The Young Priest's Keepsake

CHAPTER FOURTH

HOW SHOULD THE YOUNG PRIEST PREPARE HIS SERMONS?

The pulpit, as an instrument for the salvation of human souls, holds, after the Sacraments, first place. Indeed the frequentation and proper reception of the Sacraments themselves largely depend upon it.

Never since the first Pentecost was its agency a more pressing necessity than to-day. The apostles of evil are busy. The printing press teems beyond all precedent, obscuring truth and belching forth poison over the world of intellect with a reckless audacity that scorns all restraint. The powers of darkness have seized, polished with unstinting labour and sharpened into slashing efficiency, the varied weapons in the armoury of the orator—crispness of style, brilliancy of diction, a declamation that covers the want of argument and gilds sophistry till it passes for truth. The question for us is—how shall we meet the enemy with steel as highly tempered as his own?

Cicero embraces within the compass of three words the whole scope of the orator.

Docere.—To instruct the intellects of his hearers.

Placere.—To use those varied arts and graces by which the instruction is rendered palatable and agreeable.

Movere.—To move their wills to action.

The last function is by far the most important.

The preacher's triumph lies not in the conviction of the intellect, nor in the approbation of the tastes, but in the arousing of the wills of his hearers. The will is the goal-point at which he aims from the beginning.

A doctor may persuade his patient that bitter medicine and active exercise are necessary, but so long as the sick man lies on the sofa and nods assent this barren conviction is of little profit. When, however, the persuasion forces him to take a six-mile walk and swallow the revolting draught, then, and only then, is triumph secured. So a preacher may convince the habitual sinner of the heinousness of sin; he may win his applause by the cogency of his reasoning and the brilliancy of his style; but not till he has moved his will to fling the old fetters to the winds, not till he brings him a tearful penitent to the confessional, is his work complete.

We shall now take the three words of Cicero in order.

Docere

How shall we accomplish all implied in that word "docere?" How embed conviction in the minds of our hearers? Fill your own head to repletion with the subject; be ambitious to leave, if possible, no book unread, books of even collateral bearing. The more thought stored up the more complete will be your mastery over the subject and the more abundant the materials from which to select. I was struck by a letter from Father Faber to a friend:—"I intend writing a book on the Passion. I have already read a hundred works on the subject; see if you can get me any more." A hundred volumes, yet he looks for more! Hence his brain was saturated with his subject, and when he tapped it, how copiously it flowed! What books should I read?

What books to read

The solid matter in Theology and the Sacred Scriptures and their developments. A book of sermons is the last to open. Why? You wish to raise a structure, then go to the original quarry where you have material in abundance. The arguments that bear the shaping of your own chisel, though not as polished as those you would borrow, will fit more naturally and adorn with greater grace. There are two great risks in reading sermon books—a tendency to imitate the style and a temptation to filch the jewels. The style may be very sublime, but the question is will it suit you. Your neighbour's clothes may fit him admirably, but on you they would hang lop-sided.

The second danger is even more fatal. A struggling tyro who makes an inartistic attempt to adorn his discourse with the most brilliant passages from Bossuet renders his production not only worthless but grotesque. The man who can build a labourer's cottage handsomely should be content; but when he attempts to engraft upon it the turrets and pilasters of the neighbouring mansion he covers his work not with ornament but ridicule. "Am I then," you will ask, "to cast aside the brilliant thoughts and happy imagery I meet in my reading?" No, I only ask you not to use them now. Note them for re-reading. Cast them as nuggets into the smelting-pot of your own brain. Trust to time and the alchemy of thought to transmute them. Wait till these thoughts become your thoughts. The intellect will assimilate this foreign material and send it forth on some future occasion, palpitating with the warm blood of natural life, to strengthen the frame-work of your reasoning or adorn your composition with veins of natural beauty.

How shall I read?

Read with a pencil and paper slip beside you, not only to jot down arguments and illustrations, but to seize on the inspirations that may come. The thoughts we get from books are not at all as valuable as the train of natural ideas these books excite. When the mind is once set going there is no knowing what rich ore it may strike. When the brain throbs in labour with thought struggling for birth, when the soul is full and the imagination in flame, this is the golden moment. Each idea now stands out clear cut as a cube of crystal, and colours of unwonted richness are draping the fancy. Hence, at all hazards, lay hold of this inspiration. Close the most interesting work; leave the most fascinating society; heed neither food nor sleep till it is secured.

For you this spirit may never breathe again. Let this moment pass, and when you do invoke the intellect it is cold and barren, and the heart that yesterday blazed with living fires holds lifeless ashes now. It is not always when you have pointed your pencils and spread the virgin page before you thought will come. The ideas that have revolutionized the world came at times and in places most unlooked for.

When musing on the swaying Sanctuary lamp during Benediction, Galileo discovered the laws of the pendulum. Such a trifle as the fall of an apple suggested the laws of gravitation to Newton; and the first idea of the steam engine came to Watt while he was watching the lid rising from the boiling kettle. During a royal banquet the argument to crush the Manicheans grew on the great mind of St. Thomas, and the king made his secretary write it down on the spot. Had not these men trained themselves to admit and welcome the angel visitant, no matter when or where he came, the stagnant pool of the world's ignorance might have remained for ever unstirred.

Your notes are now before you, some the offspring of original thought and others culled from reading. The former require only polishing and shaping, but the latter must pass through your own intellect; every thought must feel the brain heat before it becomes palatable. We do not ask people to eat meat raw, so we should take care not to offer them ideas cold and untouched by the warmth of our own reasoning. Think over, ruminate, roll them from side to side, let them sink down through the tissues of your own brain and settle there; then when you send them out warm, bearing the stamp of your own minting, they will be found effective.

Remember that to translate dry theology into questionable English, encumbered with technical expressions, is not writing a sermon; but the man who takes up the theological principles, simmers them in his own thought, wraps them in the transparency of clear language, illustrating them with his own imagery, and thereby bringing them within the grasp of the meanest intelligence, that man, in a sense, creates the truth anew.

You begin the work of construction by making out a sketch argument. Let a well-jointed syllogism underlie and form the framework of your sermon. The conclusion of that syllogism must be the goal point at which you aim. That once selected, all other parts of the sermon should tend towards it. As all roads lead to Rome, so all members of the argument should converge to this point. The congregation should leave the church with that idea fixed and clear as a star of light before their minds.

In writing, as in committing to memory, you should keep the audience ever before the mind's eye. Attack it on every side; pursue it with argument, and never leave it in the power of an intelligent man to say: "I do not understand what he means."

