Demosthenes, on being asked what was the first excellence
of an orator, replied, "Delivery!" what the second, "Delivery!" what the
third, "Delivery!" An impressive admonition this, from such an authority, to
all preachers, on the importance of that part of our subject which we are
now considering.
After the death of that seraphic man McCheyne, there was
found upon his desk an unopened note from one who had heard his last sermon,
to this effect, "Pardon a stranger for addressing to you a few lines. I
heard you preach last Sabbath evening, and it pleased God to bless that
sermon to my soul. It was not so much what you said, as your manner of
speaking it, that struck me. I saw in you a beauty of holiness I never saw
before."
This is only one instance out of ten thousand, in which
the earnestness of a preacher's manner has secured that attention to his
matter, which would not otherwise have been paid to it. The power of
oratory has its foundations in the principles of our nature. It is not
merely that ideas are conveyed by articulate language through the ear to the
mind—but also that emotion is awakened by agreeable tones and
pleasant modulations of the voice. Hence the power of music—and what is
human speech but music? No instrument has ever yet been constructed which
can emit sounds so exquisitely moving as the human voice! Art is in this
respect still below nature. True it is that we must go to the best voices
for this superiority; but even in voices far below the best, there is an
expression of the various passions which no instruments can equal. All
nations, therefore, savage as well as civilized, have confessed the power of
oratory, not only as a vehicle of instruction—but as a means of impression.
It is vain to pretend that matter is or ought to be everything—and
manner nothing. Truth, it may be said, ought to make its own way,
independently of the accompaniments of good elocution and graceful action.
So it should—but these things are necessary, in many cases, to gain for it
attention, and to secure that due consideration, without which it can make
no impression. Manner is, so to speak, the harbinger and herald of matter,
summoning the faculties of the soul to give audience to the truth to be
communicated, and holding the mind away from all other subjects, which would
divert the thoughts and prevent impression. It is not only the more
illiterate and feeble-minded, not only the multitude who are led by feeling
more than by reason, that are influenced by good oratory—but also men of the
sturdiest intellect, and of the most philosophic cast of mind. The soul of
the sage as well as of the savage, is formed with a susceptibility to the
power and influence of music, and therefore to the power and influence of
elocution.
The importance of manner is consequently great, yes, far
greater than either tutors or preachers have been disposed to admit. It is
true that a good voice is necessary to good speaking—but not always to
earnest speaking. Nature must do much to make a graceful and finished
orator; but in the absence of this, a man of ardent mind, burning for the
salvation of immortal souls, can, by an impressive earnestness of manner, be
a more intense and effective speaker, notwithstanding naturally weak and
unimpressive organs of speech—than the possessor of the finest voice, if
destitute of life and feeling in his delivery; just as an exquisite
performer can bring better music out of a bad instrument, than a bad
musician can out of a good one. What may be done, for supplying deficiencies
and correcting faults in elocution, where the mind is resolutely bent upon
accomplishing this, Demosthenes has taught us; and were a tenth part of the
pains taken by us to obtain a powerful and effective method of pulpit
address which this prince of orators bestowed that he might become an
effective speaker; did we exert the same determination to overcome every
obstacle—we too would be orators in our better cause. And if ambition or
patriotism, prompted Athenian and Roman orators to such studies and efforts
for self-improvement; ought not love for souls, and zeal for God, to prompt
us to similar endeavors? Did they cultivate elocution with such unwearied
perseverance to counteract the designs of Philip, or to defeat or destroy
Cataline; and shall we not use it to destroy the works of the devil, and to
advance the kingdom of the Redeemer?
