Oratory Sacred and Secular; Or, The Extemporaneous Speaker / With Sketches of the Most Eminent Speakers of All Ages

It is an anxious moment when, after having completed his preparation, the preacher awaits the time for beginning his intellectual battle. Men who are physically brave often tremble in this emergency. The shame of failure appears worse than death itself, and as the soldier feels more of cold and shrinking terror while listening for the peal of the first gun, than when the conflict deepens into blood around him, so the speaker suffers more in this moment of expectancy than in any that comes after. He sees the danger in its full magnitude without the inspiration that attends it. Yet he must remain calm and collected, for unless he is master of himself, he cannot expect to rule the multitude before him. He must keep his material well in hand, that it may be used at the proper time, although it is not best to be continually conning over what he has to say. The latter would destroy the freshness of his matter, and bring him to the decisive test weary and jaded. He only needs to be assured that his thoughts are within reach.

It is very seldom possible to banish all fear, and it is to the speaker’s advantage that he cannot. His timidity arises from several causes, which differ widely in the effects they produce. A conscious want of preparation is one of the most distressing of these. When this proceeds from willful neglect no pity need be felt, although the penalty should be severe. If the speaker’s object is only to win reputation—to pander to his own vanity—he will feel more terrified than if his motive were worthy. Such is often the position of the uncalled minister. He can have no help from on high, and all his prayers for divine assistance are a mere mockery. But if we speak because we dare not refrain, a mighty point is gained, for then failure is no reproach. And the less of earthly pride or ambition mingles with our motives, the more completely can we rely on the help of the Spirit.

Another cause of fear is less unworthy. The glorious work in which we are engaged may suffer from our insufficiency; for, while God will bless the truth when given in its own beauty and power, there is still scope enough for all the vigor of intellect, and the strongest preacher feels the responsibility of rightly using his powers resting heavily upon him.

A general dread, that cannot be analyzed or accounted for, is perhaps more keenly felt than any other. Persons who have never spoken sometimes make light of it, but no one will ever do so who has experienced it. The soldier, who has never witnessed a battle, or felt the air throb with the explosion of cannon, or heard the awful cries of the wounded, is often a great braggart, while “the scarred veteran of a hundred fights” never speaks of the carnival of blood without shuddering, and would be the last, but for the call of duty, to brave the danger he knows so well. A few speakers never feel such fear, but it is because they do not know what true speaking is. They have never felt the full tide of inspiration that sometimes lifts the orator far above his ordinary conceptions. They only come forward to relieve themselves of the interminable stream of twaddle that wells spontaneously to their lips, and can well be spared the pangs that precede the birth of a profound and living discourse.

This kind of fear belongs to oratory of any character, but especially to that which deals with sacred themes. It resembles the awe felt on the eve of all great enterprises, and when excessive, as it is in some highly gifted and sensitive minds, it constitutes an absolute bar to public speech. But in most cases it is a source of inspiration rather than of repression.

There is a strange sensation often experienced in the presence of an audience before speaking. It may proceed from the united electric influence of the many eyes that are turned upon the speaker, especially if he catches their gaze. It may enchain him and leave him powerless, unless he rises superior to it, and, throwing it backward to its source, makes it the medium of his most subtile conquests. Most speakers have felt this in a nameless thrill, a real something, pervading the atmosphere, tangible, evanescent, indescribable. All writers have borne testimony to the effect of a speaker’s glance in impressing an audience. Why should not their eyes have a reciprocal power?

By dwelling on the object for which we speak, and endeavoring to realize its full importance, we will in a measure lose sight of the danger to be incurred, and our minds be more likely to remain in a calm and tranquil state. But no resource is equal to the sovereign one of prayer. The Lord will remember his servants when they are laboring in his cause, and grant a divine influence to prepare them for the work.

