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.