Though announced to lecture on Platform Experiences, it is my purpose
to give you a kind of platform analysis, to tell you what I know about
lecturing, lectures, oratory and orators, using personal experiences
for illustration.
We have about eight thousand Chautauqua days, and fifteen thousand
lecture courses in this country every year, and yet comparatively few
persons know the history of the platform. Many have an idea that free
speech, like free air, has ever been a boon to mankind. They have no
conception of what it has cost, in imprisonment, exile, blood and
tears.
I am indebted to "Pond's History of the Platform" for facts and
illustrations in the early history of the platform in England. Two
hundred years ago in our mother land, the word platform meant no more
than a resting place for boxes and barrels. A religious service was
simply a routine of ritual, while such a thing as a public man
addressing the masses was unknown. Sir William Pitt, one of England's
greatest statesman and orators, in all his public life uttered only
two sentences to the public outside of Parliament. If William Jennings
Bryan had lived in Pitt's day, he would have been ignored by the Prime
Minister of England.
The first leaders of thought to come in contact with the people and
thrill them by the power of speech were John Wesley and George
Whitefield. "On a mount called Rose Hill, near Bristol, England,
George Whitefield laid the foundation of the modern platform." From
Rose Hill his audiences grew until on Kensington Commons thirty
thousand people tried to get within reach of his captivating voice. It
has been truthfully said: "At the feet of John Wesley and George
Whitefield the people of England learned their first lessons in
popular government."
This innovation, however, met with sneers, jeers and persecution from
the established conservatism of church and state, and when the
platform attempted to enter the arena of politics, Parliament decided
the "public clamor must end." A bill was framed forbidding any public
gatherings except such as should be called by the magistrates.
In advocating this bill a member of Parliament said: "The art of
political discussion does not belong outside of Parliament. Men who
are simply merchants, mechanics and farmers must not be allowed to
publicly criticise the constitution." To this the platform made reply:
"From such as we the Master selected those who were to sow the seed of
living bread in the wilds of Galilee." The bill passed by an
overwhelming majority. Punishment ran from fine and imprisonment to
years of exile from the country, and from this time on, the battle
raged between Parliament and platform. Later on we shall note the
results.
I am often interviewed by men, and sometimes by women, who desire to
reach the platform. They say to me: "What steps did you take?"
My answer is, I never took any; I stumbled, was picked up by
circumstances and pitched upon the platform.
At a picnic in a grove near Winchester, Ky., in 1869, a noted
temperance orator was to give an address. He failed to reach the grove
on time, and I was prevailed upon to act as time-killer until his
arrival. I was not entirely without experience, having belonged to a
debating society in a country school.
When I had spoken about thirty minutes, to my great relief, the orator
of the day made his appearance. The flattering comments upon my talk
induced me to accept other invitations to address temperance meetings,
and before I knew what had happened, the platform was under my feet,
calls were numerous and my life work was established. I suppose those
who consult me are encouraged to know a mere stumble directed my
course, and if so, by purpose and preparation they can surely succeed.
Some persons seem to think lecturing a very simple occupation,
requiring only a glib tongue, and a good pair of lungs. Several years
ago, I received a letter from a young man in which he wrote: "I heard
you lecture last week. I would like to become a lecturer myself. I
have no experience and very little education, but I have a very strong
voice and am sure I could be heard by a large audience. I have been
working in a horse-barn but am now out of a job. If I had a lecture, I
think I could make a living; besides I would get to see the country.
If you will write me one I will send you two dollars." I do not know
whether the young man gauged the price by the estimate of the lecture
he had heard me give, or his monetary condition, but if audacity is a
requisite for the platform, this young man was not entirely without
qualification.
This is an extreme case, and yet there are those whose minds are
storehouses of knowledge, who can no more become popular platform
speakers, than could the young man, who was ready to set sail on the
sea of oratory, with a lusty pair of lungs and a two dollar lecture.
Charles Spurgeon, the great London preacher, said: "I have never yet
learned the art of lecturing. If you have ever seen a goose fly, you
have seen Spurgeon trying to lecture."
Mr. Spurgeon called lecturing an art, and why not? If the hand that
paints a picture true to life and pleasing to the eye, is the hand of
an artist, why is not the tongue that paints a picture true to life
and pleasing to the mind's eye the tongue of an artist?
It is an art to know how to get hold of an audience. There was an
occasion in my experience when I had extreme necessity for the use of
this art. When President Cleveland wrote his Venezuela message in
which he threatened war with England, the threat was published in
Toronto, Canada, on Saturday and I was announced to lecture in the
large pavilion on Sunday afternoon.