It is impossible not to observe how much the popularity
of some preachers depends upon their manner; they do not say better or more
striking things than other men—but they say them in a better and more
striking manner. There is passion in their tones, power in their
looks, and gracefulness in their gestures—which other men have
never studied, and therefore have never acquired. This was eminently the
case with Whitfield, the greatest of preachers. Much of the wondrous power
of that extraordinary man lay in his voice and action. I have already given
an extract from his sermons to illustrate his manner as regards style of
composition—but who that never heard him, or indeed who that had, could
illustrate his manner of delivery? Think of such paragraphs as those just
quoted, delivered with an utterance appropriate to their nature; with an eye
melting into tears; a voice tremulous with emotion, shrill yet full, now
swelling into thunder, and then dying away again in soft whispers; one
moment adoring God, and the next piercing the sinner's conscience with an
appeal that was as sharp arrows of the Almighty; at one time pouring out a
stream of impassioned pity for the sinner, and the next moment a torrent of
burning indignation against his sin; his very hands, and every gesture all
the while seconding his matchless elocution and seeming to help his laboring
soul; all this being not the trickery of an artificial rhetoric to catch
applause—but only the expression of his burning desire to produce conviction
in his hearers; not the acting of a man striving after popularity—but the
spontaneous gushing forth of a heart agonizing for the salvation of immortal
souls! What oratory must that have been which extorted from the skeptical
and fastidious Hume the confession that it was worth going twenty miles to
hear; which interested the infidel Bolingbroke; and warmed even the cold and
cautious Franklin into enthusiasm? In those discourses which roused a
slumbering nation from the torpor of lukewarmness, and breathed new life
into its dying piety, you will find no profound thought, no subtle
reasoning, no philosophical disquisition; for these never formed, and never
can form, the staple of pulpit eloquence—but you will find "thoughts that
breathe, and words that burn," and that when delivered with the magic of his
wondrous voice, spoke, by the blessing of God, life into thousands dead in
trespasses and sins! The following account is from a letter of Whitefield
himself–
"For many years, from one end of the large London fair to
the other, booths of all kinds have been erected for performers, clowns,
players, puppet shows, and such like. With a heart bleeding with compassion
for so many thousands led captive by the devil at his will, on the day of
the fair, at six o'clock in the morning, I ventured to lift up a standard
among them in the name of Jesus.
"Perhaps there were about ten thousand people in waiting,
not for me--but for Satan's instruments to amuse them! When I mounted my
field-pulpit, almost all flocked immediately around it. I preached on these
words, 'As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so shall the Son
of Man be lifted up!' They gazed, they listened, they wept; and I believe
that many felt themselves stung with deep conviction for their sins. All was
hushed and solemn.
"Being thus encouraged, I ventured out again at noon.
What a scene! The fields, the whole fields were ready for Beelzebub's
harvest! All Satan's agents were in full motion--drummers, trumpeters,
singers, masters of puppet shows, exhibitors of wild beasts, players, and so
forth, all busy in entertaining their respective audiences. I suppose there
could not be less than twenty or thirty thousand people. My pulpit was fixed
on the opposite side, and immediately, to their great dismay, they found the
number of their attendants sadly lessened.
"Judging that like Paul, I would now be called as it
were, to fight with beasts at Ephesus, I preached from these words--'Great
is Diana of the Ephesians!' You may easily guess that there was some noise
among the craftsmen, and that I was 'honored' with having a few stones,
dirt, rotten eggs, and pieces of dead cats thrown at me, while engaged in
calling them from their favorite, but lying vanities. My soul was indeed
among lions--but the greatest part of my congregation, which was very large,
seemed for awhile to be turned into lambs.
"This encouraged me to give notice that I would preach
again at six o'clock in the evening. I came, I saw--but what? Thousands and
thousands more than before, if possible, still more deeply engaged in their
unhappy diversions! One of Satan's choicest servants was performing,
trumpeting on a large stage; but as soon as the people saw me in my pulpit,
I think all to a man left him and ran to me. For a while I was enabled to
lift up my voice like a trumpet, and many heard the joyful sound.
"This Satan could not brook. The enemy's agents made a
kind of roaring at some distance from our camp. At length they approached
nearer, and one of the clowns (attended by others, who complained that they
had lost much money on account of my preaching,) got up upon a man's
shoulders, and advancing near the pulpit attempted to slash me with a long
heavy whip several times--but always tumbled down with the violence of his
motion.
