But in order to speak to the heart, we must have a heart ourselves, and make use of it too. Now, it is questionable in these days whether many preachers have a heart. No one can perceive it in them; so great is the care which they take not to expose even a corner of it, lest by so doing they might derange the massive chain of their arguments. And, besides, who knows but that it might subject them to the charge of being deficient in dignity? In fact, the heart appears to have come down from the pulpit, and fears to occupy it again … it is no longer allowed to play a part there, lest it might prove disconcerting. It is now regarded with suspicion, and God must have been mistaken when he said:—"My son, give me thine heart." The general notion seems to be, that nothing more is required in order to do men good than clearly or obscurely to demonstrate the truth to them. But knowing and doing are as widely apart as heaven and earth, and the distance between the two can only be surmounted by the heart. … Nothing, indeed, profits an audience so much; nothing is so successful as the windings, the boundings of the heart, even when introduced in the middle of an argument.
All those who heard the discourse of Père Ventura on the Philosophical Reason of Modern Times, will recall to mind the profound and sympathetic impression which he produced when, after having spoken of a well-known philosopher, he added:—"But, after all, he was endowed with a rare intellect, a genial heart, and a noble disposition. Deceived and led astray as he had been by the false doctrines of the day, he nevertheless eventually recognized and avowed that he had made a sad bargain when he exchanged the tenets of the faith for the vain conceptions of science. Some moments before death, he shed tears over his beloved daughter, who had just partaken of the holy communion for the first time. Let me believe that his avowal and tears were acts of faith, of repentance, and of love, which availed toward his salvation at the hands of a merciful God. Let me, I say, believe this; for it is a consolation to me to believe that my brethren have found again, even in death, that grace which I hope to find myself with a benevolent God."
Yes, if we appealed to the heart we should frequently discover how good, true, and sincere it is, and how little is required to change it:—often nothing more than a word, a reminiscence, a tear, a look, a sigh. And yet how sadly has this easy and effectual means been neglected! … Every body does not understand a fine dissertation, but every body does understand a good sentiment.
To sum up: the sermon should be interesting, animated, vivifying; ten years of a lifetime should be comprised in a sermon of thirty minutes duration. Speak to the mind, to the good sense, to the imagination, to the hearts of men, in words that breathe and thoughts that burn; laying hold of them, as it were, by whatever stirs the lively and profound emotions of the soul: by grief and by joy, by hatred and by love, by tears and by consolations, by hell and by heaven. Let your speech be always powerful and triumphant. Whatever you attempt, do well. If you reason, let your reasoning be sharp, to the point, and decisive. If you exercise charity, let it flow in broad streams, that it may inundate and cheer all around. If you give vent to anger, let it escape in glowing and irresistible sallies. If you are ever at a loss what other influence to invoke, then appeal to pity. After such outbursts, there should be intervals of calm to tone down asperities, to smooth to softness any bitterness, and to express regret for having used them; but in reality to make a deeper impression by touching a different chord of the heart. These contrasts of thought and sentiment always produce a powerful effect. M. Berryer is well aware of this, and often avails himself of them with the greatest success.
In the celebrated discussion on the affairs of the East, after having exhibited the humiliation of France, he added:—"Let no more be said upon what has been done; above all, let us never, never again recall the humiliating admissions which have reached us both from London and Constantinople. (Profound sensation.)
"Let that despatch, wherein Lord Palmerston is stated to have said that France would yield, and that the Eastern question would be settled in accordance with the wishes of England, be buried in oblivion. … Is there a country whose ambassadors have cognizance of such language, and not only retain their posts, but become ministers? (Bravo, bravo!) That country is certainly not France. (Renewed applause.) England cannot have said so. Those who saw us even at Waterloo could not say such a thing. …"