No change in the plan should be made just before speaking, for it will almost inevitably produce confusion. Yet this error is very difficult to avoid. The mind has a natural tendency to be going over the same ground, revising and testing every point, and is liable to make changes, the consequences of which cannot at once be foreseen. After all necessary preparation has been made, we should wait the result quietly and hopefully. Over-study is possible, and when accompanied by great solicitude, is a sure means of driving away all interest from the subject. If the eye be fixed too long upon one object, with a steadfast gaze, it will be unable to see at all. So the mind, if confined to one point for a great period, will lose its vivacity, and grow weary. Nothing can compensate for the want of elasticity and vigor in the act of delivery. It is not enough to enumerate a dry list of particulars, but we must enter into their spirit with the deepest interest. This cannot be counterfeited. To clearly arrange, and weigh every thought that belongs to the subject, lay it aside until the time for speech, and then enter upon it with only such a momentary glance as will assure us that all is right, is doubtless the method to make our strength fully available. To await the decisive moment with calm self-confidence, is very difficult, especially for beginners, but the ability to do it may be acquired by judicious practice and firm resolution. M. Bautain, whose experience was very extensive, says that he has sometimes felt so confident of his preparation, as to fall asleep while waiting to be summoned to the pulpit!

But those who misimprove the last moments by too much thought, form the smallest class. Many, through mere indolence, permit the finer lines of the future discourse, that have been traced with so much care, to fade out. This not unfrequently happens to those who preach a second or third time on the same subject. Because they have succeeded once, they imagine that the same success is always at command. This is a hurtful, though natural error. It is not enough to have the material for a sermon where it may be collected by a conscious and prolonged effort, but it must be in the foreground. There is no time, in the moment of delivery, for reviving half obliterated lines of memory.

We once witnessed an instance of most unexpected failure from this cause. The speaker was much engrossed with other duties until the appointed hour, and then, having no leisure for preparation, he selected a sermon he had preached shortly before, and with the general course of which he was no doubt familiar. Yet when he endeavored to produce his thoughts they were not ready. He became embarrassed, and was finally compelled to take his seat in the midst of his intended discourse.

It is well, during the last interval, to care for the strength of the body, for its condition will influence all the manifestations of mind. It is said that the pearl-diver, before venturing into the depths of the sea, always spends a few moments in deep breathing, and other bodily preparation. In the excitement of speech, the whirl and hurricane of emotion, it is necessary that our physical condition should be such as to bear all the tension put upon it. Mental excitement wears down the body faster than muscular labor. To meet all its demands we must reserve our strength for the time it is needed; for any illness will operate as a direct reduction of the orator’s power, and he must not hope, under its influence, to realize full success.

Holyoake makes the following pertinent observations in reference to this point:

“Perhaps the lowest quality of the art of oratory, but one on many occasions of the first importance, is a certain robust and radiant physical health; great volumes of animal heat. In the cold thinness of a morning audience, mere energy and mellowness is inestimable; wisdom and learning would be harsh and unwelcome compared with a substantial man, who is quite a house-warming.”

The picture painted in romances of a speaker with attenuated form, and trembling step, scarcely able to sustain his own weight as he ascends the platform, but who, the moment he opens his lips, becomes transfigured in the blaze of eloquence, is more poetical than natural. Let the instrument be in perfect tune, and then can the hand of genius evoke from it sweet and thrilling music.

As the time for speaking approaches every fatiguing exertion should be avoided.

In the “Rudiments of Public Speaking,” Holyoake gives a passage from his own experience which well illustrates this:

“One Saturday I walked from Sheffield to Huddersfield to deliver on the Sunday two anniversary lectures. It was my first appearance there, and I was ambitious to acquit myself well. But in the morning I was utterly unable to do more than talk half inaudibly and quite incoherently. In the evening I was tolerable, but my voice was weak. My annoyance was excessive. I was a paradox to myself. My power seemed to come and go by some eccentric law of its own. I did not find out till years after that the utter exhaustion of my strength had exhausted the powers of speech and thought, and that entire repose instead of entire fatigue should have been the preparation for public speaking.”

