either side of the proposition you announce, and accept or reject it
by a process of unconscious mental cerebration.
The most successful speech of to-day would be one of Emerson's essays
rearranged in logical order--if such a thing were possible. Therefore,
in matter, the statement is the form of address now most effective.
Recall the opinion of Senator McDonald--the greatest natural lawyer I
ever knew--that the best argument in a case always is the statement of
the case.
In form, the sentences should be short; in language, the words should
be as largely as possible Anglo-Saxon. These are the words of the
people you address, therefore they are most influential with them.
Also, therefore, your best method of getting Anglo-Saxon is to mingle
with and talk with the common people. The next best method is to read
the Bible, the King James translation of which is undoubtedly the
purest fountain of English that flows in all the world of our
literature.
What nonsense the repeated statement that public speaking has had its
day, that the newspaper has taken its place, and all the rest of that
kind of talk. Public speaking will never decline until men cease to
have ears to hear. How hard it is to read a speech; how delightful to
listen!
Speaking is Nature's choicest method of instruction.
It begins with mother to child; it continues with teacher to pupil; it
continues still in lecturer or professor to his student (for the
universities are all going back to the old oral method of
instruction); and it still continues in all the forms of effective
human communication.
The newspapers are a marvelous influence, but they are not
everything, and they do not supply everything. For example, it is
commonly supposed that they, absolutely and exclusively, mold and
control public opinion. But they do not. When all has been said, the
most powerful public opinion, after all, is that from-mouth-to-mouth
public opinion--that living, moving opinion--which spreads from
neighbor to neighbor, and has fused into it the vitality of the
personality of nearly every man--yes, and woman; don't forget that--in
the whole community.
And the philosophy which underlies this is what makes public speaking
immortal. The Master understood this very well, and that is why He
chose to speak by word of mouth rather than by writing epistles. The
Saviour never wrote a single epistle--no, not even a single word. He
_spoke_ His message.
Think of a gospel announced to the world in cold type! Absurd, is it
not? It may be repeated in that form, but its initial power must come
from the spoken word and vital personality of its author. But Christ's
addresses were not "extemporaneous." All His life He had been
preparing His few sermons--lessons.
The great speakers to whom I have listened have confirmed certain
conclusions upon the subject of speaking at which I arrived while in
college. It seemed to me that the college method of speaking was wrong
because it was irrational--that the studied gestures, the "cultivated"
voice, the staccato impressiveness, were all artificial devices to
attract the attention of an audience to these things, instead of to
the thought of the address.
Analysis of the problem convinced me that an audience is only a larger
person--a great collective individuality--and therefore that whatever,
in manner and matter, will please, persuade, and convince a person,
will have the same effect upon an audience. Hence one readily deduces
that a simple, quiet, but direct, earnest address; a straightforward,
unartificial honest manner, without tricks of oratory, is the most
effective method of lodging truth in the minds of one's hearers.
Any affectation, any mannerism, detracts from the thought because it
calls the attention of the listener to the mannerism or affectation,
when his whole attention should be monopolized by the thought. Read
Herbert Spencer on the "Philosophy of Style," and apply his reasoning
to the delivery of an address, and you have the rationale of the art
of speaking, as well as of speech, put with that wonderful thinker's
unerringness.
The method commonly employed in preparing speeches is incorrect. That
method is, to read all the books one can get on the subject, take all
the opinions that can be procured, make exhaustive notes, and then
write the speech.
Such a speech is nothing but a compilation. It is merely an
arrangement of second-hand thoughts and observations and of other
people's ideas. It never has the power of living and original
thinking.
The true way is to take the elements of the problem in hand, and,
without consulting a book or an opinion, reason out from these very
elements of the problem itself your solution of it, and then prepare
your speech.
After this, read, read, read--read comprehensively, omnivorously, in
order to see whether your solution was not exploded a hundred years
ago--aye, a thousand--and, if it was not, to fortify and make accurate
your own thought. Read Matthew Arnold on "Literature and Dogma," and
you will discover why it is necessary for you to read exhaustively on
any subject about which you would think or write or speak.
But, as you value your independence of mind--yes, even your vigor of
mind--do not read other men's opinions upon the subject before you
have clearly thought out your own conclusions from the premises of the
elemental facts.
As to style, seek only to be clear. Nothing else is important. Never
try to be elegant or striking.
Consider the method of the Saviour in His addresses to the people.
Next to Him, those perfect specimens of the art of putting things are
the speeches and epistles of St. Paul. I know of nothing in literature
so clear, convincing, and logical.
The words of the Master astonish one with their absolute unity with
all the rules of effective address.