This habit of writing with the audience before us not only secures cogency and point for our arguments and clearness for our illustrations, but it saves us from the fatal mistake of producing not a sermon but an essay.

Here our meditations assist us. The daily habit of balancing and introspection enables a man to read and analyse his own heart, its strength and weakness. He becomes familiar with the springs and levers that move it, the storms that convulse and the sunshine that gladdens the mysterious world within his own breast. How useful this knowledge when he comes to train the artillery of the pulpit on the hearts of others!

Placere

So far we have been studying how to mortise the joints of our arguments into well-knit and shapely strength; the pure scholastic, however, possesses but half the weapons of the preacher. The best built skeleton is repulsive till it is clothed with flesh, colour and beauty. This is the rhetorician's task. He comes with his graceful art, and drapes the dry bones of hard reasoning, clarifies the arguments by illustrations, clothes them in language crisp and sparkling, weaves around them the warm glow of fancy and renders the hardest truths palatable by the grace of diction and delivery. He accomplishes all implied in the word "placere."

When rhetoric and logic clasp hands the standard of triumph is fairly certain to be planted above the stubborn heart. We must, however, remember that the arts of rhetoric are subordinate to the reasoning, and must be brought forward only for the purpose of driving the reasoning home. But since man's faculties are not divided into watertight compartments, neither should the sermon intended to influence him.

Our reason is not independent of our passions; our feelings so influence our judgment that even in our greatest actions it is hard to disentangle and say so much is the product of one and so much of the other. The sermon should be constructed to fit the man; argument and emotion should not stand apart, but dovetail and interlace.

Sheil

In the art of entwining the garlands of rhetoric around the framework of argument, Sheil stands conspicuous. Lecky says of him—"His speeches seem exactly to fulfil Burke's description of perfect oratory—half poetry, half prose. Two very high excellencies he possessed to the most wonderful degree—the power of combining extreme preparation with the greatest passion and of blending argument with declamation.

"We know scarcely any speaker from whom it would be possible to cite so many passages with all the sustained rhythm and flow of declamation, yet consisting wholly of the most elaborate arguments. He always prepared the language as well as the substance of his speeches. He seems to have followed the example of Cicero in studying the case of his opponent as well as his own, and was thus enabled to anticipate with great accuracy."

The hint contained in the last paragraph is invaluable to the man who proves or expounds doctrine. It sometimes happens that there is an objection so natural that it seems to grow out of the reasoning. Perhaps, while the preacher is speaking, it is taking shape on the minds of the hearers; at least sooner or later it is certain to recur.

How is it to be dealt with? Let it pass, and the audience carry away the argument with a cloud of doubt hanging around that goes far to destroy its force. Or it may be that when he opens the morning paper it confronts him, set forth in the most convincing shape, with the advantage of having, at least, twenty-four hours to rest on the public mind before he can touch it. Therefore, let no such objection pass, but grapple with it here and now, and tear it to shreds. Here you are master of the situation, and can present the objection in a shape most accessible to your own knife. By anticipating an antagonist you break his sword and render your own position unassailable.

Before our preacher goes into the pulpit just one word in his ear—Beware of two very common defects—(I) Rapidity of speech and (2) Want of proper articulation. A people who think warmly, as we Irish do, speak rapidly. Thought is rushed upon thought and sentence telescoped into sentence. Before sending forth an idea, take care that its predecessor has got time to settle on the minds of your hearers. In articulation try to earn the eulogy passed on Wendell Philips: "He sent each sentence from his lips as bright and clear cut as a new made sovereign from the mint."

Movere

What is the main weapon of the orator? Demosthenes answers— "Action." Mr. Gladstone—"Earnestness." But St. Francis Borgia probably explains what both mean when he advises us to preach with an evidence of conviction that makes it clear to the audience you are prepared to lay down your life at the foot of the pulpit stairs for the truth of what you say.

Without this deep-seated conviction and the enthusiasm that flows from it, your fire is but painted fire, your thunder the thunder of the stage. This living earnestness is the spark that illumines and vitalizes all. Without it the best built sermon is but a painted corpse; but when the soul gleams forth in the flashing eye and quivering lip, waves of unseen fire are issuing with every sentence, and arrows of light silently piercing every heart. The most stubborn prejudices are forced to melt and the most depraved wills are swept on the crest of the grand tidal wave, slowly gathering from the start; but when the preacher forgets himself and his surroundings, flings self-consciousness away, goes outside himself, pouring the hot tide from his own glowing heart, till every flash of his eye and every wave of his hand becomes a palpitating thought, then his audience surrender; their hearts are in the hollow of his hand, wax to receive any impression; their wills can be braced and lifted to the sublimest heights of heroism—this is triumph.

O'Connell

It is said that the great mastery O'Connell exercised over the people mainly sprang from the passionate earnestness of his conviction. The nation's heart seemed merged into his own. He stood forth her living, breathing symbol. When he spoke it was Ireland spoke. Her passions rocked his soul; her humour flashed from his eye; her scorn gleamed in his glances, and her sobs choked his utterance. Ah! if preachers were as filled with the Spirit of Christ as this man was with the spirit of patriotism, what a revolution we might witness!

You ask—"How then do actors move people since there can be no enthusiasm when men know they simulate unreal people and unreal passions?" I answer, that the first step towards becoming a great actor is to fling aside that knowledge and hand yourself over the willing victim of a delusion. You must not act but live your part: persuade yourself that you are the character you personate: surrender your heart to be torn by real passions and wrung by real sorrows.

The answer is well known which a celebrated actor once gave to a divine:—"How is it that you so move people by fiction and our preachers fail to move them by truth?" "Sir, we speak fiction as if it were fact, and your preachers speak truth as if it were fiction."

Here we leave our preacher facing his audience and filled with but one idea: I have a great message to deliver and I will lay hold of every means to send that message home; voice, passion, style, gesture, these are my arms, and with these I hope to conquer.

Parting glance at the preacher's mission

In parting we take a glance at the preacher's exalted mission, and we may well ask: What in the whole range of human occupations does this world hold worthy of being compared to it?

The battle-field, it is true, has its glories, but it has its horrors also. Who can paint the pride with which Napoleon saw the triumph of his skill crush two Emperors at Austerlitz or the rapture with which he beheld the trophies of great kingdoms at his feet? The fatigues of winter marches were forgotten when in the fiery flashes of his veterans' eyes he read his own renown, while their applauding shouts fell like music on his ears. But blood soils the proudest trophies of war, and across the perspective of victory the spectres of murdered men will stalk.

