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.