Absolute rest is not generally advisable, for then the preacher would enter the pulpit with languid mind and slowly beating pulse, and would require some time to overcome this state. A brisk walk, when the health is good, will invigorate and refresh all his faculties, and in part prevent the feebleness and faintness of a listless introduction, by enabling him to grasp the whole subject at once, and launch right into the heart of it. Should any one doubt the power of exercise to produce this effect, let him, when perplexed with difficult questions in his study, start out over fields and hills, and review the matter in the open air. If the minister cannot secure this kind of exercise he may easily find a substitute. If alone, he can pace back and forth, and swing his arms, until the circulation becomes brisk, and pours a stream of arterial blood to the brain that will supply all its demands.

Another simple exercise will often prove of great advantage. It is well known that many ministers injure themselves by speaking too much from the throat. This results from improper breathing—from elevating the upper part of the chest instead of pressing the abdomen downward and outward, causing the air to pass through the whole length of the lungs. To breathe properly is always important, and does much to prevent chest and throat diseases. But it is worthy of the most careful attention on the part of the speaker, for by it alone can he attain full compass and range of voice. But in animated extempore speech there is no time to think of the voice at all, and the only method possible is to make the right way so habitual that it will be adopted instinctively. This will be greatly promoted if, just before beginning to speak, we will breathe deeply a number of times, inflating the lungs completely to their extremities.

At this last hour, the speaker must not dwell upon the dangers he is about to encounter, or picture the desirability of escape from them. He has taken every precaution and made every preparation. Nothing remains for him but to put his trust in God, and bravely do his duty.

The order of opening services is different in the different churches, but in all they are of great advantage to the minister by overcoming excessive timidity, and giving an easy introduction to the audience. The hymn, or psalm, is to be read, which is not a very embarrassing task, and in doing it he becomes familiar with the sound of his own voice. Yet it requires many rare qualities to read well. Good sense and modesty are essential. The theatric method, sometimes admired, exaggerating every tone, and performing strange acrobatic feats of sound, tends to dispel the solemn awe and reverence that should gather around the sanctuary. Let the hymn be read quietly, with room for rise as well as fall, and all be perfectly natural and unaffected. The sentiment expressed by the voice should correspond with the meaning of the words. Even in this preliminary exercise, it is possible to strike a chord that will vibrate in unison through the hearts of preacher and people.

Prayer is still more important. When it is read, the same remarks apply as to the reading of the hymns. Each word should be made the echo of an inward feeling. But in most American churches prayer is extempore. The minister addresses heaven in his own words, on behalf of himself and congregation. The golden rule here is to pray really to God. That minister had no reason to feel flattered, whose prayer was commended as the most eloquent ever offered to a Boston congregation! The mass of humanity before us should only be thought of, in order to express their wants, and to intercede for them at a throne of grace. The simpler our language the better it is fitted for this purpose. Gaudy rhetoric, and even the charm of melodious words, if in the slightest degree sought for, is out of place. The only praise that should be desired from a congregation, in regard to their pastor’s prayers, is the acknowledgment that their holy yearnings and aspirations, as well as their needs, have been clearly expressed. All beyond this is disgusting.

Neither should fervid utterance be strained after. If deep emotions arise, and express themselves in the voice, it is well. But without these, mere loudness of tone will be empty noise; the prayer will be the hardest part of the service; and complex metaphors and profuse poetical quotations will afford very inadequate relief. But if the heart be full it is easy to pray, and this renders all the remainder of the service easier. A bond of true spiritual sympathy unites the preacher with all the good in his congregation, and as he rises to speak, their prayers are given for his success.