"Soon afterwards they got a marching band with drums, to
pass through the congregation. I ordered that passage might be made for
them. The ranks opened, while all marched through, and then closed again.
Finding these efforts to fail, a large group assembled together, and having
got a large pole with their flag, advanced towards us with steady and
formidable steps, until they came very near the skirts of our hearing,
praying, and almost undaunted congregation. I prayed to the Captain of our
salvation for present support and deliverance. He heard and answered; for
just as they approached us with fearful looks--I know not why--they
quarreled among themselves, threw down their flag, and went their
way--leaving, however, many of their company behind, who before we were
done, were brought over to join the besieged party. I think I continued in
praying, preaching, and singing, (for the noise was too great at times to
preach) for about three hours.
"We then retired to the Tabernacle, with pockets full of
more than a thousand notes from people brought under concern for their
souls, and read them amid the praises and spiritual acclamations of
thousands, who joined with the holy angels in rejoicing that, in such an
unexpected, unlikely place and manner--so many sinners were snatched out of
the very jaws of the devil!"
I venture to pronounce this the greatest achievement of
elocution which the history of the world presents, next to the splendid
triumph of the apostle Peter's sermon over the murderers of Christ on the
day of Pentecost. Who that considers the spot on which Whitfield then stood;
the scenes by which he was surrounded; the discordant noises of the motley
crew, which rung in his ears, and the ears of his audience; who, in short,
that recollects what the wild uproar and the hurly burly of a popular London
fair is, must not stand astonished, first at the courage of the man who
could erect his pulpit, and preach a sermon in such a scene; and then still
more at the marvelous success of his effort in the conversion of hundreds of
souls by that one discourse? What, I ask, was the effect on the Athenians of
the orations of Demosthenes, in rousing them against Philip of Macedon,
compared with this? The illustrious Greek had on his side every advantage
which the scenery, and the historic associations connected with it, and the
prepared mind of his audience, could give to his splendid argument and
declamation; but the Christian orator had to combat with, and to triumph
over, everything that seemed inharmonious with his theme, and opposed to the
accomplishment of his object—and what must have been the magic power of that
elocution which could blind the eyes of an audience to the sights, and
deafen their ears to the sounds so near them, and produce such fixedness of
attention, and such power of abstraction, as to leave them at liberty for
those processes of thought, which resulted in the conversion of hundreds to
God!
And to what, in the way of instrumentality, shall we
attribute this astonishing effect—but to the power of his wonderful oratory,
combined with the simplicity and power of the truths he enforced? This fact
has stood for a century upon record, and yet we have been slow to learn from
it the lessons which it is adapted to teach, and among them, the effect
produced by a commanding method of address, in circumstances apparently the
most unlikely for such a result. I am not calling upon my brethren to
imitate this daring attack upon the very citadel of Satan—even Whitefield
never, I believe, repeated it, and perhaps ought never to have attempted it;
but my object is to show the power of voice and action, and the nature of
pastoral earnestness.
We shall now contemplate another instance of the power of
oratory, which if it be less grand and commanding in itself, is perhaps more
likely to be useful to the readers of this little work, because it is an
instance brought nearer to their own times, and to the level of their own
circumstances—I mean Spencer, of Liverpool. In reference to this
transcendent young preacher, Mr. Hall remarks, "The writer of this deeply
regrets his never having had an opportunity of witnessing his extraordinary
powers—but from all he has heard from the best judges, he can entertain no
doubt that his talents in the pulpit were unrivaled; and that had his life
been spared, he would, in all probability, have carried the art of preaching
to a greater perfection than it ever attained, at least in England. His
eloquence appears to have been of the purest stamp—effective, not
ostentatious; consisting less in the preponderance of any one quality
requisite to form a public speaker, than in an exquisite combination of them
all; whence resulted an extraordinary power of impression, which was greatly
aided by a natural and majestic elocution."