Human eloquence, too, has its conquests, the purest, the most beautiful in the natural order. How the pride flush heightens on the orator's cheek as he watches the crusts of prejudice melt and hostile hearts surrender; when he marks the bated breath and the hushed silence attesting his victory more eloquently than the stormiest applause! He sees the varied moods of his own soul mirrored in the faces around him, as he summons forth what spirit he lists: tears or laughter, murmurs or applause answer to his call.

What pen can picture the ecstasies that thrilled the soul of Grattan as he gave utterance to the spirit of expiring freedom in those orations that rank among the world's masterpieces? The snows of age melted and the decrepitude of years was flung aside, and his eyes gleamed with strange fires as he beheld sodden corruption struck dumb and hang its guilty head; when he saw the wavering drink fresh courage with each new outburst, and men of commonest clay transformed into heroes by the blaze of his genius. Glorious triumphs indeed; but, alas! human, and as such doomed to die.

But in the sublimity of his purpose and the imperishable nature of his conquests the preacher stands alone. Compared with his the greatest trophies of the battle-field or the forum are feeble trifles.

The preacher, in prayer and study, goes down over the green swards of Calvary, and there gathers the ruby drops of Redemption. He ascends the pulpit and pours them as a purple tide over souls that are parched and perishing. As when the Pentecostal fire rested on the Apostles' heads, a new light filled their minds and a new flame sprung up within their hearts; so when the same spirit breathes through the preacher's lips, the clouds of ignorance dissolve and the light of truth divine glorifies the minds and inflames the souls of his hearers. The ears of faith can hear the applause of angels and the eyes of faith can read Heaven's approval in the flashing glances of the Blest, as with each stroke the preacher widens the empire of the Precious Blood and piles palpitating trophies before the Sacred Heart. Ah! here is a field worthy of the highest ambition that ever burned within a human breast.

Hence, we should toil, toil, toil, and call no labour excessive that we put forth in burnishing into polished efficiency every weapon God has given us for the service of his pulpit.

CHAPTER FIFTH

A SOPHISTRY EXPOSED. ADVICE GIVEN

Theologian and Preacher—The Difference

It is amazing to think how often the offices of theologian and preacher are spoken of as if they were identical. Now, the functions of theologian and preacher stand widely apart. To the reflective mind this sounds like repeating a truism; yet what a world of confused thought and ignorant criticism would be cleared from the subject if this fact were kept well in sight.

When you say that a young priest is becoming a good preacher you are met by "impossible! he never got a prize in theology."

This is supposed to give your poor judgment its final coup; argument after that is useless: causa finita est.

Now, I do not think our appreciation of an eminent surgeon is lessened by our being told that he is a poor chemist; yet the difference between these respective professions is scarcely more radical than that which separates the office of preacher from that of theologian.

To the ordinary public the theological treatise is a sealed book. It is the preacher's duty to break that seal; to take out the dry truths stored there; to render them palatable and inviting, and bring them within the grasp of the plainest intelligence.

Solicitor and barrister

Few occupations more aptly illustrate this difference than those of solicitor and barrister.

The attorney works up the materials for the case: he groups statutes, discovers principles, tabulates references, supplies dates. While he does not plead himself, a man so armed is invaluable at the elbow of an able advocate; without the barrister, however, especially where the prejudices, interests, and the imagination of a jury have to be worked upon, his load of learned lumber would be of small value. The theologian makes out the brief: the preacher pleads it.

To render this distinction clearer let us take one more illustration. No animal can exist on air and clay and sunlight alone. Though these contain the elements on which it is fed; yet, though surrounded by them in most ample abundance, he must perish if a third power is not brought into play. The vegetable world comes intervening between the raw chemicals and the hungry man. Out of earth and air and light it builds the ripened sheaf, the succulent apple and the savoury potato. So, though bookshelves groan under calf-bound tomes hoarding the hived treasures of the masters of theology, the common minds of the multitude would starve did not the preacher interpose as interpreter of the theologian's message, drawing forth from his storehouse truths and principles out of which he manufactures the daily bread on which the ordinary man must live. Without his aid the richest repository ever clasped between the covers of a book would remain a fons signatus a hortus conclusus. The prophet of God saw the dry bones scattered over the valley of desolation till the breath of a new power passed over them, and lo! (I) "the bones came together each one to its joint; (2) the sinews and the flesh came upon them . . . (3) and the skin was stretched out over them . . . and the spirit came into them and they lived."

The attorney and the theologian gather the dry bones, but on the preacher and the barrister lie the fourfold task of mortising the joints into each other, binding them with the sinews of argument, clothing them in living beauty and vitalizing the whole structure with the flame of impassioned earnestness. Only when this has been done will they live.

So thoroughly distinct are the two offices it rarely happens that a professional theologian becomes an efficient preacher. The concentration and exclusive exercise of one faculty unfits him for a task demanding many.

People do not come to church to hear spoken treatises or witness dissecting operations on subtle distinctions. They come to be instructed, pleased and moved.

Again, for the perfect fulfilment of the preacher's task, amongst other gifts he must have imagination; but to the master of an exact science like theology an exuberant fancy might prove a fatal dowry.

A clear statement of this truth holds out hopeful encouragement to the man whose theological attainments could not be described as "brilliant": it teaches, too, the man who has distinguished himself in theology that if he ambitions being a preacher he has an entirely new set of sciences to master, but, best of all, it breaks into small bits an oft-used weapon in the hands of the young preacher's arch-enemy—the critic.

The critic at work

How often do we see this self-constituted oracle rely for his sole support on this sophistry?

You turn from a church door filled with admiration; there is a glow of rapture around your heart; every nerve is tingling; you have been enthralled. A truth, old indeed but now dressed in a new robe, lives before your mind with a meaning and a richness of colour never experienced before. Your will is swept captive on the crest of that subtle tide of unseen fire that seems to fill the air. You are bracing yourself to a heroic resolve. The preacher's voice, like ceaseless music, is still thrilling down through the avenues of your soul. When the critic comes and in pity asks you—"Do you really think that a good sermon?" he compassionates your poor judgment, leads you to the library, takes down a volume of Lehmkuhl or Suarez, and with a triumphant wave of his hand assures you that every idea in that sermon may be found there.

You are now face to face with the most perplexing of sophistries—the half truth.

Your judgment is staggered by two apparently contradictory facts—it was a fine sermon, yet every idea may be found in the theological treatise.

To enable you to extricate yourself from the puzzle, ratify your first opinion and confound the critic; picture another set of circumstances. You stand before St. Peter's, wrapped in admiration at this world's wonder.