The sermon is the culmination of ministerial labor. Other duties are important, but preaching is highest of all. Example, conversation, private influence, only prepare the way for the great Sabbath work. In it the minister can speak to the assembled multitude with the freedom and boldness of truth. The believer receives deeper insight into God’s ways, and directions for his own walk. The careless listen while he denounces impending wrath and shows the only means of escape. He wields tremendous power, and if sincere and unselfish, he cannot fail to win stars for his heavenly crown.

We will consider the sermon under the three parts of introduction, discussion and conclusion. It is often divided more minutely, but these will be sufficient for our purpose.

Nothing is harder to frame than a good introduction. It is indispensable, for, however we may approach our subject there is a first moment when silence is broken and our thoughts introduced. The rustle of closing hymn books and the subsiding murmur of the audience, tell the speaker that the time has come. If he be sensitive, or has never spoken before, his pulse beats fast, his face flushes, an indescribable feeling of faintness and fear thrills every nerve. He advances to the pulpit, and reads from the Bible the words that are to be the warrant for his utterances, and breathing a silent prayer for help, opens his lips, and hears the tremulous echo of his own voice.

There is a vast difference between reciting and extemporizing at first, and the advantage is all on the side of recitation. Every word is in its proper place, and the speaker is perfectly calm and self-confident. He is sure that his memory will not fail in the opening, and will usually throw his whole power into it, causing his voice to ring clear and loud over the house. But it is different with the extempore speaker. He is sure of nothing, and the weight of the whole speech is heavy on his mind. He is glancing ahead, striving to forecast the coming sentences, as well as caring for those gliding over the tongue, and his first expressions may be feeble and ungraceful. Yet this display of modesty and timidity will conciliate the audience and secure their good will. We can scarcely fail to distinguish an extemporized discourse from a recited one, by the difference in the introduction alone.

Some persons commit the opening passages of the sermon, to avoid the pain and hesitancy of an unstudied beginning. But while this may accomplish the immediate object, it is apt to be at the expense of the remaining part of the discourse. The mind cannot pass easily from recitation to extemporization, and the voice, being too freely used at first, loses its power. The hearers having listened to highly polished language, cannot so well relish the plain words that follow, and the whole sermon, which, like the condor, may have pitched from Alpine summits, falls fast and far until the lowest level is reached. A written introduction may be modest and unpretending, but unless it is exactly like unstudied speech there will be a painful transition.

A favorite method of avoiding these difficulties is to make no formal introduction, but plunge at once into the heart of the subject. Occasionally, this can be done to good advantage, and tends to prevent a monotonous uniformity. But as a rule it is better to prepare the minds of our hearers by all needed observations, and gradually lead them to our subject.

The introduction should not be left to the chance of the moment. It requires more careful study than any other part of the sermon, for the tide of speech, which may afterward bear us over many barriers, is not then in full flow. But the preparation should be general, and not extend to the words. A first sentence may be forecast, but much beyond this will do harm. For the introduction should not be the part of the discourse longest remembered. It would be better to omit it, than to have the attention distracted from the main subject. For this reason nothing far-fetched or hard to be understood should be admitted. But, beginning with some familiar thought closely connected with the text, it should remove difficulties and open the whole subject for discussion.

Much is gained if, at the outset, we can arrest the attention and win the sympathy of our hearers. They come together from many different employments, with thoughts fixed on various objects, and it is a difficult task to remove these distracting influences and cause the assembly to dwell with intense interest on one subject. Sometimes a startling proposition will accomplish this end. Earnestness in the speaker tends powerfully toward it. But sameness must be carefully avoided. If every sermon is carried through an unvarying number of always-expressed divisions and subdivisions, the hearer knows what is coming, and loses all curiosity. We have heard of a minister who made it a rule to consider the nature, reason and manner of everything he spoke of. He would ask the questions: “What is it? Why is it? How is it?” The eloquence of Paul would not many times have redeemed such an arrangement.