In this last expression Mr. Hall has disclosed much of
the secret of Spencer's popularity and usefulness; "a natural and majestic
elocution," this setting forth with simple and unaffected earnestness of
manner the grand doctrines of evangelical truth, accompanied as it was with
a most engaging countenance and form, constituted the charm, and led to the
success, of this most captivating preacher of modern times. Let the young
ministers of this age read his "Life and Remains," as published by his
gifted successor, Dr. Raffles; and also his posthumous sermons, which have
been since given to the world, and they will find nothing whatever of
extraordinary genius; no lofty eloquence, in the usual acceptance of that
term; no profound thought; no splendid imagery or diction—but they will meet
at every step with the doctrine of Christ crucified, set forth with manly
vigor, in plain, perspicuous language; the utterances of a mind well
instructed in the way of salvation, and of a heart overflowing with
benevolence for the good of his fellow creatures.
To what then shall we attribute, under God, his success,
not only in filling the large town in which he lived, and the nation at
large, with his fame—but (what was infinitely more important in itself, and
far more eagerly coveted by him,) in bringing so many souls to Christ? There
is but one answer to be given to this, and that is, it was the fascination
of his manner. He was in earnest. The stream of his simple, elegant, though
by no means profound thought, flowed forth with a resistless impetuosity
that carried away his hearers before it. There is scarcely any more
instructive lesson to be learned, or any more important inference to be
drawn from the short life of this young minister, so mysteriously cut off at
the very commencement of his career, than the vast consequence of an
animated manner of preaching the gospel.
I may here advert to another individual, who was
considered to be, in a particular way, one of the most impressive preachers
of his time, the late Mr. Toller, of Kettering. He also no doubt owed
much of the effect which his sermons produced, to his mode of address; and
their effect proves that vehemence, boisterousness, and vociferation, are
not essential to earnestness and deep impression; for nothing can be more
calm and subdued, though nothing more solemnly commanding, than his whole
demeanor in the pulpit. His printed sermons are characterized by strength of
thought uttered in language of great perspicuity, though not irradiated by
any coruscations of brilliant genius. "A noble simplicity and amiable
grandeur," says Mr. Hall, with whom he lived on terms of most intimate
friendship, "were the distinguishing features of his eloquence." There was
an irresistible charm in his manner which threw a spell over all his
hearers, and fascinated alike the learned and the illiterate; he made the
latter to understand, and the former to feel. I never heard him but once—but
it was on a memorable occasion, the ordination of Mr. Robertson of Stretton,
at which Mr. Hall delivered the admirable charge afterwards published under
the title of "The Difficulties and Encouragements of the Christian
Minister."
It is impossible ever to forget, and equally so to
describe, the effect produced by two such preachers on such an occasion—it
was the first time I ever heard either of them, and the last that I ever
heard Mr. Toller, and it almost seemed as if I had never heard preaching
before—both were excited no doubt, and stimulated to do their best, not only
by the occasion—but by the presence of each other. The terms employed by Mr.
Toller's biographer were the most appropriate that could be selected to
describe his style and manner, "simplicity and amiable grandeur." It was
impossible not to listen; neither eye nor ear played truant for a moment
while he was preaching; his delivery was not the rushing torrent of
impassioned eloquence which gushed afterwards from the lips of his
distinguished fellow-laborer—but the majestic, silent flow of a noble river.
"In the power of awakening pathetic emotions," says Mr. Hall in his Memoir,
"he has excelled any preacher it has been my lot to hear. Often have I seen
a whole congregation melted under him like wax before the sun—my own
feelings on more than one occasion have approached to an overpowering
agitation. The effect was produced apparently with perfect ease. No
elaborate preparation, no peculiar vehemence or intensity of tones, no
artful accumulation of pathetic images, led the way—the mind was captivated
and subdued, it hardly knew how. Though it will not be imagined that this
triumph of popular eloquence could be habitual, much less constant, it may
be safely affirmed that a large proportion of Mr. Toller's discourses
afforded some indications of these powers." The following is Mr. Hall's
description of the effect of two sermons preached in his hearing by this
eminent man.