You are marvelling how did human brains conceive and human hands embody this mighty dream of art. One of the pest tribe yclept "critic" comes pitying your simple heart; he leads you to a quarry, and triumphantly pointing says: "Here every stone of that building was found. Now, what becomes of the glory simple people like you bestow on Bramante and Michael Angelo?" How would you answer him? Easily enough. Make him a present of the quarry, and ask him to produce another St. Peter's. The challenge is conclusive. You have him impaled.

Come back now to the library. Present the preacher's critic with a hundred tomes, give him all this raw material multiplied ten times over out of which that masterpiece of sacred eloquence was built, and ask him to enthral those thousands that hung spellbound on that man's lips, whose thrilled hearts were aflame, who left the church examining their consciences and vowing better lives. Alas! he who was so eloquent in tearing others to rags when he himself essays their task himself—angels well might weep.

No department of life is secure against this sophistry.

You listen till you are dazed with admiration at one of those masterpieces of forensic pleading that have flung a deathless glory around the names of Russell and Whiteside; but the critic, with a superior toss of his head, assures you that this can be found in Magna Charta and the Statute book. Here is the tantalising half truth.

To be sure the principles and groundwork of reasoning are there; but the office of the advocate was to draw them from the dust and darkness, to gather these scattered articles, statutes and precedents into his capacious brain, and from them evolve a framework of argument to fit his purpose. He moulds them into an impregnable bulwark of law and reasoning to shelter his client. So naturally does he bend them to his case that every listener is impressed with the conviction that surely the framers of these statutes and principles must have a case like this before their minds when they committed them to parchment.

Yet in the judgment of the critic the variety of talents brought to this complex task count for nothing.

Here we see what a distinction must be made between the office of theologian and preacher, and what a confusion of thought is saved by keeping this line of demarcation in view.

Parting advice

Now that the subject of pulpit oratory is swept clear from misleading theories and set in its true light before the young preacher's eyes, let us see how further we can assist him to discharge his high office with honour and efficiency.

I.—Be natural in development

"To thine own self be true" is the soundest of advices.

From the beginning the young preacher should aim at developing on his own lines, thinking in his own way and expressing his thoughts in their own native dress. No matter how eminent the paragon you admire, do not become an understudy of him. Remember he is great only because he is himself and not the imitation of another. Try, however, to get at the secret of his greatness. What is it? He discovered his strong points and cultivated them. Go and do likewise.

You see a man with clear sequence of ideas and easy expression, but without those exceptional gifts that go to make the born orator. He could attain even eminence as a lecturer or instructor, but lecture or instruct he will not, for he has read Ventura and become smitten. He tries to imitate the Padre's lofty style, and succeeds in "amazing the unlearned and making the learned smile." "Failure" is written large over all his efforts.

David could not fight with the gorgeous but cumbersome arms of Saul: with his own homely sling and the polished stone from the brook, the weapon to which he was accustomed, he achieved victory.

I knew a priest who had a marvellous charm as a storyteller. He invested the merest trifles of incident with resistless fascination. Hours in his society flew like moments.

He became a distinguished preacher. I went to hear him, and quickly discovered the secret of his success. He knew his strong point, and staked his all on it. He preached his sermons as he told his stories—in graphic, familiar narrative. The congregation felt they were taken into his confidence; they were hypnotised. You forgot that you were sitting in stiff dignity in a church, and imagined yourself one of a group around the winter's log listening to a delightful raconteur, and you willingly surrendered to the pleasing delusion.

Every play of fancy, every flash of thought, every clinched conviction passed from him to his hearers till the souls of preacher and listeners became like reflecting mirrors. There was always regret when he finished.

Now, had that man attempted to become Demosthenes instead of himself he would have succeeded in becoming ridiculous.

2.—Be natural in composition

The natural outpouring of thought has a relish and a resistlessness of force that no art can rival. The scent of a sprig of wild woodbine holds a charm beyond all the perfumes of the chemist's shop.

In order to be natural there is no necessity to ignore the elegancies of style; for what is style? Le style est l'homme. The style is the man. A perfect style, then, is attained when the written page is the exact expression of the train of thought as it lies in the writer's head. A style is absolutely perfect when it is absolutely natural.

Artificial embroidery, purple patches, and golden vapour are often the defects and not the perfection of style.

Language can be simple, however, without being vulgar or commonplace.

What book will ever equal the Bible for simplicity, yet what dignity? What preacher ever approached OUR DIVINE LORD; and, humanly speaking, what was the source of His strength?

He accommodated Himself to His hearers. From the open book of nature He made the realms of grace familiar to the minds of children. He pointed to the lilies of the field, to the ravens of the wood, to the ripening bud and the angry cloud. "Ut ex iis quae animus novit, surgat ad incognita quae non novit."1

1 Third Nocturn for Non-Virgins.

He used the world around us to lift our thoughts to the world above us.

When He spoke to fishermen His illustrations were taken from seas and nets. When He preached to farmers the word of God was the seed falling on rocky soil or the fertile furrow. When the merchants with caravans and silken tunics surrounded Him it becomes the pearl of great price. When amongst simple villagers it is the lost groat in search of which the housewife sweeps the floor and searches each nook and cranny.

Here is language coming down to the level of every hearer, abounding in familiar pictures, yet never losing dignity.

While composing sermons for factory hands Cardinal Wiseman employed a weaver to teach him the technicalities of the loom that he might reach their hearts through the only channel of thought they understood.

It is wonderful how the natural world around us can be used to bring even the most sublime truths within the grasp of the plainest intellects. Why do we not draw more frequently and more abundantly from this source?

When we hear of a man whose discourses "are too sublime for the ordinary intelligence" it is hard to forbear a smile. Our pity goes out not to "the ordinary intelligence," but to the cloudy dweller in Patmos. Mystic obscurity is used more frequently as a cloak for muddle-headed thinking than as a robe with which to drape sublimity of thought. Hence, if people do not understand the preacher, blame not the people, but let the preacher look to it.

Our nimble-minded imaginative people will rise to and grasp the most elevated ideas if properly presented.

I listened to a sermon in an English church preached before a congregation of Irish poor. The keynote was lofty, but beautifully sustained throughout. The range of thought was high, but the truths clarified by an abundance of happy illustration. That discourse was so classic in its beauty that it might be preached before an Oxford audience, yet not an idea was lost on that breathless congregation, where every female head was covered by a shawl. The speaker possessed in an eminent degree three gifts that must command success:—He could think clearly; he could so express his thoughts that his language became the mirror of his mind; he made a large demand on the familiar scenes of nature with which to illustrate his ideas and send his reasoning home; he possessed a mind at once logical and imaginative and a manner of expression that formed a definition of perfect style—Le style c'est l'homme—the style is the man.

