I have never heard but one essentially perfect orator--one who satisfied
those depths of the emotional nature that in most cases go through
life quite untouch'd, unfed--who held every hearer by spells which no
conventionalist, high or low--nor any pride or composure, nor resistance
of intellect--could stand against for ten minutes.
And by the way, is it not strange, of this first-class genius in the
rarest and most profound of humanity's arts, that it will be necessary,
(so nearly forgotten and rubb'd out is his name by the rushing whirl of
the last twenty-five years,) to first inform current readers that he was
an orthodox minister, of no particular celebrity, who during a long life
preach'd especially to Yankee sailors in an old fourth-class church down
by the wharves in Boston--had practically been a seafaring man through
his earlier years--and died April 6, 1871, "just as the tide turn'd,
going out with the ebb as an old salt should"? His name is now
comparatively unknown, outside of Boston--and even there, (though
Dickens, Mr. Jameson, Dr. Bartol and Bishop Haven have commemorated
him,) is mostly but a reminiscence.
During my visits to "the Hub," in 1859 and '60 I several times saw and
heard Father Taylor. In the spring or autumn, quiet Sunday forenoons, I
liked to go down early to the quaint ship-cabin-looking church where the
old man minister'd--to enter and leisurely scan the building, the low
ceiling, everything strongly timber'd (polish'd and rubb'd apparently,)
the dark rich colors, the gallery, all in half-light--and smell the
aroma of old wood--to watch the auditors, sailors, mates, "matlows,"
officers, singly or in groups, as they came in--their physiognomies,
forms, dress, gait, as they walk'd along the aisles--their postures,
seating themselves in the rude, roomy, undoor'd, uncushion'd pews--and
the evident effect upon them of the place, occasion, and atmosphere.
The pulpit, rising ten or twelve feet high, against the rear wall, was
back' d by a significant mural painting, in oil--showing out its bold
lines and strong hues through the subdued light of the building--of a
stormy sea, the waves high-rolling, and amid them an old-style ship,
all bent over, driving through the gale, and in great peril--a vivid
and effectual piece of limning, not meant for the criticism of artists
(though I think it had merit even from that standpoint,) but for its
effect upon the congregation, and what it would convey to them.
Father Taylor was a moderate-sized man, indeed almost small, (reminded
me of old Booth, the great actor, and my favorite of those and preceding
days,) well advanced in years, but alert, with mild blue or gray eyes,
and good presence and voice. Soon as he open'd his mouth I ceas'd to pay
any attention to church or audience, or pictures or lights and shades;
a far more potent charm entirely sway'd me. In the course of the sermon,
(there was no sign of any MS., or reading from notes,) some of the parts
would be in the highest degree majestic and picturesque. Colloquial in a
severe sense, it often lean'd to Biblical and Oriental forms. Especially
were all allusions to ships and the ocean and sailors' lives, of
unrival'd power and life-likeness.
Sometimes there were passages of fine language and composition, even
from the purist's point of view. A few arguments, and of the best, but
always brief and simple. One realized what grip there might have been in
such words-of-mouth talk as that of Socrates and Epictetus. In the main,
I should say, of any of these discourses, that the old Demosthenean rule
and requirement of "action, action, action," first in its inward and
then (very moderate and restrain'd) its outward sense, was the quality
that had leading fulfilment.
I remember I felt the deepest impression from the old man's prayers,
which invariably affected me to tears. Never, on similar or any other
occasions, have I heard such impassion'd pleading--such human-harassing
reproach (like Hamlet to his mother, in the closet)--such probing to
the very depths of that latent conscience and remorse which probably lie
somewhere in the background of every life, every soul. For when Father
Taylor preach'd or pray'd, the rhetoric and art, the mere words, (which
usually play such a big part) seem'd altogether to disappear, and the
_live feeling_ advanced upon you and seiz'd you with a power before
unknown. Everybody felt this marvellous and awful influence. One young
sailor, a Rhode Islander, (who came every Sunday, and I got acquainted
with, and talk'd to once or twice as we went away,) told me, "that must
be the Holy Ghost we read of in the Testament."
I should be at a loss to make any comparison with other preachers or
public speakers. When a child I had heard Elias Hicks--and Father Taylor
(though so different in personal appearance, for Elias was of tall and
most shapely form, with black eyes that blazed at times like meteors,)
always reminded me of him. Both had the same inner, apparently
inexhaustible, fund of latent volcanic passion--the same tenderness,
blended with a curious remorseless firmness, as of some surgeon
operating on a belov'd patient. Hearing such men sends to the winds all
the books, and formulas, and polish'd speaking, and rules of oratory.
Talking of oratory, why is it that the unsophisticated practices often
strike deeper than the train'd ones? Why do our experiences perhaps of
some local country exhorter--or often in the West or South at political
meetings--bring the most definite results? In my time I have heard
Webster, Clay, Edward Everett, Phillips, and such _célébrès_ yet I
recall the minor but life-eloquence of men like John P. Hale, Cassius
Clay, and one or two of the old abolition "fanatics" ahead of all those
stereotyped fames. Is not--I sometimes question--the first, last, and
most important quality of all, in training for a "finish'd speaker,"
generally unsought, unreck'd of, both by teacher and pupil? Though
may-be it cannot be taught, anyhow. At any rate, we need to clearly
understand the distinction between oratory and elocution. Under the
latter art, including some of high order, there is indeed no scarcity in
the United States, preachers, lawyers, actors, lecturers, &c. With all,
there seem to be few real orators--almost none.
I repeat, and would dwell upon it (more as suggestion than mere
fact)--among all the brilliant lights of bar or stage I have heard in
my time (for years in New York and other cities I haunted the courts
to witness notable trials, and have heard all the famous actors and
actresses that have been in America the past fifty years) though
I recall marvellous effects from one or other of them, I never had
anything in the way of vocal utterance to shake me through and through,
and become fix'd, with its accompaniments, in my memory, like those
prayers and sermons--like Father Taylor's personal electricity and the
whole scene there--the prone ship in the gale, and dashing wave and foam
for background--in the little old sea-church in Boston, those summer
Sundays just before the secession war broke out.