"It was about this period (1796) that my acquaintance
with him commenced. I had known him previously, and occasionally heard him;
but it was at a season when I was not qualified to form a correct estimate
of his talents. At the time referred to, we were engaged to preach a double
lecture; and never shall I forget the surprise and pleasure with which I
listened to an expository discourse, from 1 Peter 2. The richness, the
unction, the simple majesty which pervaded his address, produced a sensation
which I never felt before—it gave me a new view of the Christian ministry.
But the effect, powerful as it was, was not to be compared with that which I
experienced on hearing him preach later at Bedford. The text which he
selected was peculiarly solemn and impressive his discourse was founded on 2
Peter 1:13-15, 'Yes, I think it proper, as long as I am in this tabernacle,
to stir you up, by putting you in remembrance; knowing that shortly I must
put off this my tabernacle,' etc. The effect of this discourse on the
audience was such as I have never witnessed before, or since. It was
undoubtedly very much aided by the peculiar circumstances of the speaker,
who was judged to be far advanced in a deadly illness, and who seemed to
speak under the impression of its being the last time he would address his
brethren on such an occasion. The aspect of the preacher, pale, emaciated,
standing apparently on the verge of eternity, the simplicity and majesty of
his sentiments, the sepulchral solemnity of a voice which seemed to issue
from the shadows, combined with the intrinsic dignity of the subject,
perfectly quelled the audience with tenderness and terror, and produced such
a scene of audible weeping as was perhaps never surpassed. All other
emotions were absorbed in devotional feeling—it seemed to us as though we
were permitted for a short space to look into eternity, and every sublunary
object vanished before 'the powers of the world to come.'
Yet there was no considerable exertion, no vehemence, no
splendid imagery, no magnificent description; it was the simple declaration
of truth, of truth indeed of infinite consequence, borne in upon the heart
by a mind intensely alive to its reality and grandeur. Criticism was
disarmed; the hearer felt himself elevated to a region which criticism could
not penetrate; all was powerless submission to the master-spirit of the
scene. It will be always considered by those who witnessed it, as affording
as high a specimen as can be conceived, of the power of a preacher over his
audience, the habitual or even frequent recurrence of which would create an
epoch in the religious history of the world."
This description, even though some allowance should be
made for the eloquence of friendship, is replete with instruction to our
rising ministers. They may learn the vast importance of the manner in which
a sermon is delivered, as well as the matter of which it is composed. Nor is
this the only lesson, nor perhaps the most valuable one, to be learned from
this short but precious piece of pastoral biography; for we gather what it
is that, to minds of the highest order, such as Mr. Hall's, constitutes the
nearest approach to perfect pulpit eloquence, and to which even such
commanding intellects yield themselves up with willing submission; not the
'artificial elaboration' of men intent upon producing a great sermon; not
the 'bombastic sermon' or 'splendid imagery' sought with ambitious eagerness
by those who aim to shine; not the cold, abstract, philosophical reasoning
of an academic professor—but the simplicity and earnestness which aim to
instruct the judgment, to awaken the conscience, and to affect the heart.
All great minds love simplicity and detest affectation
and pretense. This was especially the case with Mr. Hall. His censure of the
mental quality most opposed to earnestness, amounted sometimes to eloquent
extravagance and burlesque—and his sarcasms were not infrequently tinged
with uncharitable bitterness. As his admiration of simplicity was
occasionally expressed in somewhat exaggerated panegyric. The ambition of a
preacher whose aim is usefulness might well be gratified by a remark which
he once made after hearing a sermon, "I should not wonder if a hundred souls
were converted tonight?"
These are only a few out of innumerable instances which
could be adduced to prove the vast importance which attaches to an effective
delivery. Far greater numbers of our preachers fail for lack of this, than
from any other cause; and the fact is so notorious as to need no proof
beyond common observation, and so impressive as to demand the attention, not
only of the professors—but the committees, of all our colleges. It is too
generally the case that adequate culture is not bestowed upon the speaking
powers of our students, from the beginning to the end of their course of
study. There is great assiduity manifested in securing them fullness of
matter—but far too little in giving them impressiveness of manner.