3.—Be natural in delivery

The faintest suspicion of art immediately sets your audience up in arms. Their teeth are on edge; their heart locked against you. "This is acting and not preaching" seals your fate.

Do not imagine for a moment that I advocate the neglect of elocutionary graces. So far from that I hold that every young priest leaving college should be a past master of all rhetorical arts. Gesture, articulation, voice production and inflection should be at his finger tips. No book on the subject should be unread. No year of college life should pass without contributing materially towards the elocutionary equipment of the future preacher. The college that neglects this training and permits young men to go into the ministry without this needful art is guilty of a most serious sin of omission.

What I do mean is preach your sermons and do not declaim them. How is this accomplished?

For the first year bend all your powers to capturing the intellects of your auditors, holding in reserve, for the time being, the elocutionary forces. Then, when you have acquired the habit of convincing the intelligence, let the elegancies of finished declamation insinuate themselves gradually into your delivery. Thus art will so engraft itself on nature, the rhetorical graces so entwining and dovetailing into your convictions and passions that they will appear as growing out of and not added on to them. Here is perfection—

Reverse this: make declamation your first concern, and let us even suppose the artificiality is not detected, which is supposing a great deal. What is the result? Your sermon is declamation and nothing else. This means failure, for no matter how the passions are aroused, if they are not upheld by the pillars of conviction, your finest effort is a fire of chips: a blaze for a moment, then ashes.

Though elocutionary powers are of so much importance as to be almost indispensable, yet they are subordinate to the sermon: they are the aids and auxiliaries to drive it home. A graceful gesture or musical inflection of voice will not convince the intellect or move the passions: they are not the arrows: they lend wings of fire, however, to send the arrows to the mark.

I know no more fatal blunder, or one that militates more strongly against a speaker, than the adoption of an artificial accent.

The Irish gift of oratory

God has not only given our race a special mission—the apostolate of the English-speaking world—but he has singularly endowed us with those gifts that go to make successful preachers of His Word—logical minds, imagination and sensibility.

Logical minds

That we possess this in an eminent degree is evident from a striking fact. There are three avocations to which the faculty of close reasoning is a first essential—law, politics and theology—and in each of these our countrymen excel.

Law

We are as essentially a race of lawyers as the Jews are a race of moneylenders.

For eleven years I watched the sons of Irish parents going from an Australian college to professional careers. Ninety-eight per cent., following the natural bent of their minds, turned to the lawyer's office.

From the year 1858 to the present hour the robes of Victoria's Chief Justice have been uninterruptedly worn by Irishmen. From 1873 the Chief Justiceship of New South Wales has been exclusively held by sons of the green isle. But, above all, turn to the lawyers' streets in the new worlds of America and Australia and see the amazing number of brass plates adorned with O's and Mac's.

Politics

The political organisations in the labour world of England to-day are mainly captained by Irishmen. Two of them have been sent to Parliament, and two more will probably join them in the next Parliament.

The rapidity with which the Irish emigrant, following the law of natural selection, plunges into politics has passed into a proverb in America and furnished a humorous parody on a well-known stanza:—

Theology

The great Cardinal Franzelin said to one of his most distinguished pupils2—"As a professor of theology at Rome for many years I had every day opportunities of studying the character and mental equipment of various nations, and, though in favour of the Germans, I give it as my opinion that the Irish, as a race, have the most theological minds of any people." Judgment from such an authority is conclusive.

2 Dr. Croke, late Archbishop of Cashel.

The first essential for a preacher is the power of lucid reasoning. That this faculty is ours is now abundantly established. The next talent requisite is imagination. That we have imagination, often teeming in tropical luxuriance, but shared in great or less degree by all, has never been questioned. One more requisite and the oratorical outfit is complete.

Sensibility

On this score it is sufficient to say that we are Celts, endowed with the ardent nervous temperaments. But suffering has given to ours an acute refinement that nothing else could impart.

"We give preference to Jews and Irishmen on our staff," said the proprietor of a leading journal. "Both have suffered, and a man with a grievance writes passionately. He dips the pen into his own heart and electric energy thrills his sentences; hence the crisp pungency and compressed fire of our columns."

What gift that goes to make an orator has God denied us? Reason, fancy, passion, a pathos and humour where the smile trembles on the borderland of tears.

Why then this barrenness? Mainly because of the criminal neglect of colleges in the past to cultivate the abundant material placed at their disposal; other contributory causes are cynical criticism and want of courageous ambition.

Colleges are now bestirring themselves—it is high time—but criticism has not died. Refined natures have heartstrings like the chords of Aeolian harps, sensitive to the faintest touch, responsive to the gentlest whisper of the evening breeze; such shrink in terror from the icy breath of the scoffer: the purpose is frozen dead within their souls. O criticism! what crimes have been committed in your name! How many noble careers have you blasted?

The world's greatest orators

The man without ambition is not worth his salt. Some of the world's greatest orators have been spurred on to triumph despite difficulties before which timid men would stand aghast.

The story of Demosthenes is too familiar to bear repetition.

A good voice and commanding presence are powerful auxiliaries towards oratorical success; but Curran's appearance was so mean that he was once taken for a shoeblack. His stammering, blunders, and collapses in early life earned for him the nickname of "Orator Mum." Yet to what a lofty eminence did not his sleepless endeavours lift him!

If Sheil's portraits speak truly he must have closely resembled a starved sweep on a wet day, while Disraeli declares his voice was as unmusical as the sound of a broken tin whistle. Of him Lecky writes:—"Richard Lalor Shiel forms one of the many examples history presents of splendid oratorical powers clogged by insuperable natural defects. His person was diminutive and wholly devoid of dignity. His voice shrill, harsh, and often rising to a positive shriek. His action, when most natural, violent, without gracefulness, and eccentric even to absurdity."3

3 Lecky—"Leaders of Public Opinion in Ireland," p. 194.

In spite of these defects, and at a period when the nation's ear was pampered to fastidiousness by the eloquence of Grattan, Flood and O'Connell, he began his upward struggle towards eminence. He not only succeeded in winning a foremost place, but in wreathing himself with deathless fame when laurels shaded the brows of giants alone.

In face of these encouraging examples who could lose heart when the trumpet of ambition blows—"struggle, struggle, struggle."

CHAPTER SIXTH

THE ART OF ELOCUTION

The subject of preaching would be incomplete without a chapter on the important and graceful art of elocution.

What books should we read?