A considerable degree of inattention is to be expected in every audience at first, and the speaker’s opening words may be unheard by many and unheeded by all. It is useless to attempt by violent means and loudness of voice to awaken them from their indifference. The preacher may safely bide his time. If his words have weight and his manner indicate confidence, one by one will listen, until that electric thrill of sympathy, impossible to describe, but which can be felt as easily as an accord in music, will vibrate through the hearts of all present. Then the orator’s power is fully developed, and it is delightful to use it. This silent, pulsating interest is more to be desired than vehement applause, for it cannot be counterfeited, and indicates that the hearts of the assemblage have been reached, and fused by the fires of eloquence, and are ready to be molded into any desired form. Happy the minister who has this experience, for if his own heart is enlightened by the Holy Spirit, he can stamp on the awakened multitude the seal of undying truth.

The introduction should be plain, simple and direct. But its very simplicity renders it more difficult to construct. Preachers who are great in almost everything else, often fail by making their introductions too complicated, thus defeating their own purpose as surely as the engineer who gives his road such steep grades, that no train can pass over it. Others deliver a string of platitudes that no one wishes to hear, and the audience grows restive at the very beginning.

When from these or other causes, the sermon is misbegun, the consequences are likely to be serious. The thought is forced home on the speaker, with icy weight, that he is failing, and this conviction paralyzes all his faculties. He talks on, but grows more and more embarrassed. Incoherent sentences drop from him, requiring painful explanation to prevent them from degenerating into perfect nonsense. The outline of his plan dissolves into mist. The points he intended to make, and thought strong and important, now appear very trivial. He blunders on with little hope ahead. The room may grow dark before him, and in the excess of his discomfort, he ardently longs for the time when he can close without absolute disgrace. But, alas! the end seems far off. In vain he searches for some avenue of escape. There is none. His throat becomes dry and parched, and the command of his voice is lost. The audience grow restive, for they are tortured, as well as the speaker, and if he were malicious he might find some alleviation in this. But he has no time to think of it, or if he does, it reacts on himself. No one can help him. At last, in sheer desperation, he cuts the Gordian knot, and stops—perhaps seizing some swelling sentence, and hurling it as a farewell volley at the audience—or speaks of the eternal rest, which no doubt appears very blissful in comparison with his own unrest—then sits down bathed in sweat, and feeling that he is disgraced forever! If he is very weak or foolish, he resolves that he will never speak again without manuscript, or, if wiser, that he will not only understand his discourse, but how to begin it.

The passage from the introduction to the discussion should be gradual. To make the transition smoothly, and strike the subject just at the right point, continuing the interest that may have been previously excited, is a most important achievement. A strong, definite purpose materially assists in this, for it dwells equally in all parts of the sermon. The object is clearly in view, and we go right up to it with no wasted words, while the people cheerfully submit to our guidance because they see that we have an aim before us. But if this be absent we may steer around our subject, and are never quite ready to enter upon it, even if we are not wrecked at the outset. A careful preparation of the plan will do much to prevent this, but it is not enough, for the words and phrases are not to be prepared. With every precaution, the best of speakers may fail at this point, and the more brilliant the introduction the more marked will the failure be. When this danger is safely passed, he is in the open sea, and the triumphs of eloquence are before him.

There is great pleasure in speaking well. An assembly hanging on the words, and thinking the thoughts of a single man, gives to him the most subtile kind of flattery, and he needs to beware how he yields to its influence, or his fall will be speedy and disastrous. The triumphs of oratory are very fascinating. The ability to sway our fellow men at will—to bind them with the strong chain of our thought, and make them willing captives—produces a delirious and intoxicating sense of power. But this is very transient, and unless taken advantage of at the moment, to work some enduring result, it fades, like the beautiful cloud-work of morning, before the rising sun. Even during the continuance of a sermon it is hard to maintain the influence of a happy moment. Persons not unfrequently give utterance to some great and noble thought, that echoes in the hearts of the audience, and the nameless thrill of eloquence is felt, but some irrelevant phrase, or commonplace sentiment dissolves all the charm. To avoid this, the whole discourse must be of a piece, and rise in power until the object is accomplished.