Especially His method of driving home a truth by repeating it, and
that, too, in exactly the same words, is noticeable and very
effective. He did not fear that He would be tiresome; He was concerned
only in being clear. Take the following examples--Matthew vii:
24. Therefore, whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and
doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his
house upon a rock:
25. And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the
winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it
was founded upon a rock.
26. And every one that _heareth these sayings of mine, and
doeth them_ not, shall be _likened unto a_ foolish _man, which
built his house upon_ the sand:
27. _And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the
winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell:_ and great
was the fall of it.
Or study this--Matthew v:
29. And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it
from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy
members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be
cast into hell.
30. _And if thy right_ hand _offend thee_, cut _it_ off, _and
cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of
thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should
be cast into hell_.
Or this--Matthew xxv:
34. Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come,
ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you
from the foundation of the world:
35. For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty,
and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:
36. Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I
was in prison, and ye came unto me.
37. Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when
saw we _thee an hungered, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave
thee drink_?
38. When saw we thee _a stranger, and took thee in? or naked,
and clothed thee_?
39. Or when saw we thee _sick, or in prison, and came unto
thee_?
40. And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say
unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of
these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.
41. Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, Depart
from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the
devil and his angels:
42. For _I was an hungered, and ye gave me_ no _meat: I was
thirsty, and ye gave me_ no _drink_:
43. _I was a stranger, and ye took me_ not _in: naked, and ye
clothed me_ not: _sick, and in prison, and ye visited me_ not.
44. Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we
thee _an hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or
sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?_
45. _Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you,
Inasmuch as ye did it_ not _to one of the least of these, ye
did it_ not _to me_.
_Observe the exact repetition of entire sentences._ Consider Antony's
funeral oration over the dead body of Cæsar, and note the same mastery
of the art of repetition.
But, like all powerful weapons, it is dangerous to one who is not a
natural speaker. It might easily be fatal, for remember that we are
advised to "use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do, for they
think that they shall be heard for their much speaking."
Do not be epigrammatic. Never "coin a phrase." Never make a sentence
for the purpose of having the newspaper quote it next day. Usually
such sentences are not quoted. Even if they are, these artificial
arrangements of words never live. The reason is that they _are_
artificial--they do not have the vitality of sincerity. Let your
striking expressions come naturally as the climax and flowering of
your thought. Then they will live. They will live because they will be
truthful--natural. Nothing but the sincere endures.
In political speaking, seldom be harsh, seldom denounce, seldom "pour
hot shot into the enemy" as our newspaper head-liners put it. Men in
other parties are not your enemies or the country's--they are fellow
Americans to whom you are trying to show the truth as you see it. I
like to believe that all Americans are patriots, inspired by sincere
concern for the common good and the welfare of the Republic.
There is nothing in denunciation--nothing in abuse--nothing but bad
taste. "There is no particular argument in slander," exclaimed
Ingersoll in one of our fervid campaigns. The man who "pours hot shot
into the enemy" is using an obsolete method. Don't you use it, young
man. _You_ be reasonable, considerate, earnest only to show your
hearer that you are in the right. This rule is unvarying except, of
course, when great crises occur, when treason is afoot, the Nation's
honor in danger, and the like. But such seasons of peril are rare.
In all speaking be moderate in statement. Over statement is very
dangerous; under statement subtly powerful. Moderation! I know but two
words so potent--honor and industry. Honor, industry, moderation! What
can prevail against this trinity! And in young men moderation is
peculiarly beautiful.
I doubt if any man can be a great speaker who does not have in him the
religious element. I do not mean that he shall be good (one may be
good and not religious, or religious and not be good, as any professor
of mental and moral philosophy will tell you), but that he shall have
in him that mysticism, that elemental and instinctive conviction of
the higher power and its providence, which makes him in sympathy with
the great mass of humanity. I think Ingersoll had this element in him,
notwithstanding his attacks upon religion.
Emerson has pointed out that the great speaker--yes, and the great
man--is he who best interprets the common feeling and tendency of the
masses.
Very well; the profoundest feeling among the masses, the most
influential element in their character, is the religious element. It
is as instinctive and elemental as the law of self-preservation. It
informs the whole intellect and personality of the people.
Therefore he who would greatly influence the people by uttering their
unformed thought must have this great invisible and unanalyzable bond
of sympathy with them. I will let your preacher work this out more
elaborately for you.
One word more; and to this word listen and hearken and bind it on the
tablets of your understanding.
Insincerity cuts the heart out of all oratory.
You may marshal your arguments and concoct your pretty devices of
words, and work yourself into a great heat in the speaking of them;
but if you do not believe what you say you are only a play-actor after
all--a poor mummer reciting your own lines.