If asked what works would a student read on the subject, the wisest answer would be, every book he can lay hold of. The number of works dealing with rhetoric are few, but if a man can get half-a-dozen new ideas from any one of them his labour is more than repaid. Even should he meet the same thought repeated, the fact that it is clothed in different language and set in a new light invests it with a freshness that is sure to fix it permanently in his mind.

If, however, the question be narrowed down to which are the three best books on this subject? without pretending to give a decisive answer to this difficult question we have no hesitation in saying that, for the ecclesiastical student, "Potter's Sacred Eloquence," "The Making of an Orator," by Mr. John O'Connor Power, and Mr. McHardy Flint's little work, "Natural Elocution," will be found most useful.

Some of the thoughts in this chapter are borrowed from the last two authors.

With this general acknowledgment both gentlemen will, we are sure, be content when we spare the reader repeated references to either titles or pages of their works.

What is rhetoric?

Cicero

At the threshold of our subject we are met by the question—What is rhetoric? Mr. Power gives the answer—"The resources of rhetoric are natural resources, and rules for composition are only records intended for the guidance of those who have not discovered the originals for themselves. The first speakers had no rules and no experience to draw upon but their own. In course of time speeches came to be reported, and then the secret of their eloquence disclosed itself. All the qualities of the orator were then observed; the highest and the best were chosen and combined and erected into an art, which was named Rhetoric. This art was designed to aid speakers and not as a means of fettering their natural ability." Cicero has put almost the same thoughts in different words—"I consider that, with regard to all precept, the case is this; not that orators by adhering to them have obtained distinction in eloquence, but that certain persons have noticed what men of eloquence have practised of their own accord, and formed rules accordingly; so that eloquence has not sprung from art, but art from eloquence." This is not only sound theory, but sound sense. It shatters a time-worn fallacy and gives hope and encouragement to the student. Every man can become an orator in a greater or a less degree. The powers slumber within him; and the teacher's duty is not to create but awaken, draw out, develop and guide these inborn gifts.

Now, the question is—By what standard shall the speaker be trained? The master-hand of Shakespere has framed a set of rules that will stand for all time as the most pregnant piece of wisdom ever penned on the art of elocution. Though Hamlet's advice is addressed to actors, there is scarcely a line which the young orator can afford to ignore. He would do well to commit the entire piece to memory.

Shakespere's advice to speakers

"Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand thus: but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings; who, for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o'er-doing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'er-step not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as 'twere the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. Now this, overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of which one, must, in your allowance, o'er-weigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players, that I have seen play—and heard others praise, and that highly—not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of christians, nor the gait of christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted, and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably."

Avoid extremes

It will be well to observe that throughout this advice the poet is careful to warn us against extremes—neither to tear a passion to rags nor to be too tame—he insists on moderation. Even in the very tempest of passion one must not lose self-control nor make extravagant use of the hands. The "overdone" and the "come tardy off" are the two poles to be shunned.

"Speak the speech as I pronounced it." By placing the two words "speak" and "pronounce" in contrast, Hamlet leads us to infer that in reading the play over for the actors his principal care was to give perfect articulation. "Speak the speech as I pronounced it."

"Trippingly on the tongue." Evidently the slow, thick utterance of the mumbling speaker, to the roof of whose mouth the words seem to cling, was not unknown in Shakespere's day. As a remedy against this he tells them to "speak it trippingly." No word in the English language could so clearly convey the case. Nimble, airy resonance is suggested by the very sound of the word "trippingly."

Two errors

Having given this advice he hastens to warn them against the opposite extreme: "But if you mouth it." He wants no boisterous notes of artificial passion: he would as lief the town-crier spoke his lines. The office of that humble functionary demands not the graces of finished elocution, only strong lungs with which to shout; hence a piece of delicate pathos or varied passions would probably receive scant justice at his hands. But even the town-crier is tolerable—he is nature's product— compared with the workmanship of nature's journeymen—those who strut and bellow. "They imitate humanity so abominably" that their delivery touches the extremest limit of all that is reprehensible in elocution.

Gesture

"Suit the action to the word, the word to the action." Here we have the fundamental law for the use of gesture.

Gesture is not an artificial action standing apart from, or added to, the words. It is thought seeking spontaneous, visible, outward expression through the movements of the hand or eye or features just at the moment when that same thought is receiving articulate birth on the tongue. Its purpose is to make the words grow large, as it were; to expand and emphasise their meaning; hence the wisdom of the advice—"Suit the action to the word, the word to the action." If the action distract the listeners' attention from the word its purpose is defeated.

Now that we have an idea of what elocution is, and analysed the wisest set of rules ever framed for its government, we turn to the mechanical agencies by which it is produced—breathing, resonance, inflection.

How to inhale

When a person draws in the air through the mouth, the cold, unpurified stream strikes directly on the back of the roof, causing dryness and irritation. To avoid this the preacher, except when actually engaged in speaking, should inhale through the nose. The advantages of so doing are considerable. The air inhaled through the nasal organs is drawn over the roof of the mouth and soft palate, and thus warmed by contact with the blood-vessels; so that it is rendered innoxious by the time it reaches the throat. Again, any particles of dust or other impurities it might contain are caught by the filterers or hairs situated in the nasal cavities for that purpose. Thus it reaches the tender vocal chords both warmed and purified. To these may be added another advantage: it is more becoming to inhale with closed lips—the picture of a speaker gasping open-mouthed is not a graceful one.

How use the lungs

We now come to the important question—How shall I increase my vocal powers? As is well known, there are two methods of inhaling and expelling the air from the lungs. One is by means of the rising and falling of the ribs. This is called "the costal method." The other is by the contraction and distention of the midriff or diaphragm. The diaphragm is the movable floor to the thorax or box that encloses the lungs. This is called "the diaphragmatic method." Now, since God has furnished us with both methods, He evidently intended that we should use both, as we use our two eyes or our two ears. They are given, not as alternative, but as simultaneous instruments of action. The weakness in many a speaker's voice, its want of volume and its failure when a sustained effort is demanded, is due to the fact that he breathes by means of his ribs alone, throwing all the pressure on the upper portion of the lungs, not asking the large areas to contribute anything. He thus robs himself of breathing capacity, and consequently of voice power.

Diaphragmatic breathing

To get a perfect mastery over the "diaphragmatic" method and make it as serviceable as possible, practise breathing while lying on your back, filling the lungs to the utmost, and exhausting them as completely as possible. Inhale rapidly and exhale slowly. Then reverse the order; inhale slowly and exhale rapidly. Again let "slow" and "rapid" alternately make both movements.