Assistance is granted to make them scholars, philosophers, and divines; but
as to becoming good speakers, they are, I fear, left pretty much to
themselves. No, it is not even inculcated upon them, with the emphasis it
should be, to try to make themselves such. A complete system of pastoral
education naturally includes great attention to elocution; and this should
commence as soon as a student enters college, so that by the time he is put
upon the preaching list, he may have some aptitude for the management of his
voice, and not have his thoughts diverted then from his matter and his
object, to his manner. He should by that time have acquired the habit of
speaking well, so as to be able to practice it with facility, and without
study.
The great objection to lectures on elocution is, that
they are apt to produce a pompous, stiff, and affected manner; but this is
an abuse of the art; its object should be to cure the vices of a bad, and to
supply the lacks of a defective enunciation, and to form an easy, natural,
and impressive delivery. When will preachers learn that preaching is but
talking in a louder tone, and with a little more emphasis of manner? Why
affect a preaching or a praying tone, a method of speaking peculiar to the
pulpit? A conversational manner, occasionally elevated, animated, and
energetic, as impassioned passages and feeling may require, is what we want.
There are some men who are good talkers out of the pulpit, yet bad speakers
in it. How much more acceptable would they be, if they would carry their
easy, natural manner of conversation with them into the sacred desk!
I entirely concur therefore with Dr. Vaughan, in his
important and impressive remark, "that let our students fail in the matter
of a good elocution, and so far as regards their ministry among Protestant
Dissenters, it will matter little in what else they may succeed." This is
sustained by a reference to the great number we observe, who, though soundly
orthodox in sentiment, possessed of large acquirements in scholarship and
philosophy, partaking of undoubted piety, and desirous of doing good, yet
make no way, can with difficulty procure a charge, and are filled perhaps
with wonder, that men very much their inferiors in natural talent and
literary acquirement, are every where followed, while they are every where
neglected. The problem is easily solved, the mystery soon explained; these
inferior men, by their earnest, animated manner, make their more slender
abilities tell more upon the popular mind, heart, and conscience, than do
the heartless dissertations and elaborate essays of dull scholars, frigid
philosophers; and bad speakers, though possessed of useless stores of
knowledge.
It should, however, be remarked, that there is nothing
more likely to be mistaken than animation in the pulpit. There are many
young ministers, who, being aware of the importance of a graceful and
effective elocution, take no small pains to acquire it, by studying and
practicing the most approved rules of the art. But it is not this alone for
which we contend; for as the lessons of the dancing master produce only
stiff and formal action, where there is no natural ease and elegance, so the
teacher of elocution can do little to form an earnest and energetic speaker,
where there is no living source of animation in the soul. It is not a
pompous, swelling style of speaking that constitutes the excellence of an
orator; not "the start and stare theatric," not modulations of the voice
that sound as if the speaker were regulating tones and cadences by the
fugleman motions of a teacher standing before him; but the impassioned
vivacity of one who feels intensely his subject, and speaks under the
influence of strong emotion, as one determined to make others feel. The
secret of animation, and the source of earnestness, lie, as I have said, in
an intense feeling of the subject of discourse; in a mind deeply impressed,
and a heart warmed, with the theme discussed. All men are in earnest when
they feel. Hence the anecdote of the pleader, who was so disgusted with a
client's cold manner of stating her case, as to tell her that he did not
credit her tale. Stung by this reflection upon her veracity, and this
disbelief of her grievance, she rose into strong emotion, and affirmed with
expressive vehemence the truth of the story. "Now," said he, "I believe
you."
The hackneyed but valuable precept of the old poet
remains, and ever will remain, as true as when first uttered, "Weep
yourself, if you wish me to weep." Sympathy is the speaker's most
powerful auxiliary—there is nothing so contagious as strong emotion. We
have most of us, perhaps, seen a large portion of a congregation brought to
tears by the pathetic and faltering tones, the tremulous lips, and suffused
eyes of the preacher. But then it must be sincere, and not simulated
emotion, must be excited by a subject worthy of it, and must be shown when
the people's minds are prepared to sympathize with it. It is well said there
is only a step between the sublime and the ridiculous; and the same remark
may be applied to the pathetic, it may degenerate into mere puking.
