The accent of conviction is made up of a mixture of faith, power, and love combined; the combination forming a characteristic which is at once simple, pious, and grand, redolent of inspiration and sanctity. It is the power, the life of speech; the sacred fire, or what Mirabeau styles divinity in eloquence. "I have never heard any one speak," said he, referring to Barnave, "so long, so rapidly, and so well; but there is no divinity in him." The accent of conviction is the magic of speech … that which puts argument to silence, withdraws all attention from the preacher, and fixes it solely on what he says; or rather, on what God says through him.
Unhappily, we are very backward in this respect. There is faith undoubtedly in our souls; but it is not always manifest in our speech. … How, then, can we expect to make others believe what we do not seem to them to believe ourselves?
We have to deal with a light, reasoning, and somewhat sceptical world, accustomed to regard every one as merely acting a part … and if you do not possess the accent of conviction, it will either suspect you of hypocrisy, or will brand you by admiring how well you ply the trade, and how cleverly you play your game.
There is a remark very common nowadays, which is much to be regretted. If one speaks of a preacher, he is immediately asked: "Has he faith?" which means: Does he appear to believe what he says? Should the reply be: "No; … but he is a fine speaker;" the rejoinder generally is: "Then I shall not go to listen to him; for I want to hear somebody who has faith." This observation is not intended to imply any doubt of the inward faith of the preacher, but that he preaches as if he did not believe what he utters.
Let us, however, do the world this justice, that when it meets with the accent of conviction—the bold accent of faith, as Saint Chrysostom calls it,—it is deeply impressed thereby. The preacher who believes and speaks out of that belief, astounds, staggers, and overcomes the gainsayers. A few words uttered with the accent of conviction go much further than many long sermons. How, indeed, can any prevail against one in whom God is felt to dwell? … Fine language, talent, imagination, brilliant argumentative powers—all these are common enough amongst us, and we are quite accustomed to them; but what is rare, what is unlooked for, what carries every thing before it, is the language of a faith and of a heart which seems to echo the voice of God Himself.
Two years ago, the late pious and gallant Captain Marceau was present at a meeting of operatives in Paris, many of whom were unbelievers and wrong-headed men. He felt moved to address them, and the impression which he produced was almost magical. He had never before spoken in public; nevertheless, he did so on the occasion referred to with that accent of conviction and candor which finds its way at once to the heart, overcoming all resistance, and sometimes seeming to take away one's breath.
"My friends," said he, "there are doubtless some among you who are not yet Christians, and who have no love for religion. I was once as ungodly as you are—perhaps more so; for no one has hated Christianity more cordially than I have done. I am bound, however, to do it this justice, that while I was not a Christian, that is, till I was twenty-three years old, I was unhappy, profoundly unhappy. … Up to that period, my friends, I had not lived. No, it was not living … I worried myself, or, rather, my passions drew or drove me hither and thither, and carried me away; but I did not live … I was a machine … but I was not a man. …"
Strange to say, scarcely any attention is paid to this accent of conviction, which is the soul of all eloquence; more especially of sacred eloquence. Those destined to proclaim the Divine word are instructed in every thing else but this. … Hence the language from the pulpit is often cold, monotonous, turgid, stiff, cramped, conventional, perfunctory; savoring of a formal compliment, but of nothing to indicate the effusion of a genial soul, and without any of those felicitous sallies of the heart, those insinuating and familiar tones, as Fénélon calls them, which produce in you almost a Divine impression.