You had far better be a professional actor; that will, at least,
insure you excellent lines to declaim. The dramatic profession is
devoted to the interpretation of art in one of its highest forms. A
true actor is a true artist--painter and sculptor no more so.
If Polus stands on a lower pedestal than Praxiteles in mankind's
esteem it is because his genius was not so brilliant and not because
the art of acting is less noble than that of sculpture. Talma was more
eminent than David. Bernhardt is as noted and notable as Millet,
Irving as distinguished as Millais; while in our own country not more
than two men in painting and sculpture deserve places beside Booth and
Forrest as high priests of Art.
That your audience applauds you is nothing. The same audience would
applaud Paderewski or a great prestidigitator. You see, your audience
may applaud you because you have put your thought cleverly, or juggled
your words attractively, or thrown over them that magnetic spell which
all great personalities have. It may clap its hands because you have
entertained it.
But what has all this to do with the truth? And why are you speaking
at all, unless it is that you, knowing the truth, are trying to show
the truth to others? So do not seek to arouse applause for its own
sake. If it comes naturally, spontaneously, it is a pleasant tribute
to your cause. But if you win it by your art, it is merely a tribute
to your powers. And you are not speaking for yourself--you are
speaking for your cause.
The wife of one of the most effective of American speakers is reported
to have said to him: "I wish you would deliver a speech which no one
can possibly applaud." Of course what she meant was that she would
like to see him devote himself to getting the truth before the people
without resorting to any of the tricks of oratory.
No matter how much a wizard of words Nature may have made him; no
matter that he has the dark art of making the worse appear the better
reason; no matter that his golden voice is like music, and his very
appearance pleasantly thrills you with the strange and subtle
magnetism of the man: if he have not sincerity, all these are nothing.
And he cannot affect sincerity and fool the people very long. He may
fool them in one speech or in one campaign if he be a political
speaker, but ultimately the people will sense his moral quality and he
will be discredited.
This very thing happened to a celebrated American speaker who may be
said to have been endowed with genius. There was no resisting the man
while he was speaking. But he never was honestly in earnest. He never
really cared for his cause. There was never a moment when he could not
have spoken as effectively for the other side.
Finally this got through the consciousness of the people, and his
power over their convictions speedily dissolved.
Many years ago a business friend of mine heard this man speak on a
notable occasion. His address was on a subject in which the people
were deeply interested, and was a masterpiece of mingled argument and
pathos; and his audience belonged to him. It had no mind but his, no
will but his.
Afterward my friend said to me: "That man will not last; he is not
honest. At one climax so pure, so exalted, so tender, that I found
tears in my own eyes, I saw him wink at some intimate friends who were
sitting in a stage-box at his right. I was between them. They were
watching him as they would have watched a friend who was an actor. He,
on his part, was showing them what he could do. That wink said: 'See
how I did that. Now observe me closely! I will throw still another
ball of emotion into the air and juggle with it, too.'"
And sure enough, he did not last. His tropical mind lasted, his
chameleon imagination lasted, his compelling personality, his grace,
charm, witchery of words--all these lasted; but all these were nothing
without that honesty which would make him die rather than speak for a
cause in which he did not believe, or be silent when a cause in which
he believed was at issue and in peril.
The people went to hear him even after they had ceased to believe in
him. They applauded, laughed, or were silent as he pleased. But they
were being entertained--nothing more. His art was still perfect, but
his power over the minds and souls of men which made men believe and
do was gone forever.
Believe what you say, therefore. Say what you believe. Say it simply,
earnestly, as though you were pleading for all that is dearest to you
on earth. For, after all, that is what you are speaking for--truth.
And if the truth for which you are speaking is not dear to you, go
about your other business and remain silent.
Let your brother who has "the call" utter that message which your
faith is not strong enough to voice; for he, having "the call," will
"speak as one having authority," and therefore "the common people will
hear him gladly."
To effect anything; to achieve a result; to make your words deeds, as
the old Scotch thinker declared they should be or else not be uttered,
you must teach. And in your teaching you must teach "as one having
authority."
To the Master we must go, after all, even for our methods of
utterance, and at His feet learn that oratory is the utterance of the
truth by one who knows it to be the truth. And so will your words be
words of fire, and your speech have weight among your fellow men.
VII
THE YOUNG MAN AND THE PULPIT
All who do their best, and in doing their best do a good piece of
work, deserve equal credit whether the work be little or big. The
architect who builds a house has wrought for humanity as truly as the
statesman who builds a government. One man can make bricks well and
another lead armies to victory; yet each one has fulfilled his destiny
if his achievement was what he was fitted for and if he has done his
best.