Genuine emotion is the charm of all speaking upon moral and religious
subjects, and in the absence of it, the most measured and stately
elocution, whatever pleasure it may impart to the ear, will have little
power to affect the heart. We have sometimes listened to lofty and well
composed music, to an overture for instance, which we could not but admire;
but it was still cold admiration, for the whole piece had not a note of
passion from beginning to end; but some simple melody followed it, which by
the pathos of its notes or the power of its associations touched every chord
in our hearts, and raised in us a tumult of emotion. Thus it is with
different preachers, we listen to one, whose excellent composition, and
sonorous, perhaps even musical voice, command our admiration; but not a
passion stirs, all within is cold, quiet, and without emotion, his speaking
is good—but it does not move us—while another has perhaps less talent,
indeed less oratory in one sense—but has tones, looks, and manner all full
of earnest feeling, and every word of his coming from his heart, awakens by
sympathy a correspondent state of feeling in our hearts. Who is likely to be
moved by hearing a man discuss the most solemn realities of eternal truth,
such as the danger and doom of impenitent sinners, the glories of heaven,
and the torments of hell, with as much coolness, and with as little emotion
as a lecturer on science would exhibit when dwelling on the facts of natural
history? Is it probable there can be any earnestness in the hearers, when
there is none in the preacher?
"How is it," said a minister to an actor, "that your
performances, which are but pictures of the imagination, produce so much
more effect than our sermons, which are all realities?" "Because," said the
actor, "we represent fictions as though they were realities, and you preach
realities as though they were fictions." It is difficult to believe that
a dull, cold, statue-like preacher, whose passionless monotony is a mental
opiate for his hearers, can himself credit the message he is delivering.
What, that man who never elevates or depresses his voice from one given
pitch of soporific dullness, whose tone never falters, whose eye never
glistens, whose hand never moves, who speaks as if he was afraid of
awakening the slumberers whom his "drowsy tinklings" have lulled to sleep,
he feel the weight of souls; he in earnest for their salvation; he
endeavoring to pluck them as brands from the burning! Who will credit it? It
is true he may have no great compass of voice, and a naturally phlegmatic
mind, with great deficiency in the natural powers of oratory; but place him
by the side of a river where he has seen a fellow-creature fall into the
water, and let him throw a plank or a rope to aid the drowning man to
escape, will he not have power of voice, and of animated tones, and of
persuasive earnestness then, as he directs the object of his solicitude to
the means of deliverance? Will he not rise out of his monotony there? Will
he not make himself heard and felt there?
By an earnest manner, then, is meant, the method of
delivery produced by a deep and feeling sense of the importance of our
message. We are to persuade, to entreat, to beseech; and these modes of
speech have an utterance of their own. What must Paul's manner have
been, how impassioned and impressive, when he made Felix tremble, and Festus
exclaim, "You are beside yourself, much learning does make you mad!" But
even the sublime and solemn truths of revelation, if they do not press upon
the heart of the preacher, and command and possess it, will be but coldly
handled and feebly discussed. It is only when the love of Christ constrains
us, and bears us away as with the force of a torrent, that we shall speak
with a manner befitting our great theme. If we are not intensely real, we
shall be but indifferent preachers.
This shows us the vast importance of our living under
the powerful impression of the truths we preach. We cannot, like the
actor, have a stage dress and character to put on for the occasion, and to
put off when the curtain drops. There may indeed be an 'artificial
earnestness' excited by the sound of our own voice, and by the solemnities
of public worship; but this will usually be fitful, feeble, pretend, and
very different from that burning ardor which is the result of eminent piety,
and which imparts its own intensity of emotion to the words and tones of the
speaker. It was the patriotism of Demosthenes that communicated the fire to
his eloquence—he loved his country, and trembling for the ruin that Philip
was bringing upon the liberties of Greece, he poured forth his
lightning-words in tones of thunder. His diatribes were a torrent of the
strongest emotion, bursting from his heart, though guided in its course by
the established rules of eloquence. He could never have spoken as he did,
had not the designs of the Macedonian and the dangers of Greece, wrung his
soul with anguish.