By this exercise you acquire flexibility of the midriff muscles, you enlarge the cubic dimensions of the breathing area, you distribute the burden generally; and when the occasion comes to send your voice over four thousand heads you will discover that the reserve fund of voice and strength acquired by this practice is at your service. This plan bears that highest and safest sanction—in practical experience it has proved a genuine success.

A clergyman's sore throat

The ailment known as "a clergyman's sore throat" is too common and too serious to be passed over—the raucous, husky voice sawn across the throat, the congested blood-vessels, the strained muscles, the throat lining as raw as a beefsteak. Here you have evident results of some unnatural effort. What is it? In ordinary conversation we employ the throat, back of the mouth and vocal chords mainly: very little demand is made on the lungs. The voice we use is the "head voice." Now, when called on to fill a large building, the centre of stress should instantly be shifted from the mouth and throat to the lungs. On them the whole weight should be flung—then you produce the "chest voice." It is the want of this transference of strain from the throat to the lungs that causes the misery called "a clergyman's sore throat." Men endeavour to fill a large building with precisely the same set of organs that they use when speaking by the fireside. The strain intended for the broad-based, strong-fibred lungs is kept on the delicate vocal chords, palate and throat. These were never built for that purpose, and nature kicks against the outrage. The throat becomes congested, parched, torn and raw; the voice grows husky, cracked, and finally ends in a scream. Here is the genesis of the fatal "clergyman's sore throat" explained.

An illustration

Analogy makes this clearer still. Our back teeth were built for the purpose of grinding; hence their broad crowns, strong shafts, and firm roots; the teeth in the front of the mouth were intended for tasks not at all so arduous. Tamper with this arrangement; transfer the laborious work of mastication to the front teeth, and see how nature will punish you. This illustrates the outrage committed when the strain and effort that should be shifted to the lungs are allowed to rest on the slender organs intended for the entirely different purpose of modulation.

How acquire a chest voice

One question remains—How can a person cultivate a chest voice? How bring the voice directly from the lungs without in the least distressing the throat? This is all important. The young speaker should practise for a short time daily the method of lifting, first, words and then sentences straight from the lungs without making the least possible demand on the throat or vocal chords, stealing each word out of the depths of the lungs, afraid, as it were, of awakening the upper organs. When he has acquired this habit of speaking words and sentences, let him practise a verse or two of declamation. In a short time he will be surprised at his progress in acquiring a chest voice. In public speaking it will become his ordinary voice; for not only does the established habit assist him, but the organs daily develop and fit themselves to his purpose, and he learns to transfer the stress from his throat to his lungs as easily and quickly and instinctively as the pianist passes his fingers from the treble to the base notes on the keyboard.

The test of any theory is—How has it worked in practice? The method of voice production here recommended has given the writer advantages that it would be difficult to overestimate. Lungs naturally weak grew to three times their former size and strength; his voice increased in depth, richness and resonance; though constantly speaking in large churches for years, he has never known what hoarseness, sore throat or huskiness is.

A method that to him has been worth untold gold may not be without advantage to his readers.

Resonance

We must, however, have more than speech; we must have musical speech. This is acquired by resonance and inflection.

To send a stream of air from the lungs and vocalise it on its outward passage is not enough; by this you produce only a tiny, impoverished voice that conveys no force and awakens no emotion. There is something wanting; that something is—Resonance. It supplies richness and effectiveness to the stream of sound.

An illustration

The difference between speech stripped of resonance and accompanied with it is best illustrated by a simple experiment. Take a violin-string in your hand: touch it, and mark the sound produced—how weak and thin. Now, attach the string to the violin: touch it again, and see how the resonating instrument converts the feeble sound of the detached string into a sonorous wave of vibrating music. Now, the vocal chords are placed in the throat midway between two resonators—the chest and the head. These are to the chords what the body of the violin is to the string. When the stream of air has passed the chords it is already accompanied by the vibrations of the chest, but the head is the main contributor. The residual air in the upper portions of the throat, mouth and nasal cavities is thrown into vibration.

Here the importance of the subject reveals itself. The art that can convert a screech into pleasing cadences of soft sound is no trifle. Nasal resonance must not be confounded with nasal twang. The one is produced by vibrating the air in the cavities, the twang by expelling it from them. The part played by each organ in voice production may be briefly summarised:—The lungs send out a stream of air; the vocal chords, principally, modulate it; the head and chest give it resonance.

Now, that it is clearly evident God intended us to speak and sing to the accompaniment of these aerial orchestras concealed in the head and chest, the only remaining question is—How we shall use them?

Advice how to avoid screech

Take care never to exhaust these reservoirs of air; if you do the result will be screech and shout. No matter what demand is made on you, be sure to hold a reserve supply of residual air: set it vibrating, and your voice on its outward passage will receive an enrichment of volume, force, and music.

Inflection: its necessity

"Go slowly and articulate well" are not sufficient. "Inflect your language" must be added. A student should practise assiduously till his sentences become as flexible as a cutting whip, capable of being bent to every mood and of lending themselves to every passion. In pathos his words should sink almost to a sob, tearful in their plaintiveness; in denunciation they should rise, muttering the voices of the storms; and in narrative the proper pitch is ordinary middle tone.

French and English want inflection

It is in this want of inflective grace that English, and more especially French, speakers lose so much of their force. Both read admirably and articulate with precision, but the unvaried straight line tone, so suited to reading, will not serve the purpose when we not only wish to make people understand, but also endeavour to move their passions.

The secret power of a good story-teller

Recall a good story-teller or speaker of whom you never wearied; go back in memory and see how much he owed to the power contained in the inflected voice—the varied tones that sank or swelled as suited the mood or passion.

As you sat by the winter's fire your flesh was made to creep and your hair stood on end in terror while you furtively stole a glance around looking for the apparition described in the weird ghost story. The secret power that somewhere lay enthralled you. Was it not in the husky whisper or the hush of restraint? Let that speaker tell the same story in the middle pitched narrative tone, and lo! the spell is vanished. If the thunder thrills that rocked and vibrated through his voice were taken from Demosthenes, would he have ever driven Eschines into exile?

Two advantages of inflection

The practice of varied cadences in speech has two genuine advantages—it saves the speaker from fatigue and the hearers from weariness.

When a man varies his tone of voice he breaks up the arrangement in the group of muscles that till then bore the stress of effort: a new combination is formed, and the work transferred to fresh muscles. This brings instant relief. A similar sense of refreshment comes to his hearers.

