces of speech may be added with the certainty that their effect will be that always produced by true eloquence.

A popular address differs from a lecture in having an element of persuasion in it. In fact, this is its principal characteristic. When we desire to incline the hearts of the people to some favorite cause, we assemble them together, and labor by all the arguments we can command, to induce them to adopt our views and enter on the course we recommend. Energy and earnestness are the qualities most uniformly successful. The people care little for the subtile niceties of speech, but they require that the man who addresses them should believe what he says, and feel the power of his own reasoning. A deep, strong, unfaltering conviction is always an element of strength.

Many speakers think it an advantage to flatter the prejudices of the people, but they are mistaken. Temporary applause may be won, but second thoughts are apt to detect the lurking insincerity, even if they do not overthrow the prejudice itself If the speaker be really under the influence of the same misconception as the audience, this is a different matter, for hearty devotion, even to the wrong, is contagious. But calm reasoning and truth are always best. These gave Abraham Lincoln the superiority over Stephen A. Douglas, making him more effective with the people than the latter was, not withstanding his fervid eloquence. The one appealed to the reason of the people, the other to passion.

Humor has a place in the popular address not second to any other quality. A telling anecdote, or a good illustration (the homelier the better, if it be not coarse), will arrest attention and dwell longer on the memory, than the strongest argument.

Controversial oratory partakes of the nature of a battle, but should be something more than strife for victory. There is little danger of languid attention in this species of address, for opposition arouses both speaker and hearer.

The golden rule in all controversies, is to be certain of a solid basis of fact, and follow the guidance of true principles. Then we deserve success. But fair means only should be employed. It is so hard to see an adversary triumph even, when convinced of the correctness of his position, that we can scarcely forbear employing every artifice to prevent such a result. But we should never misrepresent our opponent. Even if he has been unfortunate in his explanations, and leaves the way open for a natural misconception, we should use our best efforts to understand what he really means, and give him the credit of that. We must also allow his reasoning its due force. No just argument ought ever to be weakened. Let us bring forward our views, and, if possible, show that they are truer and more firmly based than his. And if we see that this cannot be done, there is only one manly course left—to surrender at discretion. If we cannot maintain our views by clear proof, we should abandon them, and seek others that need no questionable support.

PART IV.
EMINENT EXTEMPORE SPEAKERS.

AUGUSTINE—LUTHER—CHATHAM—PITT—BURKE—MIRABEAU—PATRICK HENRY—WHITEFIELD—WESLEY—SIDNEY SMITH—F. W. ROBERTSON—CLAY—BASCOM—SUMMERFIELD—SPURGEON—H. W. BEECHER—BINGHAM—GLADSTONE—SIMPSON—WENDELL PHILLIPS—J. P. DURBIN.