Diffuseness is often supposed to be an essential quality of extemporaneous speech. It is not such, though many speakers do fall into it. The reason of this fault is that they are not content to place the subject in a strong light by one forcible and luminous expression, but say nearly what they mean, and continue their efforts until they are satisfied. They furnish no clear view of anything, but give a sort of twilight intimation of their idea. But serious as this fault is, it may easily be overcome. Exquisite finish, and elaborate arrangement are not to be expected in off-hand speech, but we may give force and true shading to every idea just as well as in writing.

To express exactly what we mean at the first effort, is one of the greatest beauties of a spoken style. The hearer is filled with grateful surprise when some new and living idea is placed before him, clothed in a single word or sentence. But a diffuse speaker gives so many premonitions of his thought, that the audience comprehend it before he is half through the discussion, and are forced to await his ending, in listless weariness. He never receives credit for an original idea, because his advances toward it call up the same thought in the mind of his hearers, and when formally presented it has lost all novelty, and seems to be trite.

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.

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.

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.

Even if we imagine our failure to be extreme, we have no need to feel unduly discouraged. God can, and does, often work with the feeblest instruments, and the sermon we despise may accomplish its purpose. The writer preached one evening when very weary, and almost unprepared. From first to last a painful effort was required to find anything to say, and to prevent utter failure the intended plan had to be abandoned, and new, detached thoughts thrown in as they could be found. And yet that discourse, which was scarcely worthy of the name, elicited warmer approval, and apparently accomplished more good, than any one from the same preacher ever given at that point. But such instances should never lead us to neglect all the preparation in our power, for usually when failure springs from a real defect, the verdict of the people will coincide with our own.

However we may judge of our success it is not wise to ask any of our hearers for their opinion. We may observe any indications of the effect produced, and, if the criticisms of others are offered spontaneously, it is not necessary to repulse them, especially if they are marked by a spirit of candor and good will; but all seeking for commendation is debasing. It is sweet to hear our sermons praised, and most of men can endure an amount of flattery addressed to themselves, that would be disgusting if applied to others; but if we indulge this disposition it will become ungovernable, and expose us to well-deserved ridicule. It is pitiable to see a man who is mighty in word and thought, who wields the vast powers of eloquence, stooping to beg crusts of indiscriminate praise from his hearers. Nothing contributes more to destroy our influence, and make our audience believe that we are merely actors, unaffected by the sublime truths we declare.

It is well to think over our sermons after they have been preached, and if any defect appear, amend it in the plan, and add all the new ideas that may have been suggested during speech. This prepares us to preach still better when we have occasion to use the same plan a second time.

Some ministers are accustomed to write their sermons after delivery. This may do well, especially when the theme is of great importance, but in general, it is questionable whether the advantage is great enough to warrant the expenditure of so much time.

But to review and correct a verbatim report of our sermons would be far more profitable. If some short-hand writer—a member of our family, or any other who is willing to take so much trouble—will preserve our words for us, a revisal of them on Monday would be of immense benefit. The offensiveness of pet phrases, which we might otherwise be unconscious of for years, would be detected at once. Faults of expression, and especially the profuseness of words, in which extempore speakers are apt to indulge, would be forced upon our notice; and if any really valuable ideas occurred, they could be preserved. There would be little use in writing the sermon over in full, for we would commonly find that it might be reduced to one-third or one-fourth its bulk without material injury. The habitual condensation of our sermons after delivery, would teach us to express our thoughts compactly even in speech.

The only difficulty in applying this capital means of improvement, is the small number of persons who can write short-hand with sufficient rapidity—a difficulty that may be less in the future than it has been in the past, and can now be obviated by the minister’s wife or daughters, who may have sufficient perseverance and devotion to master the laborious, but precious art for his sake.