Demosthenes, the greatest orator of ancient times, was pre-eminently a popular orator, and that popularity was the chief element of his glory. The people of Athens were all for him, for he loved them and knew them thoroughly: knew their frivolity, their vanity, their generosity, and their happy impulses. He invoked all that was great and good in the heart of man; not by vain declamations, but by energetic appeals to sentiments which one would blush not to possess. He drew his inspirations from the noblest patriotism, and his politics—a rare exception—had their source in the deepest affections of his heart.
Hence it was that the people were so much attached to Demosthenes, and that he, on his part, could place such unbounded confidence in them.
AEschines had complained that Demosthenes had reproached him with being the host of Alexander. He answered him in these terms:—"I reproach you with being the host of Alexander! I reproach you with Alexander's friendship! How could you attain it? By what means? No, I cannot call you either the friend of Philip or the host of Alexander; I am not so foolish. Are reapers and hirelings called the hosts of those who pay them? He is nothing, nothing of the kind. First, a mercenary of Philip, he is now the mercenary of Alexander; that is what I and all our hearers call you. If you doubt it, ask them … or, rather, I will do it for you. Men of Athens, what, then, is your opinion? Is AEschines the host, or the mercenary of Alexander? … Do you hear their reply?"
So likewise Saint John Chrysostom, who was, perhaps, the most popular of orators. We do not find that he amused himself with vain speculations. He did not wander far and wide to hunt up topics whereon to address his hearers, for they themselves supplied all that he wanted. He found ample materials for his purpose in the depths of their minds and hearts, and under his masterly treatment the simplest things acquired an accent of eloquence which gratified and moved his audience, which the people understood and the learned admired.
Surrounded by his congregation, he seems like a father in the midst of his family. He converses, he questions, he even consults, and he always loves.
It was the custom in his time for the audience to applaud the preacher during the sermon. They did not spare him that manifestation, and these are the terms in which he complains of it:—
"Believe me—the more so because I would not say it were it not true—that when you applaud my discourses, I am seized with a certain infirmity, and feel quite contented and happy. … But, on returning home, I reflect that all fruit of my speaking is lost through these applauses and commendations; and I say to myself: Of what avail is my labor if my hearers do not profit thereby? I have even thought of making a rule positively to forbid all applause, that you may listen to me in silence, with proper decorum and reserve. … I pray and conjure you to suffer me to establish such a rule forthwith. … Let us now order that no hearer shall make any noise while the preacher is speaking; and that if any one wishes to admire, let it be by keeping silence. (Applause.) Why do you still applaud me, even while I am making a law to prohibit the abuse? Though you will not suffer me to speak to you on the subject, nevertheless, let us enact the law, for it will be to our advantage. … However, I do not wish to be too rigorous, for fear of appearing uncivil in your estimation; so that if you find so much gratification in applauding, I shall not hinder it; but I will suggest to you a much superior motive for eliciting still greater applause on your part, namely, that you carry away with you what you hear, and practise it."
When condemned to his first exile, the people flocked round their pastor, determined to proceed to extremities rather than let him depart. He then addressed them the following touching farewell:—