The message of President Cleveland had aroused the patriotic spirit of
Canada. The hall was packed. It seemed to me I could see frost upon
the eyebrows of every man and icicles in the ears of the women.
When introduced there was a painful silence. I began by saying:
"Doubtless many of you have come to hear what an American has to say
about Venezuela. I must admit I am not acquainted with the merits of
the question. I suppose, however, the message of our President is one
of the arts of diplomacy. But I do know I speak the sentiment of the
best people of my country when I say: 'May the day never dawn whose
peace will be broken by signal guns of war between Great Britain and
the United States.'" I said:
"When John and Jonathan forget,
The scar of anger's wound to fret,
And smile to think of an ancient feud,
Which the God of nations turned to good;
Then John and Jonathan will be,
Abiding friends, o'er land and sea;
In their one great purpose, the world will ken,
Peace on earth, goodwill to men."
The great audience arose and cheered until all sense of chill had
departed.
It is not only an art to get hold of an audience, but equally a matter
of good taste to know when to let go. This is a qualification some
have not acquired. I followed a very distinguished man several years
ago and the comment was: "He was fine the first hour and a half, but
the last hour he grew tiresome."
In this busy age, the world wants thoughts packed into small compass.
The average audience wants a preacher to put his best thoughts into a
thirty-minute package. The day was, when people would sit on backless
board benches and listen to a sermon of two hours; now they won't
swing in a hammock and endure one of more than fifty minutes.
Rev. Dr. Dewey, of Brooklyn, New York, tells of a minister who was
given to reading his sermons. On one occasion when he had read about
twenty minutes, he halted and said: "I have a young dog at my house
that is given to chewing paper. I find he has mutilated my manuscript,
which is my excuse for this short sermon." A visiting lady after
service said: "Doctor, have you any more of the breed of that dog? I
would like to get one for our pastor."
In this age of crowded moments concentration means executation; energy
means success. If you can't put fire into your sermon, put your sermon
in the fire.
A few years ago when in New York City, I went to see Madame Bernhardt
in her famous play, Joan of Arc. She spoke in French, an unknown
tongue to me; but when she came to her defense before the court, I
realized as never before the power of speech and action. She had given
one-fourth of that marvelous appeal, when the great audience arose and
began to cheer. Madame Bernhardt folded her arms, bowed her head and
waited for silence.
When order was restored she sprang a step forward. It seemed to me
every feature of her face, every finger on her hands, every gleam of
eye and movement of body was an appeal to the stern tribunal. In the
trembling, murmuring voice that ran like a strain of sad, sweet music
through sunless gorges of grief, the great audience read her plea for
mercy and wept. Some who could not restrain their emotion sobbed
aloud.
When from the depths of solemn sound that same voice arose like the
swell of a silver trumpet, and in clarion tones demanded justice,
cheer after cheer testified to the power of the orator actress. Never
was there a sob of the sea more mournful, than the voice of Sarah
Bernhardt as she played upon the harp strings of pity; and never did
words rush in greater storm fury from human lips, than when she
demanded justice. No stop nor note nor pedal nor key in the organ of
speech was left untouched by this genius in tragic art.
It would be well if every public speaker could hear Sarah Bernhardt
give that defense of the Maid of Orleans. Indeed I believe if the
forensic eloquence of the stage could be transferred to the pulpit
greater audiences and greater rewards would follow. If you doubt this,
go read the sermons of George Whitefield or the lectures of John B.
Gough and you will wonder at their success unless you take into
consideration their mysterious power of delivery.
I cannot give you one sentence Madame Bernhardt uttered, but I do know
the influence of that address remains with me to this day and now and
then I find myself reaching out after the secret of oratory. "It is
not so much what you say as how you say it," has become a proverb.
Some years ago I lectured in an Iowa village on a bitter cold evening.
The rear of the hall was up on posts. When introduced there was only
one inch between my shoe soles and zero, while a cold wind from a
broken window struck the back of my head. It occurred to me that if I
would play Bernhardt I might save a spell of pneumonia.
In a few moments I was pacing the platform, swinging my arms and
stamping my feet to keep up circulation. I put all the intensity,
activity and personality possible into one hour and left the platform.
Returning to the hotel a commercial traveler who had heard me a number
of times said: "I congratulate you; you get younger. I never heard you
put so much life into your lecture."