So must it be with us, our animation must be the
earnestness, not of rhetoric—but of godliness; not of art—but of renewed
nature; and designed not to astound—but to convince and move; a manner
studied and intended not to attract a crowd, and to excite applause—but to
save the souls of men from eternal death! For this purpose whatever means we
employ and whatever rules we lay down, to cure the vices of a bad elocution,
and to acquire the advantages of a graceful one, (and such an aim is quite
lawful,) we must ever remember that the basis of a powerful and effective
pulpit oratory will be deep and fervent piety; and in the absence of
godliness, the most commanding gift of public speaking will be but as
"sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal."
Dr. Cotton Mather, in his invaluable work, now nearly
forgotten, entitled, "The Student and Preacher," in speaking on this
subject, remarks—"It is a pity but a well prepared sermon should be a well
pronounced one. Wherefore avoid forever all inanes and all indecencies;
everything that is ridiculous. Be sure to speak deliberately. Strike the
accent always upon the word in the sentence it properly belongs unto. A tone
that shall have no regard to this is very injudicious, and will make you
talk too much in the clouds. Do not begin too high. Ever conclude with
vigor. If you must have your notes before you in your preaching, and it be
needful for you, let there be with you a distinction between the neat using
of notes, and the dull reading of them. Keep up the air and life of
speaking, and put not off your hearers with a heavy reading to them. How can
you demand of them to remember much of what you bring to them, when you
remember nothing of it yourself? Besides by reading all you say, you will so
cramp and stunt all ability for speaking, that you will be unable to make an
acceptable speech on any occasion. What I therefore advise you to is, let
your notes be little more than a guide, on which you may cast your eye now
and then, to see what arrow is to be next fetched from thence; and then with
your eye as much as may be on them whom you speak to, let it be shot away
with a vivacity becoming one in earnest for to have the truths well
entertained by the auditory. Finally let your conclusions be lively
expostulations with the conscience of the hearer; appeals made and questions
put unto the conscience, and consignments of the work over into the hands of
that flaming preacher in the bosom of the hearer. In such flames you may do
wondrously."
Pity that Dr. Mather had not gone a little farther than
this, and affectionately advised his younger brethren in the ministry to
begin their career without any notes at all in the pulpit; advice still more
necessary in this day, as there seems a rising inclination to adopt the
practice of reading. Nothing can be conceived of more likely to repress
earnestness, and to hinder our usefulness, than this method becoming
general. True it is that some preachers may rise up, who, like a few living
examples, may, in despite of this practice, attain to eminence, honor, and
usefulness, such as rarely fall to the lot of ministers in any denomination;
but this will not be the case with the greater number, who not having
commanding intellect to lift them above the disadvantage of this habit, will
find few churches willing to accept their dullness, for the sake of the
accuracy with which it is expressed. And who can tell us how much greater
our greatest men would be, if they delivered their sermons without their
notes? Think of Whitfield, Hall, Parsons, reading their sermons. What a
restraint upon their noble intellects and their gushing hearts!
Where is reading tolerated but in the pulpit? Not on the
stage, nor at the bar, nor in the senate. It is conceded that we lose
something of precision and accuracy by spoken discourses, as compared
with those that are read—but is not this more than made up by what we gain
in ease and impression? The aid borrowed from the expressions of the
countenance and graceful action is lost by him who slavishly reads; the link
of sympathy between his soul and those of his audience is weakened; the
lightnings of his eloquence flash less vividly, and its thunders roll less
grandly through this obstruction. Perhaps even those who do read are aware
of the disadvantages of the habit, and would say to their younger brethren,
whose habits are not yet formed, avoid if you can, the practice of reading
your discourses. There are however occasions, when from the nature and
extent of the subject, this practice is not only allowable—but necessary.
In connection with the subject of preaching, I may
consider, with propriety,