In speaking, as in singing, we must have melody, but there is no melody without variety. People would rush even from a Melba if she sang every note in the same key. Inflection not only constitutes the melody of speech, but imparts to it rhetorical significance and logical force.

The want of success in many a speaker who has both a good voice and good matter may be found in the fact that his voice, instead of being as flexible as a piece of whalebone, is as unbending as a bar of iron; or, worse still, perhaps he adopts the dreary monotony of the sing-song tone: the two unvarying notes so suggestive of the up and down movements of a pump-handle. This "cuckoo" tone would blight the best written sermon.

Two impediments to good preaching

Nothing now remains except to warn the young preacher against the two most common defects—affectation of voice and word-dropping at the end of the sentences.

An artificial tone of voice

"Preach," says Dr. Ireland, "in a manner that the people will understand, and that goes straight to their hearts, and not in the stilted phraseology of the seventeenth century sermon." Sage advice! The comic stage has set the world laughing at the grotesque inflections of the parson preacher; but is his counterpart never found amongst ourselves. Is the Catholic pulpit free from speakers whose ridiculous cadences at once class them amongst the disciples of the Rev. Mr. Spalding?

Artificiality means failure

We have met priests, typical of a considerably large class, who, in ordinary conversation, could speak in a manner both natural and pleasing; who, when roused, could be even eloquently convincing; who, at the dinner-table and even on the platform, are listened to with pleasure, yet let one of them go into a pulpit, and fifteen minutes exhausts the patience of the most charitable congregation. Should he exceed this limit there are suppressed sighs and ominous consulting of watches. Why? Because in the pulpit he adopts an artificial tone of voice. In some instances it takes the shape of a pious whine, in others of a drone. But in whatever shape it finds expression the hollow ring of the unreal is there to damn it.

How he came to acquire it

A hoary tradition made it venerable in his eyes. As a boy he heard it from a pastor to whom he was accustomed to look with reverence.

He came to persuade himself that, like a "judge's gravity" or a "soldier's step," a priest too should bear a professional hallmark, and this should be a "preacher's voice," so he acquired it. Fatal acquisition!

The peculiarity of it is that this tone is reserved exclusively for the pulpit. Not a whisper of it heard during the week. It is his "preaching voice," and like his "preaching stole" or "preaching surplice" it is laid aside till Sunday brings him again before the congregation.

The result of the artificial tone

What madness! Adopting this tone is like drawing the lead from the pistol or putting a foil on the rapier: it defeats his purpose, it renders his weapon ineffective. So far from setting his congregation on fire he sets them asleep; instead of sending them away with clenched convictions they leave the church tittering, or perhaps in bad temper.

Priests never use in moments of serious issues

I would like to ask such a man—If you were pleading in a court for your character or before an angry mob for your life is it on this antiquated weapon you would rely? Would not nature's unerring instinct tell you to fling it to the winds and stake your fortunes on the untrammeled outpouring of head and heart? Every tone would ring with earnestness: every sentence thrill with passion.

The thoughts, how clear! How convincing the arguments! Nature's unfettered strength would then, like a tidal wave, sweep you triumphantly onward to the goal.

Yet when you stand in the pulpit to plead a brief for Christ the simple, unaffected earnestness that everywhere else carries conviction is abandoned for such a musty instrument as an unctuous whine or a holy drone. The young priest should avoid it: it spells ruin.

Voice dropping

It is wonderful how few the speakers are who sustain the same pitch and energy of voice from the beginning of a sentence to its closing syllable.

Cause of the defect

The temptation to exhaust the air in the lungs, and therefore permit the final words to drop, is so strong that unless a student watch it and assiduously guard against it he will discover that he has fallen victim to this weak point before he is twelve months a priest.

It destroys a sermon

Whenever you hear the last words of each sentence of a sermon growing faint, like Marathon runners staggering feebly towards the goal, and the final word dropping completely under, that sermon, no matter how beautiful its conception or eloquent its composition, is doomed to failure.

The entire meaning of many a sentence is completely lost if the last words fail to reach the listeners' ears. Very often the last word is the important member of a sentence, the others being merely ancillary to it. In oratory, especially, many a sentence has to depend for its driving force on the energy with which the final words are sent home.

Now, when people give a preacher attentive interest, the least they are entitled to expect is that he should let them hear every word. But finding themselves invariably baffled by the last word becoming inaudible, it is small wonder if, tantalised and disgusted, they abandon all effort to follow him.

The cure

It is therefore of great importance that this defect, so fatal yet so common, should be provided against in time. But how?

Since it comes from exhaustion, consequent on the mismanagement of the voice, the remedy is obvious.

Let the student daily practise reading aloud in the open air, preferably sermons or speeches by the best authors.

Let him nervously guard against allowing his voice to show the slightest trace of fatigue in the final words of each sentence. This can be accomplished by inhaling fully, going slowly, and not only giving full value to the punctuation stops, but resting at the rhetorical and logical pauses.

Advantages of the remedy

By this excellent practice he strengthens his lungs and vocal organs, cultivates his ear, and acquires a control over his voice so perfect that he can husband his reserve fund of breath and strength to impart at will freshness to the final syllable.

This practice should be continued till it becomes a rooted habit, till it has grown to be his normal method of speaking.

When he goes into the pulpit I would give him an advice, the value of which time and experience can alone enable him to appreciate.

Direct your voice not to the end of the church, but to the side wall about three-quarters way down from the pulpit to the door. Fix your eye on some person there; to him address your sermon, but pitch your voice against the wall about two feet above his head.

By this plan you not only secure your voice against unnecessary fatigue, but you take the surest method of sending it into every ear, and the reverberations of your own voice will act electrically on you.

As ring after ring of your sentences comes back from the sounding spot against which you have discharged them you are filled with courageous confidence and an assurance that every word has found its mark.

A recent writer in the Quarterly Review discloses in one luminous sentence the qualities that go to make an orator, and every priest should struggle with all his might to be an orator in the best sense of the word.

He says: "Nor is any man a great orator who has not many of the gifts of a great actor—his command of gesture, his variety and grace of elocution, his mobility of features, his instant sympathy with the ethical tone of this or that situation, his power of evoking that sympathy in every member of his audience; and this is surely what Demosthenes meant by making acting not action the secret of all oratory."

What a vista these words open up! What a variety of accomplishments demanded that can only be acquired, even by the most gifted, by long study and patient practice! And since learning to speak in public is like learning to swim, or to skate, or to ride a bicycle, in this sense at least, that no amount of previous theoretical instruction will enable one to realise the initial difficulties or find out how to overcome them without actual experiment, it would be arrant folly on the part of the future priest to neglect this subject during his student years.