From one point of view all occupations that help one's fellow men are
important. Who shall say that the hod-carrier has not done as much for
humanity as orator or poet. The cook is as necessary as the
philosopher. Compare the blacksmith and the sculptor. The point is,
that all useful labor is equally noble. It all has its place. Each of
the workers of the world is required in the human cosmos.
It may not be that the worker himself sees that he is essential. It
may not be that he understands the outcome of his striving. For that
matter we are each and all toiling as blindly as the coral insect,
and yet our labor is as much a part of a symmetrical structure as is
the life and perishing of that polyp.
We are all pouring out our energies day by day without understanding
what effect our spent lives will have in the general result of human
effort. And some of us get heart-sick, no doubt, and weary; and
discouragement whispers, "What's the use," and many another wily
phrase of Satan.
Very well; let every man, however humble or conspicuous his place
among men, understand that his work _does_ count and will become a
part of an harmonious whole. "All things work together for good."
No matter that _we_ do not know what we are here for. _We_ may not
understand how our lives are to be woven into the great design of the
world's work any more than a single thread of some wonderful and
beautiful rug understands the pattern of which it is a part.
No matter, I say. The Master-Weaver understands what we are here for
and what we are doing, and that is enough. He has uses for every sound
thread and doubtless one is as important as another. Vaunt not
yourself O thread of purple, over your fellow-thread of white!
Asserting then that the man who quarries stone has served humanity as
well as he who writes a book, if quarrying stone is what he can do
best; asserting the equal value of all things done well and the equal
dignity of all sincere and honest work of hand and brain, I shall not
be misunderstood when I say that the present day has developed three
careers of usefulness which, while not more important, are more
continuously prominent than any others.
These are statesmanship, journalism, and the pulpit.
The Pulpit deals with faith. It has to do with religion. Religion
makes moral ideals vital. Moral ideals make individual life sweet and
satisfying, national life strong and pure. "Righteousness exalteth a
nation." The young man and the pulpit are therefore preeminent in
conspicuity.
The American people at heart are a religious people. They are
practical and fearless, too. If you will listen to the chance
conversations of the ordinary American you will find that the laymen
of the Nation have some very decided views upon the Pulpit, the man
who fills it, and the work he ought to do.
In the breast of the millions there is not only a great need but a
great yearning for certain things of the soul which it is for the
Pulpit to supply. This paper is an attempt to talk as one of these
millions to the young man who is about to mount to this sacred
station.
"I have just come from church," said a friend one day, "and I am tired
and disappointed. I went to hear a sermon and I listened to a lecture.
"I went to worship and I was merely entertained.
"The preacher was a brilliant man and his address was an intellectual
treat; but I did not go to church to hear a professional lecturer.
When I want merely to be entertained I will go to the theater.
"But I do not like to hear a preacher principally try to be either
orator or artist. I am pleased if he is both; but before everything
else I want him to bear _me_ the Master's message. I want the minister
to preach Christ and Him crucified."
The man who said this was a journalist of ripe years, highly educated,
widely experienced, acquainted with men and life. He was world-weary
with that weariness which comes of the journalist's incessant contact
with every phase of human activity, good and bad, great and small.
For no man touches life at so many points and is both so rich in and
worn by human experiences as the newspaper man in daily service. And I
have found that this expression of the wise old man of the press whom
I have quoted fairly reflects a general feeling among men of all other
classes.
First, then, young man aspiring to the Pulpit, the world expects you
to be above all other things a minister of the Gospel. It does not
expect you to be, primarily, a brilliant man, or a learned man, or
witty, or eloquent, or any other thing that would put your name on the
tongues of men. The world will be glad if you are all of these, of
course; but it wants you to be a preacher of the Word before anything
else. It expects that all your talents will be consecrated to your
sacred calling.
It expects you to speak to the heart, as well as to the understanding,
of men and women, of the high things of faith, of the deep things of
life and death. The great world of worn and weary humanity wants from
the Pulpit that word of helpfulness and power and peace which is
spoken only by him who has utterly forgotten all things except his
holy mission. Therefore merge all of your striking qualities into the
divine purpose of which you are the agent. Lose consciousness of
yourself in the burning consciousness of your cause.
Very well; but if you do that you must be very sure of your own
belief. Any man who assumes to teach the Christian faith, who in his
own secret heart questions that faith himself, commits a sacrilege
every time he enters the pulpit.
Can it be that the lack of living interest in certain church services
is caused by a sort of subconscious knowledge of the people, that the
minister himself is speaking from the head rather than from the heart;
that what he says comes from his intellect and not as the "spirit
gives him utterance"; and, to put it bluntly, that he himself "no more
than half believes what he says."
"The man spoke as if he were bored with endless repetition of
sermons," said a close observer of a weary parson.